A few years ago I became really interested in the subject of genetic engineering when I learned how much GMO foodstuff crap is on our supermarket shelves here in the United States and how quietly it has been allowed to become part of the American diet despite our absolute lack of consent. Supermarkets here say such corn and tomato products do not differ in any way from the natural varieties--also official USDA policy--and they have no means of preventing it from coming on the shelves. This is a lot of bullshit because an American supermarket chain doing business in the UK, for example, is not allowed to stock GMO products on its shelves over there and is able to take action to comply with the law.
Well, now from Der Spiegel comes an article about the mass number of deaths occurring in the bee populations and how it could become a world crisis because we need bees to pollinate our plants and create food, etc. The bee population in the United States where thousands and thousands of acres of land are given over to the growth of genetically modified plants is also being decimated; some are referring to it as the bee AIDS.
Now researchers are looking to see if it is genetically modified corn and other plants introduced into our environment that are causing these deaths, that a poison has been created from the "Frankenscience" that is proving fatal to bees.
No doubt big agribusiness will try to obfuscate the facts if this proves the case and we will have to take action to end the 'experimenting' on Mother Nature. When I read articles like this, I am glad the European Union for all its problems and flaws is growing in power. I think Europeans are more aware of the dangers in this area than we are and will, through their actions, move us away from our dangerous indifference.
Monday
Sunday
An interesting spot
Feeling like eating some good ribs, we went to a local restaurant we don't frequent a great deal last night. It's very basic, owned by an Irish-American, and they stock excellent beer from all over the world including a number of Irish beers (Beamish, Harp and Bass) as well as offerings from some good American microbreweries. (At the moment, I'm very into hoppy beers and one in particular--Victory's Hop Devil--really fits the bill. They also don't rip their customers off with outrageous prices fro imported beers.
Unfortunately, they'd already sold out of ribs even though it was only six o'clock. As one enters the cavernous room (to the unfortunate smell of stale cigarette smoke because Pennsylvania still allows smoking in the bar areas), many might walk out for fear they'd entered a redneck joint. And the barmaid, though slim of figure, in her early forties, has done a lot of living and suffered hardship because it's written on her face.
It has the feel and ambiance of a redneck bar. However, a closer inspection reveals an assemblage of an entirely different clientele. There's a healthy flock of gray-haired 'early-bird special' folks, the snowbirds who've just returned for the summer from their condos in Florida. They perch at their tables, yakking among themselves while sipping from their glasses of water (always from the faucet), deliberate on the specials of the day and question the waitress to death about them, and then after ordering launch into grandchildren comparisons, yada, yada, yada. There's also the sophisticated New Yorkers, the ones who drape their Saks Fifth Avenue jackets casually over the cheap chairs and order a baked potato sans butter and cream instead of chips yet tuck into the Prime rib au jus like it's the last to be had on the planet. Of course, they also order the special wine (that's what it's called in this place) at a $1 extra instead of the common garden Chateau Box. And there is a smattering of friendly rednecks and their families. While not meant to be judgmental though it will appear so, it is noteworthy how so many of their wives and girlfriends are obese (as are their children, though I must confess their choices of food undoubtedly cause the condition because it's always fried and apple sauce appears to be the consistent vegetable of choice.
The waitresses themselves are all in their early to mid-fifties, with 'smoked for many years' faces, a little butch-looking though they're straight but I think I'm correct in concluding they're no longer interest in men for sex. They exude the slightest hint of dangerousness, a sort of 'don't even think about giving me trouble and don't ask for food substitutions.' I like it. You know where you are with them and they can crack a joke. They also sit beside the customers at their tables when they feel like it--only the regulars and even when they're eating--and share the latest gossip, which always seems to be most welcome judging by the commonality of paused heaped forkfuls before mouths thrust open with surprise and/or shock.
All in all, a very interesting spot.
Unfortunately, they'd already sold out of ribs even though it was only six o'clock. As one enters the cavernous room (to the unfortunate smell of stale cigarette smoke because Pennsylvania still allows smoking in the bar areas), many might walk out for fear they'd entered a redneck joint. And the barmaid, though slim of figure, in her early forties, has done a lot of living and suffered hardship because it's written on her face.
It has the feel and ambiance of a redneck bar. However, a closer inspection reveals an assemblage of an entirely different clientele. There's a healthy flock of gray-haired 'early-bird special' folks, the snowbirds who've just returned for the summer from their condos in Florida. They perch at their tables, yakking among themselves while sipping from their glasses of water (always from the faucet), deliberate on the specials of the day and question the waitress to death about them, and then after ordering launch into grandchildren comparisons, yada, yada, yada. There's also the sophisticated New Yorkers, the ones who drape their Saks Fifth Avenue jackets casually over the cheap chairs and order a baked potato sans butter and cream instead of chips yet tuck into the Prime rib au jus like it's the last to be had on the planet. Of course, they also order the special wine (that's what it's called in this place) at a $1 extra instead of the common garden Chateau Box. And there is a smattering of friendly rednecks and their families. While not meant to be judgmental though it will appear so, it is noteworthy how so many of their wives and girlfriends are obese (as are their children, though I must confess their choices of food undoubtedly cause the condition because it's always fried and apple sauce appears to be the consistent vegetable of choice.
The waitresses themselves are all in their early to mid-fifties, with 'smoked for many years' faces, a little butch-looking though they're straight but I think I'm correct in concluding they're no longer interest in men for sex. They exude the slightest hint of dangerousness, a sort of 'don't even think about giving me trouble and don't ask for food substitutions.' I like it. You know where you are with them and they can crack a joke. They also sit beside the customers at their tables when they feel like it--only the regulars and even when they're eating--and share the latest gossip, which always seems to be most welcome judging by the commonality of paused heaped forkfuls before mouths thrust open with surprise and/or shock.
All in all, a very interesting spot.
Tuesday
Mirna and Charla
Generally I'm not into reality shows, though have been watching Survivor. This season, as it's on a Sunday, I decided to watch The Amazing Race and I'm really really glad I made the decision.
A number of teams race around the globe and every week--unless it's not an elimination week--one of the teams (all comprised of two people) gets sent home.
One of the teams racing are two first cousins called Charla and Mirna. They are hysterical. I have NEVER laughed as hard as I did last Sunday.
Both women are 27 years old, live in Maryland, were born in Syria and grew up together in Armenia before coming to the US, and they love one another but usually bicker. Oh, and Charla is a 'little person' and quite rightly states that she sees no limitation in 'being a midget.' As the manager of six sports stores back in Maryland, I'd say she's right.
Mirna is a lawyer, drama queen, and a type A personality who is hopeless at driving a car or navigating when they're required to do so, often blaming her incompetence on her cousin's inability to read maps (Charla, do something...anything. You must contribute. It can't all be me) when she can't even find the handbrake in a parked car. Her search for it was priceless. In the end, Carla had to summon a taxi-driver to show her cousin where the handbrake was in a leg of the race requiring them to drive it to a forest on the outskirts of Warsaw as part of one leg. Poor Charla was bouncing back and forth in the back seat screaming "Can you blame me a little bit more, Mirna? Come on, blame me some more" while feeling very queasy at the same time because they'd had to eat two feet of Kilbasa sausage at a restaurant in order to move onto the next leg of the competition. Charla's little tummy was unable to cope--Mirna kept practically force-feeding her cousin the sausage and ordering her to eat faster--and they finished in last place, much to Mirna's annoyance
Poland and the Poles were not kind to them. Everyone they asked for directions on the city streets would not answer their beseeching questions (Mirna was actually screaming at them in the end she was so upset) and gave them wide berth until Mirna articulated, "Maybe they don't know to handle little people, Charla? Do they not have little people in Poland?"
On the last leg of Sunday's portion of the race, Mirna and Charla arrived at the forest to discover one of them had to don a suit of armor (all teams had to) and lead a huge black stallion 1000 feet to the entrance of a castle. Once completed, they could run into the castle and find the umpire who would tell them if they were to be eliminated.
Loud-mouthed Mirna announced she was terrified of horses so Charla suited up in the armor and it was hysterical seeing a dwarf (she was also afraid) lead this huge black steed toward the castle gate. Unfortunately, Charla kept being tugged by the horse toward the hedge every time it wanted to eat something. She kept tugging back while saying, "Nice horsey. Come along, nice horsey." At one point she even offered the horse a bribe--yes, you got it...a piece of Kielbasa.
Unable to control the animal because of her size and the armor, at various points along the walk, she and the horse literally walked round and round on the pathway in bizarre circles while Mirna screamed, "Do something, Charla. Another team is coming. Look over your shoulder, they are coming." She made it sound as if it was the Angel of Doom coming. Mirna's hands flew back and forth from her face like an Arab woman weeping and shrieking and she tore at her long blonde hair as she screamed, "Do something. They are coming. Walk fast. No, run, Charla. We will be eliminated. Eliminated, Charla Pull the horse hard, Charla."
At two points on the stroll, the horse jerked its head and poor Charla was lifted off the ground and fell prostrate on the path. Even as she lay dazed and confined by the armor, Mirna screamed, "What are you doing, Charla? Get up. They are coming. Look. Look. They are coming. We will be eliminated. Do you want us to be sent home, Charla? get up right now."
In the end they finished second from last and are in the race for another leg. Can't wait for the next installment.
A number of teams race around the globe and every week--unless it's not an elimination week--one of the teams (all comprised of two people) gets sent home.
One of the teams racing are two first cousins called Charla and Mirna. They are hysterical. I have NEVER laughed as hard as I did last Sunday.
Both women are 27 years old, live in Maryland, were born in Syria and grew up together in Armenia before coming to the US, and they love one another but usually bicker. Oh, and Charla is a 'little person' and quite rightly states that she sees no limitation in 'being a midget.' As the manager of six sports stores back in Maryland, I'd say she's right.
Mirna is a lawyer, drama queen, and a type A personality who is hopeless at driving a car or navigating when they're required to do so, often blaming her incompetence on her cousin's inability to read maps (Charla, do something...anything. You must contribute. It can't all be me) when she can't even find the handbrake in a parked car. Her search for it was priceless. In the end, Carla had to summon a taxi-driver to show her cousin where the handbrake was in a leg of the race requiring them to drive it to a forest on the outskirts of Warsaw as part of one leg. Poor Charla was bouncing back and forth in the back seat screaming "Can you blame me a little bit more, Mirna? Come on, blame me some more" while feeling very queasy at the same time because they'd had to eat two feet of Kilbasa sausage at a restaurant in order to move onto the next leg of the competition. Charla's little tummy was unable to cope--Mirna kept practically force-feeding her cousin the sausage and ordering her to eat faster--and they finished in last place, much to Mirna's annoyance
Poland and the Poles were not kind to them. Everyone they asked for directions on the city streets would not answer their beseeching questions (Mirna was actually screaming at them in the end she was so upset) and gave them wide berth until Mirna articulated, "Maybe they don't know to handle little people, Charla? Do they not have little people in Poland?"
On the last leg of Sunday's portion of the race, Mirna and Charla arrived at the forest to discover one of them had to don a suit of armor (all teams had to) and lead a huge black stallion 1000 feet to the entrance of a castle. Once completed, they could run into the castle and find the umpire who would tell them if they were to be eliminated.
Loud-mouthed Mirna announced she was terrified of horses so Charla suited up in the armor and it was hysterical seeing a dwarf (she was also afraid) lead this huge black steed toward the castle gate. Unfortunately, Charla kept being tugged by the horse toward the hedge every time it wanted to eat something. She kept tugging back while saying, "Nice horsey. Come along, nice horsey." At one point she even offered the horse a bribe--yes, you got it...a piece of Kielbasa.
Unable to control the animal because of her size and the armor, at various points along the walk, she and the horse literally walked round and round on the pathway in bizarre circles while Mirna screamed, "Do something, Charla. Another team is coming. Look over your shoulder, they are coming." She made it sound as if it was the Angel of Doom coming. Mirna's hands flew back and forth from her face like an Arab woman weeping and shrieking and she tore at her long blonde hair as she screamed, "Do something. They are coming. Walk fast. No, run, Charla. We will be eliminated. Eliminated, Charla Pull the horse hard, Charla."
At two points on the stroll, the horse jerked its head and poor Charla was lifted off the ground and fell prostrate on the path. Even as she lay dazed and confined by the armor, Mirna screamed, "What are you doing, Charla? Get up. They are coming. Look. Look. They are coming. We will be eliminated. Do you want us to be sent home, Charla? get up right now."
In the end they finished second from last and are in the race for another leg. Can't wait for the next installment.
Sunday
What a nerve!
Goodness. So I open my email this morning and was informed that some chap called Mr. Joe Kerr who's of Irish descent and commissioning editor at one of the biggest houses in the US received the first six chapters of my memoir America and me late yesterday, spent until the wee hours of the morning reading it and rereading it in some fancy New York hotel, and now has made an offer and are prepared to pay a colossal sum. The catch is I have to make my decision by Friday at latest and title should change to From Ulster to here;the saga.
So excited was this person that they emailed the manuscript without my permission to a famous Hollywood director who has already been on the phone to him. Famous Hollywood Director will not under any circumstances allow me to know who she is until I agree to sign on the day I meet her. That is outrageous and wholly un-American. The nerve.
And they want Colin Farrel to play me. Oh, please!!!
What to do? What to do?
So excited was this person that they emailed the manuscript without my permission to a famous Hollywood director who has already been on the phone to him. Famous Hollywood Director will not under any circumstances allow me to know who she is until I agree to sign on the day I meet her. That is outrageous and wholly un-American. The nerve.
And they want Colin Farrel to play me. Oh, please!!!
What to do? What to do?
Saturday
What's up, Philly?
Poor Philly's in the doldrums at the moment.
First, it's recently been downgraded from fifth largest city in the United States to sixth, the usurperer being Phoenix, Arizona. Admittedly Phoenix's claim to the title is a bit dubious because it's based on a seeming voracious appetite for including its very, very far-flung suburbia into the city for determining size. If Phoenix had a lot of snow in Winter, I wonder would it be as keen to include these towns and villages for purposes of determining high efficiency at keeping the roads clear and costs of doing so.
Hmmm, I wonder!!
I landed in Phoenix to change planes to San Francisco when on an author tour and I have to say it looked a bit too 'deserty' for my liking--a bit too hot as well. Philly's greener, but then again we have the dratted snow.
Another more disturbing Philly record is that it recorded its 100th homicide in 2007 last night and we're only just done with March. It's a record and a bloody terrible one at that. The murders are occurring in the poorest neighborhoods and involve African American drug gangs. And its anguished African American families that are suffering, their kids and mothers being shot as they gather on their porches or make their way to school. These gangs possess guns that one would expect to find in a theater of war.
They're now in the middle of a campaign to determine who the mayoral candidates will be from each party--Republican and Democrat--and I just hope the new major will do something after he's elected. Philly is, after all, a city with proud working-class roots, the City of Brotherly Love.
First, it's recently been downgraded from fifth largest city in the United States to sixth, the usurperer being Phoenix, Arizona. Admittedly Phoenix's claim to the title is a bit dubious because it's based on a seeming voracious appetite for including its very, very far-flung suburbia into the city for determining size. If Phoenix had a lot of snow in Winter, I wonder would it be as keen to include these towns and villages for purposes of determining high efficiency at keeping the roads clear and costs of doing so.
Hmmm, I wonder!!
I landed in Phoenix to change planes to San Francisco when on an author tour and I have to say it looked a bit too 'deserty' for my liking--a bit too hot as well. Philly's greener, but then again we have the dratted snow.
Another more disturbing Philly record is that it recorded its 100th homicide in 2007 last night and we're only just done with March. It's a record and a bloody terrible one at that. The murders are occurring in the poorest neighborhoods and involve African American drug gangs. And its anguished African American families that are suffering, their kids and mothers being shot as they gather on their porches or make their way to school. These gangs possess guns that one would expect to find in a theater of war.
They're now in the middle of a campaign to determine who the mayoral candidates will be from each party--Republican and Democrat--and I just hope the new major will do something after he's elected. Philly is, after all, a city with proud working-class roots, the City of Brotherly Love.
Tuesday
Working together...at last
Very gratifying to see that Ian Paisley--whom I admit I don't have a great deal of time for because he's as close-minded, bigoted and tiresome as Southern evangelicals with whom he strongly identifies--has agreed to work with Jerry Adams and help bring stability and progress to Northern Ireland. (Northern Ireland held elections last week and Paisley's DUP party which represents most Protestants without getting bogged down in minutiae about the diversity of Protestantism there and Adam's Sinn Fein which represents many nationalists won majorities and thus have the major say in how to form a power sharing administration.)
I just hope it's a genuine commitment, though at their first historic face-to-face meeting at Stormont castle (the seat of the Northern Irish parliament and a very attractive building, I might add) the two men did not shake hands which is a bit of an ominous sign. It's historic because, prior to this, Paisley has always negotiated using intermediaries and has not admitted to working with Sinn Fein whom he said were affiliated with terrorists.
Time will tell. Perhaps at eighty years of age and not in the best of health, Mr. Paisley is thinking about what he's going to say to his maker when called to answer for his conduct in the political arena. Either way, it's a move forward Northern Irish style and I shall be cautiously optimistic.
I just hope it's a genuine commitment, though at their first historic face-to-face meeting at Stormont castle (the seat of the Northern Irish parliament and a very attractive building, I might add) the two men did not shake hands which is a bit of an ominous sign. It's historic because, prior to this, Paisley has always negotiated using intermediaries and has not admitted to working with Sinn Fein whom he said were affiliated with terrorists.
Time will tell. Perhaps at eighty years of age and not in the best of health, Mr. Paisley is thinking about what he's going to say to his maker when called to answer for his conduct in the political arena. Either way, it's a move forward Northern Irish style and I shall be cautiously optimistic.
Monday
The catch
Driving from the gym early this morning, a large red-tailed hawk rose from the side of the road ahead and flew in front of my car. It hovered about eighteen inches above the road's surface as it tried to gain altitude, its huge wings beating the air furiously. Suddenly it veered off to the left and the pair of us traveled in parallel for a bit--me staying on the road of course. I saw its beautiful snowy underbelly then noticed it had a squirrel gripped firmly in its talons.
The little thing's bushy tail swept behind the birds feet, its back was arched and the face was pointed in the same direction as the hawk's beak. It was being carried away to its death, though I hope it had been stunned or died during the hawk's attack. Instinctively, I honked my horn about ten times to try and frighten the bird so the animal could fall down to the soft grass in the field and run away (if it wasn't stunned). But the hawk wasn't frightened and it rose and rose and I had to turn my attention back to my driving.
I felt bad and yet I knew it was just kind and cruel Mother Nature at work. The hawk is as beautiful in its own way as the squirrel and needs to eat, too. My thoughts went to the polar bear cub called Knut in the Berlin Zoo that was abandoned by its mother and left to die. In that case, humans stepped in to save it and allow it to grow into an adult bear. Is human intervention regarded as nature at work in that sort of case? Or should, as some animal rights groups state, the cub have been left to die as its sibling did. I think to hell with what the animal rights groups hold in this instance and chose to think of that sort of intervention as nature at work--man's compassion for animals and life driving him to save them.
Cherry picking, I suppose.
The little thing's bushy tail swept behind the birds feet, its back was arched and the face was pointed in the same direction as the hawk's beak. It was being carried away to its death, though I hope it had been stunned or died during the hawk's attack. Instinctively, I honked my horn about ten times to try and frighten the bird so the animal could fall down to the soft grass in the field and run away (if it wasn't stunned). But the hawk wasn't frightened and it rose and rose and I had to turn my attention back to my driving.
I felt bad and yet I knew it was just kind and cruel Mother Nature at work. The hawk is as beautiful in its own way as the squirrel and needs to eat, too. My thoughts went to the polar bear cub called Knut in the Berlin Zoo that was abandoned by its mother and left to die. In that case, humans stepped in to save it and allow it to grow into an adult bear. Is human intervention regarded as nature at work in that sort of case? Or should, as some animal rights groups state, the cub have been left to die as its sibling did. I think to hell with what the animal rights groups hold in this instance and chose to think of that sort of intervention as nature at work--man's compassion for animals and life driving him to save them.
Cherry picking, I suppose.
Saturday
Getting it done
I just LOVE productive weeks and this week has been such a week and it's not yet over.
A friend, Jessica, opened a smart, upmarket ladies boutique in town a few weeks ago and she asked me to help compose a press release she wanted to send to the newspapers and magazines, which I did. It's great to be able to help friends when they begin new exciting ventures. Hope it does its job!!
And I settled down and did a serious--I mean serious--amount of work on America and Me, the memoir I'm currently writing. The word count is now 55,300 and I'm now at Chapter 20--yes 19 whole chapters have been written--and I think I'll be able to complete the latest today. I'm going to work my arse off this afternoon and do it.
I'm having laughs and bouts of sadness writing it. And it's strange and thought-provoking going over old correspondence and uncovering documents in files that were once vital and critical and celebrated profusely--like notifications that I'd passed the Bar examination, etc--and realizing they've lost that vitality and importance.
Of course, once the memoir is completed, the really tough work begins because editing and redrafting is an essential part of the process. An essential, necessary pain in the arse.
A friend, Jessica, opened a smart, upmarket ladies boutique in town a few weeks ago and she asked me to help compose a press release she wanted to send to the newspapers and magazines, which I did. It's great to be able to help friends when they begin new exciting ventures. Hope it does its job!!
And I settled down and did a serious--I mean serious--amount of work on America and Me, the memoir I'm currently writing. The word count is now 55,300 and I'm now at Chapter 20--yes 19 whole chapters have been written--and I think I'll be able to complete the latest today. I'm going to work my arse off this afternoon and do it.
I'm having laughs and bouts of sadness writing it. And it's strange and thought-provoking going over old correspondence and uncovering documents in files that were once vital and critical and celebrated profusely--like notifications that I'd passed the Bar examination, etc--and realizing they've lost that vitality and importance.
Of course, once the memoir is completed, the really tough work begins because editing and redrafting is an essential part of the process. An essential, necessary pain in the arse.
Tuesday
Crazy Woman singing
I had the afternoon off today and decided to go the gym in the p.m. rather than early morning as is usual. We've had a lot of snow so I was anxious to get in a hard workout and cheer my spirits. To my surprise all the exercise machines were occupied.
As I walked about checking the sign-up sheets (which we have to complete prior to mounting the machine) to see which one would become free first, I came upon one which was unsigned which is not a problem. I looked up at the lady pumping away on the pedals and said, "Hi there. Excuse me but I was just wondering how long you've got to go on your program?"
She removed her earphones and said, "As long as it takes." She smiled, killed it quickly.
"No problem. I'm not asking you to leave or anything, it's just I wondered how much of the half-hour schedule you've got to go. If it's not long I'll just put my name down on the sheet."
"Listen asshole, I'm on till I'm done. Satisfied?"
I was stunned and enraged. I just stood looking at her as she pumped and made a swatting gesture as if I were an annoying insect.
A plump, red-faced woman with frizzy hair exercising casually on a nearby exercise bicycle was bug-eyed with shock. After locking her pale eyes in my gaze, she raised her shoulders to commiserate.
Unwilling to accept the status of insect, I said, "Hey, technically I can ask you to get off because you're supposed to sign the sheet. But I'm not doing that."
Again the bright yellow earphones were being slowly lowered to caress her neck as I spoke.
"Screw the rules," she said. "I don't bother with sign-up sheets."
"I see. I'll pass that nugget on." I went off to the management staff and asked if they'd amended the rules during my absence, added that I wasn't asking the woman to leave--pointed toward the machine as I talked--but I just wanted to know how much time she had on the machine because I'd traveled a bit to get here. As I was doing so, I heard high-pitched shrieks, looked in the direction of the elliptical, and when our eyes connected heard, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Wow," the manager said to me.
"Don't do anything," I said. "Maybe just tell her to sighn the sheet like everyone else so we know what's free," I said.
The only machine free--though only for ten minutes-was beside her. I hopped on and began my exercise regime, still so riled by this woman I couldn't concentrate properly and keyed in an 'uphill' cycle rather than my usual 'weight-loss.' I began to read my book (no irony intended but entitled "Me talk pretty one day).
As I pedaled, the woman began to sing aloud. I think she figured it would annoy my reading enjoyment. Her pitch grew louder and louder until people in the gym began staring at her. She didn't care. Louder and louder she got until the gym manager came up. "Are you okay up there?" she shouted.
She removed her earphones. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yea. Why wouldn't I be? Just singing while I do a nice workout. Tra la la la la."
The manager looked up at her speechless as the woman recited again, "Tra la la la la lala lala.
"Well, try to keep it down a little." She paused. "And try to remember we're a family gym here. We like people to get along and we don't like that sort of language.
"Tra lala lala."
I was beginning to wonder if this woman was mad and might have a gun in her pocketbook and wait for me to leave the gym. Just as I was wondering if I should vacate the machine, a middle-aged man drew up very alpha-male style to the front of my elliptical, riveted on the sheet attached to my machine, and glowered at my upper chest as he walked away. I knew the glower. It's the unspoken signal that one's time is up and it's now their turn. As soon as I got off and wiped down the machine, he returned and climbed aboard. The woman stopped singing.
I decided to lift some weights, my every movement watched fiercely by Crazy Woman as I did so, though every time I turned in her direction she lowered her head. ten minutes later she got off and moved straight to the thigh machine without wiping down the sweaty elliptical. No consideration for her fellow gym bunnies. Takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose.
As I walked about checking the sign-up sheets (which we have to complete prior to mounting the machine) to see which one would become free first, I came upon one which was unsigned which is not a problem. I looked up at the lady pumping away on the pedals and said, "Hi there. Excuse me but I was just wondering how long you've got to go on your program?"
She removed her earphones and said, "As long as it takes." She smiled, killed it quickly.
"No problem. I'm not asking you to leave or anything, it's just I wondered how much of the half-hour schedule you've got to go. If it's not long I'll just put my name down on the sheet."
"Listen asshole, I'm on till I'm done. Satisfied?"
I was stunned and enraged. I just stood looking at her as she pumped and made a swatting gesture as if I were an annoying insect.
A plump, red-faced woman with frizzy hair exercising casually on a nearby exercise bicycle was bug-eyed with shock. After locking her pale eyes in my gaze, she raised her shoulders to commiserate.
Unwilling to accept the status of insect, I said, "Hey, technically I can ask you to get off because you're supposed to sign the sheet. But I'm not doing that."
Again the bright yellow earphones were being slowly lowered to caress her neck as I spoke.
"Screw the rules," she said. "I don't bother with sign-up sheets."
"I see. I'll pass that nugget on." I went off to the management staff and asked if they'd amended the rules during my absence, added that I wasn't asking the woman to leave--pointed toward the machine as I talked--but I just wanted to know how much time she had on the machine because I'd traveled a bit to get here. As I was doing so, I heard high-pitched shrieks, looked in the direction of the elliptical, and when our eyes connected heard, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Wow," the manager said to me.
"Don't do anything," I said. "Maybe just tell her to sighn the sheet like everyone else so we know what's free," I said.
The only machine free--though only for ten minutes-was beside her. I hopped on and began my exercise regime, still so riled by this woman I couldn't concentrate properly and keyed in an 'uphill' cycle rather than my usual 'weight-loss.' I began to read my book (no irony intended but entitled "Me talk pretty one day).
As I pedaled, the woman began to sing aloud. I think she figured it would annoy my reading enjoyment. Her pitch grew louder and louder until people in the gym began staring at her. She didn't care. Louder and louder she got until the gym manager came up. "Are you okay up there?" she shouted.
She removed her earphones. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yea. Why wouldn't I be? Just singing while I do a nice workout. Tra la la la la."
The manager looked up at her speechless as the woman recited again, "Tra la la la la lala lala.
"Well, try to keep it down a little." She paused. "And try to remember we're a family gym here. We like people to get along and we don't like that sort of language.
"Tra lala lala."
I was beginning to wonder if this woman was mad and might have a gun in her pocketbook and wait for me to leave the gym. Just as I was wondering if I should vacate the machine, a middle-aged man drew up very alpha-male style to the front of my elliptical, riveted on the sheet attached to my machine, and glowered at my upper chest as he walked away. I knew the glower. It's the unspoken signal that one's time is up and it's now their turn. As soon as I got off and wiped down the machine, he returned and climbed aboard. The woman stopped singing.
I decided to lift some weights, my every movement watched fiercely by Crazy Woman as I did so, though every time I turned in her direction she lowered her head. ten minutes later she got off and moved straight to the thigh machine without wiping down the sweaty elliptical. No consideration for her fellow gym bunnies. Takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose.
Saturday
Aye, very nice ...but is it edible?
While Saint Patrick's Day is wildly celebrated here in the U.S. by ancestors of those who flew the coop hundreds of years ago but not so much in Ireland and, because I live in the U.S. now, I wondered what would be the best way for me to mark it's passing.
The answer came this afternoon and here's the result. My Mum baked the most delicious Irish Soda bread and Irish brown bread when my siblings and I were youngsters. So, I found a recipe for Irish brown bread--it's very healthy--and baked it and here it is fresh from the oven. The orchid's for artistic purposes, naturally.
Tonight we're going off to the home of a Yankee friend who's cooking an Irish dinner and I'm taking my bread along and can't wait for everyone to try it.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day.
Friday
Hey, I'm a thinking person's blog!
Debra Hamel of the Deblog has nominated my blog as a blog that makes people think, a nomination I'm very pleased to have gotten. The concept originated from The Thinking Blog and it's now my turn to suggest five blogs that I also consider well-written and insightful and make me think because everyone should think constructively a wee bit every day.
Here they are:
Martha O'Connor's blog--Not only is she an accomplished novelist whose first novel, The Bitch Posse, I enjoyed thoroughly and can't wait for her second one which is set in Ireland, but her blog contains wonderful information about diabetes, a disease one of her children deals with daily.
Gayle Brandeis's Blog--Again, Gayle's a wonderful writer whose The Book of Dead Birds is rich and insightful (her second novel Self Storage has just released) and she is also a social activist who works hard for justice and equality in society.
Kieran's an Irish American and boxer from Brooklyn who writes beautifully and I love his takes on living in NYC and more.
A life in Wales because I love Wales, went to law school in Wales and this uplifting blog is about the life, good writing and astonishing photography of a woman (and her cats Bella and Lulu) who lives there.
Bridlepath is my fifth choice because who couldn't love a well-written, in depth blog about horses...except, I guess, the few people on earth who don't care for horses.
Here they are:
Martha O'Connor's blog--Not only is she an accomplished novelist whose first novel, The Bitch Posse, I enjoyed thoroughly and can't wait for her second one which is set in Ireland, but her blog contains wonderful information about diabetes, a disease one of her children deals with daily.
Gayle Brandeis's Blog--Again, Gayle's a wonderful writer whose The Book of Dead Birds is rich and insightful (her second novel Self Storage has just released) and she is also a social activist who works hard for justice and equality in society.
Kieran's an Irish American and boxer from Brooklyn who writes beautifully and I love his takes on living in NYC and more.
A life in Wales because I love Wales, went to law school in Wales and this uplifting blog is about the life, good writing and astonishing photography of a woman (and her cats Bella and Lulu) who lives there.
Bridlepath is my fifth choice because who couldn't love a well-written, in depth blog about horses...except, I guess, the few people on earth who don't care for horses.
Wednesday
The Cuban row boat
One of the more interesting aspects of the cruise occurred on our journey homebound from Belize.
At one point going Northward, the ship passes parallel with a part of Cuba--albeit the coastline is miles away--and it's well-documented that many Cuban refugees strike out from her shores on rickety row boats toward the United States and South America. The night had been very rough going and the ship's listing and rocking had awoken me many times--no, I didn't get sea sick because I have a stomach that seems made of steel.
Just after breakfast the following morning, the captain made a public announcement that a small boat had been spotted at a distance and he felt it his duty to turn the ship and seek out the vessel and investigate if there was someone who perhaps needed help. It took the ship a while to turn and Larry and I went to watch from the bow. All we could see were choppy waves and miles and miles of water. Of course, the decks were buzzing with muted excitement as to what would be found.
After twenty minutes, we spotted the boat--a rowing boat just like one sees in any city park lake. The ship drew nearer and nearer until we were upon it. It was a surreal experience standing high on a huge, modern cruise ship as it drew gently closer and closer to the rowboat in order to see if anyone was aboard and perhaps injured. No one was inside and it had taken on some water. On its floor were three coconuts and a few bananas. My heart went out to whomever had decided life in Cuba under Fidel Castro was so intolerable and their circumstances so desperate that they were prepared to risk their lives in the stormy Gulf waters. I hope the boat slipped its mooring or the people were rescued by a merchant ship or something.
At one point going Northward, the ship passes parallel with a part of Cuba--albeit the coastline is miles away--and it's well-documented that many Cuban refugees strike out from her shores on rickety row boats toward the United States and South America. The night had been very rough going and the ship's listing and rocking had awoken me many times--no, I didn't get sea sick because I have a stomach that seems made of steel.
Just after breakfast the following morning, the captain made a public announcement that a small boat had been spotted at a distance and he felt it his duty to turn the ship and seek out the vessel and investigate if there was someone who perhaps needed help. It took the ship a while to turn and Larry and I went to watch from the bow. All we could see were choppy waves and miles and miles of water. Of course, the decks were buzzing with muted excitement as to what would be found.
After twenty minutes, we spotted the boat--a rowing boat just like one sees in any city park lake. The ship drew nearer and nearer until we were upon it. It was a surreal experience standing high on a huge, modern cruise ship as it drew gently closer and closer to the rowboat in order to see if anyone was aboard and perhaps injured. No one was inside and it had taken on some water. On its floor were three coconuts and a few bananas. My heart went out to whomever had decided life in Cuba under Fidel Castro was so intolerable and their circumstances so desperate that they were prepared to risk their lives in the stormy Gulf waters. I hope the boat slipped its mooring or the people were rescued by a merchant ship or something.
Saturday
Cruising the Caribbean: Part Two
"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking. We have reason to believe there may be a stowaway on board and..."
From a balcony on the ninth floor of a cruise ship, the cobalt waters of the Gulf of Mexico take on a very unique quality. Some evenings after dinner I'd return to my cabin, walk out onto the balcony and lean over the varnished teak balcony, dig my fingernails into the thin layer of encrusted salt and watch mesmerized as the ship cut through the swells. The waves would race toward the ship's hull, smack against it and then, as if repelled like two North poles of a magnet, would push away from it at speed. At the farthest point of their race away from the ship, the wavelets would crest, turn inside out and dissipate in sparkling showers of snow-white foam and spray.
We spent one and a half full days at sea on the outbound journey before arriving at Costa Maya in Mexico, our first port of call, where we took a rather prosaic tour of the Kohunlich Mayan ruins. I say prosaic because this was to be my first time to learn about the illustrious past and sophistication of the Maya and I expected to see and climb huge soaring temples and palaces such as those found at Copan, but instead all I saw were sad mounds and hillocks still covered by verdant jungle vegetation. It didn't help that our guide--a weasel-like Mayan chappie--didn't speak fluent English and kept saying "Guys this" and Guys that" at every turn (only words I and others could decipher) and then had the gall to ask for a tip at the end of the journey rather than trust us to give him one.
Not so our trip to the Quirigua Mayan ruins in Guatemala the next day. We docked in Santo Tomas's port in Guatemala at six that morning and after disembarkation met with the effervescent and charming Carolina, our guide, who took us on a spectacular two hour bus ride through to the ruins, entertaining us en route with tales of the ancient Maya and life in modern-day Guatemala
I must say it is a spectacularly beautiful country. It is called the 'land of eternal spring' because its climate is always the warm and sunny and the landscape is full of rolling hills and jungle awash in colorful flowering trees, shrubs and flowers including orchid and animals equally diverse and vibrant. At one point we passed rubber tree plantations--hailing instantly to life my schoolboy memories of geography class about the subject and the teacher saying "give me your jaw, boy!" as he grabbed and squeezed my cheek mercilessly if I was acting the smart-aleck or insubordinate--and huge banana tree (actually a member of the grass family) plantations whose fruit would soon be harvested and shipped off to Dole factories for export to America and Europe, etc. (Factoid--baby banana plants must be allowed to grow alongside their mother for six full months or they die. I have a banana plant in my house and it always has a baby growing alongside it in the pot and until now I never knew why.)
The Mayan ruins were of the Mayan Classic period (550-850AD) and contained intricately carved Stelae and Zoomorphs (the latter being huge carved boulders including one called "The Great Turtle" that were forms of monumentation unique to this Mayan city/state and the hieroglyphs on them could only be read from the sky), all evidencing the greatness and deeds of the Mayan dynasty that ruled there.
Views of the city and courtyard with Stellae-tallest is 30 meters high
Bringing the local history to life, Carolina whose English was perfect (she'd lived in Los Angeles for three years before returning home) described as we walked through the acropli, temples and ball courts that there had been two Mayan cities in the region--Quirigua and the wealthy city of Copan--and how one of the kings called Cauac Sky captured and sacrificed 18 Rabbit, the king of Copan, freeing Quirigua of its vassal city/state status and giving rise to the Sky dynasty. (Nothing like a bit of intrigue and kingly skulduggery to keep the tourists chomping at the bit and wanting more.)
One of the Zoomorphs, a type of ancient Mayan monument unique to this city state
Cauac Sky build a new palace for himself over the sacrificed king's body (his decapitated body was the only one ever found at the ruins to date during excavations that are ongoing; it astonishes researchers that they have not found the remains of any citizens).
Close up of stella depicting Couac Sky
As an aside, in ancient Mayan culture, only the best was offered the gods. Thus, it was the winning ball player who was sacrificed immediately after the game, not the loser as previously thought. The players wanted to win and be sacrificed (by decapitation in front of the spectators) and it was an immense honor for the player and his family.
All in all, I was transported and left the ruins pondering how a civilization so sophisticated (their knowledge of astronomy and mathematics was superior to ours and their calendar is more accurate than the one we use today) could disappear so rapidly--contrary to belief, it wasn't all to do with the arrival of the Spanish--and leave the modern-day Maya as simple and unsophisticated as the people they'd once been before the rise of their ancient ancestors. (As an aside, the Mayan calendar ends on August 12, 2012, where it is said a great event will unfold.)
On the way back on the bus, as I passed the wooden shacks where the Maya--who're a very friendly and proud people--now live, my thoughts returned momentarily to Ireland and the similarities the countries share, how throughout Ireland, for example, there are now copious ruins of former peasant homes where families were reared. The Maya today are socially and politically where the native Irish were over a hundred or more years ago. Where the Irish were powerless and lived in stone hovels with no running water or electricity then, the Maya today are similarly powerless and live in tiny wooden huts with zinc roofs, the woman spinning and creating magnificent blankets and clothing, their animals and fowl bleating and clucking in the nearby earth. And I hope, like the Irish have now achieved, that one day the Maya can rise and be allowed to become full and equal participants in the countries of their birth and that discrimination against them will end. They have a noble ancestry that we, for all our sophistication, cannot begin to touch.
Departing Santo Tomas was a heart-warming experience, one of those events that really makes one happy to be alive and healthy and believe in the good of human beings. The Norwegian Sun is the only large cruise ship to dock weekly at their port and, as a show of appreciation and sign of how valuable her presence is to the local economy, the local people arrived en masse to say farewell. As the ship sounded her thunderous horn four or five times to acknowledge the farewell reception (even the crew were watching from the decks and bridge) and began to sail, a group of Pula dancers began to dance, an entire school of Catholic schoolchildren (judging by the uniforms) began to wave and sing and scores of taxis and cars that had assembled for the event began to blare their horns. Seasoned cruise veterans had tears in their eyes and I overheard them saying they'd never encountered the like of this in all the years they'd been traveling. And, right there on the fringe of the dancers, dressed in her navy and yellow jacket, was a widely smiling and waving Carolina...just as she'd promised she would be doing when we bade her farewell dockside twenty minutes before.
Tuesday
Cruising the Caribbean: Part One
It was my first cruise and I lucked out because we had a port-side cabin on the ninth floor with a balcony and the entire trip went smoothly. (Found out the origin of the Brit word POSH--Port Out Starboard Home)
The ship's name was Norwegian Sun, belongs to Norwegian Cruise Lines, and they pride themselves in being different in the cruise line market in that they offer a concept called Freestyle Cruising. What this translates to is that, instead of being placed at one of the two de rigueur daily lunch and dinner sittings at the same table with the same people--which can be awkward if they're just not your type of people and/or Southern bible thumpers and/or homophobes--throughout the cruise as is typical of other cruise lines, NCL permits its guests to dine wherever and whenever they please. They have a number of restaurants that are free--except for the vino and other alcoholic sundries of course--and a number of 'specialty' restaurants that include French, Italian, Sushi and a steakhouse. We were traveling with Bob and Adrian, the friends we'd stayed with in New Orleans, and ate twice in the French Restaurant--excellent--once in the Steakhouse--average--and once in the Italian, which was good but not very Italian and the area was rather cramped in my judgment. The rest of the time we dine in the 'free' restaurants, which were pretty good. One problem was that NCL have a really good concept in Freestyle Cruising, but at an additional charge of $20.00 per head, they should vary the menus throughout the cruise. Also, I think they're being a wee bit greedy and should charge $10.00 a head for dining in these 'specialty' restaurants--an opinion borne out by the fact that I noticed the vast majority of the passengers used the 'free' restaurants.
Only on our second night did we encounter any overt curiosity and hostility toward the fact we were four men dining together--there were many other sightings of exclusively male or female clutches--when a most rude (and potato-faced) woman with tight hair perm kept peering at us from the security of her adjacent table where she was ensconced with her husband and another couple. My blood began to boil because she watched our every sip and bite so that I had the weirdest feeling I knew exactly how the highly intelligent, cognizant mountain gorillas must feel at the Washington DC zoo.
At some point during our main course, she leaned over and said, "Four generations! Are you gentlemen four generations?"
Her question was idiotic as Bob and Adrian look the same age.
"No," Bob said.
"Fathers and sons on a vacation?"
"No."
A pregnant pause as the rusty cogs in her mind continued to turn.
"Related, then?"
"No."
"Oh."
She pursed her lips so that deep furrows appeared above her upper lip.
I'm always amenable to chatting with new people, but I could see her disdain and the stony looks from the others.
"Well, if you're done," I said, "I'm sure you'll extend the courtesy and allow us to grill you about your background. Where are you from?"
Larry peered at me and chuckled.
It took a while for the four of them to grasp my rebuke. Uneasy laughter emitted from the woman's husband, then from the other woman whose nose reminded me of the Concorde's as it used to appear on landing.
"We're plain folks from Idaho," the woman's husband said. She kept her eyes fixed on her dinner plate, which I noticed contained the shell of a lobster tail (It was lobster evening on-board) and uneaten asparagus.
Bob (being the gentleman he is) wished to alleviate there discomfort and tendered he and Adrian were from New Orleans and the conversation moved quickly to the safe topic of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she'd brought. Just then, the waiter arrived with the woman's second entree which was Beef Wellington loaded atop mashed potatoes and accompanied with more asparagus--after all, it was one of the free restaurants and they were just plain-eatin' Idaho folk--and all conversation thankfully ended as her dinner guests turned to admire its presentation.
Our presence elicited the opposite response--it must be admitted--every time we dined at the French restaurant where the urbane maitre'd (a married Turkish man of about fifty who was also responsible for the breakfasts at the restaurant where we went and where I went to town on the deliciously creamy muesli) and the waiters and waitresses (European or Filipino) lavished attention on us that was not superficial and caused the other diners to look quizzically and wonder if we were perhaps celebrities they'd never heard of. I say it wasn't superficial because tips were not given to the staff as the cruise line deducted $10.00 per day from each guest that was then put in a pool to be divided by all the staff and non-officers after the cruise ended.
In any event, I realized loaded cruise ships are but microcosms of general society. One encounters those rigidly determined to embrace their ignorance and prejudice even while at sea and one encounters those who are enlightened and pleasant no matter where they are. The experience did make me consider if I'd have thrown an orange lifeline to Ms. Idaho if I'd noticed her falling overboard (we had two rough-ish nights) and then alert the Captain with the words 'Man overboard' as protocol required or would I have let the ship slide on, safe in the knowledge that the sharks would take care of their own. I decided finally that my question was academic because she and her companions would not have spent the extra dollars to upgrade to a cabin with a tiny balcony anyway.
The ship's name was Norwegian Sun, belongs to Norwegian Cruise Lines, and they pride themselves in being different in the cruise line market in that they offer a concept called Freestyle Cruising. What this translates to is that, instead of being placed at one of the two de rigueur daily lunch and dinner sittings at the same table with the same people--which can be awkward if they're just not your type of people and/or Southern bible thumpers and/or homophobes--throughout the cruise as is typical of other cruise lines, NCL permits its guests to dine wherever and whenever they please. They have a number of restaurants that are free--except for the vino and other alcoholic sundries of course--and a number of 'specialty' restaurants that include French, Italian, Sushi and a steakhouse. We were traveling with Bob and Adrian, the friends we'd stayed with in New Orleans, and ate twice in the French Restaurant--excellent--once in the Steakhouse--average--and once in the Italian, which was good but not very Italian and the area was rather cramped in my judgment. The rest of the time we dine in the 'free' restaurants, which were pretty good. One problem was that NCL have a really good concept in Freestyle Cruising, but at an additional charge of $20.00 per head, they should vary the menus throughout the cruise. Also, I think they're being a wee bit greedy and should charge $10.00 a head for dining in these 'specialty' restaurants--an opinion borne out by the fact that I noticed the vast majority of the passengers used the 'free' restaurants.
Only on our second night did we encounter any overt curiosity and hostility toward the fact we were four men dining together--there were many other sightings of exclusively male or female clutches--when a most rude (and potato-faced) woman with tight hair perm kept peering at us from the security of her adjacent table where she was ensconced with her husband and another couple. My blood began to boil because she watched our every sip and bite so that I had the weirdest feeling I knew exactly how the highly intelligent, cognizant mountain gorillas must feel at the Washington DC zoo.
At some point during our main course, she leaned over and said, "Four generations! Are you gentlemen four generations?"
Her question was idiotic as Bob and Adrian look the same age.
"No," Bob said.
"Fathers and sons on a vacation?"
"No."
A pregnant pause as the rusty cogs in her mind continued to turn.
"Related, then?"
"No."
"Oh."
She pursed her lips so that deep furrows appeared above her upper lip.
I'm always amenable to chatting with new people, but I could see her disdain and the stony looks from the others.
"Well, if you're done," I said, "I'm sure you'll extend the courtesy and allow us to grill you about your background. Where are you from?"
Larry peered at me and chuckled.
It took a while for the four of them to grasp my rebuke. Uneasy laughter emitted from the woman's husband, then from the other woman whose nose reminded me of the Concorde's as it used to appear on landing.
"We're plain folks from Idaho," the woman's husband said. She kept her eyes fixed on her dinner plate, which I noticed contained the shell of a lobster tail (It was lobster evening on-board) and uneaten asparagus.
Bob (being the gentleman he is) wished to alleviate there discomfort and tendered he and Adrian were from New Orleans and the conversation moved quickly to the safe topic of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she'd brought. Just then, the waiter arrived with the woman's second entree which was Beef Wellington loaded atop mashed potatoes and accompanied with more asparagus--after all, it was one of the free restaurants and they were just plain-eatin' Idaho folk--and all conversation thankfully ended as her dinner guests turned to admire its presentation.
Our presence elicited the opposite response--it must be admitted--every time we dined at the French restaurant where the urbane maitre'd (a married Turkish man of about fifty who was also responsible for the breakfasts at the restaurant where we went and where I went to town on the deliciously creamy muesli) and the waiters and waitresses (European or Filipino) lavished attention on us that was not superficial and caused the other diners to look quizzically and wonder if we were perhaps celebrities they'd never heard of. I say it wasn't superficial because tips were not given to the staff as the cruise line deducted $10.00 per day from each guest that was then put in a pool to be divided by all the staff and non-officers after the cruise ended.
In any event, I realized loaded cruise ships are but microcosms of general society. One encounters those rigidly determined to embrace their ignorance and prejudice even while at sea and one encounters those who are enlightened and pleasant no matter where they are. The experience did make me consider if I'd have thrown an orange lifeline to Ms. Idaho if I'd noticed her falling overboard (we had two rough-ish nights) and then alert the Captain with the words 'Man overboard' as protocol required or would I have let the ship slide on, safe in the knowledge that the sharks would take care of their own. I decided finally that my question was academic because she and her companions would not have spent the extra dollars to upgrade to a cabin with a tiny balcony anyway.
Friday
Miss Julip pays her fine
Overheard between two ladies as I waited in line at the main post office in New Orleans while waiting to mail a birthday card to my Mum in Northern Ireland. I think it's so cute the way Southerners are still so formal, regardless as to race or class or how long they know each other.
Miss J: "Howdy Miss Nelson, I not seen you for long time. A long time."
Miss N (older): "I've been busy working Miss Julip."
Miss J: "I thought you be retired."
Miss N: "I be in two years Miss Julip. Two years more."
Miss J: "Me not ready to retire yet. No sir." At this point, Miss Julip starts trying to stuff what appears to be a summons into a lurid orange official envelope. "Lordie, this thing don't want to go inside."
Miss N: She runs her eye over the envelope, then at me. She laughs. "Maybe that a sign, Miss Julip."
Miss Julip: She laughs, too. "Lordie, I don' pay, they come after me and my wheels, Miss Nelson. Lordie, I not know what to do without my wheels."
Miss N. "Hmm mmm. I hear you. Hmm mmm. Lordie, transport in this town..." She looks over at a woman writing on a package and shakes her head sagely. "It's bad, very bad."
The line moves forward. "Miss Julip: "Well, I 'spect I be seeing you soon, Miss Nelson."
Miss N: "I 'spect so. You take care now hear."
More tales from The Big Easy and my cruise to follow
Miss J: "Howdy Miss Nelson, I not seen you for long time. A long time."
Miss N (older): "I've been busy working Miss Julip."
Miss J: "I thought you be retired."
Miss N: "I be in two years Miss Julip. Two years more."
Miss J: "Me not ready to retire yet. No sir." At this point, Miss Julip starts trying to stuff what appears to be a summons into a lurid orange official envelope. "Lordie, this thing don't want to go inside."
Miss N: She runs her eye over the envelope, then at me. She laughs. "Maybe that a sign, Miss Julip."
Miss Julip: She laughs, too. "Lordie, I don' pay, they come after me and my wheels, Miss Nelson. Lordie, I not know what to do without my wheels."
Miss N. "Hmm mmm. I hear you. Hmm mmm. Lordie, transport in this town..." She looks over at a woman writing on a package and shakes her head sagely. "It's bad, very bad."
The line moves forward. "Miss Julip: "Well, I 'spect I be seeing you soon, Miss Nelson."
Miss N: "I 'spect so. You take care now hear."
More tales from The Big Easy and my cruise to follow
Monday
Grabbing those beads
Greetings from the heart of New Orleans a.k.a The Big Easy.
Larry and I arrived on Friday night to spend Mardi Gras with our friends Bob and Adrian who moved from The French Quarter just after Katrina and now have a condo on St. Charles Avenue, right on the parade route of many of the krewes including the biggies, Bacchus, Endymion, Rex, Zulu and the krewe started by New Orlean's native son, Harry Connick, Jr.
It's been a lot of fun watching the parades and I've caught mucho, mucho beads and mugs and trinkets, as well as having also a few celebs including James Gandolfini who plays Tony Soprano in The Sopranos, some pop band called Styx whom I'd never heard of until Saturday night when they passed by on a float, and American Idol's most recent product, Taylor Hicks. In fact, Taylor threw down a particularly attractive set of beads as he passed by, which I caught. They're definite keepers, though not because they came from the hands of Mr. Hicks.
Last night after the Bacchus parade, we went to friends Bob and Jan who preparad a most delicious New Orleans drink called Saccaran's (I think that's the spelling) which consisted of a blend of whiskey, Pernod, bitters and a bit of sugar.
More parades are scheduled tonight and all festivities culminate tomorrow which is Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday) in the last two events from the krewes known as Zulu and Rex. In the old days when the Catholic Church ruled supreme, these two parades ended all partying as Lent began. But nowadays, people head for the French Quarter for more revelry and fun, which is exactly what we'll be doing.
Bob (Jan's husband) is taking us on a tour of the devastated areas THAT HAVE NOT YET BEEN REPAIRED--a huge scandal in itself in my opinion--on Wednesday, which will be very sobering. I'll take some photos ande post them at some point on my return to Pennsylvania.
Larry and I arrived on Friday night to spend Mardi Gras with our friends Bob and Adrian who moved from The French Quarter just after Katrina and now have a condo on St. Charles Avenue, right on the parade route of many of the krewes including the biggies, Bacchus, Endymion, Rex, Zulu and the krewe started by New Orlean's native son, Harry Connick, Jr.
It's been a lot of fun watching the parades and I've caught mucho, mucho beads and mugs and trinkets, as well as having also a few celebs including James Gandolfini who plays Tony Soprano in The Sopranos, some pop band called Styx whom I'd never heard of until Saturday night when they passed by on a float, and American Idol's most recent product, Taylor Hicks. In fact, Taylor threw down a particularly attractive set of beads as he passed by, which I caught. They're definite keepers, though not because they came from the hands of Mr. Hicks.
Last night after the Bacchus parade, we went to friends Bob and Jan who preparad a most delicious New Orleans drink called Saccaran's (I think that's the spelling) which consisted of a blend of whiskey, Pernod, bitters and a bit of sugar.
More parades are scheduled tonight and all festivities culminate tomorrow which is Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday) in the last two events from the krewes known as Zulu and Rex. In the old days when the Catholic Church ruled supreme, these two parades ended all partying as Lent began. But nowadays, people head for the French Quarter for more revelry and fun, which is exactly what we'll be doing.
Bob (Jan's husband) is taking us on a tour of the devastated areas THAT HAVE NOT YET BEEN REPAIRED--a huge scandal in itself in my opinion--on Wednesday, which will be very sobering. I'll take some photos ande post them at some point on my return to Pennsylvania.
An inconvenient truth
This weekend I decided to watch Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth which is nominated for an academy award in the best documentary category.
All I can say is I was astounded. It's presented in the form of a college lecture--he's currently going about the country giving lectures about global warming and at one point says he's given about a thousand of the lectures--and he skillfully interweaves the huge threat to our environment with the relevant science which he explains in a manner that everyone can understand.
One concept he explains relates to the hitherto unknown levels of carbon dioxide found in the atmosphere today which prevent the sun's heat from leaving our atmosphere and thus contributes to global warming and changing weather patterns. Scientist have been able to go back hundreds of thousands of years by analyzing ancient ice cores, back though four ice ages, and have discovered we now have levels of carbon dioxide that are already twice as high as has ever been found on earth before. Gore illustrates how these unprecedented concentrations of carbon dioxide will continue to rise if left unchecked by climbing aboard a lift device used to raise studio lights and cameramen in film studios and having it rise in sync with an adjacent graph delineating the increase in carbon dioxide levels. It rises and rises until Gore is looking down at us as if from a mountain.
He also employs the canary in the coal mine analogy in two instances. One of the canaries is Greenland which is covered in a huge sheet of ice and is one of two ice sheets that work to keep temperature and climate regulated throughout the world. Greenland is melting at an astonishing and frightening rate. Should it melt completely, the world's oceans and seas will rise to such an extent that 60 million human beings will be displaced, including people in California, Manhattan, Europe (Holland will be totally under water) China and India. The list goes on and on. Displacing 60 million people can lead to a lot of global unrest it also should not be forgotten.
The depth of Gore's passion for this cause is illustrated by the comparison to the love he has for his son who almost died in a dreadful road accident. He states he could not imagine losing his son and the viewer can easily extrapolate and see he cannot imagine that we would lose this battle to save our environment. At times throughout the video, Gore's voice cracks with genuine emotion for the cause and only but the most resolutely determined to deny the truth he is telling will fail to be moved. He ends the piece with a warning that we must act now to save the planet and the United States must play a leading role because we are the largest economy and largest polluter, with Europe and China running a distant second and third respectively. It is disgraceful that this great nation has not ratified the Kyoto Agreement. It is clear each of us are personally responsible for the wellbeing of the world's environment and must adjust our activities to stop contributing to global warming. It is not by coincidence that foreign car manufacturers like Toyota are gaining market share at the expense of American car manufacturers who still insist on producing gas-guzzling SUVs' and are only half-heartedly investing in alternative fuel technologies. And it is a disgrace that Ford, GM and Chrysler cannot export vehicles manufactured in the States to China because they do not have products that meet China's more stringent anti-pollution standards. Yes, China has more stringent emission requirements than the United States. If this is not an indictment of our uncaring attitudes and destructive arrogance, what is?
Gore states we can change our fate but the window is closing. We took action and repaired the hole in our ozone layer. As Gore says there can be corporate profits and proper custodianship of the environment. We must stop buying into the nefarious propaganda of corporations who pay lobbyists to find scientists and offer them large sums of money to propitiate the lie that there is no link between man's industrial activities and global warming, etc. The debate is now over. 99% of the scientific community recognize the insidious link. It's time to end our indifference and stop the ridiculous hand-wringing and wailing "but what can I do?" as we drive around in these SUVs and crank up our air-conditioners during the summer and heat in the winter. It's time to think about holding the industries that damage the environment legally responsible and force them to make the necessary changes so future generations can enjoy a good, healthy and stable world.
Regardless of one's political party affiliation, we should all be immensely grateful to have a man like Al Gore trying to stir our indifferent consciences and stop global warming .
All I can say is I was astounded. It's presented in the form of a college lecture--he's currently going about the country giving lectures about global warming and at one point says he's given about a thousand of the lectures--and he skillfully interweaves the huge threat to our environment with the relevant science which he explains in a manner that everyone can understand.
One concept he explains relates to the hitherto unknown levels of carbon dioxide found in the atmosphere today which prevent the sun's heat from leaving our atmosphere and thus contributes to global warming and changing weather patterns. Scientist have been able to go back hundreds of thousands of years by analyzing ancient ice cores, back though four ice ages, and have discovered we now have levels of carbon dioxide that are already twice as high as has ever been found on earth before. Gore illustrates how these unprecedented concentrations of carbon dioxide will continue to rise if left unchecked by climbing aboard a lift device used to raise studio lights and cameramen in film studios and having it rise in sync with an adjacent graph delineating the increase in carbon dioxide levels. It rises and rises until Gore is looking down at us as if from a mountain.
He also employs the canary in the coal mine analogy in two instances. One of the canaries is Greenland which is covered in a huge sheet of ice and is one of two ice sheets that work to keep temperature and climate regulated throughout the world. Greenland is melting at an astonishing and frightening rate. Should it melt completely, the world's oceans and seas will rise to such an extent that 60 million human beings will be displaced, including people in California, Manhattan, Europe (Holland will be totally under water) China and India. The list goes on and on. Displacing 60 million people can lead to a lot of global unrest it also should not be forgotten.
The depth of Gore's passion for this cause is illustrated by the comparison to the love he has for his son who almost died in a dreadful road accident. He states he could not imagine losing his son and the viewer can easily extrapolate and see he cannot imagine that we would lose this battle to save our environment. At times throughout the video, Gore's voice cracks with genuine emotion for the cause and only but the most resolutely determined to deny the truth he is telling will fail to be moved. He ends the piece with a warning that we must act now to save the planet and the United States must play a leading role because we are the largest economy and largest polluter, with Europe and China running a distant second and third respectively. It is disgraceful that this great nation has not ratified the Kyoto Agreement. It is clear each of us are personally responsible for the wellbeing of the world's environment and must adjust our activities to stop contributing to global warming. It is not by coincidence that foreign car manufacturers like Toyota are gaining market share at the expense of American car manufacturers who still insist on producing gas-guzzling SUVs' and are only half-heartedly investing in alternative fuel technologies. And it is a disgrace that Ford, GM and Chrysler cannot export vehicles manufactured in the States to China because they do not have products that meet China's more stringent anti-pollution standards. Yes, China has more stringent emission requirements than the United States. If this is not an indictment of our uncaring attitudes and destructive arrogance, what is?
Gore states we can change our fate but the window is closing. We took action and repaired the hole in our ozone layer. As Gore says there can be corporate profits and proper custodianship of the environment. We must stop buying into the nefarious propaganda of corporations who pay lobbyists to find scientists and offer them large sums of money to propitiate the lie that there is no link between man's industrial activities and global warming, etc. The debate is now over. 99% of the scientific community recognize the insidious link. It's time to end our indifference and stop the ridiculous hand-wringing and wailing "but what can I do?" as we drive around in these SUVs and crank up our air-conditioners during the summer and heat in the winter. It's time to think about holding the industries that damage the environment legally responsible and force them to make the necessary changes so future generations can enjoy a good, healthy and stable world.
Regardless of one's political party affiliation, we should all be immensely grateful to have a man like Al Gore trying to stir our indifferent consciences and stop global warming .
Wednesday
A blog carnival
Why don't you consider heading over to Bridlepath, a horse lovers blog, because they've got their blog carnival and have some brilliant posts celebrating the great Barbaro--including a link to the blog I wrote about him.
Here's the link to Bridlepath
Here's the link to Bridlepath
Monday
Tetley to the rescue
Further to my last post, Jessica from TetleyUSA left a message on my blog offering to help me out with the dilemma of my vanishing tea stock. (Who would have thought I had readers at Tetley?) She said she'd love to send me some of their British blend tea to try.
After giving her an address to send the tea, I thought no more about it. This afternoon I went out to do some errands and on my return there was a box waiting for me outside the garage door.
"I'm not expecting a package," I said to Larry. "Are you?"
"No."
Though we're going away in a few weeks to New Orleans and then taking a one week cruise, it seemed far too large a package to come from the cruise line if they were sending us unexpected information about the trip.
I went to it and saw it was from DHL and it was for moi. Then I saw the sender was TetleyUSA.
Wow, she sent it by courier, I thought. Highflying VIP teabags! It made me think of the ad on telly where the United States Postal Service Priority Package on top of the reception desk chats to the lowly plant in the foyer, telling it in a snobby tone that she's a very important legal document and has no time to talk because she's waiting for the postman to come and collect her because she has to be at court at a certain time--theme being the postal service comes to you. I rushed inside and tore open the package. Inside was a Tetley gift bag containing a box of British Blend tea, a small canister of English Breakfast tea AND a new blue tea mug.
Moreover, the lady had written me a note in which she expressed a hope that I'd enjoy the tea and gave a brief history of Tetley, which is an English tea company (a fact I knew) and that teas from 30 different countries are purchased at auction and blended in England by trained tea masters (facts I did not.)
So I'm now sitting waiting fro the kettle to boil to make a cuppa of the British Blend. I chose this one because she stated in the note it would taste the same as the tea I've been carting over from teh UK through the years. This nugget of info I decided to treat with a bit of Irish skepticism while waiting for the kettle to boil.
Pause while I tend to the tea things, fetch a chocolate chip cookie (not usually on the menu, but a treat today given the specialness of the occasion) and drink my tea--not from the new mug. I must confess to being a trifle nervous because I intend to be honest in my assessment and suspect Jessica (if she reads this) will consider me an ungrateful tea whore if I cannot praise the gift.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is true that a watched kettle refuses, simply refuses to boil.
Anticipation and nerves continue to dual. To assuage the latter, I decided to perform a sniff test of the British Blend teabags and my last two bags of the UK tea. Both have the same aroma so things look good. The same Tea Master blender, perhaps?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tea's over. It tasted excellent. While it was not the exact same flavor as the tea I'd brought over from the UK, it has the same strong body and pleasing flavor. Because the tea sold here is made by the same Tetley tea masters in the UK, I wondered why there would be a difference. Then it dawned on me. This tea was fresh out of the packet and mine--purchased seven months ago--is older and has mellowed. In any event, I can now buy my Tetley tea here. But I'll also buy some when I'm visiting over on the other side because...well, it's fun to bring something from home. It's feels like you're bringing a piece of home back to your other home. Maybe that also accounts for a bit of the difference in flavor, too.
After giving her an address to send the tea, I thought no more about it. This afternoon I went out to do some errands and on my return there was a box waiting for me outside the garage door.
"I'm not expecting a package," I said to Larry. "Are you?"
"No."
Though we're going away in a few weeks to New Orleans and then taking a one week cruise, it seemed far too large a package to come from the cruise line if they were sending us unexpected information about the trip.
I went to it and saw it was from DHL and it was for moi. Then I saw the sender was TetleyUSA.
Wow, she sent it by courier, I thought. Highflying VIP teabags! It made me think of the ad on telly where the United States Postal Service Priority Package on top of the reception desk chats to the lowly plant in the foyer, telling it in a snobby tone that she's a very important legal document and has no time to talk because she's waiting for the postman to come and collect her because she has to be at court at a certain time--theme being the postal service comes to you. I rushed inside and tore open the package. Inside was a Tetley gift bag containing a box of British Blend tea, a small canister of English Breakfast tea AND a new blue tea mug.
Moreover, the lady had written me a note in which she expressed a hope that I'd enjoy the tea and gave a brief history of Tetley, which is an English tea company (a fact I knew) and that teas from 30 different countries are purchased at auction and blended in England by trained tea masters (facts I did not.)
So I'm now sitting waiting fro the kettle to boil to make a cuppa of the British Blend. I chose this one because she stated in the note it would taste the same as the tea I've been carting over from teh UK through the years. This nugget of info I decided to treat with a bit of Irish skepticism while waiting for the kettle to boil.
Pause while I tend to the tea things, fetch a chocolate chip cookie (not usually on the menu, but a treat today given the specialness of the occasion) and drink my tea--not from the new mug. I must confess to being a trifle nervous because I intend to be honest in my assessment and suspect Jessica (if she reads this) will consider me an ungrateful tea whore if I cannot praise the gift.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is true that a watched kettle refuses, simply refuses to boil.
Anticipation and nerves continue to dual. To assuage the latter, I decided to perform a sniff test of the British Blend teabags and my last two bags of the UK tea. Both have the same aroma so things look good. The same Tea Master blender, perhaps?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tea's over. It tasted excellent. While it was not the exact same flavor as the tea I'd brought over from the UK, it has the same strong body and pleasing flavor. Because the tea sold here is made by the same Tetley tea masters in the UK, I wondered why there would be a difference. Then it dawned on me. This tea was fresh out of the packet and mine--purchased seven months ago--is older and has mellowed. In any event, I can now buy my Tetley tea here. But I'll also buy some when I'm visiting over on the other side because...well, it's fun to bring something from home. It's feels like you're bringing a piece of home back to your other home. Maybe that also accounts for a bit of the difference in flavor, too.
Thursday
A spot of rationing
In the afternoons, I like to brew a cup of tea and have it with a biscuit--that's a cookie here, not one of those God-awful doughy things called biscuits that looks like an English tea scone (though not in taste) which one can buy together with a bucket of fried chicken at KFC and other places and is regarded as a deliciously Southern thing. I hate Grits and I hate Southern biscuits.
Coffee is my preferred beverage in the morning--not the weak American blends that are flogged by Maxwell House and Folgers--good strong blends like Pilon, which is Puerto Rican and tastes rather like Italian coffee. I've even been known to mix the Pilon with the mass-marketed stuff to improve it.
I am just as fussy about my tea. It must be a British blend, something like English breakfast or the more smokey tasting Irish breakfast blend. But my fussiness does not end there. The tea must actually come from Britain or Ireland. I cannot abide what masquerades as tea on the supermarket shelves in the United States. No matter how long it's brewed, it never seems to break through the 'dishwater' barrier. It looks sickly no matter how pretty the teacup it's in. It's flavorless on a bad day, tinny on a good. That the tea over here is not good is quite understandable because Americans are not a tea-drinking nation--though Larry has informed me that coffee was once offered as a freebie to American housewives who bought a packet of tea.
This afternoon I noticed my 'tea tin' in the cupboard contained only two more bags and so I went into the pantry to retrieve more from the Tetley 'self-closing' packet (the glue on the red tab device is poorly designed and so it doesn't close as stated) I'd brought back from Northern Ireland. There were only ten left. A chill ran through my heart.
This weekend when I speak to Mum I'll have to ask her to send me over a care package chop-chop. Also must remember to tell her to write 'professional sample' or 'book' on the package or I'll get stuck with ridiculous import charges, which will spoil enjoyment of exported tea because I will remember as I indulge. The other alternative, of course, is to go to one of those pseudo Brit shops they have over here where they sell things like sausages, bacon, steak and kidney pie, pork pie, Cornish pasties, shortbread, Hartley's jams, lemon curd and Digestive biscuits, most of which are in various stages of fossilization or moldy as a good Stilton because no self-respecting ex-pat is going to fork out eight dollars for a jar of marmalade or packet of McVities biscuits that they can get for a quid over there.
Oh, what to do...what to do. Must go. Kettle's boiling.
Coffee is my preferred beverage in the morning--not the weak American blends that are flogged by Maxwell House and Folgers--good strong blends like Pilon, which is Puerto Rican and tastes rather like Italian coffee. I've even been known to mix the Pilon with the mass-marketed stuff to improve it.
I am just as fussy about my tea. It must be a British blend, something like English breakfast or the more smokey tasting Irish breakfast blend. But my fussiness does not end there. The tea must actually come from Britain or Ireland. I cannot abide what masquerades as tea on the supermarket shelves in the United States. No matter how long it's brewed, it never seems to break through the 'dishwater' barrier. It looks sickly no matter how pretty the teacup it's in. It's flavorless on a bad day, tinny on a good. That the tea over here is not good is quite understandable because Americans are not a tea-drinking nation--though Larry has informed me that coffee was once offered as a freebie to American housewives who bought a packet of tea.
This afternoon I noticed my 'tea tin' in the cupboard contained only two more bags and so I went into the pantry to retrieve more from the Tetley 'self-closing' packet (the glue on the red tab device is poorly designed and so it doesn't close as stated) I'd brought back from Northern Ireland. There were only ten left. A chill ran through my heart.
This weekend when I speak to Mum I'll have to ask her to send me over a care package chop-chop. Also must remember to tell her to write 'professional sample' or 'book' on the package or I'll get stuck with ridiculous import charges, which will spoil enjoyment of exported tea because I will remember as I indulge. The other alternative, of course, is to go to one of those pseudo Brit shops they have over here where they sell things like sausages, bacon, steak and kidney pie, pork pie, Cornish pasties, shortbread, Hartley's jams, lemon curd and Digestive biscuits, most of which are in various stages of fossilization or moldy as a good Stilton because no self-respecting ex-pat is going to fork out eight dollars for a jar of marmalade or packet of McVities biscuits that they can get for a quid over there.
Oh, what to do...what to do. Must go. Kettle's boiling.
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