Sunday Morning XXXIII

It rained.

Then the sun broke through the clouds causing the raindrops still clinging to the lilac bushes to sparkle like little droplets of light dancing in the breeze.

In blooming shades of lavender and puce with tinges of pink, the lilacs hang heavy with the scent of spicy-sweetness. The flowers cluster in heavenly crowns of color amid awesomely green leaves and announce the end of winter. Like bunches of purple grapes, they promise the gloriously succulent taste of summer.

If the windows of our soul open only to these vivid spectrums of color sparkling in the sunshine, then our view of life will have an exquisite charm beyond measure.

We do not need to compare their homey loveliness to the stark white and coldness of winter. We need only to enjoy their beauty now, in this moment, and listen to the buzzing drone of bees sampling their nectar.

It is with simplicity that we experience the greatest clarity.
Chae

Miscellaneous Trivia

Mishmash and a bit o melarkey hash but then the following is true enough: the Jerusalem cherry, despite its name, is neither a cherry nor does it grow in or near Jerusalem. It's a popular greenhouse plant grown for its scarlet, globe-shaped fruits and is native to Brazil.
Chae

Whisperers A Plenty

Darn if there's not another fellow trying to cash in on the whispering scene.

Back in '95, it was a catchy title for Nicholas Evan's novel: Horse Whisperer which was made into a movie in '98 and directed by Robert Redford who also played the major role of Tom Booker.

Both the book and the movie were based on the real macoy, a fellow by the name of Buck Brannaman who is a widely respected horse gentler.

Brannaman whose approach is to turn frightened horses into friends is based on trust and respect rather than dominance, mastery or manhandling. Brannaman's approach is a spiritual thing.

The newest whisperer, Cesar Millan, is a zeroxed copy without the spiritual credentials.

Not only is Mr. Millan trying to cash in on the name and reputation of someone else by using the title: Dog Whisperer, Millan who relies on dominance rather than respect, doesn 't have the skills of a true healer. Rather, he sees himself as leader of the pack.

But then from Millan's background what else could one expect?
Whisperers A Plenty © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

A New York Monday Morning

 

Who woulda thought that something this cute could be dangerous? Or that it would require 70 people to move it from one place to another?

Pikachu, a Pokemon character from Macy's department store, made his way down Broadway this morning before 9 a.m. What a great way to start Monday morning!

He was on a test run, so he made the trip nine times as a variety of maneuvers were performed to avoid future mishaps such as the one that occurred on Thanksgiving when a giant M&M helium balloon knocked over a light pole injuring two sisters. Try explaining that to friends and relatives.

"Gee, Aunt Mary. What happened to you? You've got a big bruise on your forehead."

"Yes . . . well. A giant M&M attacked me."
A New York Monday Morning © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan 

Sunday Morning XXXII

I watched my parakeet and my dog introduce themselves last night. As they approached each other, nose to beak, the wee bird was more assertive than the dog.

The bird hopped forward, inquisitive about this fellow critter, while the dog backed up, head cocked to one side as if to say: "What is this?"

The bird advanced. The dog backed up.

Until, finally, they lay down together. Perfectly content in each other's company.

It was once, always like that. The beasts of the field lay down together in peace, in harmony.

Until . . . .

man came along and taught them to be enemies.

Have a thoughtful day and God Bless You every one.
Chae

Spider Dance

Accidents happen so darn fast and so unpredictably. It's amazing the speed at which they occur.

One minute you're perfectly OK and feeling just fine and the next instant you can't remember a time when the traumatized area didn't throb with pain.

Moments before the injury our whole world was open, our horizons vast and our expectations and plans enormously suited to our expanding universe.

We were not aware, perhaps, that the world was our oyster. Still, it was there waiting for our participation.

Then, in less time than it takes a parrot to squawk, we are injured, our life changes, and all of our attention is localized to one miniscule area which on the scale of size would be too small to show up on a roadmap.

Heck. Even a greatly magnified roadmap which pinpoints individual houses, rooftops and bushes could not be enlarged enough to show such a minor injury.

There are, of course, injuries far more serious than a broken toe. Indeed, on the scale of importance a broken toe is no more than a mosquito's nibble. Swat it away and ignore its nuisance value.

A broken toe is like too much ketchup spilled on a hot dog. One moment the ketchup is stuck in the bottle and the next moment, whoops, the whole content of the bottle is oozing the length of the dog, up and over the sides of the bun, onto the plate, along the table's edge and into the lap of the only person present who would be really pissed off if ketchup landed in their lap. Such an incident would destroy their whole day.

The two are very similar experiences, except it takes longer to spill the ketchup.

It's not the pain of the toe that bothers me so much as the way the calamity happened.

Daylight hours are fraught with accident prone adventures but nights . . . ahhh nights . . . shouldn't the safety of our beds be sacrosanct?

At least, that's the way it usually works. One hits the mattress, pluffs up the pillows, pulls up the comforter, draws a deep, satisfied breath and thanks the Powers That Be for having survived yet another day.

Journalists often write in bed. Jotting down those last few thoughts before turning off the light and sometimes crumpling paper into wads, pitching them on the floor to be disposed of in the morning clean-up routine. Certainly, after an eighteen hour day, no one is going to get up, leave the comfort of bed, to dispose of those wastrel words properly.

Unless . . . .

Glancing over the edge of the mattress you spy a huge black spider perched atop a crumpled ball of paper. You eyeball the distance between the ominous creepy crawly and the low iron frame supporting the box spring and note that the malevolent spider is only a cobweb away from attacking you while you sleep. Alarms sound and you KNOW you are in mortal danger.

Galvanized into immediate action, you leap from the bed with the intention of kicking the ball-shaped paper across the room.

This action, if done quickly enough, will send that spider sailing like a football through the end zone and hopefully to perdition beyond.

There's only one thing that could go wrong with this game plan devised in less seconds than it takes to inhale. Your toe performs an improbable yet not impossible feat. It somehow gets trapped in the millimeter of space between the mattress and the metal frame. How could that happen?

Shucks. It all happened so fast. It was a sloppy fall. Ungainly. Nothing graceful about it at all. KaBam!

The spider? Skittered away as fast as his many legs would speed his escape. (We don't even want to see this from his point of view.)

And the toe? Well, if it's examined with a magnifying glass, I think it'll show up on the roadmap somewhere between Peoria and Lake Winnipesaukee.

Footnote: In an ideal world there would be no pain, no suffering. And accidents? If they happened at all, they would happen in slow motion, very slow motion, so there would be time to reverse the action and create a different outcome. An outcome which kept the world open, our horizons vast and our expectations and plans enormously suited to our expanding universe which is there . . . waiting for our participation.
Spider Dance © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Who Woulda Thought

There was a fellow who scuffled along with his hands in his pockets. His head was bent and his gaze was upon the ground. He seldom looked up or noticed where he was heading. Clearly, the man was dejected.

A priest spotted this fellow one morning and taking pity on him, handed him two dollars with a consoling: "Never despair".

The following morning, the priest was out walking and saw the same man. This time the fellow, walking jauntily, came up to him. He greeted the priest with a big smile, and handed him forty dollars. "How'd you know?"

The priest, looking at the forty dollars in his hand, mumbled: "Know what?"

"That Never Despair would win and pay twenty to one."
Chae

Coercive Forces

It started innocently enough but then, as some situations do, it escalated out of control.

My son Jessy's teacher, Mrs Gresham, was no dummy. She knew how to keep her classes occupied. In May 2003, her project of the month was making . . . decorations. She told Jessy's class: "Kitchen magnets make a great gift for mom and they're very easy to make! We have a wide variety of frog patterns for refrigerator magnets, so let's get started ."

And that's how it all began.

Refrigerator magnets are addictive. A frog leads to notes, photos and art work held in place with flower magnets, cute dogs, cats, rabbits, Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving doodads, plaster, plastic and clay immitations of cookies, candies, fruits, cat food, mementos from trips, windmills, red barns, cows, clocks, angels, chocolate and magnets that make sound: phones, boomboxes and coke cans.

Mrs. Gresham wasn't the only one who thought kitchen magnets make great gifts. Every cousin in a forty mile radius thought so too. So the magnets multiplied.

But not all magnets are created equal. Some stick to the fridge and stay in place; others fall off and roll under any levered surface until just after dark when they stealthily move to the middle of the kitchen floor. This is hard on bare feet and inevitabley produces a scream. "WhaaaaAooucheee."

Which is why my husband, Pat, made the super magnet. Screams interrupt his sleep and then, even Ambien won't get him back into a good snooze.

