Those who know me are aware of my affinity for fine audio components. I have been an audiophile since 1971 when I acquired my first pair of KLH speakers. From then there was no turning back and I have owned countless high-end audio products. Before CD's came along I had an extensive collection of LP's (that's records) and I try to use the best possible turntables with straight-line tracking. My particular favorite is the BeoGram 8000 by Bang and Olufsen which you see in the accompanying photo. As far as speakers are concerned I switch off between The Vandersteen Model 2 and a pair of restored AR3a's.
Today I hopscotched around in the mists of my musical memory banks starting with Fire On High by Electric Light Orchestra. Then I stumbled upon the Seals And Crofts album called Unborn Child which brought back memories of selling carpeting door to door in the 110 degree weather of Phoenix, Arizona in 1974. It was one way of making money for trade school and I have to admit, I wasn't very good at it. But I also remember a guest appearance by Seals And Crofts on the Mike Douglass Show where their pro-life position was jeered at by angry feminists in the audience. Hmmm.
Then I fast forwarded to 1977 and dragged out Point Of Know Return by Kansas. The title song is awesome as well as the venerable Dust In The Wind. The album has this 18th century nautical feel to the imagery which I guess you wouldn't get without the sumptuous cover art that only LP's could provide. I always chuckled at the similarity in styles of the bass player for Kansas and his predecesor, Chris Squire of YES. I then zipped over to 1982 with It Must Be Love by Madness. This song has everything. A wonderful melody sung by Ian Suggsby, great harmonies, a kickass bass line, fantastic horns and a beautiful string arrangement done molto pizzicato.
Then something really different and obscure for many of my younger friends. I made the system cook with the trumpet stylings of Bill Chase with his band Chase playing Get It On. Trust me, you'd know it if you heard it but alas, they were just a one-hit-wonder. They were Jonny-come-latelys to the trend in rock bands in the early 1970's to add horn sections to the ensemble. But Chicago had the market cornered on that stunt so Chase never really got traction with the public.
But enough with song hopping, I then finished off by listening to an often overlooked Jethro Tull album called A. I'd forgotten I had this album and even though it isn't one their most well known outtings it still stands head and shoulders above most of what is being put out these days by contemporary bands. And this is the only Jethro Tull album that departs from their imagery of the minstrel or the highwayman of English folklore. All in all, a wonderful morning's listening. What's everybody else listening to?
Two and a half years ago when I was moving into my apartment in Southern California I had a bad experience with Jackson. Unbeknownst to me the owners had installed an illegal staircase onto the roof of their three story house. I rented the downstairs floor while the upstairs guys had the second and third floors. I left him in the backyard one day so I could go to work and when I came home on my break I saw not only a moving van but also Jackson's body in a motionless lump on the driveway surrounded by my new neighbors who were moving in upstairs. The first thing out of the man's mouth was "Your dog fell off the roof!" I yelled back "The roof?! What the hell was he doing on the roof? How...?" It didn't matter by then. Jackson heard the voices of the people moving in and wanting company had sought them out. Unfortunately he found his way to the illegal staircase. He fell twenty feet to a half concrete half dirt surface.
I ran up to them feeling my pulse quickening and that sickly feeling in my stomach. Jackson lay there convulsing and drooling heavily and all I could do right then is stroke his face and hair and let him know I was there. As soon as he felt people's hands on him he improved and seemed to be snapping out of it. The new neighbors had a dog, an older black Lab named Elvis who came over and seemed genuinely concerned about Jackson. He came right up to him and laid down right next to him. Even in my agitated state I noticed this and thought it was remarkable. I turned to talk to my new neighbors to try to fill in the blanks about what happened while I was gone. When I turned back around I saw that Jackson was gone! I ran back to my open apartment door and went inside and there he was, lying on the living room floor. I guess he felt safe and being traumatized like that I think he was just literally looking for a security blanket. But the funny thing was that Elvis disappeared with him and when we burst into the living room both dogs were there. Elvis was keeping an eye on his very hurt friend. I'd never seen anything like that. That dog had such empathy and after Jackson recovered (the full body X-ray cost me a fortune) they became best buddies.
When I took Jackson to the vet they gave him a full body X-ray. There weren't any broken bones, fractures or internal bleeding. The doctors were astounded that he wasn't messed up more than he was from such a high fall. But he was hurting really badly and the bruising was very deep. He came out of X-ray limping slowly and wearing a bandana around his neck that the staff had put on him. His kerchief was white and had red hearts all over it. I let him wear it for the better part of a year before it became too dog-eared (pun intended) but I put it away for safekeeping. That will remind me of this little scare. I can't help but think that it did Jackson's slight case of arthritis no good at all. That breed and size of dog gets hip dysplasia and not suffering trauma is a really good thing especially when they get up in years like he is right now. In the meantime I had to give Jackson his pain pills and listen to him groan loudly whenever he laid down. It must have hurt bad, poor guy. But it all turned out OK. Jackson not only made a friend but now also makes a fashion statement. Pretty spiffy.
A sculpted and polished phallus found in a German cave is among the earliest representations of male sexuality ever uncovered, researchers say.
The 20cm-long, 3cm-wide stone object, which is dated to be about 28,000 years old, was buried in the famous Hohle Fels Cave near Ulm in the Swabian Jura.
The prehistoric "tool" was reassembled from 14 fragments of siltstone.
Its life size suggests it may well have been used as a sex aid by its Ice Age makers, scientists report.
London holds numerous memories for me. I made frequent trips there while in my 20's, one of which was in 1984. I had been staying at youth hostels there, my favorite being the one at Holland Park. The park itself was comforting to me with numerous flower beds, tennis courts and of course, the youth hostel. During my stay there was a large group of high school students attending from France and with them came the requisite chaperones. One of these chaperones was a girl in her mid-20's named Maryse. Maryse was tall and slim, about 5'9" or a little more and very statuesque. She had very dark brown hair, almost black, which she wore in a medium length. Upon closer inspection one might notice a light drizzling of freckels but you had to look hard to see this. To say that she was gorgeous would be an understatement. I liked her name very much. Maryse as in Mar-eeez, yes, it just rolls off the tongue. Mar-eeeeeeeeeeeeze like a summer breeeeeeeeeeze. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that she had an exceptionally developed chest that guys would gawk at and women would die for. Not that I would notice anything like that though. Maryse and I were attracted to each other of course (or else why would I write about it) and we ended up spending a little time together. One night the entire group took a tour bus to see London by night and Maryse asked me if I'd like to come with them. So off I went with a busload of young French boys and girls and their sexy chaperone. I sat next to Maryse and the tour guide spoke in French about the various London landmarks we'd pass by. London is great for this sort of thing as the city is lit up in bright blues and reds for the benefit of the tour companies. At one point the tour guide introduced Maryse and then much to my horror introduced me as as Maryse's "boyfriend" much to the delight of the boys and girls on the bus. The resulting whoops and catcalls were almost inevitable and Maryse sank into her seat with her hands over her face, laughing. All in all it was a lot of fun. Eventually Maryse and I swapped addresses and we wrote to each other for months. I had planned on going back to London the following March and I asked her if she would still be in town. As coincidence would have it, she was.
March, 1985 I returned to London and stayed with a friend in Wimbledon, a friend I had met while he toured the States back in 1977. In one of her letters Maryse mentioned that she was working as an au pair and would be in London during the time of my visit. She gave me her phone number and when I arrived I called her to set up a rendezvous.(my French is tres bien, n'est ce pas?) I went by Tube to the nearest Tube station where she lived and walked the rest of the way. This involved taking the District Line north to Embankment where I'd change over to the Northern Line south until Clapham Common. As I made my way down the streets on that cloudy day I wondered what she'd be like, if she's changed at all in the nine months since I'd seen her. I also wondered what my feelings were towards her as well, what were my intentions, what was my end game? I had no idea and I'm not sure if that's a bad thing. Uncertainty is such a big factor in all of our relationships and it was this uncertainty that gives us that tingle, the weakness in the knees, the shiver in the hips and that jolt of excitement that tells us when someone wants us. All of this flooded my mind as I negotiated those London streets until I finally arrived at the brownstone row house where she was staying. I knocked once and she answered right away and I apologized for my tardiness. You see, there had been a rail strike and the Tube was overcrowded which meant they were running behind and...fuck all, it doesn't matter. She looked great and she was stylishly dressed. Not overly so but very tasteful which contrasted with my rather plain looking orange parka and blue jeans.
The day was ours! So we headed back to the Tube station as the City awaited us. We got off at Kensington High Street and walked all the way down to Holland Park where we'd met at the youth hostel. It was strange to see the hostel in the winter, nearly deserted compared to the overflowing hordes of summer. This was a weekday so there weren't any crowds of children or tourists, just us and the flowers and the birds and the occasional old person walking their dog. She'd mentioned something about going to Oxford Circus so we reversed course and made our way to the nearest Tube station and went there too. Plenty of outdoor cafes and posh shops for a beautiful French girl to peruse. That day was a bit of a blur and I can't remember too many more details of where we went. I do remember taking her home under a darkening sky, short days were the norm and we'd made the best of it but it was time to get her home. We boarded the Tube train and got under way and immediately I noticed something...this particular train was very very old. It was one of the older models with beautiful woodworking which harked back to the London of the early Twentieth Century. I felt lucky to be able to see one of these old trains and I promised myself that I wouldn't forget it. During the ride home I would catch her looking at me and smiling and one time after catching her I smiled back. I was sitting next to her and I felt her head on my shoulder and she then whispered to me "Would you like to be my husband?" I don't think she could see my eyes get as big as pie plates from where she was sitting. I cleared my throat and said "Well!" I cleared my throat some more and stammered that I thought it was rather quick for us to consider such a thing. I know, I'm an idiot. In what was left of the trip home I think I gently convinced her that we should hold off on such big steps until we knew each other better. And what better way to get to know each other than by sleeping together? There was no one home at her place and we took advantage of our alone time. It felt rushed as if we needed to catch the train but it was lovely anyways. Perhaps we did feel rushed as she mentioned how we'd have to at least have our clothes on by the time one of her roommates came home and his arrival was imminent. We put on our clothes and went downstairs to the living room and like clockwork said roommate came through the front door. He was a few years older than me and after talking to him for a few minutes I found him to be a really interesting and engaging fellow. The three of us sat in the living room and he attempted to engage me in a discussion concerning the political leanings of The London Times and The Guardian. Now, anyone that knows me knows that I'm always up for a political discussion. It's just in my nature, I'm a political animal. But today was different. Politics and current events were the furthest things from my mind right now. All I could think of is that this gorgeous woman had asked me to marry her and I was probably going to break her heart. I pretended to be interested and engrossed in this conversation but I broke it off by saying that I needed to get going. I shook this fellow's hand and Maryse walked me to the door. I kissed her at the door and told her I'd call her tomorrow. I did call her, but I didn't see her again. I left London two days later wondering if I'd done the right thing. I think of her now and then and wonder what my life would have been like if I'd said yes and moved to France. Maybe it would have been a good life. I wonder. I guess "C'est la vie" doesn't cut it in this case. But it'll have to do.
I don't know what it is about the dead of winter. It makes me contemplative, wistful and reflective. It may be the move to a new state, a new environment. There's a strangeness to it all and I realize that my roots are more east coast but I have to remember that I've spent 35 years of my life in California and change doesn't come as easy as it used to.
I remember my first few months in the small northern California town where I was to live for the next 28 years. I found the main street quaint, a throwback to the 1950s where you felt that innocence was still possible. It was late 1974 and we had just emerged from the rancor of Vietnam, Nixon and Watergate. Innocence was in short supply as we as a nation had been yanked out of the fantasy of the Eisenhower/Kennedy years into the real world where we weren't always the good guys and morals and values were relative. All this had passed in one short decade and we didn't seem to be able to catch our breath. Exploring this Central Coast town was like going back in time 15 years or so. Perhaps that's why people love small towns, they can rediscover a place they knew in their youth. A place where you could drive on the roads without encountering a traffic light for quite some distance. Where the hills and valleys of the countryside were within a stone's throw and the downtown drug store still had a soda fountain just like it did back in 1955. I remember one such visit to the soda fountain with a new friend. We were both 19 years old and it goes without saying, young and foolish. We would go in just to have a coke and gawk at the waitress who worked behind the counter. A large breasted wench who constantly talked about and pined for her boyfriend, Dwayne. Now and then Dwayne would come in while we were there. Usually he was wearing a plain white undershirt and blue jeans. It was a scene right out of a James Dean movie and it fit right in with the scenery. Me and my friend would roll our eyes and smirk at each other as we watched their nose rubbing and cuddling. Eventually those two got married but I have no idea what became of them after 1980. Who knows? Maybe their innocence and optimism conquered all and they may well have lived happily ever after.
In early 1975 my old friend Brian and I would cruise the main street in his blue Datsun pickup. We would stop at Nino's Pizza on Main Street, right across from the drug store soda fountain and order a pizza, one of the best I'd ever had. He made his pizza the old fashioned way, he threw the dough and slapped it on the tray and used a unique blend of cheeses that I've never seen duplicated to this day. Once again, this place was a throwback to the 1950s, with booths lining one wall and a jukebox playing all the current hits from 1975. Funny, I'm refering to a scene from the 1970s that recalled the 1950s. Strange. Nino's Pizza isn't there any more. He moved the place in the mid 1980's to a newer venue in another part of town. I never warmed up to that place like I did the old one. At least he brought the poster sized pictures of his then toddler son in white shirt and chef's hat that had adorned the walls of the old place. Somebody came in and turned the place into a video store. After many years Bob's Video has now left as well. I have no idea who now occupies what I will always refer to as "Nino's Place".
It's funny. I've been asking people lately an interesting question...when were you the happiest? What time of life are you nostalgic for? Now, the people I've been talking to are more my age so all of you under 30 years of age have to wait awhile before you start asking yourself that question. But by and large most people I've quizzed about this unanimously say it was that time in their 20s when they were going to school, still under the wing of their parents, studying at college, traveling, exploring. It was between the ages of 20 and 30. It was before they were responsible for a mortgage, before they had kids, before life had a chance to grind them down, a time when they still had their parents, a time when they could explore the world without worrying about consequences. Maybe the lesson here is to stay in school.
I lived in an old house on Chappel Road that was surrounded by lettuce fields. A local farmer was our neighbor and landlord and we couldn't have asked for better. It was located at the edge of town so that it was easy to jump on the two lane highway which led to my community college in the next town. Just living this close to the highway cut nearly ten minutes off the trip and I was grateful for that as I spent all my time there in those days. Living out there gave our St. Bernard, Heidi, plenty of room to wander as well. I remember her dying day when she tried to venture into the fields across the road to lay down amid the walnut trees. Just a peaceful place to go where she could die among the trees and grass. That field is now a housing development, completely at odds with the cozy farm house across the street where I had spent the best several years of my life.
I have been gone from that town now for just over two years. I miss it. But I wonder sometimes if it's the town I miss or my youth. Maybe both. What is missed is the moment in time that is unrecoverable, out of reach and beyond one's grasp. I have a picture I took of my Alfa Romeo which I took in 1979. It shows the Alfa in the local college parking lot, just over the bank by the tennis courts. One can see the fields in the background beyond the parking lot. The frontage road that would take you to Castro Valley Road then a quick left to Highway 101 and home. Sometimes I feel like I can jump right into that picture and be that 24 year old once again. I don't miss California that much. But I miss that town. More than that, I think I miss a life that used to be, a life that will always be out of reach and unattainable. But it exists. Somewhere in an alternate universe an alternate me is still there. Still in that town, still driving the old Alfa, still going to school, still cruising Main. It's a place where Heidi still greets me when I come home from school, where a tennis match could be had at the drop of a hat and where my father's rose bushes are always in bloom. Somewhere in the interstellar mists that town is there just like I remember it. Just like in the picture.
It occurred to me as I was talking to my dog Jackson some time ago that the sound I was hearing wasn't strictly my own. We all have a voice that we use to talk to animals, very much like the voice that comes into play while talking to children. It's a different kind of voice, kinder, sweeter and more gentle. And so it was while I gently stroked his muzzle some time ago, the voice I was using was kind and soothing. It was my mother's voice. The cadence, the accent, the timbre...it was her gentle whisper. My father's voice takes over when I'm more boisterous and playful. Even the tone and timbre change to something resembling my father's mellow baritone. How I miss those voices. But it then occurs to me that they're as close as I want them to be. They're right here. They are not lost forever.
Where does your voice come from? What happens when you speak and who's sound do you hear? Your parents? A sibling? Where you raised by a grandparent and if so do vestiges of their inflection still manifest themselves through you? We are indeed more than singular beings living in a vacuum, we are the repository of our family's legacy. One that, hopefully, lives on every time we open our mouths to speak. Every time we talk to the animals.
More than 6 weeks ago Grim e-mails me with an offer too good to refuse, he has an extra ticket to the Reds/Astros game and was wondering if I'd like to go? You talkin' to me? YOU TALKIN' TO ME? I jumped on it faster than a donut shop waitress on a five dollar tip. A couple of days ago I find out that the great Roger Clemons is pitching for the Astros turning an already good deal into a must-see event. How much longer would we have to witness first hand the great talent of a Roger Clemons before he changes his mind and once again retires? One other factoid worth noting is that this is my very first experience at a professional baseball game. I know, I don't get out much. Never seen a pro football game either but that's beside the point.
We met at a burger joint in Dayton where I picked Grim up and quickly headed down Highway 75 for Cincinnati. That part of the drive took about 45 minutes and we soon found ourselves following the traffic which took us straight to The Great American Ballpark. Instead of trying to find a cheap place to park I just ducked into the first parking garage I saw and forked over the ten bucks. It would have been hell to attempt to save a few dollars while roasting in the southern Ohio heat. We just wanted to get out of the car and be on our way into the stadium. As we disembarked from the car I mentioned to Grim how great it would be if Clemons were to pitch a perfect game today. He gave me an odd look, yes, I do expect a lot dammit.
We made our way into the very impressive stadium passing the huge gaping hole next door that used to be Riverfront Stadium, the site of so many great Reds victories, the place where they made their reputations as one of the best teams in baseball. I was starving so we stopped at a food kiosk to pick up a hot dog and a Coke. This would tide me over for the rest of the day. Our seats beckoned and we were soon hearing the roar of the crowd as the teams took the field. We were relatively close to the right field foul pole, about 50 feet away with a sweeping view of the entire stadium. Nice seats.
To make a long story short, Roger Clemons had a great day. He pitched seven innings of shutout ball and was two for three at bat with a single and ground rule double. The Astros eventually won 9-0.
One little note of inspiration. On the way down Highway 75 we passed a roadside ministry with a HUGE statue of Jesus lifting his outstretched hands to the heavens. We couldn't tell which team this was an omen for, I guess the Astros feel lucky to have his blessing for the day. By the way, we both now refer to this display as Ostentacious Jesus or O.J. for short. It's nice to be on a first name basis with our Lord and Saviour. Makes me feel special.
But something bothered both me and Grim. Why didn't the Flying Spaghetti Monster have a similar tribute? He did create the world and everything in it with his Noodly Appendage. We both felt a growing feeling of unfairness and injustice in all this. The Church of His Noodly Appendage MUST be established to spread the word. The truth. A blessing to baseball teams everywhere, a messiah that they can all pray to for strength to win the game. He deserves this. His blessed little Noodly Appendage deserves no less. Play ball.
On July 29th it will be three years since he passed way. Seems like he's still here. This is from 2003...
So I was walking down Hollywood Boulevard...and I felt the presence of my father. Actually it was only my imagination as I made my way down the boulevard on a warm, almost summerlike evening. Throngs of people were out this night taking advantage of the unseasonable weather, taking a breath of summer before the reality of winter once again enveloped us.
We never did explore Hollywood in the 1960's when I was little and I don't really know why. We lived fairly close, only about fifty miles away in Oxnard so being able to get there wasn't the problem. I think it's because it was in our own backyard and sometimes it's hard to recognize something as being important when you're that close to it everyday. The 60's gave way to the 70's and the 80's. We moved many times in those years, I went to school, traveled and just got on with life. And somehow along the way Pop got old. That wasn't supposed to happen as I always thought he would be there forever. Our parents are immortal or at least that's what I always thought. Nevertheless, here was this major tourist attraction drawing people from all over the world and we somehow missed it.
I imagined him as he was when he was much younger, perhaps in his mid-forties. Back to a time when he could walk around with ease without having to worry about resting. I'd love to show him the sights and sounds of Hollywood and Highland on a busy night. We'd hit Graumman's Chinese Theatre and then head down the street to the Kodak Theatre.He'd see the Elvis and Marilyn impersonators and shake his head as there wasn't any way this old Navy guy would see them other than freaks of nature. We'd pass Ripley's Believe It Or Not and The Odditorium. "Pop, want to have a burger at Mel's Diner?" Talking him into having a good hamburger was easy and along the way he'd get to see one of my favorite places to hang out. It was lucky he was young in my little flight of fancy as he couldn't take all the walking if he was past fifty years old. All those years on the decks of those Navy destroyers affected his legs and made long walks difficult for him. At the end of his life he was fascinated by his service during World War II after years of ignoring it and putting it out of his mind. I really don't know why he did that, he would even be reticent about making contact with his old shipmates for reasons I couldn't understand. But in the final six months of his life he became aware that he was a piece of living history and getting rarer every day. He became a devotee' of The History Channel, devouring every WWII documentary he could get his hands on. He'd go on and on about where he was when some such event or battle was happening and what was going through his head. It delighted me to see him absorbed in all this, rediscovering his past and learning something in the process. He even ordered a set of tapes from The History Channel documenting the War In Color and was busy going through those tapes when he suddenly passed away. I'll go through those tapes eventually myself and remember him and all those old fellows I see walking amidst the new war memorial in Washington. They all have his look, his walk, his manner.
In his later years he would be satisfied with sitting in front of the TV at night. He always stayed up late so he could catch Johnny Carson's monologue on The Tonight Show, eventually missing the monologue entirely by falling asleep in his chair. Goodnight Pop.
One side effect of opposing the far right in the United States is the labeling of one's own position on the political spectrum. Once opposed the far right tends to label any attacker of their views as "liberal". And why not? The word has been redefined and maligned for the last 25 years. At one time it meant open to change, broad minded, free from bigotry and fairly modern in their views. Due to a non-stop campaign from the far right by the likes of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and a host of right wing celebrities, the word has come to mean a person who is a communist, God-hating, gay-loving, tree-hugging, flag-burning, French-wine-swilling America hater. It's ashame the word has been deprived of it's original meaning. But that's where we are in this country right now. To oppose the far right doesn't just make you a political opponent, it makes you the enemy. The down side of all this is that once you've been labeled as liberal it becomes your duty to redefine yourself before the opposition defines you. If there's an issue out there where you don't fall along liberal lines it doesn't hurt to point it out, no one is going to take away your official membership card to any part of the political spectrum as far as I know.
I remember sitting in my college anthropology class, Cultural Anthropology it was, while the professor was explaining patterns of assimilation in American culture. In this case it was non-assimilation as he pointed out that our notion of the "melting pot" was no longer applicable. Huh? I was surprised. We've always thought of America as the melting pot where immigrants came to lose themselves in American life. He continued to tell us that the quaint old notion of the melting pot didn't apply very well to explaining how new Americans deal with becoming "American". No, the melting pot had been replaced by another dynamic called the "tossed salad" where immigrants hang onto their language and customs and reside in tightly knit ethnic communities where they can speak their language and avoid the kind of problems that new arrivals usually have. This notion of not being a melting pot anymore disturbed me a little as my professor thought it was really neat that these people were hanging onto their heritage. So we have these tossed salads all over, neighborhoods where ethnic minorities can function for years without speaking a word of English or interacting with the natives. One of the cooks at the restaurant I worked in was like this. He worked, he functioned, he got by. They spoke Spanish at work so he didn't need to learn English and when he went home he was surrounded with people from his mother country so he didn't need to adapt there either. In the 16 years I knew him his English skills didn't improve, he hadn't really progressed from the first day that I'd met him. He didn't need to, he had the protection of the "tossed salad". He didn't particularly love this country or it's history, culture and ideals. He was just here to work and I found this both sad and distasteful.
This all came flooding back to me during the last couple of days as the news media digests the pathology of the London bombers, young Arab men who apparently are British citizens are strapping bombs to themselves and blowing themselves up in a misguided jihad. Some commentators are pointing out that these young men are living in ethnic communities, not assimilating and when confronted with a society with which they cannot relate, they turn to terrorism to strike out at British society. The young Arab men lived in lower-middle class neighborhoods made up primarily of other Arabs, the homes are enshrouded with satelite dishes to receive Arab language broadcasts from Saudi Arabia. Once again we have a situation where people cannot, or will not, relate to the country they have chosen to inhabit. Instead of immersing themselves in British culture they have taken the easy way out, they cling to their homeland and slowly after a period of years they begin to resent their new country. It doesn't accomodate them as it should so they rationalize their plight as an oppressed people who must rise up against their oppressors. This is the kind of incubator that they have created for themselves, their own little plastic bubble, their "tossed salad", their albatross.
Is the whole notion of the tossed salad a liberal failure? Is tough love what is needed? Have we been too accomodating? Too tolerant? Is this a case of biting the hand that feeds you? I'm beginning to think so. I think we should not only expect but we should demand that the new immigrant speak English fluently, understand the history and culture of our people and immerse themselves in it rather than hide behind the curtain of their ethnic sanctuary. I realize that this sounds like a conservative notion, I guess that comes with the territory of being a political moderate. Well, on this issue anyway.
I'm not really sure what this is going to be. A whimsical journey through my life and times? A political blog like Talking Points Memo? Who knows? All I can say is that I'm here. That's not bad in these crazy post millenial days. Yeah. I'm lucky to be here.
FOOL:
The reason why the
seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.
KING LEAR:
Because they are not eight?
FOOL:
Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.
More details
