Spritely Spoofs

New Pottery Site

2007-10-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

Decided to add to this blog in a different way.
Have started http://claygallimaufry.blogspot.com which in future will have all the pottery/ceramic posts.
It will also have links to interesting pottery information and other bloggers who post news and snippets of information to help others develop their pottery skills.
Cheers
Chae

Spazz Thoughts

2007-05-28T10:15:00.000-07:00

It has been a real effort recently to avoid blogging volumes about current political affairs.
For instance: every day i check the N. Y. Times headlines to see if Gonzalez has resigned yet. It would be the honorable thing to do.
And ....... i could go on, then on, and again ON about the disastrous and chaotic world situation which has escalated into sheer lunacy in the years since the Republican fundamentalist conservatives elected Bush as President.
While watching 60 Minutes last night, i was surprized to hear, that as recently as 2006, there were still Iowa folks who actually believed that terrorists from Iraq attacked our World Trade Center.
Well . . . this is exactly why i stopped writing. I've totally lost faith with American folks who won't do their homework, get the facts and act accordingly.
So enough already yet.

Decided to learn how to create pottery.
Began 6 months ago. Thinking that a new pursuit of creativity would be challenging. Never realizing it would be overwhelming.
Forming some of my thoughts in a clay medium is easy enough.
Glazing -- these creations -- seems impossible.
Have accumulated scads of research papers on glazing. Yet, the glaze information seems not to make the transition from paper into my head. Perhaps, this is the case with the fundamentalist conservatives?
It distressed me greatly last weekend to realize that after 6 months of intensive work -- (10 to 14 hour days, 6 days per week) -- there were only 3 pots that survived the process, and of those, only one which was good-enough to show as representative of my work.
Bummer.
Ah well. Onwards. Always onwards. Wouldn't it be neat if this cup made it from the greenware stage to a finished -- glazed -- piece?
Chae

A Site Worth Seeing

2007-03-02T12:16:00.000-07:00

Well . . . HELLO THAR . . . folks

Shortly after President Bush gave his justification of the war escalation, my curiosity darn near did me in. What was the "real scoop" on what Congress and the Senate were actually doing about this?

Short news blurps of their activities gave me a clue. But only a clue . . . .

Spent a day trying to figure a way to actually see the Senators in action. And THAT is how I stumbled upon: http://www.fednet.net !!! This site seems to be a well-kept secret. If it had been advertized, i'd have tuned into it ages ago.

It's awesome, folks. A real-time video of both Senate and House activities as they occur.
Chae

Talking Points

2006-09-20T14:32:00.000-07:00

If not familiar with the word hegemony, a body could think it refers to Amaranth's recent ups and downs. Hedge-jer-money.

But no. Hegemony is an Ahmadinejad reference to the US power structure created by the Bush regime.

It's easy to see why those living in the Middle East believe that Almadinejad's talking point is accurate. America's invasion of Iraq robs power from Bush's attempt to persuade the world that America seeks peace.

It's a sad day when the Iranian opposition has more credibility than our good ole American president.
Talking Points © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

New Dimensions

2006-07-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

My mind and heart groaned from "overload", trying to reconcile current events of this past year with my concept of, if not a perfect, at least an equitable world. One I would like to live in.

A world free of conflict and the nasty elements of war, greed, violence, corruption . . . .

Overload, all circuits are busy or burn-out, call it what you will, occurred during Memorial Day Weekend.

Now, few speak of love and compassion. Nor do they speak of cultural and humanitarian heroes; only of war criminals and all that entails.

Have you noticed the current statistics on America's crime rate increase? As if that's a mystery. People become what they hear the most. How could violent crime decrease when every newspaper and television show is focused on violence?

America is not an enlightened nation. The year 2003 marked its descent backwards to the dark ages and it hasn't poked its head above the mire since.

Where does one go to hide from the constant barrage of man's unleashed inhumanity to man?

Me? I hide in creativity. Design a handful of necklaces, some bracelets and a few miscellaneous. Wearable miscellaneous, now isn't that a hoot.

It would be immensely difficult for me to design simplistic jewelry. A seashell strung on a leather cord is beyond my capabilities. These, by the way, are currently selling in national marketplaces for $30. Amazing.

No. If I were going to create a necklace, I wouldn't drill a hole in a ten-cent seashell, string it on a leather cord, sans clasp and charge thirty dollars. I would feel guiltier than sin. For these items are tokens of friendship given free of charge by teenagers, each to another.

If I were going to create a necklace, first I would learn how to flame glass, then lampwork a focal bead. A bead of the ocean and white-capped waves with flowers floating atop the wave crests. Then, I would learn some silversmithing skills and, perhaps, dangle a silver hummingbird below the bead. For symbolism's sake. Hummingbirds bring the wearer good luck. Building upwards, I'd alternate fancy silver beads with more lampworked "ocean" beads and I'd finish with an intricately designed silver clasp.
A local jewelry and bead expert would tell me to price it at $150 and after seeing what is selling for $30 in the national market, I would believe $150 to be fair for the value received.

Except . . . . I will never sell it. It's a mystical piece born of seafoam and hummingbird wings weighted to reality by the silver metals of earth.
It's a showy piece, too. Vivid in its drama of beauty. Perhaps, if I wear it often enough, it will help clue folks in to a different reality.

Perhaps, create something in silver showcasing amber-silvered beads representing light . . .

Silver wave forms lighting the world. That's about right.

Creating war is a bloodthirsty business which destroys the soul of mankind. There are alternate dimensions where we can create things of beauty which enrich the eye of the beholder and touch the symbolism each person carries within the heart which yearns for a more perfect world.

Only joy, laughter, love, compassion and beauty, shared each with all others, can get us there.
New Dimensions © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Symbiosis

2006-07-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

The age of my Mother has passed.

Thank goodness I was able to totally embrace her and love her before she began her next journey, for after her passing there would be no further chance to resolve my inner issues with motherhood and the daughterhood relationship.

How do I view all women older than myself?

I view them as gentle, sweet replicas of my Mother. They have an inner purity, are of inestimable value, have a sense of humor and a sense of fun, and they enjoy delight in all modern inventions, especially refrigerators with ice-makers on the outside of the door.

If re-incarnation were a factor, I would expect to find my Mom on an Apollo space shuttle ready for the next exploratory adventure. Or perhaps I'd find her on the other side of a ping-pong table as she laughingly scored every winning point. She would be telling some humorous story and I, doubled over in laughter, would miss the ball.

Did we always see world occurrences from the same perspective? Absolutely not. She was a Republican. And I? Was a Democrat.

Were we always in perfect harmony? Perfect sinc? No. Ahem. We were not.

Was there a Super-Glue so strong that it bonded our heartstrings across the endless miles of emotions? Yes.

Knowing me more perfectly than I knew myself, she used her innate ability to enable me to see the magic of the universe. With a gentle hug, she comforted me and enabled me to see peace, when I, who oh so seriously, took upon myself the heavy burden of fixing a society gone awry; a society which burgeoned its members with wars, indiscriminately killing compassion, generosity and love.

How often did I hear her say: "Don't fret so, Chicken Little. The world is just as it should be. Laugh at its absurdities."

Often, I heard her voice trilling in song so harmoniously beautiful that it could charm the most melodious songbird into a duet. She could make every flower in the garden bloom.

Would I like to be "just like my Mom"?

You betcha. She was the grandest dame in life's chorus line and that ain't no mean feat.
Symbiosis © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXXIII

2006-05-28T11:20:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-23T14:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-19T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-18T12:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-17T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

Downward Spiral

2006-05-12T12:39:00.000-07:00

Bush's popularity rating? 29 percent.

Something Shady's Going On

2006-05-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-05T11:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-04T13:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

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

Swipe Bath Anyone?

2006-05-01T15:12:00.000-07:00

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

Sunday Morning XXIX

2006-04-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

Interesting, is it not? A critter can have the most beautiful plummage in the universe, have the best house in the neighborhood, have the greatest toys in the world, but if it gives not love, it has nothing at all.

It's cloak of inner ugliness is so tightly drawn about itself that other's eyes can discern no outward beauty.

It bites and pecks. Refusing the love genuinely offered until finally it has created only emnity. It's sharp beak shreds the fabric of affection offered from a sincere heart, until nothing remains but distrust; the blood it draws congeals and jellies into hatred.

The plainer critter, who nests in your heart, is better loved.

This then is the true challenge of life. To find it in your own heart, at the end of the day, to love the unlovely.
Chae

Military Parts Takeover

2006-04-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

First the harbors, now it's the defense plants. Does this man, President Bush, never get it right?

It was announced today that Bush approved the contract for a Dubai-owned company to take control of some US manufacturing plants. No harm there, eh? Well now, hold on a minute, partner. These plants manufacture parts for our military.

Remember back in previous wars when our soldiers were being slain with weapons stamped "Made in the USA"? Well, this rates right up there with that. Our GI's pull the trigger. The gun misfires. The parts? Stamped: "Made by Dubai Manufacturing".

There's more than one way to kill the turkey for the Thanksgiving meal.

I would love to give you the particulars on this transaction, but even after a diligent search, there wasn't much information to find. Alas. Alack. Not the name of the company making the purchase, not the location, nor how many defense plants were in question. Is this another hush-hush deal? Is the administration trying to slide it by on the QT so Bush's remaining 39-percent approval rating doesn't drop to say ― zero?

One has to ask the obvious question: Has it occurred to the Bush regime to QUESTION WHY the United Arab Emirates ― suddenly ― has such an active interest in acquiring contracts to control our harbors and to manufacture our defense parts? What is their motivation?

If President Bush is gungho to pacify the arabs of the United Arab Emirate, it would behoove him to give away a restaurant or two. Perhaps, a cattle ranch in Texas. One of the "everything is bigger in Texas" variety.

Giving away major defense installations or manufacturing plants which compromise our national security should never be an option.
Military Parts Takeover © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Speaking Of Codes

2006-04-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

A judge indulging in a flight of magistrative caprice and cryptological fancy? How fun!

Doesn't it seem, suddenly, that we are living in a day and age of dungeons and dragons? In that light, it seems quite normal that Justice Peter Smith should encode a cryptic message in his 71-page ruling of the "Da Vinci Code" copyright case. The judge named his coded message the "Smithy Code".

Wearing long flowing robes and heavy wigs while issuing ponderous judgements of weighty cases must get boring after the first few years. So one can easily see the mischievious boy peeking out of Justice Smith's personality when he makes up his own code and encrypts it in the ruling to, as the Justice says, "have a bit of fun".