Pat, an electrical engineer, armed himself with information from the internet about ceramic permanent magnets, rare earth magnets, electromagnetic magnets and more. For weeks, he talked about magnetic dipoles aligning parallel to external magnetic fields, and that magnets are measured in terms of Gauss, Tesla and Megagauss Oersted which I thought was quite a mouthful but it rolled off his tongue slick as nylon sliding off satin sheets.

"The magnetic field of earth at the surface is One Gauss." He wiggled his eyebrows Groucho Marx style.

"Oh don't be so pedantic," I'm sure my voice sounded sarcastic. "I could look that stuff up online, too, you know."

"Yes. And you would find that a refrigerator magnet is a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty Gauss while neodymium magnets produce magnetic fields tens of thousands of times stronger than those of earth. Baby, them's suckers can lift 350 pounds! And there's magnets which will lift more. Now sweetheart, hold onto your seat cover, cause I plan to build you some mighty strong magnets. You'll love em."

Pat shoved his hands in his pockets and started whistling an obscure Irish tune as he strolled out to the garage where his workshop was located in the summertime. In winter, he tinkered in the basement.

It wasn't long after Pat started attaching his inventions to the Frigidaire that we had a visitor. One of our political friends, named George, who hailed from Texas.

After visitng formally in the parlor, we invited him into the kitchen for coffee. George stands five feet ten-and-a-half inches tall; weighs approximately one hundred and eighty-five pounds, has been known to lift the front end of an old Chevy pickup clear off the ground cause his adrenalin got to pumping so fast and furiously that it made him angry, see, cause that ole Chevy had run plumb over his favorite Stetson, and George, well he always wears an oversized Texas belt buckle made out of rawhide and plenty of metal.

Whew! If that wasn't a mouthful but you get the idea. This fellow is no fishpond weakling.

We were all walking into the kitchen when it happened.

One of Pat's gizmos grabbed George by the buckle. He might of thought it was by his short-hairs but I assure you it was not. The magnet grabbed his belt buckle and propelled George across that space with such velosity that it slammed his nose flat against the fridge's side before anyone could sneeze twice, if they'd a had a mind to. Broke George's nose in two places, the force was so great. Push, twist and grapple, George never did free himself. It took Pat and me plus two rugged neighbors using a pry-bar to finally set him free.

Pat's magnets kept getting stronger. And so did the consequences.

Like the day we noticed the housecat toting a kitchen spatula, a bread pan, an outdated Idaho license plate plus an unusual assortment of metal objects. These items protruded from the cat's fur at various angles and as the cat languidly strolled by the metal fireplace poker, it too, chinked itself firmly to the cat's hide.

We called the vet.

"You got refrigerator magnets?" he asked.

"Ah . . . yes."

"Got any that look like food?"

Isn't it silly how people nod their heads while talking on the phone? As if the other person could see them. I nodded affirmatively. "Um hum."

"More than likely the animal mistook the magnets for cat chow. Happens more often than you'd think. Bring him in and we'll see if we can demagnitize him. If not, it'll be an operation for old Tabby."

But, at the exact moment we opened the front door to rush Housecat to the clinic, a plane which we thought might belong to a Hawaiian airline flew overhead. We tried to stop the event from happening, but our cat was ripped from our arms, flew through the air with Superman speed, and whomped onto a metal section of the plane with a loud tinny click. Housecat had the ride of his life but landed safely in Honolulu. Last we heard of him, a native sent us a postcard saying Housecat was having a fine vacation lazing on the beaches.

Sure now and wouldn't it be fine if that were the whole of it but no, there's more. Pat went and built his biggest magnet yet. It's Gauss rating was 181,000 or more. Heck, signs, chains and metallic markings on the floor whizzed through the air towards it. Folks driving through the neighborhood who had pacemakers headed straight for the hospital. Watches, metal-stripped credit cards and tools joined the arial melee.

Airborn ferromagnetic objects sped along at speeds of twelve thousand, one hundred-and-forty-five miles per hour as they honed in on the magnet. Suddenly, the Sun's restless interior reacted to Pat's new high-powered magnet.

A chaotic turbulence pulsed round and round the Sun's orb and magnetic field lines dragged round as well. Stretching. Twisting. Tangling. Conditions became highly unstable. It was as if millions of atomic bombs exploded at once.

Pat's teeth worried his lower lip in troubled anticipation of what would happen next. He tried to stop the chaos by reversing the polarity of his magnet but all that did was create a larger-scale magnetic effect: the reversal of the Sun's magnetic poles. The Sun's north became its south and visa versa.

The sun's storm spewed forth stuff and huge amounts of the charged matter swarmed our planet. Most of us weren't affected by it much but fifty thousand people in Sweden were without power for about an hour.

It's a fearsome worry when something you've created causes such a commotion. In a flurry of activity, we tossed all our refrigerator magnets in the trash can. And, you know, that trash can didn't sit around and wait for the garbage truck to pick it up either. It sped down the street on its own magnetic power like a sailor seeking the source of a siren's song. T'weren't but a heartbeat before it vanished. Pat promptly dismantled all his workshop projects involving magnets, his interest thoroughly quenched.

And the next time Mrs. Gresham suggested kitchen magnets as a great gift for mom? Jessy's red hair spiked, his blue eyes rolled, and his freckles jumped clear off the bridge of his nose. He muttered something about solar lunacy, stuck his hands in his pockets, began whistling an obscure Irish tune, and sauntered out of the classroom. Mrs. Gresham complained that she didn't see him for the rest of the day.
Coercive Forces © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Immigration Issue

Did you notice while listening to President Bush's speech last night on any one of the major television networks that his desk was absolutely barren of stuff? There was nothing on it. And, presumably, nothing in it either. That's how I've come to view Bush's mind. Uncluttered. Like the desk.

Generally, 98-percent of the content of Bush's speeches are hype and the other 2-percent are con. However, on the topic of immigration, I expected better from this president, as border patrol and immigration issues are backyard chatter for Bush who, as a longtall Texas pol with a 1200 mile Mex-Tex border, has been dealing with these issues for decades.

There was always the off-chance that Bush might be more sincere on this particular issue. And while more sincerity was expected, I didn't anticipate that I'd agree with him! After all, in six years he hasn't said anything I could agree with.

It was a strange state of affairs then, to find myself in agreement with the five objectives Bush seeks confirmation on in the House and Senate.

The first is that we must secure our borders.

The second objective is to create a temporary worker program which establishes a legal path for foreign workers to enter our country in an orderly way, for a limited period of time.

Yep. I agree with that. As Bush said, it would produce an honest way for immigrants to provide for their families while respecting the law.

Third, he suggested using biometric technology to implement a new ID system which uses tamper-proof digital fingerprints. There would be no excuses then, for employers of illegal workers to say they were fooled by false documentation. These employers would be accountable for their hiring choices.

The fourth item? W...ell, a rose by any other name is still . . . amnesty. But heck, I agree with amnesty. With or without Bush's refusal to be up front about it. If those conservative religious leaders who helped get him elected to office hadn't taken him to task about the issue, Bush might not be afraid to call a spade a space. Come to think about it: why would religious leaders be against amnesty?

Bush's fifth objective isn't an "objective" at all. It's already a given part of our country's heritage: embracing the traditional melting pot concept. Scheesch. Bush wants credit for a lot, eh?

Even though I tried hard to fault Bush's proposals expressed in his speech last night, I found, much to my surprise, that I was in agreement with him.

There's just one small item he failed to include. I'm sure it's an oversight on his part and he'll get around to fixin it soon.

Additional funding for the National Guard. Bush was pretty free with his requisitioning of their services as substitute border patrollers in his proposals. Previously, he called pretty heavily upon their services overseas in the Iraq fracas . . . all the while schlepping their equipment and cutting their funds. It's time he rectifies this mistake, don't you think?

As for his immigration speech, it was nice to hear Bush back on track with the rest of the country. Hopefully, he'll be able to maintain the pace and not go traipsing off on another wild tangent like the Iraq skirmish.
Immigration Issue © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXXI

Good Sunday Morning to Everyone
Happy Mother's Day
And God Bless Y'All!
Chae

Downward Spiral

Bush's popularity rating? 29 percent.

Something Shady's Going On

But then, we know that, don't we?

It's been my experience that honest people look you in the eye and take responsibility for their actions. Only racketeers and those living on the shady side of honest hide behind secrecy. When people are not straight-forward and up front about their activities, they are immediately associated with the Mafia, the Gestapo or the Bush Administration.

The secrecy of the National Security Agency (NSA) could easily be labeled gestapo skullduggery. Their latest scam? When confronted with their latest illegal activities, NSA told the Justice Department ethics investigating committee to bug off.

"We'll police ourselves," the NSA culprits told Justice Department ethics investigators. "Stay out of it. So. We violate a few laws and eavesdrop on the American populace without warrants. We're above the law and without security clearances for access to information about our agency, there's nothing you can do about it. Clearances denied."

Sadly, the Justice Department ethics office, represented by H. Marshall Jarrett, said: "OK". He said nothing more, nothing less. Just: "OK. Investigation closed."

Which brings us round to today's headline in the USA Today publication which first broke news of the most recent skullduggery: "NSA Has Massive Database of Americans' Phone Calls".

The NSA has collected data on tens of millions of Americans' phone calls. That means the NSA has been investigating YOUR private communications and if you are not a terrorist associated with al Qaeda ― they are acting illegally.

There's more.

If your telephone company is AT&T, Bell South or Verizon, you are being victimized by companies that are aiding and abetting illegal activities by supplying NSA with your personnel data. There's a law against that.

Specifically, that law is found under Section 22 of the Communications Act.

The hero of the day? Qwest.

They, alone, refused to be intimidated by Bush's Bullies. The Denver-based telecommunications company knew it was illegal to divulge customer information and they refused to break the law.

When NSA pushed, bullied, threatened and tried to intimidate Qwest, this honorable telephone company suggested going through proper channels and taking the proposal to the FISA court.

But NSA nixed that idea. Said the courts might not agree with what they were doing!

The White House response to all this?

No domestic surveillance is conducted without court approval. C'mon Dana Perino, deputy White House press secretary, tell us another whopper. Right after you finish telling us that: "the intelligence activities are lawful, necessary and required to protect Americans from terrorist attacks". ( Ha! They're protecting me from terrorists by using data that my 6-year-old grandchild called?)

Does anyone "out there" actually believe that?

As Vermont's Sen. Patrick Leahy, when appraised of this latest report, said: "Are you telling me that tens of millions of Americans are involved with al Qaeda? These are tens of millions of Americans who are not suspected of anything . . . Where does it stop?"

Leahy held up a copy of the USA Today and added: "Shame on us for being so willing to rubber stamp anything this administration does. We ought to fold our tents."
Something Shady's Going On © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Herr And Advertising

Statistics can prove anything, anything at all, if they are manipulated right. And I believe researcher Paul Herr has done just that in his report which will appear next month in the Journal of Consumer Research.

His thesis is that although stuningly beautiful models who exude sex appeal routinely peddle products for advertising purposes, their beauty and appeal are less convincing if they are promoting high-end products such as computors, high-speed dedicated gateways and ipods.

Gimme a break. Paul Herr would convince us that we were back in the 50's when it was believed that women's intellectual powers extended only to reading cookbooks.

Herr's marketing research appears to be sexually biased and his "statistics" prove only that Herr is a skillful manipulator.
Herr And Advertising © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Prime Pumps

Bet that owner-fella at the gas station wore a smile as plum self-satisfied as a crocodile just after he's eaten a tasty treat when the owner saw all those cars lining up at his fuel pumps in St. Louis recently. Bet he patted his pot belly and just gloated.

Even at three dollars a gallon, it'd take a passel of hours of straight pumping to sell $6,000 worth of fuel. Musta been a steady stream of cars. Enough to keep the pavement hot all day long.

As the day wore on, bet that owner-fella with the smug smile already saw himself in the new boat he was gonna buy with the profits. Probably didn't bother him much to be charging three dollars or more per gallon.

But it seems, he was counting his chickens before they hatched even though it looked like a sure thing.

I mean, how could he know? That Robin Hood is alive and well and living in St. Louis, Missouri. And Mr. Hood's most recent scam? Reprogramming gas pumps so they disperse free fuel.

The machines at two stations have been reprogramed.

It was a pretty well kept secret. So far, all those customers who lined up to cash in on thousands of dollars worth of "free gas" have kept mum about the situation. They filled and drove off, probably thanking the heavens for the free gift.

And the owner-fellas? Well, their smiles deflated somewhat when they heard the news. And I'd like to feel sorry for them. For their loss. Really, I would.

Except . . .

Well. You know. It's hard to feel sorry for gas-station-owner-gangsters who are goudging the public on a regular basis. In this case, I'm rootin for Robin Hood.
Prime Pumps © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Roving Chaos Revisited

Slander will get you everywhere is Karl Rove's slogan. He has a master's degree in the technique and has used it well in the past to promote the Republican party.

With Rove unleashed on the American public shortly before elections, one can expect extremely vicious attacks on the Democrats.

Rove recently resigned his policy making role which consumed megahours daily so he'd have more time to wear his new construction hat while he backhoes piles of dirt on Democratic contenders for Congress and Senate seats. The Dems only have to win six seats in the Senate and fifteen seats in the House to gain control of both houses and the Republicans are running scared.

As Bush's chief strategist, Rove's smear campaigns have undoubtedly been successful in past elections, and he believes his standard tools of the trade, fear tactics and the gullibility of the American populace, will win for him again in the upcoming elections.

Which has really kept him hopping. With so much on the line, Rove is frantically skipping around the country forming individual Republican candidate strategies and blackening the credentials of Democratic opponents.

In this election though, Rove may have to do more than tarnish the Dem's reputations. Credible explanations and a lot of whitewash are needed to launder the effects of: the Republican's secret eavesdropping program, faulty prewar intelligence which resulted in a needless war which cost $140 Billion Dollars, (not to mention thousands and thousands of lives), the Republican escalation of federal spending and their insistance on bigger government agencies, their inept handling of the effects of natural disasters like Katrina, graft in the reconstruction, and, of course, the newest flap about immigration.

But, who knows? Perhaps Rove and his elephant-sitters can cling to the frayed rope of promoting fear: "A Democratic victory in the elections would put fighting terrorism on the back burner ", and "our worst fears would be realized". If they are using these stratagems in their fund raising letters they must feel these old ploys will still work.

On the other hand, this time, it just may not play out well in Peoria.
Roving Chaos Revisited © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXX

If we could look at our own mistakes with a certain scientific detachment which avoids the two extremes of lazy tolerance and futile disgust, we could be more honest with our world and escape the condition of judging others. It would improve our memory also, for we wouldn't have to "forget" our involvement with the results of these actions.

Some folks call these mistakes "sins". Yet the label, sin, has an overwhelmingly negative impact on the psyche of the individual. As if God would "judge" us as sinners! God, who tells us not to judge others would not himself judge anything or anyone at all. To do so would be beneath the purity of his Very Being. For sitting in judgement is as impure and futile an action as any that man has conceived.

Our missive this week is to enter situations without pre-thought and with a certain sponaneity; enjoy the moment without manipulating the outcome; and finally, exit without after-thinking the events.

Good luck with this endeavor. And I wish you better success than I've attained with it. For while I can successfully enter into situations without pre-thinking what they should or could bring, and can enjoy the moment without manipulating its outcome, I never have escaped the experiences without after-thinking them, and yes . . . "judging" the events and all contained within them.

Bon voyage on this journey of self-exploration and I wish you God Bless.
Chae

AntiWar Protester? Heck No. That's Ray McGovern! Well-Informed CIA Analyst

I was traipsing merrily along through the Washington Post pages this morning, when I stumbled across the story about Rumsfeld's heckler. The one who interrupted Rummy's speech in Atlanta, Georgia at the Southern Center for International Studies yesterday.

Nearly passed the story by. After all, a controversal fellow like Rumsfeld, whose policies are responsible for the deaths of so many innocent victims, always has hecklers. So, ho hum. What else is new?

In a hurry to get to the Patrick Kennedy Ambien mishap, my eyes skimmed the Rummy article and stopped abruptly at the name of The Heckler. This wasn't any ole heckler; this was Ray McGovern! The former CIA Analyst. The Gentleman and the Scholar.

You may remember him from last week when this very respectable fellow was a guest on the Jim Lehrer News Show?

Rumsfeld's goons, who operate under the title of security guards, tried to physically remove McGovern from the room when he stood and raised the question of Rumsfeld's integrity. "Why did you lie to get us into a war that caused these kind of casualties and was not necessary?"

AntiWar Protester? Heck No. That's Ray McGovern! Well-Informed CIA Analyst © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

A Shilling Before A Pense Of Sense

You can't pass the buck if the buck stops here.

If you can't pass the buck the economy becomes stagnant.

When the economy becomes stagnant, there are no bucks to be had. Therefore, a corrupt administration like Bush's, which takes no responsibility for its actions, is actually an economic blessing for the country.

But let that not eclipse the imperative need for an extended hunting season, so there will be plenty of bucks for everybody. The president of vice, otherwise known as Vice President Cheney, needs an extended hunting season and the lobbyists need plenty of bucks.

Codicle amendment: It is equally imperative that no one be allowed to have deer pets for this results in the buck becoming dear.
A Shilling Before A Pense Of Sense © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Good Evening Folks

Took the day off to go SHOPPING !!!

This is no easy feat in Driggs. The closest viable shopping mecca is an hour's drive away. Two hours round-trip. And that's not clipping along at an old folks pace, either. My little Mazda up and boogied down that asphalt highway !!!

It feels like the old covered-wagon days. Hitch up the horse, Nellie and let's make a day of it.

The find of the day? A Glenn Miller CD.

Now who can listen to In The Mood, Tuxedo Junction and American Patrol without feeling the overwhelming urge to dance?

And so I leave you for a while. If you have an active imagination or some Glenn Miller tunes, you can join me in the dance.

Til tomorrow then.
Chae

U.S. Spoonfed Illness; Brits Spoonfed Health

Duh. It doesn't take a mental acrobat to know that older folks in England are healthier than their kindred Americans.

The co-author, professor Sir Michael Marmot, of a May 3 article published in the Journal of The American Medical Association, or JAMA, concludes, after much research, that: Older Americans are much sicker than their English counterparts.

Why waste money on research to prove that? Sir Marmot need look no further than his TV set to determine the obvious.

Yet, after all this research, Marmot is still questioning why there are more incidents of diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, heart attack and strokes in Americans than in the Brits.

Marmot has tried to pin the causes for the disparity on smoking, obesity, alcohol abuse, and contrasting health care systems. ( Britain has a state-run National Health Service as opposed to America's wealth-seeking capitalistic practitioners.)

You can almost see the poor fellow shaking his head in dismay as his research showed that the differences in health could not be ascribed to these "usual scapegoats" . . . ah . . . er, I mean, "usual suspects".

If Sir Marmot had consulted me I could have saved him a lot of work. Probably a lot of headaches, too.

Now, I wantcha to know I'm not basing the following conclusion on any scientific data. It's doubtful that any major research has been done to prove my point. Yet, I am absolutely sure, without a doubt sure, that the folks in America who have diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, heart attack and strokes are the very same folks who watch TV.

To be specific, they watch the news on television plus other programs. We know they watch the news because it is always the worse offender. Every evening, folk's subconscious is brainwashed into believing they have the very diseases listed above which coincidentally are the very medications advertised on American TV.

One has a hunch that British television programming is quite different. One thing's for sure. It is free from American pharmaceutical companies' medicinal advertising. Hence, a healthier, older population.

It's one of those simple but powerful conclusions, Americans would be as healthy as the Brits if we watched the BBC instead of American television stations.
US Spoonfed Illness; Brits Spoonfed Health © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Folks enjoying a Beer Bath at Landhotel Moorhof in Franking, Austria

  

Swipe Bath Anyone?

I can't help it if Cleopatra lived before bubble bath was invented. They probably didn't have running water in that day and age either. Even so, if Cleo needed a bath she could have taken one in the river. After all, the Nile was practically in her back yard. But no. Cleopatra had to go and start a new fad. Beer bathes.

Taking a bath in beer is . . . well, it is . . . ah . . . so yeasty. Think about it. Why, you'd get out of your bath smelling worse than you did when you got in and by the time you rinsed the sticky green hops flakes off your bod, you'd need another bath!

So can you imagine people paying a hefty sum to submerge themselves in this sticky brown lager full of fermented malt, sugar, yeast and hops?

The Chodovar brewery in the Czech Republic could imagine folks doing just that. And the Kummeroer Hof in Germany, the Starkenberg brewery in Tarrenz and the Moorhof in Franking, Austria, not only could imagine doing it but are making the tidy profit of $52.40 for half-hour beer bathes.

They call them beer spas and promote them by promising health, wellness . . . and ah . . . the chance to have your favorite brew caress your skin.

If beer-soaking in wooden tubs where bubbles rise from the bottom, all yeasty and warm, to form a head which tickles the armpits doesn't appeal to you, then you might want to try swimming in the Starkenberg's pool which has been filled with countless barrels of the brewery's own Pilser.

But be forewarned. The treatment is mildly intoxicating.

And if, after your bath, you stay to enjoy the four-course supper at their restaurant which features beer soup, beer-battered broccoli, chicken schnitzel with sour beer gravy and for dessert, some beer crepes, perhaps you should arrange for a designated driver.

For myself, bubble bath and a nice Chardonnay will do just fine.
Swipe Bath Anyone? © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan