Thursday, March 29, 2007
I particularly like the little pilot's pistol holster. I can't read German, does the caption read "Off to Rotterdam?"
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The old pro still got a good review-
Yes, she is, in November. Some people ARE fit heirs to their ancestors.
Friday, March 23, 2007
I came home unexpectedly, to find the job being short cut. I remonstrated, and the roofer boss was surly but ended up doing the job right.
When I came home the next day to pay him and his crew off. I noticed that my recently filled 5 gallon gasoline can was not in its correct place on the porch. After I paid him, he drove away in his shiny new looking pickup truck. And when he had cleared the driveway, I saw the gasoline can sitting beside where the truck had been parked.
Yes, only about a half gallon left. He'd obviouslt poured 4 1/2 gallons into his truck.
Although the can says gasoline, I had just filled it with DIESEL FUEL.
I love it when the crime choice process fails dramatically.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Now, the American Heritage primary definition of "disingenuous" is "Not straightforward or candid; insincere or calculating".
So, he's saying that Mrs. Clinton is not straightforward or candid; that she is insincere or calculating, and that she is a great public servant whom he'd support in running for President.
"I like MY liar" is an awful thing to think, that honesty is a lower priority than ideology. Before everybody screams "Bush lies", actually read what I'm writing here.
Honesty SHOULD be a highly valued thing in a republic's officers. Probably the MOST highly valued. In our polity it's become essentially irrelevant.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
I am remembering a time a couple of years back in England.
I was at Greenwich, which is one of my very favorite places. One of the loveliest works of man, it's so gorgeous and peaceful, a fantastic beautiful work of art to experience. Built to house pensioned sailors, then (after Nelson and Jervis' veterans died off) the Royal Naval College, now it is Trinity College of Music.
I was walking in the courtyard between two of the wings, each 3 stories tall and made of stone. These were the dormitory rooms for the hospital's pensioners, and so they had big windows for light and air. Inside the wings, where I was, the walls are flat so the passer by is in a huge rectangular solid.
This is one of those places, for me, that stores up its memory in itself, in the stones and glass. You can almost see the old tars sitting about, missing bits torn off by shot or sheet or shark, bowed by ten thousand night watches in storm and ice. Spitting tobacco, drinking their beer and dressing each other's queues.
Funny to think that these spaces once echoed to first person yarns of destroying the Armada, circling the globe with Drake or Cook or Anson, shipwreck, rescuing slaves, mapping the earth, and all the other perils and triumphs of the Royal Navy since 1550 or so.
Anyway, it was a warm autumn day, and all the windows were open. From each window came the sound of a beautifully played instrument or an amazing singing voice. Each different, each playing a different melody. Each student was practicing (as he or she thought) alone. But for their secret auditor, it was like being in a giant reverberating stone box of joy, roofed with a bluer than possible sky.
The world can hold such unexpected brilliance.