After hearing the "Da Vinci" case, Justice Smith left for vacation in Florida where a reporter contacted him by telephone and asked questions about the newly discovered code encrypted in the ruling.

Meanwhile, back in London, Justice Smith's legal partner, Daniel Tench, who is with the law firm Olswang, noticed an irregularity in the ruling. Something mysterious about the typeface caught his attention. Tench noticed that some letters in the first 13½ pages appear in boldface italics while the rest of these letters are printed in regular roman letters.

Justice Smith, however, isn't divulging the secret to unraveling his code. It is reported that he said, "I can't discuss the judgement until after I retire".

Puzzling as that may be, as an American, I find the complexity of obtaining a copy of the 71-page ruling a baffling problem in and of itself. I'd like to have a go at solving the Smithy riddle but it'll be a tough nut to crack without the paperwork.
Speaking Of Codes © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Last Ditch Sales

2006-04-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

He was a great hulking man who had fleas. Big men attract big fleas so even this man's fleas had fleas and, one suspects, their fleas had fleas also.

This enormous man had a large sign on his front lawn which read "Lots For Sale" and with the real estate market being so tight, many people knocked on his door to inquire about the price.

As the big man opened the door his cloud of fleas would swarm the newcomer and the giant fellow's standard reply was: "The fee for the free fleas is two for the price of one but it's really the flea spray you'll be wanting to buy. It's $12.95 a bottle and, not to worry, we have lots for sale".

Some merchants will do anything for a sale, so beware of flea marketers who give you louse-y deals.
Last Ditch Sales © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

The Remarkable Mary McCarthy

2006-04-25T13:49:00.000-07:00

OK. So . . . the lot plickens!

Last night, as I watched Jim Lehrer's news show, I listened to Ray McGovern, former CIA analyst who very ably defended Mary McCarthy. It sounded as if McCarthy had already been accused of leaking classified documents, and by McGovern's very defense of her actions, it sounded as if she had already accepted culpability for the leak.

I was impressed with McGovern as a straight shooter who is well informed about the players in this McCarthy drama, namely: former CIA Director George Tenet, CIA Inspector General John Helgersen, former CIA chief counter-terrorism official Cofer Black, current Director Porter Goss and, of course, Mary McCarthy, herself.

The key point that McGovern made last night with Jim Lehrer, echoed this morning in an Alternet article, was summed up with the idea that the American people should be given the chance to know that torture, other indignities, rendition and kidnapping people for the purpose of transporting them secretly to undisclosed prisons, is being done in the name of the American people. That's in the name of you and me, folks.

All that being said, this morning both the New York Times and the Washington Post carried a story, re: Fired CIA Officer Denies Role in Leak in which McCarthy's lawyer Ty Cobb, speaking on Mary's behalf, stoutly maintains that she categorically denies leaking classified information to the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, Dana Priest, at the Washington Post who broke the CIA prison story. Evidently, although fired from her position with the CIA, McCarthy has not been indicted.

One could easily suspect Karl Rove's sneaky hand in this evilly Machiavellian plot to discredit the 61-year-old McCarthy whose retirement, after a long and honorable career, had already been processed! It was to be effective in ten days! Yet, before it could occur, this scheming contrivance of firing her was enacted by Bush's Bullies.

It is typical Bush regime strategy to blacken the sterling character of honorable citizens. By stealthily focusing the heat on honest brokers, the stench of their own dastardly deeds is camouflaged.

I've never personally met Mary McCarthy. But I'd like to. I'd like to shake her hand and thank her for a job well done. And, like Ray McGovern, thank her for being an "unusually courageous officer willing to take considerable personal risk in order to help democracy work".
The Remarkable Mary McCarthy © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Extended Family

2006-04-24T12:53:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that big critters intimidate Pasha? She's quite a feisty little Yorkie when it's just she and me, yet cats and large dogs cause her to roll over and extend her legs straight up in the air in the classic dead-man's pose. This gives her a backache.

By nature, writers have a quiet disposition. We are not prone to noisy chatter, nor a lot of time spent rough-housing. So, sometimes, Pasha feels ignored.

She needs a companion. Someone who is smaller than she is and who will keep her occupied when I am writing.

And that's exactly how the parakeet became a resident of our household. I figured he'd make an excellent friend for Pash. Once he adjusted to his new home, that is.

Except, there was one small problem.

Kalani, the new parakeet didn't adjust. He sat in the bottom of his cage which was filled with expensive toys, pricey food and treats, and mourned the loss of his pet store friends.

It was obvious. He needed a companion.

Which is exactly how Ben, the parrot became a resident of our household. If Ben's raucous squawks are to be believed, he's happy here. Kalani perked up immediately after Ben made his entrance. And Pasha? Seems to be in dog heaven.

There is a new status quo now and a different family dynamic. It will be interesting to see how it all plays out.
Extended Family © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXVIII

2006-04-23T06:04:00.000-07:00

The world is as big or as small as we conceive it to be.

It expands or contracts just as we do. When we are happy and joyous, full of song and good feelings about others -- it expands.

When we are filled with anger, it contracts.

If we knew anger as the limitor, the contractor of our world, and saw that it is the pinpoint of emotion which blots out every joyful experience and keeps us locked in a small, cramped space, wouldn't we find a method to release this negative emotion before it destroys our very existence?

The world is a feast laid out for our enjoyment. Why not leave anger on the doorstep? Come in and join the party.
Chae

Bush Kicks The Puppydog

2006-04-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

Never thought I'd hear myself say it, but I felt sorry for Scott McClellan yesterday when he tendered his resignation. "I have given it my all," he said, the pathos of anguish resonating from his voice. "I have given you my all, Mr. President."

And all who heard his voice knew McClellan had done just that: He gave everything he had, right down to his shoelaces and the holes in his socks.

McClellan defended his president against all comers with a loyalty fierce to see.

I didn't particularly like Scott McClellan. He resembled one of those people who eat fish on Fridays and then brag pompously about their sanctity as if that could whitewash the lies they told all week long.

Yet, it's the same when any travesty occurs, one's heart goes out to the victim. And Scott McClellan was definately a victim. Fall guy for an administration gone bad where the major players must remain in place to preserve the illusive image of integrity.

McClellan's misplaced loyalty was expendable.

The look of betrayal which slid across his features drooped like a hounddog's jowls questioning, "What more could I have done?"

Nothing Scott. You could have done nothing more. You perjured your soul straight into Dante's Inferno "trying your all" to accomplish the unaccomplishable. You cannot make cheese cake from rancid gravy.

What do you want to bet that McClellan was hoodwinked by the old Robin Hood gag: honor among thieves and all that balderdash. One only has to examine the principle of the matter to realize there can be no honor among the corrupt. It is an oxymoron like trying to find truth in a lie.

Folks with a more discerning eye than McClellan's, saw quite a while back that Bush and his regime are not the eagles of a proud democracy but are the clay pidgeons of a society ripe for totalitarian plucking.
Bush Kicks The Puppydog © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sockular Lumination

2006-04-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

You've got to admit the little bugger was clever. Who would have believed it could be done at all? Let alone done by a chap only ten-years-old.

The boyo had dismembered a light bulb. Not broken it, mind you. But he'd managed to separate the glass section from the metal base and was now proceeding to stick a sock into the hollow glass bulb. As I watched, he put the whole apparatus back together again and screwed the bulb into the living room lamp from whence it came.

"Say, old chap, do you have an explanation for this?" I asked.

"Yeah."

After several minutes, when nothing more was forthcoming, I probed a bit further. "Would you like to tell me what it is?"

"Well, Mom was shouting at me to put a sock in it."

"And . . . ?"

"She really wants to act on stage, you know, so figured if I rigged her up some footlights maybe she wouldn't be so mad at me."

"Um hum." Nodding sagely as if that indeed was the ticket, I stuck my hands in my pockets and wandered off.
Sockular Lumination © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Raising The Temperature

2006-04-18T13:18:00.000-07:00

Trying to lay my fingertips on stuff that's in storage five hundred miles away is a real pain. Information like the notes taken a year or so ago from a Nova show on PBS about earth's interior changes.

This science documentary accounted nicely for the perceived illusion of global warming and explained in detail what changes are occurring in the earth's core. At the end of the documentary, I remember thinking: Ah Ha! So THAT's the scoop. The ocean's are heating up from the inside out, not from global warming.

This Nova science documentary made an excellent case for the point of view that as the earth's axis rotates, the earth's core experiences additional internal heat . . . which is normal.

Since this theory confirmed my hunch that all this hype about greenhouse gases is much ta-do about nothing, I haven't paid much attention to the current scare tactics floating around the universe re: global warming.

However, Al Gore feels passionately enough about the dangers of the greenhouse effect and global warming to creat the film, "An Inconvenient Truth".

According to Richard Cohen in the New York Daily News this morning, 75 minutes of this 80 minute long cinematic version of Gore's global warming lectures are riveting, captivating and so effective they are nightmare material, full of drowning polar bears and a flooded Calcutta, New York and Florida producing millions of evacuees.

Cohen, a syndicated columnest for the Washington Post and a four-time honorable-mention winner in Pulitzer Prize competitions, makes an excellent case for both Gore's film and, also, for Gore himself as a presidential candidate in the 2008 elections.

Cohen deftly switched the focus of the film review from what he describes as a boring topic of global warming to progressive scientific attitudes which he then related to Bush's lack of mental acuity in regards to scientific progress. The transition was subtle and cleverly executed.

While I agree with most of the statements Cohen expresses in this article, it is my opinion that Al Gore, the master-teacher and pedagogue, is a much better choice than Al Gore, the president.

Greenhouse gases and global warming? You know, it absolutely, positively couldn't hurt a thing to reduce carbon-based economy dependency, replace and replenish forests, and regulate industry emissions in accordance with clean-air standards.
Raising The Temperature © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Step Down Mr. R

2006-04-17T15:21:00.000-07:00

The fact that six generals would go beyond a long-standing muzzle code to break the silence and publically call for Defense Secretary, Donald H. Rumsfeld's resignation is a sweeping indictment of the Bush administration.

Military career personnel believe they are a unique culture unto themselves and they exercise a credo that expressly prohibits expressing political beliefs outside of military channels. Major General John Batiste recently summed the attitude up in an interview on Jim Lehrer's PBS news show: "There are times that you're told to do things that you don't agree with and you're given an opportunity to rebut, to give reasons why it shouldn't be that way. And at the end of the day, you either salute and execute or you make a decision to retire and resign; that's the way it is. There's always that dialogue."

All six of these retired generals have sacraficed promising careers rather than salute and execute orders which are fundamentally a misuse of power and are inherently wrong. Let us all stand and salute the integrity of: Major General John Batiste, Lieutenant General Gregory Newbold, Major General Paul D. Eaton, General Anthony C. Zinni, Major General John Riggs and Major General Charles H. Swannack Jr. While we are saluting let's include: former Army Chief of Staff General Eric K. Shinseki, former Army secretary Thomas E. White, and General Wesley Clark.

Lieutenant General Greg Newbold's recent statement in a Time magazine article expresses what many active and retired officers feel: "The consequence of the military's quiescence was that a fundamentally flawed plan was executed for an invented war, while pursuing the real enemy, al-Qaeda, became a secondary effort."

These officers had to retire in order to speak out and they are calling for Rumsfeld's resignation for these reasons:

Rumsfeld is the chief architect of this misguided and flawed Iraq war

He ignored the tactical judgements of experienced military commanders and directly opposed their views

Which leaves the military to cope with the consequesnces of successive policy failures; including:

a) distortion of intelligence in the buildup to the war

b) micromanagement by civil authorities (or in this case authority) which prevented our forces from having the resources needed to do the job and

c) alienation of allies who could have helped rebuild Iraq

In essence, when Rumsfeld forced the resignation of the then, Army Chief of Staff General Eric Shinseki a month before the 2003 invasion for expressing a truthful assessment of the required amount of troops needed for a successful occupation of Iraq, he effectively forced the resignation of all officiating and desenting military personnel who operate by a code of ethics rather than by Rumsfeld's code of lawless dishonesty the effects of which have murdered more than 2360 American citizens needlessly

These generals feel a sense of betrayal by the nation's leaders who are ignorant and casual about war; nation's leaders who have mismanaged the conduct of it, and who have ordered the march of troops to an ill-considered engagement resulting in their slaughter.

Former NATO commander General Wesley Clark told Fox news: "It's more than appropriate (for these generals to speak out), it's their responsibility. I believe Rumsfeld hasn't done an adequate job. He should go."

It's highly unlikely that the chief architect of this senseless Iraq war, who also engineered the torture plans at Abu Ghraib, will abdicate his position of power voluntarily.

To expect the corrupt to act honorably is an exercise of the witless.

What is needed is for more generals to step outside of their self-imposed "culture" and speak out adamantly requesting Rumsfeld's resignation before he can do more harm to America.
Step Down Mr. R © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXVII

2006-04-16T09:09:00.000-07:00

Today is Easter.
Christ is Risen.

Let's be Joyous and Celebrate.
Chae

End Of An Era

2006-04-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

Guess, by now, everyone's heard of Katie Couric of NBC's Today show which boasted 1.3 million more viewers than its rival ABC's Good Morning America. And, by now, everyone knows about Couric's major career move from NBC to CBS where she will be the first woman to anchor a US network weekday evening newscast.

The question is: can the pretty 49-year-old diva, who has achieved superstar status, who has also earned the reputation of being a perky personality, do more than "host" the CBS news show? Can she deliver the news?

Leslie Moonves, top honcho of the CBS network, is not bragging about Couric's journalistic abilities nor her capabilities to report the news. Moonves is talking about her as if she's a mere superstar whose stardom will draw a crowd. He also speaks of Couric as a "host" of the evening news. What is Moonves thinking? That the evening news has no more credibility than a game show?

Couric is replacing Bob Schieffer who, 14-months ago, stepped into CBS's anchor position, replacing the controversal Dan Rather.

Schieffer had the credentials, the experience and the expertise to offer top-notch reporting. He is one of the few broadcast journalists to have covered all four major beats in the Capital: the White House, the Pentagon, the State Department and Capitol Hill.

In an interview on Journalism.Jobs.com Schieffer was asked what the future holds for network evening news programs, the main emphasis of the question being: willl news programs survive?

Bob's answer was classic Schieffer: "We recognize that we have a different mission now . . . It's no longer just reporting the headlines of the day, but trying to put the headlines into context and to add some perspective into what they mean."

The question is: will Couric's approach be a Vanna White? Or a leftist voice-piece? A Schieffer paroting of the headlines? Or a real news anchor with a fresh new perspective and class A reporting skills?

All that being what it is, the latest scoop on the CBS news affair is the Schieffer and Coric lunch date yesterday at Michael's.

The New York Daily News called it a "public lovefest".

It seems that the 69-year-old Schieffer thought Couric needed his public endorsement. What a very old-school, gentlemanly thing to do! The current anchor giving a public affirmation of his approval to the future anchor! And while burgers and chicken salad might not be primetime fare, the sentiment and the orchid corsage he gave her certainly was.
End Of An Era © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Casino Technology

2006-04-12T15:13:00.000-07:00

The best things about casinos are their buffets. Now I know most who enter a gambling joint go to play the slots or blackjack or keno. Me? I go to eat.

Like at Cactus Pete's in Jackpot which is a blink of an eye place north of Wells, Nevada. Jackpot is not large enough to be called a town, but it hosts three or four casinos. And Cacus Pete's is one of them with the best darn buffet I've ever enjoyed.

Hey! Have you heard the scoop on slot machines? Seems what with new technology and all, the payouts on the machines can be changed in the casino's back room even as you play.

The slots which used to be mechanized are now computerized and with a few clicks of the mouse the game changes, the odds change and the payout increases or decreases just as the man in the back determines.

That's like sitting down to a poker game where the winning player uses a marked deck and hides aces up his sleeves.

Nevada law prohibits the fella in black in the back room from changing the odds on a machine until it has been idle for four minutes, which is a good thing for if a gambler was cleaning out the joint and the proprietor, looking over his shoulder, saw that there were no badges walking about, he might be tempted to mouse the gambler's profits.

Gambling the slots has come a long way from the days when a feller plunked his quarter into the machine, pulled the lever, and watched the spinning cylinder.

The gambling parlors have done away with spinning cylinders which are now computer-generated facsimiles. And the sound of plunking quarters? Have been replaced by debit slips. Sure does remove the fun of watching those buckets fill with coins when the machines paid off.

Casino technology is progress, I guess, but for myself, I'll stick with enjoying the buffets.
Casino Technology © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Over The Edge

2006-04-11T15:31:00.000-07:00

You think I'm over-reacting, don't you . . . ?

C'mon, c'mon, say it. Chaeli, we are not witnessing the beginning of the apocalypse.

Yet, if Sy (Seymour) Hersh's information is correct and Morton Halperin, a former State Department Official, assures us that Hersh's reporting over the last few years has been extraordinarily accurate, we are all about to be blown up! And if that isn't an apocalypse, I don't know what is.

OK. So I may have extrapolated some facts with a wee bit of exaggeration when making the statement: we are all about to be blown up; however, it's not so far off the mark that we can discard it out of hand.

According to Hersh's contacts in the Pentagon, there is a growing conviction among members of congress, senators, government defense officials, government consultants, members of the US military and the international community, that President Bush's ultimate goal is a nuclear confrontation with Iran.

Evidently, the only item in question is which method Bush will use to start the Iran war.

The plan currently favored is: striking twenty-six suspected nuclear sites combined with a campaign of bombing and use of cruise missiles to level targets well beyond nuclear facilities, such as Iranian intelligence headquarters, Iran's air defense system , the Revolutionary Guard and the air force.

That's right, folks. Outright WAR.

Anyone who watched the first night's bombing of Iraq on TV has a vivid image of what Bush is planing to do to Iran. Another innocent country.

Bush's proposed war on Iran does not sit well with the European nations. Britain's Foreign Minister, Jack Straw, pretty much sums up the world attitude towards Bush's war proposal: "The idea of a nuclear strike on Iran is completely nuts."

But that's not all folks.

The fact, according to a House member, that Bush believes he has messianic powers is the crucifix that should terrorize us to the very depths of our soul.

This president who has been given unmitigated power has become mentally unhinged. For Bush is quite insane when he states that it is his legacy to be Iran's savior. Gimme a break. As one government defense official asked: "What are they smoking?"

And doesn't it scare you just a little bit when Bush, as quoted by one of Hersh's sources, says he must do "what no Republican or Democrat would have the courage to do"?

This man, George W. Bush, is delusional. I know we're not supposed to use clichés, yet lest there be any misunderstandings, this cliché states the fact boldly: the man is a certifiable basket case. And we, like obedient little lambs, are following the lead of a madman.

We need to STOP this and do something immediately to save Iran from this self-proclaimed Messiah.

If we don't, we can all curl up in the corner chair with a copy of Revelations in hand and watch the apocalypse unfold.
Over The Edge © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Additional Resources:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/04/08/AR2006040801082.html
http://www.newshounds.us/2006/04/11/special_reports_doublespeak_on_iran.php

Magic Square

2006-04-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

Today's column is for math students. Below is a Magic Square. Each horizontal, vertical and diagonal line has the same sum.

Your turn. Have fun creating a magic square !!!
Chae

Sunday Morning XXVI

2006-04-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

We all know we're suppose to let go of yesterday and move on into tomorrow. To be more specific, we're suppose to release the heartaches, pain and grievances of yesterday which will allow us to move into the future.

If we're busy holding onto our grievances and pain and heartaches, we are anchored, tethered to a particular spot and are forever bound, tied to that moment. We relive it over and over.

Goodness. Wasn't it bad enough experiencing it the first time? Do we want to get lost in that moment and continually relive it?

OK. Sometimes, we recognize a path like letting go of the hurts, grievances and heartaches of the past as a correct course of action. But just how in the world do we actually do this?

A spiritual friend recently mentioned that a method of release from these negative emotions is to recognize that they are present, acknowledge them, thank them, then send them off on their journey.

Hold it partner. Thought you'd slip one by me, did you? Are you trying to tell me to Thank that sucker for hurting me? C'mon, get real. Someone murders my feelings and you want me to THANK them for causing me great pain?

Well folks, I'm with you on this one, but my friend says that whatever, whoever or however this situation evolved . . . it served some purpose and helped us in our overall growth.

So OK, I can actually catch a glimmering of truth in that statement, so I suppose if it helped me grow, I could thank it. I don't necessarily have to embrace it; just thank it.

After mumbling a reluctant thank you, send it off on its journey.

And how does one send it off on its journey? By "seeing" it as a lump of something (gray air works for me) and just letting it float up through the top of one's head, floating up, up and away into the air as if it were a balloon filled with helium.

My friend said the crucial factor is: don't attach a story to the emotion! She says if we attach a story to it, we glue the negative emotion to ourselves and then we are trapped into reliving the story again and again. Just release the emotion. And watch it float away.

So there you have it folks. A method of how to put a principle to work. If anyone has other methods and would like to share them, please feel free to add them to the comments section.

In the meantime, God Bless and have a joyous week.
Chae

Matrimony And The Messiah

2006-04-07T12:27:00.000-07:00

It has to be questioned: how much do the authors, Baigent and Leigh, believe in the unusual claim they've made?

In their book, Holy Blood, Holy Grail, they theorize that Jesus Christ survived the crucifixion, married Mary Magdalene and that the Holy Grail is a bloodline, not a chalice as is commonly believed.

Both Baigent, Leigh and a third author, Henry Lincoln, spent five years studying a massive amount of historical material before arriving at the conclusion hypothesized in their book.

But . . . .

The question still remains. Do they believe their hypothesis?

It seems that if they do, indeed, believe in the premise of the material they presented in 1982, they would be delighted that the concept is being carried forward by Brown. Does their litigation throw a cloud over the premise? Reduce the veracity of the theory?

Or is the 'Da Vinci Code' trial more than it appears to be?

Dan Brown's book, The Da Vinci Code, which has sold more than 40 million copies worldwide, projects a similar set of proposals as the Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Similar, yet the authors involved reach different conclusions about Jesus and the crucifixion. Brown maintains that Jesus did not survive the crucifixion and that the marriage between Jesus and Mary Magdalene took place before the crucifixion occurred.

The trial held in London recently, purportedly concerned copyright laws. Baigent and Leigh accused Brown of lifting the entire architectural structure of their book. And perhaps that is what this trial was all about.

But . . . .

Could there be more?

Since both books basically say the same thing: that the descendants of the children who resulted from the marriage of Jesus and Mary Magdalene are still thriving today, perhaps this trial is more than the sum of the litigations.

Perhaps with worldwide news coverage, the trial is a method of bringing universal awareness full circle round to the sanctity of marriage. Or . . . .

Could it be the prelude to a message that out of the ashes of history a phoenix will rise yet again. A new messiah.

For those interested in the outcome of the trial, Justice Peter Smith exonerated Brown. Which is good news, indeed, for those of us who rely heavily on the use of nonfiction works for background research.
Matrimony And The Messiah © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Incredulous Snort

2006-04-06T14:04:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite expressions is: Bullshit. It is direct, to the point, emphatic and leaves no doubt about one's opinion of a situation.

My ancestors were straight-forward folks who called a spade a spade. None of them were prudish. I doubt they ever exhibited patience for those who were and would most likely be the one's saying, "Get on with it man. What's your point?"

Uncle Ernst enjoyed toying with the "dainty people", as he called them, who use a lot of euphemisms. I remember the day when pretty Miss Elsie referred to a cow's father and Uncle Ernst replied: "Oh, you mean Kathy's father, Leroy?"

"No. N-n-n-o," she stuttered. Her porcelain skin turned a mottled red and her blue eyes skittered nervously over every object in the room with her gaze resting briefly on every person except Uncle Ernst. "What I mean to say is the animal, the ah . . . cow . . . well, what I mean is the cow's spouse . . . . "

Uncle Ernst asked innocently enough, "Her father? Or her husband?"

Elsie's hands fluttered nervously. "I'm not sure they were married so you can't say for sure that it was the cow's husband. It was a Jonathan."

"Jonathon? But I thought you just said that he was of the cattle variety, not human. So now we have the fellow's real name, Jonathon. And his last name is . . . ? "

More blood rushed to Elsie's cheeks as she tried to explain. "It is an animal. A gentleman cow."

Uncle Ernst's eyes twinkled. "Oh! You mean a bull. Why didn't you say so, my dear?"

Referring to a gentleman cow's latrine duties doesn't have near the impact of the short and straight-forward: Bullshit. Sure now and wouldn't I have shells in my mouth if I tried to use any other vocalized expression of this feeling, this state of mind? For such by any other name is still the same.
Incredulous Snort © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Bush's Legacy

2006-04-05T09:58:00.000-07:00

It is just as I suspected.

President Bush's war has dehumanized Americans.

There are times when reading a story makes the heart cry. The arrest of 75-year-old Arthur Schick is one of those stories.

One cries for the plight of the elderly man who faced "terrorists" right here in America last night. These terrorists hid behind the guise of police uniforms and perpetrated nothing more than what Bush has be advocating all along: mindless, unwarranted violence.

This is a 75-year-old grampa, folks. He deserves respect.

What he does not deserve is to be pushed and shoved by police, his arms wrestled into a hand-lock behind his back, and his body thrown so violently into the police van that he falls. In their efforts to manhandle this elderly grampa into the van, the officers physically grapple-attacked him again.

What is wrong with America that we have moved from the position of a semi-civilized country to the position of that of an animal?

Only animals would attack a 75-year-old grampa because he was talking on a cell phone!
Bush's Legacy © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Gneissly Flipped

2006-04-04T18:58:00.000-07:00

Fix it only if it is not broken and then your work load in life will be as easy as that of the fellow whose motto is: don't fix it if it's not broke.

Either way the two of you are getting off a heck of a lot easier than the poor guy who leaves no stone unturned.

There are trillions and zillions of rocks in this universe and here's some dear old soul whose sole job it is to wander earth and turn over every stone!

In a way it's a cushy job, for the fellow will never be out of work. Although it's quite unclear who has hired him for this employment.

It sounds like such a bureaucratic position that one highly suspects our government hired this fellow to turn over stones. (Surely, that Texas prosecutor could use his stone turning services on the Tom DeLay case, right now.)

More than likely, the job was created back during the Cold War when we were hiring spies. Noise identification is an important aspect of spying and it's probable that the department chief said, "Leave no tone unheard."

Unfortunately, or fortunately, as the case may be, this fellow was hard of hearing, thought the chief said: Leave no stone unturned, and has been collecting a paycheck ever since.

So that concludes our manual titled, How To Procure American Government Positions. If you have missed the first sections of this manual, go back to the beginning, located on Page One and start with: Fix it only if it is not broken; diligently read through to the last: Leave no stone unturned, and when you are finished, you will find yourself in possession of more information than the majority of government employees are currently working with.

Good luck with your job quest. We sincerely need more intelligent folks working in government.
Gneissly Flipped © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Acrobats And Popcorn

2006-04-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

It all started with a click. Long, strong, double-jointed, calloused, tan fingers snapped. Clicked. Snapped. Brought rhythm to a dull meeting. "What do you think, Cara?"

She shrugged her shoulders and said: "I don't know why helium clowns try to walk a tightrope. These airy-fairy artists will never be heavyweights wielding power in world affairs. Their words may be true enough and may even reflect public opinion yet they are but lightweight characters who perform mere balancing acts."

Long, tan fingers pointed at an older man. "Joe, what do you think?"

Joe leaned back into the cushions and nodded. "You might as well laugh at the circus as believe the tiger and lion will be tamed with words or cultural inuendo."

The double-jointed fingers snapped, the thumb thrumed past the third digit and cracked another staccato snap. The square-tipped fingers rapped a drum roll on the tabletop and, after a heartbeat or two, cracked another whapping snap. "Bill. What's your input on this?"

Bill's gray eyes twinkled but the effect was partially hidden behind the over-sized tortoise shell frames of his glasses. "Staying with the circus analogy, it's definately time to tear down the Big Top and pack the elephants into cattle cars ready for transport."

Strong fingers rapped another drum roll and slapped the polished surface of the table. "That's it then. Who gets to say the magic words?"

"You're fired?" Cara, Joe and Bill chorused together.

"Yeah, you're fired . . . . "

The next fifteen minutes could have been an improv stage performance or a group of three men in business suits and a woman wearing a straight skirt, stockings and stilletto heels, all practicing for a tomahawk throwing competition. "You're fired. No! You are fired. Yes. Fired."

The weekly meeting was called to order the following Friday. After the minutes were read, someone asked, "Was any action taken on last week's resolution?"

Double-jointed fingers snapped and a staccato voice rumbled from the back of the room. "Uh . . . no. We decided it was more entertaining to watch the three-ring circus perform than to exercise our ego."
Acrobats And Popcorn © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XXV

2006-04-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

There is such joy in the sound of children's laughter.
Blue skies after many days of rain are a joyous sight.
Ice-cream on a very hot day tickles the taste buds with joyous delight, just as
The smell of our favorite foods cooking welcomes us with joyous expectation.
And doesn't the hug of a loved one touch us with joy!
C'mon people now
Let's get together
And enjoy the enjoyment
Right now.
Right now!
Chae

Bird-Dog Docket

2006-03-31T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

Essential View

2006-03-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

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

Miscreant Smudge

2006-03-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

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

The Great Shadow Fight

2006-03-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

The Sudoku

2006-03-27T16:09:00.000-07:00

Here's the Sudoku !!!
Try it.

See post below for instructions.

Sudoku Challenge

2006-03-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

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 Morning XXIV

2006-03-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

Outfitting The Suite

2006-03-24T14:22:00.000-07:00

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

Tele Linguae

2006-03-23T16:20:00.000-07:00

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

Shock 'N Awe Third Anniversary

2006-03-22T20:41:00.000-07:00

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

Only Goat Professors Need Apply

2006-03-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

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

Twinking Chinker Pots

2006-03-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

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 Morning XXIII

2006-03-19T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

Weight Lifter

2006-03-17T19:52:00.000-07:00

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

Owl Mythology

2006-03-16T23:42:00.000-07:00

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

Senate Shenanigans

2006-03-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

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

When The Bubble Bursts

2006-03-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

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

Oppositional Paperhangers

2006-03-13T22:49:00.000-07:00

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 Morning XXII

2006-03-12T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

Tea Trade

2006-03-10T23:46:00.000-07:00

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

O'Toole's Bazooka

2006-03-09T23:11:00.000-07:00

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

Hip Lips

2006-03-08T21:36:00.000-07:00

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

Bloggers For Wal-Mart

2006-03-07T14:02:00.000-07:00

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

Sugar High

2006-03-06T16:55:00.000-07:00

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 Morning XXI

2006-03-05T12:19:00.000-07:00

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

Ole What's His Name

2006-03-03T21:07:00.000-07:00

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

Popular Culture?

2006-03-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

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

Simpson Noetic

2006-03-01T17:02:00.000-07:00

"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

Tweety's Revenge

2006-02-28T15:12:00.000-07:00

Tweety sits on the perch inside his cage and looks sweet enough to be the poster child for Mary Poppins. I ask you, who wouldn't love this little yellow canary who's chipper as a chickadee?

As you may recall, Tweety spent most of his time avoiding Sylvester, the cat. Now, Sylvester had a real passion. He wanted chicken fricassee. But, while his mouth watered for that tasty dish, he was willing to settle for canary stew.

It appears that cat finally caught his bird. But it cost him. Dearly.

Tweety and Sylvester moved from their previous location to the northern island of Ruegen, Germany. There are 25 nations in the European Union, but this cat ate his bird in Germany. He stalked it, crouching low to the ground as cats do when practising stealthy maneuvers, then pounced with precision. Nailing his bird. Feathers flew. A couple of invisible germs flew, too. The ones known as H5N1.

Yep. You've guessed it. The cat caught his bird. He also caught the Avian flu.

Seems our German cat is not the only one to die from this flu. Some tigers and leopards in a Thailand zoo ate a hearty meal of chicken. Soon, they went belly-up, their bodies stiff with rigor mortis. Three housecats in Bangkok suffered the same fate. It's evident that the H5N1 virus is hopping right along the food chain.

THE OFFICIALS IN CHARGE OF THESE AFFAIRS TELL US THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.

There's a simple solution to this bird flu situation and we should start using it immediately before this epidemic gets all out of proportion.

Catch the birds on the wing. Package them nicely. And ship them out to the terrorists. You know those terrorists have gotta be starving. I mean, they're always on the run. With all that exercise they must work up quite an appetite. If this military strategy is executed flawlessly, those terrorists will never suspect a thing. Certainly not foul play.

And Walla! The Bush administration can take kudos for netting two squabs with the same pigeon drop. It would probably cut down on the need for increasing port security, too.

Now wouldn't that just be the cat's meow?
Tweety's Revenge © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Lexical Flipslippery

2006-02-27T14:56:00.000-07:00

She opened her mouth and woosh! spilled forth woop woop and wop-wops.

In short, she uttered a combination of meaningful sounds. Or quite briefly: words gushed from her open mouth.

Gosh! Aren't words grand?

Who would have ever thought woop woop was a word? Very sophisticated people use it to describe a place that isn't. Sophisticated, that is.

Wop-wops describes the same kind of place that woop woop does except wop-wops is a highly offensive expression. Like swearing.

Speaking of swearing. I found the neatest word this morning. The next time I'm enjoying a tête-à-tête with a highbrow intellectual I'll use it.

"He swore like a trooper." or "He cussed like a dockworker." is much too easy for intellectuals. Why not challenge them a bit with: "He is a scatological philistine."?

Be careful to enunciate clearly though, especially if you are dining with an Arab. If you mumble, he might mistake philistine for Palestine, might jump to the conclusion that you're a Danish cartoonist, and might start a riotous demonstration.

Shucks. Scatological philistine is such a neat combination of words but, in this day and age, it might be safer to stick with woop woop.
Lexical Flipslippery © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XX

2006-02-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

Be Kind to the Kind
Be Kind to the Unkind
Thus Kindness is achieved.

A popular American song spoke about this back in the 80's. The Coward of the County. I remember it well for, at first, I thought the fellow was going to succeed.

When townsfolk ridiculed him, he calmly walked away from the insults. Never retaliated.

I thought: WOW! Takes a powerfully strong-minded individual to accomplish that.

Too many times when I've felt insulted or ridiculed, I've lost my cool. Reacted. Hurled insults right back. In essence, I blew the kindness bit. It's a LOT easier to be kind to the kind, and kiss-off folks who are unkind.

Now who knows where we are going in life? Sometimes, we're happily tooling along, blithely doing our own thing, and some idiotic inner part of ourselves stops us cold and says: "Hey look feller, you have all the accoutrements of worldly success BUT you're mighty darn short in the "qualities" department. Them spiritual attributes that are supposed to get you through the pearly gates. You know the type. Kindness, compassion, sympathy, overcoming greed, envy, jealousy, pride and arrogance."

Listening to that inner voice can get you into a whole mess of difficulties just like it did that feller in Kenny Roger's song cause unless you wear a sign on your back or one of them there slogan t-shirts that are popular enough to get you kicked out of the White House State of the Union address, proclaiming: Kindness is my gig so don't mess with me . . . well . . . folks will think you're a coward and like many ordinary, ignorant human beings, they'll really pile the jam thick on the bread slice and give you an extra helping of verbal abuse. Sometimes, twice in the same meal. They think you're weak, see.

That's why I admired that feller in the song so much. He had a good handle on humanity's base nature and was strong enough to shrug his shoulders, allow others to wallow in their petty foibles, and walk away from it all.

Yep. This feller owned kindness.

Well, he did for a while, anyways. Songwriter Roger Bowling copped out on us and let the feller let himself down at the end of the song by giving in to that other part of ourselves that demands retaliation as a method of fixing bad situations.

Retaliation is a short term method of releasing anger but it never does fix the problem nor undo any previous wrongs. Just gives the illusion of having done something about a hurtful situation.

Who knows, maybe it's better to traipse blithely through life, self-satisfied with worldly success. But, perchance, if you do listen to that inner voice and decide to earn a quality you can brag about to St. Peter, try to pick an easy one like giving up greed or jealousy.

Cause being kind to the unkind tends to prick the pride and, most often, foils altruism.

Unless, of course, you've got a really strong grip on the handle of that song's verse: It doesn't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek, have learned the art of diplomacy, and have a mighty-fine, after-the-war peace strategy firmly in place in case you blow it.
Chae

Slim Pickins

2006-02-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

President Bush is really down on education, isn't he? He cuts funding for education to the barest minimum. Then denies visas to three top scientists from India who were scheduled to lecture on topics of their expertise in the US.

Seems to be a Bush policy. Keep the masses ignorant and there will be no threat to his totalitarian governing practises.

Too bad his recently expressed, newly formed, desire to strengthen diplomatic relations abroad didn't catch Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice's attention. In a "surprise" visit to Beirut yesterday, Rice snubbed the President of Lebanon, Emile Lahoud. Way to go, Condoleezza. Guess Lahoud didn't have 6.8 billion to invest in US ports, eh?

So enough already of such serious stuff. It's Friday. Time to consider lighter bits of fluff.

Like Boone Pickens. Any news of a fellow with the name Boone Pickens has to be comedy material, right?

Well it seems Boone Pickens made a substantial donation to the golf industry. Leave it to the Texans to figure out new tax evasion ploys.

This one takes the buzzer right out of the doorbell, however. OK, here's the low down and dirty.

Boone Pickens, of BP Capital fame ( Say! Isn't that there one of those big oil companies?) sits on the board of Cowboy Golf. It's unclear, at this point in time, how Cowboy Golf got started but supposedly it's a charity program at Oklahoma State University.

Nothing wrong with that. It's nice to know that the big oil barons donate some of their time to charities. Kinda makes 'em seem more human.

But there's more.

Seems Pickens had $165 million sitting around cluttering up his desktop and he was about to be taxed on these slim pickins. Not satisfied with President Bush's tax cuts for the wealthy, he decided to upstage the bureaucrats. Pickens donated all $165 million to Cowboy Golf.

Which is a really generous thing to do! Kinda makes your heart go right out to the man. But wait. There's more.

The money was in and out of the Cowboy Golf account so fast milk didn't have time to curdle. An hour after it was deposited to the charity account it was re-invested in a hedge-fund controlled by Boone Pickens' BP Capital.

Can Pickens use the assets ( Assets are money, folks. Cold hard cash in his pockets.) to buy any little ole trinket his heart desires?

Yep.

What a great tax evasion. Pity I didn't think of it myself. Used to be when you claimed a charitable exemption, you actually had to give the money away. But this Pickens feller, why he figured out a way to have his cream puffs and eat them, too!

Mmm . . . I hear you say, just how did he go about doing that? Well remember now, the Senate and Congress are controlled by those crafty Republicans. So you can pretty well figure whatever seemingly altruistic laws they pass have a hidden dollar benefit to their bank accounts tucked in amongst the fine print. The Katrina disaster is no exception.

Those wily lawmakers passed Katrina relief legislation (right under our noses, folks) which allows exemptions for a charitable gift equal to 100 percent of a person's adjusted gross income. That's exactly double the normal limit of 50 percent.

Sly old fox, Pickens. How much you wanta bet he's a Republican?
Slim Pickins © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Trumped Up Charge

2006-02-23T16:47:00.000-07:00

A strumpet with a trumpet and a tycoon on a bassoon couldn't have produced more publicity than the Trump-Stewart spat.

It's a great publicity stunt.

What better puff for two mediocre TV features ( Trump's Apprentice and Stewart's syndicated Martha ) than to pit a cloistered hoosegow moll against a dynamic real-estate tycoon, spotlight their lover's spat and plug both shows?

Trump's Apprentice, going into its 5th season, needs all the promotion it can get, and Stewart's Living Omnimedia, Inc. needed a stock boost.

So . . . the tub-thumping duo put their heads together and came up with a great advertising gimmick.

Martha Stewart isn't your ordinary mop-squeezer and Trump is more than the monosyllabic schnook he plays on TV. Ya gotta hand it to these two megastars for their seed and spike tactics to bolster the ratings of two floundering shows.
Trumped Up Charge © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Russian Roulette Dubai Style

2006-02-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

As we sat down to eat, Dad slapped the folded newspaper hard against the table causing the carefully placed knives, forks and spoons to jump. His chortle cut through the chatter produced when a passel of kids and adults get together for a hearty meal. "This is rich."

Silence followed as we all eyed that well-thumbed journal which was refolded in the semblance of its original shape. Then, young Jeb piped, "What's rich, Dad?"

Simultaneously, Uncle Payton, a fastidious person, who prides himself on his impeccably spotless appearance, his knowledge of sports and not much else, muttered, "Good grief, not more politics."

Dad unfolded the paper and jabbed a knarled index finger at a front page headline. "Can you believe this guy!"

"What guy, Dad?" Jeremy, a teenager, would prefer to discuss the latest Olympic scores with Payton, but curiosity overcame his reluctance to get involved in a heated family discussion.

As Dad spread the paper out on the table, it covered salad dishes, plates and serving bowls. One corner dipped into the soup turreen. Became soggy with chickenless broth.

"Bush," Dad's voice pulsed with raw emotion. "For six years the fellow has subtly and not so subtly turned us against the Arabs. For six years, he's implied that the Iranians, Saudi Arabians, Palestinians and Iraqis, who are all Arabs, are terrorists. Suddenly, he's changed his mind? Look at this."

The sighs around the table were audible as we slumped in our seats and prepared to listen. Dad, an intelligent thinker, stutters inelegantly when he tries to read passages of text.

"Listen to this." Dad, in a near state of apoplexy, read the article aloud, quoting Bush's remarks. " I am trying to conduct foreign policy now by saying to the people of the world, 'We'll treat you fairly.' "

Cousin Julie laughed. "As if they're going to believe him after he bombs an innocent nation, turning it into a country of blood, gore and chaos. Typical Bush spin."

Uncle John splashed a dollop of wine into his water glass and thoughtfully sipped it. " That's chutzpah. Now, he wants to conduct foreign policy?"

Young Jeb toyed with his napkin. "What's Bush talking about, Dad?"

"He's trying to justify the takeover of six of our nations ports by Dubai Port World which is a company controlled by the government of the United Arab Emirates."

Uncle Joey, ready to stuff a biscuit in his mouth, waved it in the air instead. Crumbs flew off its edge landing in Uncle Payton's lap. "We ship our military equipment overseas from these ports. If the new managers, namely the Arab Dubai company, closed the ports in a fit of pique, it'd totally shut us down. And if we were under attack at the time, we'd be crippled and vulnerable as hell."

Dad clamored for attention. "Listen here. Bush says: "After careful review, I believe the transaction ought to go forward. I want those who are questioning it to step up and explain why all of a sudden a Middle Eastern company is held to a different standard than a Great British company."

My older sister, Jesse, always quick to catch the linguistic mistakes of others, said sarcastically, "The British may be great, but isn't he referring to Great Britain?"

"That's not the point," Jeremy interrupted. "Bush is mothballing his true intent."

Aunt Judith, whose dentures rested in a glass of water near her plate, gummed mashed potatoes and when she spoke her thick tongue slurred the sound as if she'd tipped a pint. Some potato flecks spattered Uncle Payton's sleeve as she spoke. "The man's daft, Jesse. Fifty-two percent of Americans believe Bush's hype about Arab terrorists and now, he tries to spin the Arabs off — as responsible Middle Eastern companies? There's a frog in the pickle jar."

Uncle Joey smacked biscuit crumbs from his hands. "More like a toad amongst the pickles, Judith. Quite ironic, too, since the 9/11 hijackers came from the United Arab Emirate, used its major banks to ship money to terrorist organizations world wide, not to mention that the UAE was a transfer point for shipments of smuggled nuclear components sent to Iran, North Korea and Libya."

Little Jeb piped up. "So, these United Arab Emirates aren't so respectable?"

Dad rattled the newspaper, totally oblivious that the soggy corner was spraying Uncle Payton's shirt with soup droplets. "Listen here. Bush's own party leaders are breaking with him on this one. Senate Republican Leader, Bill Frist, is calling for a halt to the Dubai contract."

"Hear. Hear." Aunt Judith tapped her fork against the water glass containing her dentures. Every eye watched as those teeth floated upwards, paused for a moment, then lazily descended once more to the bottom. Aunt Judith had our rapt attention. Yet clearly, she had forgotten what she planned to say, so Mom smoothly noodled her way into the discussion. "Right on. It's not just Democrats like New Jersey's Senator Menandez and New York's Senator Clinton who object to this short-sighted fiasco, but prominent Republicans as well."

Dad's next comment was textured with disgust. "If the senators try to block the Dubai contract by passing a law to stop it, it says here, that Bush swears he will veto it. Bush says, " They ought to listen to what I have to say about this."

Cousin Julie laughed. "Like we listened to him when Bush told us Iraq was brimfull of WMD's?"

We'd be rehashing the day's news still, except for no reason at all, the banana I was peeling suddenly slipped out of its skin, and like a football heading for the endzone, torpedoed through the air.

As Uncle Payton dodged the speeding missile, it musta reminded him that he was missing the Olympic's coverage on NBC. It was when he folded his napkin and stood, that we all noticed Uncle Payton's faultless appearance was slightly smirched. There were crumbs clinging to his slacks, mash potato spackles pasted on his sleeves, and soup stains speckling his shirt front. He tried futilely to brush them off.

Then, with a vapidness only the disdainful can achieve, he said, "I'll leave you folks to your Bush bashing. Even if you're right about the Arab takeover, there'll still be sports. And what could be more important than the Olympics?"
Russian Roulette Dubai Style © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Fox Guards The Chicken Coop

2006-02-21T13:14:00.000-07:00

Hey! Have you heard the latest buffoonery perpetrated by bureaucrats in Washington D.C.? Slapstick humor is a notch above Danish cartoons on this one.

Our government APPROVES the terrorist takeover of American ports. Now, doesn't that just bake the biscuit.

Here's the low down and dirty.

Dubai Ports World bought the contract to handle national security at six major American ports. Innocent enough, eh? But there's more.

Dubai Ports World is controlled by the government of the United Arab Emirates. Now, I have nothing against the Arabs except we're killing them right and left and they just might bear a little resentment against us, eh? Which is OK, I guess, but there's more.

The United Arab Emirates is a known home to terrorists. In case, that fine print was hard to see, let me capitalize that. THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES IS A KNOWN HOME TO TERRORISTS.

Terrorists guarding our ports from terrorists is as feeblewitted as putting quail behind a bush and telling Cheney not to shoot.

Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it, if the folks running this country are striking a bargain with the devil, are straining gnats through a sieve, or just trying to swallow a camel without getting sand in their teeth.
Fox Guards The Chicken Coop © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Toy Boy's War Fever

2006-02-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

During those February and early March days of 2003, powerhouse discussions buzzed around Constitution Ave and north to E St. NW in Washington D.C., pausing at the Bistro Bix where Capitol Hill politicians gossip, swap secret documents and decide government policy over breakfast.

An unidentified source overheard the following conversations.

Republican Senators said: "War with Iraq will benefit America because short term wars boost the ecomony."

Congressmen agreed.

A few dissenting voices whispered: " Long term wars devastate the economy. There will be cuts in education, health care and social programs desperately needed by the American populace."

These whispers were quickly hushed.

Meanwhile, China quietly bought vast oil fields in Kazakhstan and Venezuela.

Republican Congressmen said: "It'll be a technological war, using modern military equipment. We'll strike quickly, win practically overnight, and be in-and-out of Iraq with less than a handfull of lives lost. It'll boost our economy."

Senators agreed.

A few dissenting voices questioned: "What if it's a prolonged war like Vietnam? Do we have the resources? Or will we have to cut education, NASA research, health care and social security benefits?"

These questions were quickly hushed.

Meanwhile, China quietly bought vast oil fields in the Sudan, in Indonesia and in Austraila.

Potomac War Fever prevailed. America attacked Iraq in March 2003. Was it a short war which boosted the economy? Well, let's see.

Funds for education, health care, social security and NASA research have been severely cut. Manufacturers, airlines and the auto industry have either gone belly-up, or are so close to bankrupty that there's a stampede to close plants and lay off employees. The real estate market has stalled and entrepreneurs are offering huge incentives to sell half-finished construction projects before they, too, are forced to run down the street chasing their shirts.

We are embroiled in an energy crises.

Seems to me the toy-boys in Bush's administration screwed up. They played guns and Texas-style war games while the Chinese, who now own most all the world's major oil fields, became the power magnates of the world economy.

Currently, China is buying a 100-billion dollar oil field in Iran. Bush's administration? It's still practising sad and tired tactics, trying to sell fear of terrorism to a gullible public while it covertly buys more Halliburton stock.

And recent whispers at Bistro Bix?

The new world leader, China, is contemplating a cash-and-carry transaction with the now bankrupt American administration.

One Republican Senator was heard to say: "Such a deal China is giving us. They agreed to let us buy oil at the rock bottom price of two hundred-and-fifty dollars per barrel if we agree to give up our Commonwealth, Puerto Rico. They want to install a military base there. And you know — that will really boost the American economy."
Toy Boy's War Fever © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XIX

2006-02-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

If there were no holes in Swiss cheese, I would not like it.

It is the hole that adds the flavor.

Some ask, how I can taste what isn't there? They find it strange that I prefer holy cheese.

My reply? It's not so much the cheese I enjoy; it's the fun involved when eating it.

Poking my tongue through the hole and allowing the flavor around its edges to titillate my taste buds with wondrous expectations of what the bite will bring.

Then, nibbling the cheesy substance around the hole, just nibbling around, until only the hole remains.

Our spiritual selves are a lot like Swiss Cheese. For our Spirit is the hole after the material has been nibbled away.
Chae

Cooper's Broth

2006-02-17T15:50:00.000-07:00

The Avian Flu is in the news again. How would you feel if you were the research scientist who said: "Don't worry about researching a new vaccine. Who the heck cares about a few Thailand chickens?"

Wonder why they named it Avian Flu? Seems to me it should be called Chicken Flu, but then folks would confuse it with chicken soup and Campbell's stock would take a nose dive.

I notice it's being carried by swans now. Adds a new dimension to the fabled Swan Song.

"Is this Madonna's last performance? Her swan song?"

"No. It's Chicken Flu."

"There's a vaccine for that."

"Not this year. The pharmaceutical companies are holding off until it reaches epidemic proportions. And you can see their point of view. Where's the profit margin in marketing a cure for a disease as rare as hen's teeth?"

"Oh well, there's always the old-fashioned remedy: chicken soup. Used to cure darn near everything."

"Yep. Heard Campbell was having problems with that very thing. Trying to make chicken soup without the poultry. Gave their advertising department quite a headache."

"So what did they come up with?"

"A petition to rename it. Something fancy like Avian Influenza."

"Guess that's better than Flu The Croup, eh?"

"Yep."
Cooper's Broth © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Crow Or Bloody Fowl?

2006-02-16T16:26:00.001-07:00

It sure was swell of Vice President Cheney to fess up. Made my day, him sitting there on Fox News all pious and soft-spoken as he calmly told us: those few moments when he watched his friend fall were the "worst day of his life".

Reminds me of the time, Mom and Aunt Nan took Gram and me out to a highfalutin restaurant. Spit-and-polished, all git-upped in our fancy clothes, we were, with Gram wearing her mink stole.

Now, manners was a big item in our family and children were typically seen and not heard, so I'm sure the audio transmission of my chicken order was muted.

Aunt Nan may have raised an eyebrow when it was delivered but we all got on with Blessing and prepared to eat.

Ceptin' you can't pick up the whole thing and cram it in your mouth. A saw-toothed knife and a fork come in handy, at times like these, to separate the gristle from the meat.

Darn, that joint was tough. Stabbed, chopped and sawed that bloody fowl; still, I couldn't separate the shank from its underpinnings.

Now, at eight-years-old, I was a mere child when this bird incident took place. But, how well I remember the next few minutes as the "worst day of my life".

Musta looked over my shoulder as I applied extra pressure to the joint, cause suddenly, I heard a loud snap as the bone broke and when I looked back thems chicken pieces and all that lovely orange sauce piled on top had spattered Gram, front and center, besmirching the mink stole and the silk dress, with a wee bit stuck to her chin.

Sailed clear across the table, that chicken did, to clobber my Gram and it happened so fast a whistle didn't have time to flush up a covey of quail.

Eating crow is a heck of a poor substitute when you're expectin' poultry of a tastier nature.

Yep. Those few moments, when I was eight-years-old, were the "worst day of my life", but sure now, and didn't I learn . . . If your venue includes menus which boast of their birds, forego the fowl and have a shot at the sole. Or lobster, if you prefer it.
Crow Or Bloody Fowl © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Political Elbow Jiggering Drollery

2006-02-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

The silly bone knocks and the elbow twitches and who does ever consider an elbow at all? Or spend time pondering the finer subtleties of that mostly ignored appendage? Birdshot hearts are " in " today, not the ungainly knob linking the upper and lower armatures.

If then, one were to debate the debacle of elbowing one's way into a Bush bash out of elbow, it's a highly liable argument that this shabby attire (perhaps a t-shirt?) would cause the attiree to be elbowed out.

However, since the White House is currently up to its elbows in the Cheney flap, it's conceivable a fella could find elbowroom for a heartbeat or two to rub elbows with an elbow-bender who stands, not in your line of fire, but at your elbow while you both elbow-lift a companionable swig or two.

If you do manage this, then a toast is in order and I'll be the first to commend your abilities: "More power to your elbow!"

It's far more likely that the eagle eyes of a security guard will spot you for the elbow-shaker you are and call the long arm of the law pundifferously known as the elbow and have you booted out. (Oops! Boots, combat boots, are a different discussion entirely and merely slipped into today's elbow chat by stealth.)

Even so, before that occurs, some kindly fellow may nudge your elbow warning of the imminent approach of the elbow whose clear intent is to elbow your body out.

In any case, if your favorite song is not Jailhouse Rock, and if you're not a knight-of-the-elbow, obtaining a legitimate invite by virtue of elbow grease might be the safest route taken to a Bush bash.

On the other hand, if you are an elbow-scraper, you could arrange a gig; I'm just not sure, though, they hire fiddlers at the mighty Bush Bash Band.
Political Elbow Jiggering Drollery © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Duck! It's An Arrow!

2006-02-14T13:03:00.000-07:00

It's Valentine's Day, folks.

In a normal year, we could give love and romance the attention they justly deserve. Certainly, Cupid's arrows add sparkle to the eye, lightness to the step, and ebullience to the heart. A wondrous feeling.

Yet, President Bush shouts at us. Demanding we pay attention. We are at war.

There's no time for the frippery of innocence. Focus on gloom, doom and terrorists. Surely, Vice President Cheney's actions brought that home to us this past weekend?

Yep. Bush has surely led us past the garden path, through the gates of Hades, and into the realm of hell. No frippery valentines here, decorated with lacy ribbons and silly verses of love which tickle the heart with laughter and warmth.

I remember a time, six years or so ago, when my heart was so young, it trilled with joyous expectation.

Why?

Ah shucks, folks, it was Valentine's Day!

But hush! Don't tell President Bush and his cronies about that. They wouldn't approve.

Like the naughty neighborhood brat, this administration's toys are guns. They fancy themselves as heroes in a violent world. Far as I can see, the problem with being a hero is: your career, a terminal affair, is short-lived; a temporary spectacle easily forgotten by passing generations.

Shakespeare's valentine verses? Ah! They live, forever, in our hearts.
Duck! It's An Arrow! © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

The Nimrod Foible

2006-02-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

As Harry Whittington, a wealthy Austin attorney, discovered this past weekend, going quail hunting with Vice President Dick Cheney isn't the same as joining the Audubon Society.

Seems Cheney, the mighty hunter, missed the covey but bagged Whittington. Peppered him with shotgun pellets. Put Whittington in the Corpus Christi Hospital, Cheney did.

Apparently, Whittington, a staunch Republican, isn't calling foul.

I doubt Cheney will get the bird for his bird-witted covey-flushing, though there may be speculation why such a conscientious fellow, such as our Vice President, failed to report the incident before the Corpus Christi Caller-Times carried the story.

Update

This story, carried by the Washington Post, Sunday, February 12, 2006 was originally off the Associated Press Wire. It was titled: Cheney Accidentally Shoots Fellow Hunter By NEDRA PICKLER, The Associated Press, Sunday, February 12, 2006; 6:19 PM.
The original link was: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/12/AR2006021200524.html

However, follow the same link today, Monday, February 13, 2006, and you will arrive at a story titled: Cheney Shoots Fellow Hunter in Texas Accident / Companion in Intensive Care With Upper-Body Wounds, By Shailagh Murray and Peter Baker Washington Post Staff Writers.

The difference in the two accounts?

I believe the AP story by Nedra Pickler told it like it was.

Quote:
"The shooting was first reported by the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. The vice president's office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened."

And again: "McBride did not comment about why the vice president's office did not tell reporters about the accident until the next day. She referred the question to Armstrong, who could not be reached again Sunday evening."

Unfortunately, at this point in time, how to locate the AP archives is a mystery to me. Which is a bummer, for linking to the original story is essential. The reason? The "updated" versions whitewash Cheney's actions, making it appear as if he is quite a gentleman. When asked: "Who will report the incident?", he sweeps his hat in a chivalrous bow, and says: "Ladies first".

Give me a break.

Another "updated" version can be found at: http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/13/politics/13cnd-cheney.html?hp&ex=1139893200&amp;en=181b942291c6b3ef&ei=5094&partner=homepage.

Best hurry, though, before it changes, too.
The Nimrod Foible © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XVIII

2006-02-12T16:25:00.000-07:00

I always thought that life should come with a book of instructions.

"It does. It does." Folks say as they hand you a Bible. A Koran. A Bhagavad Gita. A Talmud.

And you earnestly study it. You really do. Seeking answers. The right way. The only way. To find salvation. Become a finer, more noble spirit.

So tell me please, what is noble about killing your brother in the name of God? Killing anything is blasphemy. If you have swatted a fly because it annoys you, you have killed too much.

As a Muslim, a Christian, a Jew or a Buddhist . . . as mankind . . . you are my brother.

If I have your blood on my hands, how can I enter the Kingdom of God?

There is only one key that will gain me admittance to that Kingdom Beyond. Only the key of love unlocks the gates to that final, Holy, resting place. And if our hands are bloody, the key slips right through our fingers.
Chae

Red Herring Analysis

2006-02-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today I'd like to share this space with Luis from: The Blog From Another Dimension.

The following excerpt is only a small portion of the article, SOTU: SameOld, Tired, Untrue Speech (Part Two), which you will find at: http://www.blogd.com/archives/001678.html.

Luis very aptly states what I've been telling folks all along: Bragging on the improvements of a failure is not the same as creating an overwhelming success.

Let's follow Luis' example and do some careful analysis of the whole enchilada before we allow ourselves to be gulled by deception.
Chae

(The italics are a direct quote from President Bush's State Of The Union address; followed by Luis' analysis.)

Our economy is healthy and vigorous, and growing faster than other major industrialized nations. In the last two-and-a-half years, America has created 4.6 million new jobs -- more than Japan and the European Union combined.

This statement is misleading in many ways. First of all, it's selective editing. Bush only mentions job growth since jobs started growing, and 'forgot' to mention the first three years when jobs were consistently lost. Over Bush's whole presidency, job growth was only 2.1 million jobs, or an average 35,000 per month--anemic at best. Also, compared to recovery in jobs after the start of a recession, this is the slowest "recovery" in the past half century, by a very large margin. Bill Clinton added 22 million jobs in eight years--even taking Bush's claim of 4.6 million new jobs, he's got just two more years to create 17.4 million more jobs and he'll be even. Think he'll do it?

Second, the type of jobs Bush has been creating has been dramatically different. Under Bush, we've seen job growth in lower-paying, benefit-poor employment--hardly "vigorous." Under Clinton, there were a lot more well-paying jobs created; under Bush, most Americans have been sliding down to poorer and poorer levels.

And third, the comparison he made about other countries was bogus, relying on chance and statistics more than actual economic performance. It does not factor in population growth in America versus decline in Europe in Japan; it takes advantage of a temporary slump in Europe, as well as the effects of a long-term recession in Japan. Saying that you're doing better than two other poor performers at a bad time is not an impressive claim.

In short, Bush is using smoke and mirrors to paint a rosier picture than exists, but you can hardly expect him to admit to failure, can you?

Snow And Hornswoggle

2006-02-09T13:07:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness, guess who's back!

If it isn't ole Tom DeLay.

He's flicking the dust off his fleece suit, heartedly slapping his old pals on the back, and resolidifying his power on the hill.

Can you beat that !!!

Thought ole Tom was a goner when he was indicted in Texas on illegal campaign fund-raising charges, but no! the Republican party, known as the party of graft and greed, has honored dear ole Tom with power positions. A seat on the Appropriations Committee and a seat on the subcommittee overseeing the Justice Department.

Now, how fishy is that?

The Appropriation seat DeLay is inheriting hasn't had time to cool since Calf. Rep. "Duke" Cunningham occupied it. What a lucrative seat! Cunningham was able to steal $2.4 million while sitting in it. Bet the Republican party thinks ole DeLay aught to be able to refill their coffers with more than that !!!

Republican party motto: It takes a crook to replace a crook, eh?

But hold onto your hosses, padre, the intrigue doesn't stop there. That second seat? On the subcommittee overseeing the Justice Department? It's the very one investigating the influence-peddling scandal perpetrated by Jack Abramoff and his cronies.

It doesn't take two steps into the goose down to figure out what will happen next. There's gonna be a whole bunch of whitewashing going on, isn't there? Are those gangsters going to be exonerated, or what?

Talking about exoneration . . . are there going to be new laws in Texas? A bit more flagrant than DeLay's redistricting schemes? Say! Texas is George W's home state, isn't it?

Those Republicans! They sure hate to see all that ill-gotten money slip out of their checking accounts, don't they? Musta darn near killed 'em to have to donate the Abramoff rake-offs to charity. What better way to restore it than to appoint DeLay to these two positions?

Guess that it just goes to show that those wily Bush Republicans can steal a fella blind . . . and get away with it.
Snow And Hornswoggle © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Go Gently Into Sleep

2006-02-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

No wonder America's progress lags so far behind the advances of other nations. The Americans are sleeping!

Betcha don't remember Thomas Edison, eh? But if you did, you'd remember that his sleeping habits were a bit strange. Of course, back in his era, a day contained 24 hours!

And Edison slept 4 or less of those hours; worked the rest.

Had a mission, Edison did. Wanted to invent all those gadgets which positively, without a doubt, enriched folk's lives. Like the light bulb, the microphone, phonograph, generators, electric trains, typewriters, the stock ticker, the transmitter for the telephone receiver, the video camera and the first commercial electric light and power system.

Yep! Edison's real challenge was not: how to get to sleep, but: how to stay awake!

Now if you believe the newspapers, in 2005, at least 42 million folks, here in the U.S., were walking around like zombies.

Taking sleeping pills, they were, and popping those babies like never before so they could catch a few Z's.

Oh yeah, sure, it was harmless stuff like Ambien, Lunesta and Sonata. Not heavy drugs or anything like that !!! Just over-the-counter stuff. Or by prescription. From the two-hundred-and-thirteen thousand doctors who wrote 3.3 million dollar's worth of sleeping pill prescriptions for last year.

Which is OK, right?

Now, I wantcha to know those 42 million Americans aren't stingy. They shared those sleeping pills with their kids! Because those children's lives are so stress-filled that they can't sleep!

Life is hard. I mean, the finger exercises, alone, are killing us.

It takes excruciating effort to wrestle with a water faucet, knuckle toaster levers into position, twist electric stove knobs from off to high, poke blender buttons, turn car and truck ignition switches, tap computor keys, jerk the heat and air-conditioning thermostats up a notch, flip ipods open, nudge their selectors, punch the microwave selection pads, push buttons on the TV remote, heft a cell phone, dial the numbers, and punch the kill-those-bloody-villains indicators on video games.

Darn if our fingers aren't just plum tuckered out at night. But they can't sleep till the rest of the body does, so pop a pill, quiet the unexercised mind, dull the nerves in that really stress-torn body and let THOSE fingers sleep!

Now, as IN-DE-PEN-DENT Americans, we have a duty to support the pharmaceutical companies, don't we? If we let our minds use those sleepless hours to compose a sonata, paint a masterpiece, write a novel, invent a few gadgets, sketch a Muslim cartoon . . . .

Heck. If we did that those old drug companies would lose billions of dollars. Guess we can't let that happen, huh?

Well folks, since the pharmaceutical companies have spent all that money ($590 million) advertising their Z drugs, guess it would behoove me to watch an ad or two. Shouldn't be hard to find one. Turn the TV on and there will be 3 per hour.

My favorite is the Lunesta luna moth gliding euphorically on the summer's breeze which wafts around the sleeper's bed.

Puts me to sleep every time I watch it.
Go Gently Into Sleep © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

First-Rate Fix

2006-02-07T13:04:00.000-07:00

It should have been obvious when I landed the job that problems were slated to arise. It was inevitable. The first clue presented itself at the interview.

Now, math has never been my forté. Sure, I aced trig and calculus in high school. Aced world economics at university. But these were eraser-chewing experiences which demanded ponderous effort. Throw me a math question which demands a quick answer and I'm lost.

The district manager, Mr. Broadhurst, who handled the interview, was a bulky caricature of King Kong. The tweedy suit he wore would have looked better on the ape, and the cigar he smoked filled the room with a pungent aroma which set me to sneezing. My eyes watered.

It was a sneak attack to ask me a simple math question while I was busy, surreptitiously, trying to find Kleenix for the nose problem which generally follows a series of sneezes.

My answer, though, gave him pause. A child could have deduced that when Broadhurst's pebble-sized eyes suddenly enlarged to the diameter of tripple-egged omelets.

His bullhorned voice would have chased freighters out of a harbor. "Is that your answer?"

Between the sniffles, which I hoped would delay the nose dribbles, and several more sneezes, it was hard to focus on an answer. Finally, I managed to squeek, "Without pencil and paper, Sir, it was the best I could do. If you'll give me a minute, I'm sure I can extrapolate those numbers further."

"Not necessary," he barked. "You've already X-TRAP-O-LATED a simple answer into a complex solution. I've never had an applicant answer the question before, then proceed to outline all the possible variances. You're hired."

Darn. I wish I'd known I was doing that. Could have saved myself from a sneeze or two.

The following events, clearly illustrate how a series of miscommunications can alter a mortal's job performance.

As Broadhurst escorted me to my new office, his arm waved expansively towards a hulking machine which occupied three-quarters of the room. "Besides, you're the only applicant who knew how to operate a teletype machine."

A teletype machine? What the heck is that?

Darn, if those application forms won't get a body into trouble! I mean, if you accidently checked the boxes in front of tele and type, you'd expect a talking typewriter, wouldn't you?

"Er . . . it looks new, Sir."

Broadhurst positively beamed. "It is new. They delivered it this morning."

"Uh . . . did it come with a book of instructions, Sir?"

There was clearcut suspicion in Broadhurst's eyes as they swept over me from hairdo to sandlestraps. "Why would you need an instruction book?"

"Er . . . the . . . um . . . ah . . . one I'm used to was a dinosaur, Sir. Antiquated. A brand-spanking new puppy like this one has updated functions, doesn't it? It would be easier to make the transition from old to new if I study the manual overnight. They didn't shortchange you and forget to include a manual, did they Sir . . . ?"

Broadhurst strode over to the machine, slipped the booklet out of its shiny plastic envelope, and slapped it into my outstretched hand.

"See you first thing in the morning." Every word sounded sharp and scissored.

Now, a five thousand, seven-hundred-and-twenty-three page manual isn't that difficult to memorize overnight, but you sure have to prop the old eyelids open with forklifts the next day.

As it turned out, the eyelid-forklift-prop would be a necessary fixture in the routine for months to come. That overzealous graphite pencil — the one which marked all those empty squares on the application form — caused me a lot of overtime. Wish it hadn't overstated my abilities.

After six months, I was exhausted. Decided to turn in my resignation. Perhaps, if I worded it properly, Broadhurst would fire me.

A typed letter, slipped onto Broadhurst's desk while he was out to lunch, should have done the trick, right?

But no, it was inevitable that problems were slated to arise.

First, I smelled the cigar smoke. Then, I noticed my carefully-worded resignation dancing madly in midair. Next, I heard the boomerang voice say: "Come into my office and we'll discuss this."

What's to discuss? I wondered as my sudden sneezes squirreled meekly behind Broadhurst's retreating silhouette . . . down the hallway . . . past his secretary, Greta . . . and into his office.

Though every word of that marathon fifteen-minute chat remains crisp in memory, suffice it to say, my tongue copied the scurrilous activities which that graphite pencil had employed when it overstated my abilities.

I walked out of Broadhurst's office dazed and shaken.

Greta was still at her desk, busily shuffling papers from the out-basket to the one marked in, and rearranging precariously stacked files. Her nervous industry served to disguise avid curiosity. "Good news?"

My chin rotated in a circle. It tried to nod yes, then no, simultaneously. "Guess so."

"What happened?"

"Got a five-hundred dollar bonus and a three-dollar-an-hour raise."

"But that is good news!" Greta's wide smile revealed a smidgeon of Canary-Red lipstick smudged across the metal bridge on her false tooth.

"Not if you're trying to get fired so you can collect unemployment," I replied tonelessly.

Darn it. Doing a job well if you're going to do it at all has its disadvantages.
First-Rate Fix © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

A Sniffle Or Two

2006-02-06T21:26:00.000-07:00

It's nothing more than the sneezes, folks.
Nethertheless, they seem not only to have taken a mighty hold upon my nose, but to have discombobulated all coherent thought as well.
With any luck a'tall, they'll tiptoe silently away into the night . . . .
Until tomorrow then -- adieu.
Chae

Sunday Morning XVII

2006-02-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

Years ago, I practised meditation. At that time, I was mildly successful in reaching samadhi. Today, I remember the total unity, universal harmony and joy I felt then.

It felt then as if I was a drop of water falling into the ocean, my very being becoming the ocean, surging as a wave to heights unknown to me before, then, cresting with an absolute euphoria in the joyous release from all restrictions, all limitations.

In those years, I saw not the diversity of the human experience, yet rather, the brotherhood of all mankind. We were all universally seeking that spiritual plateau platformed on the pillars of all embracing love.

From that memory, I awake today in the world of 2006. And what do I see?

The "hot" topic of news currency, today, is the Muslims who are trying to punish Denmark for cartooning Muhammad, their prophet, though it bothered them not a whit when their cartoonists lampooned the God of Isreal. They, themselves, are not honoring their God as they would have us believe. They are demonstrating willful intolerance of others.

Another, "hot" topic of controversy, is the Americans who bring death and destruction to an innocent country known as Iraq, all in the name of protecting the world from terrorists. They, themselves, are not honoring God at all as they would have us believe. They are demonstrating willful greed and witless fear.

Other countries follow, willynilly, in the footsteps of one extreme faction, or another. Currently, they are coerced, bullied and bribed into crucifying Iran.

Does anyone remember, that one day many years ago, when those who participated in a peace movement joined hands?

They formed a human chain, hand-to-hand, which stretched, unbroken, across the width of America. There was an overwhelming feeling of unity, harmony and ebullient joy that day.

Awesome!

Today, more than at any other time in history, we need to let go of greed, intolerance, witless fear, and the concept of punishment, coercion, bribery and bullying. These are the virtues of evil, whether practised by Muslims, practised by Americans, or by Europeans and Jews.

Today, we need to join hands again, each with another, and form a chain of love, peace, harmony and unity which spans the world.

We need to recover the ability to bless whatever is in front of us, this enlightenment that is intimate with all things. Only when we have accomplished this, can we truthfully say, we are honoring God.
Chae