Friday, March 31, 2006

Bird-Dog Docket

I can see flying in the face of danger but for a chicken to fly in the face of a dog is pure and unutterable foolishness. That bird definately has a death wish.

The advisability of the chicken's strategic flying maneuver's would depend, I suppose, on the size of the dog. Obviously, we don't need to alert OSHA if the canine critter involved is a Chihuahua.

But the chicken is ill advised to attempt this maneuver if the dog is a St. Bernard. I mean, all the Bernard has to do is yawn and he's captured tonight's supper.

And this poor dog, perfectly innocent, is hauled up in front of the judge for a crime he didn't intend to commit.

Judge: "There's been foul play here. What do you have to say for yourself?"

St. B: "Innocent, Your Honor."

Judge: "But you murdered a bird."

St. B: "I beg to differ with you Sir. The bird flew into my open mouth. There was nothing I could do about it."

Judge: "The fact remains. You bumped-off a chickabiddy."

St. B: "No sir. Actually it was suicide. The rooster thought I was a hatchetman."

Judge: "The rooster, Mr. Bernard?"

St. B: "Well, it may have been a nestling. Or for that matter a peafowl as I noticed a funny taste in my mouth after I swallowed. Either way, it was death by one's own wing."

Judge: "Had a case once of a high-speed collision between a bird and a car. The jury finally brought in a verdict of autocide."

St. B: "Exactly my point, Your Honor."

As the gavel slammed down, the judge said: "Case of the Doggoner Swallow closed."

Whew! The St. Bernard lucked out. But I would advise all you big dogs out there to keep your traps closed when chickens are flying in the face of danger.
Bird-Dog Docket © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Essential View

It used to be fun to wear clothing. But styles have changed so much, become so svelt, that in this day and age, the nudists have a better concept of fashion design than designers like Martin Margiela, Frida Giannini and Paul Marciano.

Remember when shirtsleeves were large and billowy? Wonderful design. You could hide so much in the capacious sleeves.

Rabbits. Magician's tools. A deck of cards.

And remember when Uncle Bob would search through his many pockets until he found the smile hidden in one of them? With great fanfare, he would pull the recalcitrant smile from the hidden folds and paste it on his face. It would play there for a while, until he was finished with it. Then, Uncle Bob would tuck it away where it belonged.

Back then, everyone knew grins and smiles hid in clothing, and laughter, especially, was hidden up one's sleeve.

But today, the majority of folks perch apathetically on the sofa and bask in the sterile, most often violent, world of TV because clothes designers have stripped garments down to the bare essentials.

It's hard to hide a rabbit in naked cleavage.
Essential View © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Miscreant Smudge

I love the way Pash bounces. All four feet of this three pound Yorkie patter along in rapid precision aimed straight for the destination of her choice. Yet, more than that, it is as if Pash hears some jaunty inner tune and dances with such joyous rhythm that one necessarily concludes: life for Pash is grand.

It has always been thus with my canine critters. Not one of them was ever a laid-back pacer. They all enjoyed a perky attitude about life and rushed to greet each new situation with exuberant expectation.

A gray blanket covers this day. Snow with all its harsh whiteness dominates the ground. Trees silhouette themselves black against the sky. Gray, white, black -- each a graveyard blend of the other. All monochromatically lament, mocking life with their pallid sighs.

If Nature were an amendable critter, it would be easier to teach it an attitude of joyous expectation. But no. Nature in northern climes is like a recalcitrant child throwing its snow toys around with wild abandon, then trying to mist over its miscreant behavior by covering all under a smudged gray blanket.

I find much more enjoyment in Pash's exuberance than I find in Nature's blighted mockery of life.
Miscreant Smudge © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

The Great Shadow Fight

Who can describe sweat? And, in actuality, who would want to? Yet both men were sweating. It was hot. The kind of heat that encourages sweat to run off the body in rivulets.

The landscape as far as the eye can travel was sand. A few scrub mesquite bushes. A gnarled Ironwood tree. But sand. Mostly sand. Reflecting the sun's glare in miasmic shimmerings of heat.

Cooper, a large-boned man with curly flaxen hair who always wore a derby, had set off across the desert in search of a Geococcyx californianus, which while it enjoys many names, is commonly known as a roadrunner. Cooper, a photographer of some merit, had snaffled a major publication contract to film a layout on roadrunners in their local habitat.

In pursuit of fulfilling this contract, he rented the donkey, packed his photography equipment on its back and set out for a day's shoot.

By high noon, the heat was so intense, Cooper shelved his ambitions and unpacked the donkey. Darn, he thought lethargically, I'll just sprawl out in the shade of the donkey for a while til it cools off. He tethered the animal, tipped the derby over his eyes and leaned back against the gear which he had dumped on the sand.

Karim, a skinny, pasty-looking fellow, had never been able to live up to his name which means a generous friend. He had tried to be generous, but every time a situation called for trust, Karim feared someone would steal his possessions. Like now. He had rented the donkey in good faith but shortly after Cooper left, Karim had second thoughts about letting his prize ass out of sight.

Hastily, Karim looped the rope of the Closed sign over the hook, slid several bolts across the door which he padlocked in three places, and pocketed the large ring of keys as he walked away from his livery.

He looked neither right nor left but kept his eyes glued to the tracks in the sand. Hurrying along, he planned to keep both his donkey and the stranger within view.

It was high noon and the heat was so intense Karim could barely find the strength to place one foot in front of the other. His boots gained seven pounds every time he lifted his feet, and his tongue repeatedly searched his dry mouth for saliva.

The look on Karim's face was one of pure thankfulness when he stumbled across Cooper stretched out in the shade of the donkey with a water canteen laying beside him. "Ah . . . Cooper! Cooper, my friend. Could I impose on your fine hospitality for a sip of your water?"

When Cooper, who had fallen asleep, sat up with a jolt, his hat fell to the sand beside him, and his head butted the underbelly of the donkey who brayed loudly, danced a fancy trot-step, and pulled the tethering rope in wild circles. Cooper scuttled out of the donkey's path, grabbing his derby as he rolled from under the flaying hooves but not before one had flattened it. Reluctantly, he handed Karim the canteen.

When Karim had slaked his thirst, he grinned toothsomely at Cooper. "I have come to share the shade of my ass with you, my friend."

Cooper took stock of the situation. He eyed his pack considering its weight, looked at Karim warily, and said uneasily, "You're pretty skinny, fella. I'm not sure your ass would provide much shade."

Karim bristled with hostility. "It has won trophies at the state championships."

"Your ass won trophies?"

"Yes. Packing and endurance. He won both competitions."

"Ah . . . the donkey! " Cooper relaxed.

The donkey in question now stood quietly, eyes drooping in slumber, his body creating an enviable patch of shade.

Cooper eyed the shady area with anticipation. "Look old fella, there isn't a large enough spot of shade to accomodate us both, and since I've rented the donkey til sunset, I believe it's mine to use. Sorry old chap."

Karim eyed the shady area with longing. "That's true enough, Cooper, but when I rented you the use of the donkey, I did not charge you for the use of his shadow. Since I own the donkey, I own the shadow and now if you will excuse me, I am going to use it."

The two men fought and fought over the shadow. And while they fought the hours crept by, the sun squatted on the horizon, and finally, night cupped the landscape in darkness.

The story of the two men is well known down in the southwest desert. The men were so determined to prove sole ownership of the donkey's shadow, that they took the matter to court. Then to the appeals court. Then to the higher courts. Soon, they were both financially bankrupted by the lawyer's fees and court costs.

Such a foolish thing to fight over! A mere shadow which on rainy days and after dark cannot be seen at all.

And yet, even today, according to some oldtimers, if you are wandering out on the desert and happen upon a kangaroo court, chances are you will hear Cooper and Kalim still arguing their case.
The Great Shadow Fight © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Monday, March 27, 2006

The Sudoku

Here's the Sudoku !!!
Try it.

 

See post below for instructions. Posted by Picasa

Sudoku Challenge

I love the British. They keep abreast of the most interesting current events.

It's been a long standing habit of myself and others to believe that we are well informed if we read the N.Y.Times and the Washington Post every day. While that once may have been true, it no longer applies. These major news journals currently play tag with each other's headlines and rarely feature more than 2-3 major breaking stories. Hash and re-hash is the trend of the day.

Take the case of Sudoku, a Japanese number puzzle, for instance. While I've been a regular reader of both the Times and the Post for years, I can honestly say, it wasn't until this morning while reading The Guardian ( a British newspaper) that I stumbled across Sudoku for the first time.

The Brits believe they need more high calibre math teachers. While America needs the very same commodity, we are not recruiting potential teachers in quite the same fashion that the Brits employ. Possibly, life would be more interesting if we did.

In London, Norwich, Leicester, Liverpool and Newcastle, 3-metre high Sudoku puzzle boards have been erected to titillate the interest of secondary math teachers.

At each roadshow displaying the Sudoku boards around the country, the challenge's winner's names will be drawn from a hat and each winner will be awarded $500 pounds, plus a matching $500 pounds will be given to the math department of the school of the winner's choice.

The Japanese number puzzle is a grid containing nine rows which each contain nine squares. To solve the puzzle each row, vertically and horizontally, must contain the numbers 1-9. That's all there is to it. There's no math involved and nothing has to add up to anything else.

The puzzles are solved with reasoning and logic.

For further information on Sudoku puzzles, Google has 83 Million sites dedicated to this subject!
Sudoku Challenge © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Sunday Morning XXIV

I listened carefully to what the young fella had to say for himself. Some of what he said had merit; some did not.

I looked at his age, his background, his earnestness, and decided what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him much. He'd grow into a full realization of life as he stepped forward to meet its challenges.

We were doing fine with each other until this young pipsqueek started telling me how I oughta believe the same things he did in exactly the same way as him. Of course, he thinks he has the authority of his church standing squarely behind him.

A squawking chicken running around tossing its feathers in the air would have made more impact upon me than this youngster who has barely managed to crawl out of his crib and shed his nappies.

He hasn't lived long enough to get a handle on much, yet here he is at my door, and with the ignorance of youth, telling strangers just how to go about living their lives.

When he's old enough to have it right, he'll have the ability to know: if he has faith in those who have faith and faith in those who have no faith, then he, himself, has earned the quality of faith.

It's only when you go around buggywhipping the faith of others that you realize you have no faith at all.
Chae

Friday, March 24, 2006

Outfitting The Suite

What do Bruce Springsteen, Madonna and Vice President Dick Cheney all have in common?

Not much. Unless checking in to a hotel rates as a communal experience.

With the Bush administration attacking journalists for presenting only negative news coverage, I expected something more . . . lurid? . . . when I saw today's N.Y. Daily New's article: Meet Dick Cheney, Diva.

The only amazing item in the story is how much substance Tracy Connor can creat out of thin air. Sure, it's air temperatured to 68 degrees; televisions airing Fox News; which publications airing current events the Vice President reads; and, I'll be dipped if you can get anything but air in Diet Sprite.

If you're interested in Cheney's personal preferences when checking in to a hotel, both the N.Y. Daily News link above and the Smoking Gun link here will clue you in on his traveling accomodation demands. And, just in case you are interesting in those of Bruce Springsteen, The Smoking Gun will be happy to satisfy your curiosity.
Outfitting The Suite © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Tele Linguae

Aren't those telemarketers wonderful? They sure know how to push the humor button and get you laughing.

Take this one company who calls me regularly. You know it's them when you lift the receiver and hear a strongly accented voice ask: "Is Patrick Sullivan there?"

These people have called once a week, every week, for six months. Each time they call I've explained that Pat died thirty-seven years ago. You'd think, by now, they'd have a clear understanding that Patrick Sullivan will never be here. But they keep calling for him anyways.

They have an accent so thick that a karate chop couldn't slice through it. Foreigners all sound alike, but I think these people are from India. Who knows? They could be from Outer Galactia just as easily. Wherever they're from, they sure are persistent. They keep calling.

So today they call. "Is Patrick Sullivan there?"

Before I can stop myself, I have replied in my normal soprano, motherly voice: "This is Patrick Sullivan. Patrick Shawn Bailey Cameron Tyrone Sullivan."

There was a pause before the man from India replied: "No. We wish to talk to Patrick."

"Well today's your lucky day and your wish has been granted. You are speaking with Patrick. What do you want to say?"

Now folks, I would dearly love to report whatever it was he said. However, he spoke so fast that I had to chase his words down the street just to try and get ahold of one. Even so, I couldn't make sense of it no matter which way I turned it round, upside-down, inside-out or on its ear. It's not as if they don't know I can't understand their accent when they speak in horse-galloping fashion for I've mentioned it during each of their previous calls.

So. In total frustration, I replied: "Shjr-r-r-r xup-a-a-pr-e-e A-a-h?"

What happened next totally buffaloed me for his words were as easy to understand as if they had been spoken by someone hailing from Kansas. "What? I didn't understand you!"

The temptation was too great to resist. Oh, not the urge to say: "Well, I don't understand you either."

But the other urge. The adrenaline-high urge when you've got the bull by the horns and you're running with the best of 'em. "Ah s-a-a-n-g-a. Shjr-r-r-r xup-a-a-pr-e-e A-a-h?"

More than likely, the bizarre turn of events which followed shouldn't have amused me as much as it did. But after months of playing this tele-game, it tickled the cockles of my heart when this man, with the strong accent of India, replied with great disdain: " I don't speak Mexican."

And, by golly, he hung up!

Now foreigners trying to speak English all sound alike to me. They sound . . . incomprehensible.

But surely, in India, these fellows have a keener ear. Shouldn't he have recognized ChineO-R-E-N-tal-Japanese?
Tele Linguae © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Shock 'N Awe Third Anniversary

Television news shows are focusing on Iraq this week. Instead of giving us blood and gore for seventeen minutes of their airtime, they are devoting the whole thirty minutes to covering this third anniversary of the war.

For all their talking points, not one of them has covered the prime issue of the entire affair.

When Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld bragged about our tactics for initiating the Iraq invasion, their key phrase was: awe, shock and surprise. It's rather significant that the acronym resulting from the first letter of these three elements is: ASS.

Three years later, in world discussions of the Iraqi situation, it is the acronym which is commonly applied to Americans, their tactics and their intentions.
Shock 'n Awe Third Anniversary © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Only Goat Professors Need Apply

We have a goat and we need a volunteer teacher. The perspective teacher must be well versed in the methodology of teaching goats how to jump over the moon.

Now you know, if cows can jump over the moon, then goats can too. And we highly suspect that our goat is more than qualified to successfully perform this feat. We just built this goat pen. It took us thirty-three days to build. Every time we thought we were finished, our goat would jump over the top easy as pie.

By the time the walls of the pen were a hundred-and-twenty-six feet tall, we were exhausted. We finally gave up on the idea of a pen and built the goat a little house. One with a roof on top to keep him contained.

So you know this goat could jump over the moon.

He needs a teacher who can coax him to change his mind about entering pole-vaulting contests. Someone with a lot of patience who can teach him how to shoot for the moon instead.

At this point in time, we can't offer financial renumeration for your efforts but if you teach our goat, you will have the satisfaction of being the first person to put a goat on the moon.

I'm sure we could supply the goat with a silver spoon and he already has horns aplenty. We can testify to that because we've already tried the "by-seat-of-your-pants" teaching method. It didn't work. Which is the reason we need a qualified goat professor.

It's not so much that we want to get rid of the goat, you understand. We just want to send him packing.
Only Goat Professors Need Apply © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Monday, March 20, 2006

Twinking Chinker Pots

You know, when I gave up drinking I had no trouble finding a use for the empty beer bottles. There were none.

But giving up smoking has created a heck of a quandry. There are all these empty ashtrays sitting around and the lazy bums aren't doing anything useful. So I decided to put them to work.

Figured they'd make swell candy dishes but guests said: "Phew! Who wants to eat candy tainted by nicotine and tar?"

I pointed out that I'd washed the ashtrays but the guests said: "Oh, it's the residue we object to. You can't wash that away."

So I ate the candy, enjoyed the residue, and gained 53 pounds. Ended up as wide as I was tall. But that's OK. I can proudly boast: "I am a non-smoker."

Tried to use those ashtrays as art-deco-candlestick-holders but when the wax tapered out and burned down to the residue, I noticed my neighbors choking and gasping for breath. Guess they were suffering from second-hand smoke.

Figured the ashtrays would make great soup bowls for miniature kangaroos but they thought the residue was mildew and strangled to death trying to spit it out. Always did hear that tar and nicotine were deadly.

I may not be as tight as Jack Benny but I can't see any reason to throw away perfectly good ashtrays. So I guess I'll leave them sitting around. As it turns out, they make great chinker cans for shooting twiddly winks into which beats twiddling my thumbs since twitching tar and nicotine sticks is now taboo.
Twinking Chinker Pots © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Sunday Morning XXIII

Getting lost is a matter of opinion. It's the perspective of the individual about a condition.

I suppose it's pompous prolixity to tell a fello he was lost when he knew exactly where he was all the time!

Still, it leads to heart palpitations if you think you've permanently misplaced a treasured friend and have no clue as to his whereabouts or, indeed, how he came to be misplaced in the first place.

What supreme confidence in the goodness of a benevolent world one must have to sit perfectly content in a non-lost state of mind waiting certainly, not to be found, but for a condition to change.
Chae

Friday, March 17, 2006

Weight Lifter

While the Snack Fairy is quite lovable when he's prancing through cornfields wearing his pink tutu on TV, he loses much of his appeal when he stands in my living room.

Thankfully, we could all keep an eye on this fairy in the commercial. Being a native American fairy he believes in making a spectacle of himself. Unlike his Irish cousins who pop in and out of visibility like whiskers twitching on the face of a cat.

It occurred to me recently, that the Snack Fairy and his Irish cohorts were working in cahoots. Every time I stepped on a scale, it would read ten to twenty pounds light. According to its calculations I was weightless as a bubble floating on air.

Which gave me a false sense of thin. So naturally, I ate more. Quite cheerfully, I would meander out to the kitchen and find the lovely pink-tutued fairy working overtime. For there on the counter — poof — snacks would magically materialize.

What happiness! To eat all you want and never gain a pound. Incredible.

It might have gone on forever like this. Yet didn't St. Pat's Day roll around like it has a habit of doing once a year? And isn't it on St. Pat's Day that we can clearly see the Leprechauns if we've a mind to such a thing.

So was I standing on the scale when I happened to glance over my shoulder and see the wee man behind me lifting the top half of the scale high in the air. Taking the weight off the truth in the scales, wasn't he now?

This smug fellow who appeared to be a miniature street urchin in pink strutted around and bragged to his friends that he had convinced me I was light as a snow flake.

Kneeling down on the carpet, I scooped him up in the palm of my hand, raised him eye level and spoke softly. "Hey, little man. Have you gotten confused? You're a cobbler by trade, you know, not a weight lifter."

"Sure now," the little guy said audaciously. "If you'd be movin' back to the auld country, I'd never need a purse to be containin' more than one shilling.

"But here . . . Here! A fella's got to be a jack of all trades to be survivin' a'tall and a weight lifter's as good a practise as any to be learning how to hoodwink folks."

"But why would you want to hoodwink people?"

"Cause that's what leprechauns do. "

"Oh! Why didn't you just say so! You're a Republican."

The microscopic sprite had the grace to look embarrassed. "I just might be that, too."

"Sure. Now I understand. The Republicans have been lifting weight from the truth for years. They put a spin on facts, blurring and whirring what's real into political talking points. No one contradicts the allegations and by endless, unchallenged repetition these oft told lies begin to sound like truth."

The pocketsized dwarf in pink nodded his wee head. "Struth ye be tellin'."

Gently, I placed the leprechaun on the scales, and by his own accounting, he weighed not an ounce.

I knew I must hurry.

If I would escape the prodding of this pixie to indulge the temptation of a snack orgy, then I must gain the advantage of an accurate scale. For this Republican leprechaun, dressed in his tutu, appeared so harmless and his talking points were so smoothly spoken that even though I knew it to be false, I believed a body wider than it is tall could still be considered slim and trim.

Quickly, I seized the wee fellow by the scruff of his neck, placed him in a glass jar, and swiveled the lid on securely. If we can contain the duplicity before it gains momentum, we have a chance to balance the bogus scales with truth.

The allure of the snacks still beckoned from their place on the counter top. Could I resist them? Probably. Yet the temptation to stand just one more time on those Leprechaun scales . . . ah well now . . . even St. Pat's Day has its limitations.
Weight Lifter © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Owl Mythology

Say! I braved the dark, whistled up a cheerful tune to give myself courage, and set out late last night in search of an owl.

Folks kept telling me I needed to wise up a bit so I hunted all night long for a wise old owl. Figured when I met up with one, we'd shake hands; I'd sit down on a nearby tree stump, and listen to Mr. Owl share a whole bunch of venerated wisdom.

At least, that was my plan.

Have you walked through a black forest on a moonless night recently? No? Neither had I . . . .

At first, it was easy to tootle along for after all I was on a mission. To find an owl. A wise old owl. For he would know just how to gain wisdom: a skill which, once acquired, is much admired.

But soon, I could feel the darkness. It crept into my soul and threw shadows around my heart. Cobwebs snatched at my hair as coyotes cried out warnings with their eerie yip, yips and howls.

As each footstep took me deeper into the woods, my nerves jittered, twittered, quivered and trembled.

The night sounds were many and with each new noise, my feet jumped clear in the air and the little hairs on the back of my neck jumped, too. Sometimes, my feet jumped higher than the neck hairs, then hit the ground running.

The night sounds were many but none were the sound of the wise owl hooting.

Twas luck that brought my foot tripping over an unseen twig and found me suddenly sitting thuwmp upon spiny pine needles. For from that lowly position, I happened to look up and there upon a branch above me, slightly to my right, perched a bird with a large head, large front-facing eyes, hooked and feathered talons, a small beak, short neck, in brevity, an owl who badly needed to diet.

A stocky spook who didn't hoot, this owl indulged a horselaugh. A loud, coarse, vulgar laugh. A guffaw.

This owl, this unwise owl, let loose the loud neigh of a lusty horse as if he truly tweaked his beak at all the simple solutions we have for other people's problems while quite ignoring the questions we should have about our own.

A horselaugh, by gum, did our unwise owl utter.

And so, like a slow rabbit or a very fast turtle, did I scurry along to the safety and warmth of my little house snug in the city proper.

Now, knowing much from this experience with the wise 'n unwise owl who imitates the horse's whinny, I've learned that the sensible method of choice used to wise up is to glue a wisdom tooth to a wishbone.

If you don't believe this is true, take a long walk through the woods on a moonless night and listen to the hootowl horselaugh.
Owl Mythology © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Senate Shenanigans

Trying to get a clear set of answers from the Senate is like trying to wash one small spot on the kitchen wall. One dab leads to another dab which leads to another. Pretty soon, the whole wall is washed but is the original question answered? Nope!

I was searching for the bill, Senator Russell Feingold (D-WI) purportedly proposed to rap President Bush's naughty knuckles. Wanted to see how the voting on this censure would unfold. However, with all the bills currently before the Senate floor, I could find nary a mention of Feingold's proposed censure.

Did find the neatest map though at: http://www3.capwiz.com/c-span/issues/votes/?votenum=39&chamber=S&congress=1092

It shows how every Senate member voted on Sen. Ted Kennedy's bill to support college access and job training by: increasing investment in student aid programs, vocational education, job training programs and other student aid programs, including increasing the Pell Grant to $4500.

Check out the map for yourself and see how the voting went.

Fascinating, isn't it? Every Democrat voted Yes. Yes to enabling and empowering America's youth. Yes, to giving our children the education necessary in this day and age for them to stay afloat in a fastly evolving world.

The Republicans? There were four exceptions. Two Republicans in Maine ( Susan Collins and Olympia Snowe); one in Rhode Island (Lincoln Chafee) and one in Minnesota (Norm Coleman) voted yes on Kennedy's educational funding bill.

All the rest of the Republicans voted Nay.

Why would Republicans want the average American child to have equal educational opportunities? They send their kids to private schools, don't they?

America's victimized children have suffered one Republican educational cut-back after another in the last five years. While the rest of the world progresses, children in the United States are left behind.

That's how the voting went, folks. Senator Kennedy's bill was defeated. By the Republicans.

The next time I hear a Republican running for re-election mouth the words: I'm a strong advocate of education, I think I'll light a fire under the stump he's standing on, and as his promises go up in hot air, the last words he'll hear are: " Then why didn't you vote for it? "
Senate Shenanigans © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

When The Bubble Bursts

In a March 10, 2006 discussion, Mike Allen, the White House correspondent of Time magazine, and Keith Olbermann of Countdown, which is an hour-long nightly newscast on MSNBC, remarked on Sandra Day O'Connor's recent speech at Georgetown University.

O'Connor's speech, also recorded by National Public Radio and the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin, warned that attacks on the judiciary by Republican leaders pose a direct threat to our constitutional freedoms.

It should be noted here, before folks jump to the conclusion that this is a Democrat's attack posturing for the upcoming elections, that former Justice O'Connor is a Republican. A highly respected Republican.

Sandra Day O'Connor, a Supreme Court Justice who retired last month after 24 years of service to our country, said: "We must be ever-vigilant against those who would strong-arm the judiciary into adopting their preferred policies."

For those of us who missed coverage of the Georgetown University speech, Allen and Olbermann clue us in to the alarming focus of one of O'Connor's main points: that we are seeing the beginnings of a dictatorship here in America.

A couple of months ago, I expressed this very concern. And was ballyhooed by local chums as being paranoiac. They said my fears, based on the observation that many of the mechanisms of totalitarian rule had been set into operation in our country during the last six years, were groundless. That a dictatorship couldn't happen here in the U.S.

Yet, when you hear a Supreme Court Justice, who has only been off the bench for one month, use the word D-I-C-T-A-T-O-R-ship twice in the same speech, referring to what is happening here in America, it gives pause to the question: When is the proper time to panic? Before or after totalitarian rule is an established fact?
When The Bubble Bursts © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Monday, March 13, 2006

Oppositional Paperhangers

Why is it when you're slim and trim folks say: "Oh well, you could stand to gain a bit of weight."

But then, when you follow their advice and put on a few pounds, they want to know when you're going on a diet.

And have you noticed? The same thing goes for drinking. Folks nag you for years that you drink too much. So OK. They're probably right. Now you're sober as a judge and feeling great. No more hangovers.

And it's New Year's Eve. They fill your glass with champagne to toast in the New Years.

"Hold it. Back up there partner. I don't drink. Remember?"

"Oh well, you can have one or two, it won't hurt you."

Bullshit.

Had a brother-in-law once. Heck of a nice fellow. My sister's last husband. Used to follow me around at parties. In those years, I wore stiletto heels, so carrying a full champagne glass around was hazardous to carpets. When the hostess wasn't looking he'd switch glasses with me. His was always empty, mine was always full. I thought he was a dear for rescuing me from embarrassment.

"What are you drinking, dear?"
"I don't drink."
"Oh sure you do. What'll you have?"
"I'll pass. Thanks."
"Oh just this once. Here's some champagne."

Yep. That brother-in-law was a dear. Too bad he had to go and kick the bucket. As I recall, he was a chain smoker. He'd sure come in handy now. For haven't I just managed to quit smoking and how much you wanta bet some idiot will say: "Ah c'mon now, one little ole cig won't hurt you."
Oppositional Paperhangers © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Sunday Morning XXII

It's Sunday and time to share something about God. A mini sermon, if you will. Some deep thought. A guiding principle that will help all and Bless the lives of those i touch.

But no deep thoughts enter my mind. Not even one.

If I sit here long enough though, some penetrating enlightenment will cross my consciousness, right? Sun shines through the window and saturates the golden color of the upholstered chair which comforts me with its brilliance. As I twiddle my thumbs, trying to think of something meaningful to share, unfocused ideas saunter around my imagination.

OK. Let's concentrate. Really concentrate. Bring these rambling notions to one focused point. Spiritual books, read over the years, say focus on breathing. Note the incoming breath. The outgoing breath.

B-O-R-I-N-G !!!

Let's spice it up a bit, shall we? So, I memorize the lambent gold color of the sunlit chair. Close my eyes. And actually see the gold breath fill me with gold. Feel my head, throat, spine, belly button and um . . . my heart . . . fill with the magical color.

Marvelous exercise.

Yet, I am no closer to a focused Sunday morning column than I was before!

Magically, my son and granddaughter arrive and fill the living room with the sparkle of their wonderful personalitites. "Want to go down to Pendl's for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure." Whew ! What a relief. I can dodge the responsibility of serious thought and enjoy the moment.

I love going to Pendl's bakery. Why? Every time I've been there, the color sunshine and the feeling joyful fill my being. Folks come in and out. We share energy and conversation. Splendid golden energy. Besides that, Pendl's brews up a tasty cuppa coffee and the aroma of their pastries is to die for.

Awesome.

Home. And I begin to wonder . . . Did concentrating on breathing golden breaths bring this treasured golden moment?

Mmmm . . . . You'll have to remind me to sit in that sunlit chair more often.
Chae

Friday, March 10, 2006

Tea Trade

From the fields of five continents, Good Earth Originals brings a spicy blend of herb tea packaged in a wonderfully cheerful yellow box with the placid scene printed on the front of an old man guiding a large old-fashioned plow pulled by a horse.

Printed on the sides and back is a small vignette of vegetables which perhaps triggers impressions of a good earth yet registers not at all as a good tea.

However, the reason I mention this at all, (for being a strong black tea imbiber myself, I am loathe to mention any herb tea concoction) is when friends visit I like to have choices on hand to pamper their appetites and intrigue their imaginations.

Good Earth Herb Tea seems to satisfactorily fill this bill. As an added bonus, as if apologizing for its weak imitation of the heartier black teas, each teabag comes attached with a clever saying. A motto of sorts like those found in Chinese Fortune cookies.

This then is my motive for mentioning Good Earth. The mottos are sentimentally endearing even if the tea itself is not.
Tea Trade © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Thursday, March 09, 2006

O'Toole's Bazooka

It's pretty obvious by Tucker O'Toole's appearance that he's never spent a day tasting dust. His oxfords sparkle with such polish that one finds themselves looking north, then south along Spring Street trying to catch a glimpse of the shoe shine boy. O'Toole's green and white plaid shirt smells of starch hot from the steam iron. And his bushy white beard could easily have just walked out of a shampoo commercial.

His blue eyes twinkle behind rimless spectacles as he clasps an object above his head. The object could be a supersized kumquat or something else entirely.

O'Toole gently lobs it between his left and right hands a time or two before he sits down, cross-legged on the sidewalk among the group of wide-eyed youngsters, mostly boys between the ages of ten and twelve years. There are three girls in the group and they, too, are mesmerized by the object held between the old man's long, bony fingers.

O'Toole's silvery voice holds the children spellbound, as his thumb pushes a hole in the sticky glob. Then, with both hands, he pulls it apart as if it were a long elastic band. Once again he rolls it into a ball.

"When I was six or seven, folks thought if you swallowed this stuff, it would stick to your stomach and make you fat. Others thought if you swallowed it, it'd stick in your throat. They figured that's why some people had Adam's Apples.

"But my Dad, six brothers and me didn't have much in the way of money, so we never swallowed ours. We saved it.

"When mine wasn't in my mouth, it was stuck to the back of the wood burner, cause that stove was always hot and kept my wad soft. After putting it in a safe spot right under the curve of the stove pipe, I'd mosey on down to the cafe on Church Street and check underneath all the tables and chairs. Whatever bits I found, came home with me in my pockets and got added to my stash."

One of the little girls sitting by O'Toole, fidgeted some, placed a small plump hand on his knee, and asked timidly, "How long did it take until it growed this big, sir?"

O'Toole grinned. "Well now youngster, I start chewin when I was six and just this year celebrated my 69th birthday, so I reckon this wad is 63 years old. Of course, not all of it's that age cause I've been adding to it right along."

A red-headed, freckled-faced boy waved his hand in the air. "Mister. Mister! Did ya ever lose your wad?"

"Nearly did once, young feller. Happened when I was chewin pretty seriously and it accidently flew out of my mouth. Rolled across the ground a couple of feet or so and suddenly this Jack Russell terrier pounced on it. Had to wrestle that dog nearly an hour to get my wad from between his jaws. I was a lot more careful in my chewin after that."

Further back in the crowd, a pair of twins exchanged a grimmace. One wrinkled his pert nose, while the other asked, "You didn't chew it after that dog did, did-ja?"

O'Toole chuckled. "It's no big deal, son. No matter who chews it, it ain't gonna lose its flavor. Can't hurt you none if'n you don't swallow it."

O'Toole's knees cracked loudly as he stood. Carefully, he flattened the yellowish glob, then folded it in on itself a time or two, and finally tucked the wad into his shirt pocket. He gave a toothless grin and a mock salute. "Hubba, Bubba Bubba Kiddos."

As O'Toole walked down the street towards home, the red-headed, freckled-faced boy noticed that a piece of the old man's chewing gum had slipped into a chink in the sidewalk. It had also stuck to the bottom of one of the old man's oxfords. With each step, as O'Toole walked away, the gum stretched out longer and longer.

Soon, the old man had hiked the distance of one block. The gum stretched like a rubberized slinky.

Then, O'Toole had marched past two blocks. The gum stretched like an elastic sling shot.

When the old man was three blocks away, the gum, taut with tension, slung away from O'Toole's oxford, flung itself back towards the group of children like a whip popping the air, ricocheted half a block in the opposite direction, and like a boomerang returned and settled in a big glob atop the crack in the sidewalk.

For a moment, not one child moved. Then slowly, in single-file, as they passed by, they plucked a bit of the sticky stuff from the giant mound of gum, put it in their mouth, and began to chew.

They headed home in groups of two and three. And a discerning ear could hear them sing. Hubba, Hubba Bubba to you, O'Toole, and Thanks for a Bubbalicious day.
O'Toole's Baszooka © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Hip Lips

Sufferin' Murgatroyd! What will they think of next? Can you believe it? Those cosmetic guys are promoting needles! Syringes, too! Holey Moley, is all the world topsy-turvey?

Let me say, right up front, needles are not my bag. The closest I've come to one was back in '78 when I magnanimously offered to sew a ripped seam on my son's baseball shirt. When the job was finished, I handed him the shirt. He took one look at it and said: "If I have to wear that, I'll quit the team."

A few years back, I teased a co-worker. He had this habit of smacking his lips together when he wanted attention so I needled him about it.

Shouldn't have done that. He started smoking. Developed quite a talent for blowing smoke rings which circled noses. Those darn rings clung to the targeted nose all day. They were better than a mood ring for changing colors. The peaceful secretary's nose wore a blue ring. The boss's was red. Mine was an ugly shade of puce.

Our co-worker? Wore a Cheshire grin.

Yep. Needles and I don't get along. Not at all. They're too closely related to syringes and everyone knows a syringe means —HOSPITAL. If you're wealthy and can afford health insurance, hospitals might be a relaxing tonic. All those beautiful nurses pampering a patient's every need.

But the average Joe? Can he afford health insurance? Heck. A quick glance at the hospital bill is more than he can afford. Cause when he discovers he's been shafted for paying cash, charged four times more for the same treatment than the fellow with insurance — he'll have a coronary. And who's going to pay the undertaker's bill?

Yep. Needles, syringes, hospitals and long black hearses with a parade following behind aren't for me.

So what's with the cosmetic industry promoting needles? Have they teamed up with the pharmaceutical companies? Or do they have a take-over bid brewing on the back burner?

Will banner headlines soon read: "Fusion Beauty Takes-Over Merck"?

Their advertising hype reads like its straight out of a mechanic's manual. "Powerful combination of 2X micro-injected pure collagen™ plus micro-injected hyaluronic acid™ in one high-performance topical treatment."

Fusion Beauty is fine-turning a souped-up race car for the Daytona 500 competition, right?

Not exactly. Seems cosmetic companies are trying to give us fuller, firmer, sexier lips for competition of an entirely different nature. It's a simple procedure. The cosmetic mechanics fatten lips with syringe injections called — PLUMPERS!

Sheeska! They think I can stick to my diet and use plumpers?

Speaking of diets, it's obvious that this new fad was devised by some bright executive in cosmetic's management who engineered a dramatic method to increase sales. He has a 2-step game plan.

Today, he sells the allure of plump lips. Micro-injected hyaluronic acid™. Syringe. Needles. The whole Kit and Kaboodle.

Tomorrow, he sells diet pills especially designed to reduce fat, fleshy lips. The active ingredient in the new lip diet will sound a lot like dehyaluronic acid™.

What a marketing genius, eh?

If you have thin lips, are bored, have plenty of change jingling around in your pocket, and have no pressing engagements for the next six months, you might want to get aboard this merry-go-round.

Me? I hate sharp, pointy objects. Am allergic to syringes. So! When I'm overwhelmed by desire to indulge a bulge of plump lips, well . . . I'll just kiss my husband. Maybe, bussing his fat smacking lips will interrupt his smoking habit and get rid of those *#^@&*!* puce-colored smoke rings.

Unless, of course, I decide to needle him about his smackers.
Hip Lips © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Bloggers For Wal-Mart

If you're reading Sam Walton's book, Made in America, and see a NY Times' headline featuring Wal-Mart, it's a cinch you'll click the link and read the story.

When you do, you can't help but chuckle. Sam Walton's done it again!

For the most part, Sam tackled money expenditures as if he still faced hardscrabble times of the Great Depression. And he never believed in spending much money on advertising.

That's why you've gotta chuckle.

Wal-Mart is currently getting an enormous amount of advertising -- absolutely FREE. What a rip!

It's 2006 and for most companies advertising is the cost that is twisting their tails and making them howl in pain. So how is it that Wal-Mart is getting theirs free?

Well, it seems Wal-Mart and the Edelman firm teamed up. And produced a public relations campaign which feeds bloggers pre-written Wal-Mart advertising hype via email. The bloggers, in turn, post this hype on their sites. It is often written as their own opinions without reference to a source.

Does Wal-Mart, who earns $300 Billion a year in sales, PAY the bloggers to promote its business?

Nope! Not a penny.

Before reading Walton's book, I would have seen this as a pretty chintzy ploy, yet now, I can't help but see it as clever advertising tactics. Even from his grave, Sam has trumped the system, beaten the odds, and accomplished the impossible once again.
Bloggers For Wal-Mart © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Monday, March 06, 2006

Sugar High

Two friends get together at Starbucks every Tuesday afternoon. They have coffee lattes and discuss current events. Their dialogue is mostly uninterrupted, fast paced and inclined to be superficial for both have jobs that require them to clock-in promptly after the lunch hour.

The one named Reno is very confident, often flamboyant and into pop culture. The other one, Dan, is conservative, his complexion sits on his face like fire rekindled from a blown-out match, and when maneuvering his Renault on a major interstate, he insists on driving right down the middle-of-the-road.

If we pulled a Bush administration ploy and eavesdropped on their conversation, we would hear:

Dan: "Ever get uptight? Tense?"

Reno: "No. I soothe the moves."

Dan: "You what?"

Reno: "Soothe the moves, man. You know, fudge the drudge, treat the wheat, jelly the belly, candy the dandy, sweet the sheet."

Dan: "Ah . . . does that mean you use sugar?"

Reno: "Does a bug shrug? Of course, I use sugar. That's what I've been telling you."

Dan: "Well, sugar prices are soaring. Candy makers are really scrounging around hunting for sugar."

Reno: "Why doesn't the man named Sam sluice the goose and loosen the sugar quotas? Import more from Brazil?"

Dan: "Gut Shabbes! Haven't you been paying attention? There's an energy crises. China's busy buying up the world's oil fields; Iran's developing nuclear energy, and Brazil's using it's sugar cane crops to make ethanol as fuel for their motor vehicles."

Reno: "Why don't we bop the blacktop to Louisiana and get their sugar cane crop?"

Dan: "The hurricanes destroyed it. Along with the refineries."

Reno: "Well then, let's feet the street and go get sugar beet, the best in the Midwest, lest we test the taste of sourdough, sourballs, pungent and vinegary. Egads! Coffee and no sugar to be had? We'll lose the booze and the whole east coast in one fell sugarless scoop."

Dan: "Yeah, well, weather wiped out the sugar beet crop, too. It won't be long before folks have to take out a second mortgage on their homes in order to buy just one Hershey's candy bar."

Reno: "I done told you when you voted for Bush, he'd push the country into mush, throw in some Hindu Kush and whoosh! America, once great, is suddenly squoosh. You can't sweet concrete from a deadbeat full of deceit."

Dan: "Well, what about you? You're the sugar freak."

Reno: "Don't worry about me. I'll get used to being uptight, outta sight and finger-lickin good."
Sugar High © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Sunday Morning XXI

If I were a flower in God's garden, what flower would I be?

Would I be a Crocus? Surely this wee flower is heaven's gift to mankind. For it is the first harbinger of Spring. If we've been depressed by a long winter, the Crocus brings us Joy. Certainly, giving joy to others is a most treasured state of Being.

But what about the Christmas rose, the Christmas cactus and the Pointsetta? In winter, when even the trees have given up their leaves in despair, these flowers bloom giving us Hope. Announcing for all the world to see, that despair is a temporary emotion. Truly, spring will follow each long winter's night.

And what about the profusion of flowers in summer? Each adds its own beauty to long summer days. Surely Beauty is important. It delights the soul with visual Harmony, remembered fragrances and a sense of well being.

Would I be a hothouse flower like the Orchid which allows us to see exquisite Perfection, if only briefly? Or would I be a wildflower? Growing wild and free as hardy and Enduring as the earth itself?

What flower would I be?

I pondered this question ever so long for I love each bloom, each floret, each blossoming quality. Joy. Hope. Beauty. Harmony. Perfection. Endurance. Freedom of Spirit. A Sense of Well Being.

What an impossible dilema. Choosing which flower to be.

Twas then, an awesome light shone on me and quickly an efflorescent decision was made.

You know, I believe I'll be them all, for each flower is, indeed, an aspect of me!
Chae

Friday, March 03, 2006

Ole What's His Name

Was thumbing down the list of Senators holding office in the 109th Congress and some of their names caught my eye. There was a Lott of Graham. Crackers. Both of them. Of course, if you're a cracker, you're from the south.

Russell thought he'd Fein gold in Wisconsin but Dianne, who usually Feins steins, said: "C'mon down to California if you wanta Fein gold.

Meanwhile, Sununu was trying to Snowe some Sessions of the senatorial meetings with his Talent but John said: "I Warn 'er right now, let's back off this topic and All lard down at the smorgasbord.

The gavel banged down with a snap, closing the Sessions. The senators adjourned to the dining room where Jim said: "I want deMint." Mike said: "I want deWine." To which Idaho's Mike replied: It's all a bunch of Crapo. There's better stuff down the street where we can Tune Inn with real relish."

Mikulski formed a Bond with a solid Rock (of a) feller who had a Pryor appointment with a Boxer. Both senators had a Burr under their saddle blankets.

Orrin Hatched a plan to spy on the public but Debbie said: "Stab (m)e now if I go along with that. It's too close to elections. John thought that was Corny 'n trite.

Joseph Bid en them all to come to order for the second time that day, but Arlen laughed at the Specter of Coleman carrying Kohl into the next Sessions while Chuck Haggled with the Ensign and Thad watched as the Coch ran onto the Brown back of Sam until Elizabeth Doled out deWine she'd schlepped from the smorgasborg.

There you have a day at the Senate, folks. If that Society of Senators had more time for deliberation, they'd probably make a great many more mistakes but then nothing sews a senate session more snugly into our memories than the wish to forget it.
Ole What's His Name © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Popular Culture?

The First Amendment guarantees:
Freedom of Speech
Freedom of Religion
Freedom of the Press
Freedom of Assembly
Freedom to Petition for Redress of Grievances


These freedoms protect the people's right to:

Speak freely: which means an American can criticize the government; criticize laws; criticize the President's policies, his hair color, choice of clothing, etc. (all public, government officials) without fear of imprisonment.

The right to practice Religion: any religion of your choice without being imprisoned, deported or harrassed in any way by government interference.

The right to own and publish newspapers: the government cannot regulate the newspapers regardless of their content.

The right to Assemble: people can gather together in peaceful groups; they can meet each other, stand around in groups, and discuss any topic they wish to without fear of being arrested.

The right to address the government: again, without fear of imprisonment.

Brought to you by the Constitution of the United States
Chae

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Simpson Noetic

"Mmmm . . . ."

About says it all, doesn't it? Apparently, that's the only intelligent word needed today.

"Mmmm . . . . "

With that single utterance, if your name is Simpson, you can become TV's longest-running animated series, make a fortune selling Simpson paraphernalia, become the focus of several books and grace the syllabus of, at least, two colleges. Probably more.

"Mmmm . . . . "

Amazing.

And it's equally amazing that folks can remember the names of all five members of the Simpson family! Gadzooks. There are times when I have difficulty remembering the five names of my own family.

22 percent of Americans can name all five family members of a cartoon. Now aren't they smart! Many of those can name the Simpson's three-eyed fish. Brilliant. And can they name the five freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment of our Constitution?

Nope! Only one in a thousand can do that.

It's the stuff of comedy, right? Or so an interviewer of a recent survey thought. Let's see. Here's a sound track from the interview:

Interviewer: "We're giving away a free book of the Simpson's famous quotes today, if you would answer a few questions first. Would you like us to send you the book?"

John Q. Public: "YES! I'd love to impress my friends with real knowledge like that."

Interviewer: "Are you an American?"

John Q. Public: "I SURE AM! And proud of it. Have Old Glory waving proud and free on the flagpole in my front yard."

Interviewer: "Alrighty then. If you could just tell me what the five freedoms listed in the First Amendment of our Constitution are?"

John Q. Public: "Well, I know the right to own my pet is one of them. So, that's one. And I can raise it in my own home. So that must be the second freedom."

Interviewer: "Can you think of any more?"

John Q. Public: "Yeah. Actually, I can. The right to drive is in the First Amendment."

Interviewer: "Any more?"

John Q. Public: "Pleading the 5th is in the First Amendment."

Interviewer: "Pleading the 5th?"

John Q. Public: "You know. It's that bit about self-incriminations. At a trial, see. Bosses from the mob say it all the time. "I plead the 5th." That's in the First Amendment."

Interviewer: "OK, so that's four. Can you think of more?"

John Q. Public: "Do I get my Simpson book if I can't name the other one?"

Interviewer: "Sure. I'll send it right out to you. Say, you're an adult, right?"

John Q. Public: "Yeah. Turned forty last year."

Interviewer: "OK. That wraps it up. Thanks. And I'll get that book in the mail this afternoon."

Think I'm joking? In a Jan. 20-22, 2006 survey conducted by Synovate, an independent market research firm, for McCormick Tribune Freedom Museum:
21 percent of adult Americans believed the right to own a pet was guaranteed by the First Amendment.
38 percent believed that somehow the 5th Amendment was actually part of the First Amendment.
And 1 in 5 people thought the "right" to drive a motorized vehicle was also a guaranteed freedom of the First Amendment.

Which leads a body to speculate that, in this day and age, what it means to be an American can be summed up by Marge Simpson: "If you raise three children who can knock out and hog-tie a perfect stranger, you must be doing something right."

Guess she's got that one pegged.
Simpson Noetic © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan