Hello, there should be more advice about dealing with depression when you're stupid and worthless, so here is a self help exercise.
Today's assignment is simple. Just go out and get on the bus.
It doesn't matter which bus. Whichever bus comes next. Get on, and just go. You could ride that bus to the very end, thank the driver, and then walk into the woods and just die. Just lay down right there and wait and wait until you were dead. Who is going to miss you?
Really, think about it. If you went out to the middle of nowhere and just sat down in a ditch and cried by yourself until you were dead, who would be the first person to wonder where you'd gone?
Call them up! Maybe they want to get ice cream.
And I have just been informed that today is free cone day at Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream!
Showing posts with label Quirky does not begin to describe this blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quirky does not begin to describe this blog. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Mistresses and Skin Deep...
In a conversation the other day in which the subject of how people denigrate those who trade on their looks came up, and the phrase "beauty is only skin deep" was used.
Now to start with, that disregards bone structure, muscle mass, and grace of carriage.
But there's nothing wrong with skin deep sometimes:
A few years after my father died, his best friend told me a story. Father, at this time approaching 40 (and unbeknownst to himself sudden death) , was visiting Friend in another State. Father was of course married to Mother, who was like Father and his Friend attractive, clever, and a serious person. Her brilliance and drive fit poorly with the life choices she made, and she was difficult.
Accompanying Father was a girl, about 22, who struck Friend as being dim though gorgeous. At some point, Friend taxed Father about this.
"Staghounds Sr., I know she's pretty and all that. But she's ignorant and stupid with it. What on earth do you talk about?"
"Friend, you are right. She doesn't know nothin' about nothin'. And some weekends, that's exactly what you want."
And sometimes it's not just skin deep, either:
I once knew a professional Mistress well enough to talk to. Her paramour hunted, and she and I became friendly. She was also gorgeous, poorly educated, pretty ignorant about things in newspapers, and just as nice as could be. Once she talked about her choices with me. At the time she was about 27.
"Look, I flunked Algebra. I know I'm no genius. What am I going to work my way up to, assistant manager at MacDonalds?
When I go back home at Christmas, all my friends b!tch about their lives. They live in trailers. Their husbands hit them, cheat, or have just run off. They have squalling babies, they are fat, they have never been any farther than Florida. Most of them work, and teller at the bank is the best job they will ever get.
I haven't punched a time clock or paid a bill in three years. I have a nice little house in my own name, and he's making the payments. I've been to Paris and Rome and New York and Hawaii. I have $15,000 because I never quite spend everything he gives me for clothes and jewelry. It's in good investments because I listen when he talks to his friends about that stuff. I'm having this pleasant conversation with you on a Thursday morning in Somerset, England, watching a crack pack of hounds.
He treats me good, doesn't cuss or hit me, and we both know that when he gets tired of me he will set me up in a job I can do. I'm not smart, but I'm smart enough not to sell what I have cheap."
No one gives Michael Jordan, Lance Armstrong, or any random construction worker grief because they use the physical part of their DNA to make a living.
Just a strange paradox.
Now to start with, that disregards bone structure, muscle mass, and grace of carriage.
But there's nothing wrong with skin deep sometimes:
A few years after my father died, his best friend told me a story. Father, at this time approaching 40 (and unbeknownst to himself sudden death) , was visiting Friend in another State. Father was of course married to Mother, who was like Father and his Friend attractive, clever, and a serious person. Her brilliance and drive fit poorly with the life choices she made, and she was difficult.
Accompanying Father was a girl, about 22, who struck Friend as being dim though gorgeous. At some point, Friend taxed Father about this.
"Staghounds Sr., I know she's pretty and all that. But she's ignorant and stupid with it. What on earth do you talk about?"
"Friend, you are right. She doesn't know nothin' about nothin'. And some weekends, that's exactly what you want."
And sometimes it's not just skin deep, either:
I once knew a professional Mistress well enough to talk to. Her paramour hunted, and she and I became friendly. She was also gorgeous, poorly educated, pretty ignorant about things in newspapers, and just as nice as could be. Once she talked about her choices with me. At the time she was about 27.
"Look, I flunked Algebra. I know I'm no genius. What am I going to work my way up to, assistant manager at MacDonalds?
When I go back home at Christmas, all my friends b!tch about their lives. They live in trailers. Their husbands hit them, cheat, or have just run off. They have squalling babies, they are fat, they have never been any farther than Florida. Most of them work, and teller at the bank is the best job they will ever get.
I haven't punched a time clock or paid a bill in three years. I have a nice little house in my own name, and he's making the payments. I've been to Paris and Rome and New York and Hawaii. I have $15,000 because I never quite spend everything he gives me for clothes and jewelry. It's in good investments because I listen when he talks to his friends about that stuff. I'm having this pleasant conversation with you on a Thursday morning in Somerset, England, watching a crack pack of hounds.
He treats me good, doesn't cuss or hit me, and we both know that when he gets tired of me he will set me up in a job I can do. I'm not smart, but I'm smart enough not to sell what I have cheap."
No one gives Michael Jordan, Lance Armstrong, or any random construction worker grief because they use the physical part of their DNA to make a living.
Just a strange paradox.
Monday, July 19, 2010
I write like Jack London...
For serious- computer analysis proves it!
And,
(again!)
So where are the checks?
The software is pretty amusing, especially if it hasn't heard of the actual author whose entire story one enters. It thinks James Joyce wrote The Phantom Rickshaw, Edgar Allan Poe is responsible for The Open Window, and that Esmé is an Artur Conan Doyle product.
Whereas it attributes Conan Doyle's Brigadier Gerard stories to Mr. Kipling.
Enjoy
Thursday, July 01, 2010
So, via Ann Coulter, a fun little movie...
Yes, that Ann Coulter. Go figure.
It has just about everything:
Pretty music, and a snappy song.
Bonus behind the scenes look at a holy place.
Two profoundly gorgeous dancers.
Someone than whom I dance better. (A very rare thing indeed)
AND, it looks like everyone connected with it had a good time every minute.
Thank you for making me smile and hum all day!
Next time I'm in London, drinks and dinner for Leanne Hainsby and Shelina Somani.
Hey, I can daydream too.
PS, Joe Stilgoe gets it from his father, here's an earworm for you:
Monday, April 19, 2010
I Hope My Neighbours Like Them Some
Veronicas!
And if that's not eighties enough, there's this.
But the new material is good stuff, particularly this.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Hero Rats! Yes, Rats Saving Lives By Detecting Mines...
For serious. "We watched as the rats ran along wires between two handlers. When they smell a landmine, they stop, sniff the ground and begin to dig. This signal lets the Apopo staff know they have found a mine or some other explosive, which can then be removed.
Rats, according to Apopo, are much faster than men using metal detectors and are not distracted by metal contaminants. They are much cheaper to maintain than dogs and are easily passed between different handlers.
And they can be trained for other sensing tasks, too! "Apopo is already running trials in Tanzania using the rats to detect tuberculosis in the saliva of sick patients.
The rats can process as many samples in a matter of minutes as a lab technician can in a day. The rats have even detected TB in samples that had been missed by conventional tests. "
Warning, video of genius search process using big honkin' rat will disrupt your productivity today:
Here's Apopo's web site.
Rats, according to Apopo, are much faster than men using metal detectors and are not distracted by metal contaminants. They are much cheaper to maintain than dogs and are easily passed between different handlers.
And they can be trained for other sensing tasks, too! "Apopo is already running trials in Tanzania using the rats to detect tuberculosis in the saliva of sick patients.
The rats can process as many samples in a matter of minutes as a lab technician can in a day. The rats have even detected TB in samples that had been missed by conventional tests. "
Warning, video of genius search process using big honkin' rat will disrupt your productivity today:
Here's Apopo's web site.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dramatic Checkout Picture...
No more dog show nonsense, something lovely instead. I thought I'd posted it back when Tam brought up the subject. Here's my nominee for the most dramatic checkout picture ever, Copley's "Death of Major Pierson". Click on the picture for full screen size:
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Who'd Be A Sailor?
From "The Arethusa", by Frederick Chamier:
In such moments there are thoughts which steal over us and win us from ourselves; and those who have braved longest the perils of a sailor's life, feel most exquisitely the glory of the calm night, when the stars are reflected in the vast deep, and when the sea "takes the moods, and wears the colours of her mistress—the sky."
He who first perils his existence on this mighty and immense mass of waters experiences a solemn feeling of awe, of wonder —nay, often-times of fear. And yet, lost in the very magnificence of this image of eternity — this throne of the Invisible, man feels himself a prouder being, in the knowledge that the science of his fellow-creatures has taught him to explore its wondrous depths,—to steer uninjured by rocks or islands through its pathless desert, and to draw a higher and a better notion of the glory and divinity of his Maker by the never-ending wonders which are presented to him.
The poor in pocket and in mind, condemned from youth to age to toil, perhaps in the darkness of a mine, excavating the ore, and returning when oppressed with fatigue to the shed which serves him for shelter ; the mechanic, who from daylight to dark continues his labour in one city ; the husbandman, who ploughs the field and sows the seed, who reaps the harvest and who stacks the hay,— can never have that exalted notion of man, and of man's works, as he whose whole life is one scene of continued change ; who is associated today with the dark, sulky negro of the Gold Coast, —with the gay Frenchman to-morrow; who sees the pigmy race of Mexico or the giants of Patagonia,—much less can he form a just estimate of the power of the Divinity. The wonders of creation are to be seen in the ocean, and in the stupendous mountains of the Andes, or the still prouder Himalayas.
It is in sights like these that man is convinced of his own insignificance, and yet of his own power: it is when standing on the Andes, and seeing a city Like a speck, that he feels his vast inferiority. But he becomes conscious of the greatness of his intellect when he measures the heights above him with mathematical exactness, or looks for the moment — the well-calculated moment, when a comet shall return and be visible.
Oh the delight—the calm delight of pondering on such sublimity, supported by the still ocean! When the mind, in harmony with the scene, calmly surreys the greatness of the works of God.
In such moments there are thoughts which steal over us and win us from ourselves; and those who have braved longest the perils of a sailor's life, feel most exquisitely the glory of the calm night, when the stars are reflected in the vast deep, and when the sea "takes the moods, and wears the colours of her mistress—the sky."
He who first perils his existence on this mighty and immense mass of waters experiences a solemn feeling of awe, of wonder —nay, often-times of fear. And yet, lost in the very magnificence of this image of eternity — this throne of the Invisible, man feels himself a prouder being, in the knowledge that the science of his fellow-creatures has taught him to explore its wondrous depths,—to steer uninjured by rocks or islands through its pathless desert, and to draw a higher and a better notion of the glory and divinity of his Maker by the never-ending wonders which are presented to him.
The poor in pocket and in mind, condemned from youth to age to toil, perhaps in the darkness of a mine, excavating the ore, and returning when oppressed with fatigue to the shed which serves him for shelter ; the mechanic, who from daylight to dark continues his labour in one city ; the husbandman, who ploughs the field and sows the seed, who reaps the harvest and who stacks the hay,— can never have that exalted notion of man, and of man's works, as he whose whole life is one scene of continued change ; who is associated today with the dark, sulky negro of the Gold Coast, —with the gay Frenchman to-morrow; who sees the pigmy race of Mexico or the giants of Patagonia,—much less can he form a just estimate of the power of the Divinity. The wonders of creation are to be seen in the ocean, and in the stupendous mountains of the Andes, or the still prouder Himalayas.
It is in sights like these that man is convinced of his own insignificance, and yet of his own power: it is when standing on the Andes, and seeing a city Like a speck, that he feels his vast inferiority. But he becomes conscious of the greatness of his intellect when he measures the heights above him with mathematical exactness, or looks for the moment — the well-calculated moment, when a comet shall return and be visible.
Oh the delight—the calm delight of pondering on such sublimity, supported by the still ocean! When the mind, in harmony with the scene, calmly surreys the greatness of the works of God.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
A Great Haircut and a Tale of Romance…
So, it was time for me to get a haircut before going away- but things intervened and I went still shaggy. While walking in Taunton I passed Affinity For Hair at 44 Bridge Street, among all the charity shops.
(Sciencegirl is right, I ought to just travel with nothing and stock up here. At least on coats!)
So I had my hair cut by Laura, and it was a real pleasure. I told her how I like having my hair cut, the touching and being fiddled with. She said she didn’t like having hers done, which struck me as odd so I asked why.
"Because I know I can do it better. If I could take my head off and cut my own hair I would.”
I said THAT, I understood, it was an artist speaking. No one who loves doing something and is good at is can easily watch another perform. I suspect that holds true with any artist, racing drivers probably can barely endure a taxi ride.
But it was a real pleasure to feel her interest and effort come through in what some people would consider a prosaic or at least repetitive task. I admit that’s
powerful for me, and awesome to be around.
(No, I’m not about to have the Heather Blake experience again, once is enough.)
So if you need a snip in Taunton, give Laura a try!
As a bonus, someone in the shop heard me saying I was from away on holiday, and she told me she was not local either, but from Much Bigger City, and was establishing herself here as (NOT) a car mechanic. I asked her how she came to be here, and it was because it was her Beau’s home. Turns out she met him while on holiday in a third place, took a real liking to him but didn’t exchange digits.
The next week, she was at work in MBC, and thought she saw him walk past the garage.
“Don’t tell me, he went to MBC and looked in every garage until he saw you.”
No- a little later a friend of his came in to the garage and asked if she knew Beau from the holiday, because Beau said he thought he saw her in the garage.
Just coincidence- Beau and friend were there on some work related errand.
And the rest is history.
Of course, HE told it was coincidence. I like to think that he indeed did block the day out, and went to MBC to look into every garage to find his vacation crush.
Just took friend along to provide VTAOBAUN, and to insulate Beau from the shootdown he might have feared.
So, that was a day at the hairdressers. Hunting (within the law) tomorrow!
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Hey Monday on Thursday!
So Tam sent me to The Pointy Pen where I saw the hilarious
Emo Breakup Video:
Which reminded me I never told all my reader about Fight Fair:
So I started YouTubing, and ended up making my neighbours enjoy Hey Monday!
And, come to think of it, "Should Have Tried Harder With The Lyrics" would be a pretty good song title!
Emo Breakup Video:
Which reminded me I never told all my reader about Fight Fair:
So I started YouTubing, and ended up making my neighbours enjoy Hey Monday!
And, come to think of it, "Should Have Tried Harder With The Lyrics" would be a pretty good song title!
Monday, June 08, 2009
Whoa!
So, I was place judging at the races The three of us judges and the timer and the stewards are all in a tower at the finish line.
I've done most jobs at the races from walking hots to this one. It's the easiest, all we have to do is decide which were the first five horses across the finish line. So we have to keep five numbers in order. The hardest part is the numbers- the three and the eight are similar, and the six and the nine- but a few episodes of Sesame Street help.
Anyhow, it was a seven race card. The second or third had been run, and so we had a half an hour to kill. There weren't any horses on the track. You know how things pop into your mind, and I had a mental picture of a horse just standing still on the finish line.
So I said to the other three, just passing the time, "I wonder if it's ever happened that a horse has partially, but not entirely, crossed the finish line. "
"Oh no, that couldn't happen."
"Yes it could, you know these crazy things. One could get half way across and shy back. Sometimes they drop dead, maybe one drops on the line. Or ties up, or just runs out of gas."
"You mean at this track?"
"No, I mean ever. I mean, there have been thousands of races, surely once..."
"No way. You're crazy."
"That's not news, but even crazy people can be right. What if one just quit, half way across?"
So there followed like ten minutes of discussion of it- our consensus was that once part had crossed, the horse was finished, based on the principle that if one horse's nose crossed the line before another's, and the second horse's nose then passed the first, that wouldn't count.
I even went up to the stewards, and asked one. He too thought my theoretical example to be farfetched- "What, are you a lawyer?" He said we were right, once any part of the horse's body crossed the horse had finished- "Even if it runs across backwards."
So on goes the next race. A fairly big field of horses. Around and around, then the finish. The first four crossed in a bunch, then the fifth a couple of lengths later. The sixth was way behind. I wrote down my win order, and looked down at the track.
I saw the sixth horse gallop up the hill, slow down, and stop. With his girth on the finish line. And the jockey got off and started to unsaddle.
My companions' attention was also on the track, and they watched it too.
We kept watching, the horse still standing there. Half way across.
The jockey unsaddled and led him away, back the way he had come. His butt never crossed.
We all have a deja vu now and then. But we don't talk about it for fifteen minutes before it happens with four witnesses, and then have it occur in front of twenty five thousand people.
I was SO creeped out.
For just a moment, I felt as though I knew what God felt like when he imagined the platypus.
I've done most jobs at the races from walking hots to this one. It's the easiest, all we have to do is decide which were the first five horses across the finish line. So we have to keep five numbers in order. The hardest part is the numbers- the three and the eight are similar, and the six and the nine- but a few episodes of Sesame Street help.
Anyhow, it was a seven race card. The second or third had been run, and so we had a half an hour to kill. There weren't any horses on the track. You know how things pop into your mind, and I had a mental picture of a horse just standing still on the finish line.
So I said to the other three, just passing the time, "I wonder if it's ever happened that a horse has partially, but not entirely, crossed the finish line. "
"Oh no, that couldn't happen."
"Yes it could, you know these crazy things. One could get half way across and shy back. Sometimes they drop dead, maybe one drops on the line. Or ties up, or just runs out of gas."
"You mean at this track?"
"No, I mean ever. I mean, there have been thousands of races, surely once..."
"No way. You're crazy."
"That's not news, but even crazy people can be right. What if one just quit, half way across?"
So there followed like ten minutes of discussion of it- our consensus was that once part had crossed, the horse was finished, based on the principle that if one horse's nose crossed the line before another's, and the second horse's nose then passed the first, that wouldn't count.
I even went up to the stewards, and asked one. He too thought my theoretical example to be farfetched- "What, are you a lawyer?" He said we were right, once any part of the horse's body crossed the horse had finished- "Even if it runs across backwards."
So on goes the next race. A fairly big field of horses. Around and around, then the finish. The first four crossed in a bunch, then the fifth a couple of lengths later. The sixth was way behind. I wrote down my win order, and looked down at the track.
I saw the sixth horse gallop up the hill, slow down, and stop. With his girth on the finish line. And the jockey got off and started to unsaddle.
My companions' attention was also on the track, and they watched it too.
We kept watching, the horse still standing there. Half way across.
The jockey unsaddled and led him away, back the way he had come. His butt never crossed.
We all have a deja vu now and then. But we don't talk about it for fifteen minutes before it happens with four witnesses, and then have it occur in front of twenty five thousand people.
I was SO creeped out.
For just a moment, I felt as though I knew what God felt like when he imagined the platypus.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Provocative Clothing...
No, not that kind. But I'm sure I'll get hits from illiterate searchers.
No, Tam's post of yesterday reminded me of my first time wearing provocative clothing. It was on my first trip to England. I had lots of hunting laid on, and the bag with my black coat in it had failed to follow me. So I went to the Camden Lock flea market, which at that time was still fairly new. Rooted around among the previously owned clothing and found a passable black coat- only six pounds! As I paid with a 20, I told the girl that she had really helped me out in a crisis, and to keep the change. She asked what crisis, and the result was dramatic. She got all red, threw the money down (behind the counter), and started shouting abuse at me.
As did the other extras from "Trainspotting" in the shop. A couple of things were thrown at me, poorly, and so I retreated under fire. They pursued me for a little distance, too.
I agree with Fran Lebowitz that "If people don't want to listen to you what makes you think they want to hear from your sweater?", but now and then I'll wear a shirt or cap with a Hunt logo on it in urban England. It's good for a few hisses and "Hunt Scum!"s every time.
To which I always reply with a big smile and an invitation to come out for a day. None has yet said yes, but I'm hopeful. A day out in the country with happy people is always a benefit.
Good fun.
No, Tam's post of yesterday reminded me of my first time wearing provocative clothing. It was on my first trip to England. I had lots of hunting laid on, and the bag with my black coat in it had failed to follow me. So I went to the Camden Lock flea market, which at that time was still fairly new. Rooted around among the previously owned clothing and found a passable black coat- only six pounds! As I paid with a 20, I told the girl that she had really helped me out in a crisis, and to keep the change. She asked what crisis, and the result was dramatic. She got all red, threw the money down (behind the counter), and started shouting abuse at me.
As did the other extras from "Trainspotting" in the shop. A couple of things were thrown at me, poorly, and so I retreated under fire. They pursued me for a little distance, too.
I agree with Fran Lebowitz that "If people don't want to listen to you what makes you think they want to hear from your sweater?", but now and then I'll wear a shirt or cap with a Hunt logo on it in urban England. It's good for a few hisses and "Hunt Scum!"s every time.
To which I always reply with a big smile and an invitation to come out for a day. None has yet said yes, but I'm hopeful. A day out in the country with happy people is always a benefit.
Good fun.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
French stag hunting meets the projects...
So, the other day I have a school robbery case. Victim was in the locker room when an older and bigger boy hit him and took his wallet.
Victim is a child from the projects, 14 or 15. Portly and shy, he told me he was changing for band practice when he was attacked. I didn't go to "high school", but I know what "band kid" means. This boy is one.
I asked him what instrument he played, and he told me the French horn. Hmmmm...
So while he waited, I went in to the office and ran up some Youtubes of St. Huberts-
Then I took him in and told him about the origin of the French horn and how it's still used in hunting today. Then I played the films, LOUDLY.
He was just fascinated. I could see that he had never heard of this stuff in his school or in the housing project where he lived. It was fun to give him a sight of a wider world, and to let him see there was a connection between himself and people from far away, long ago, and very different cultures.
His mother called me the other day and told me that he's still talking about it, looking history things up, etc.
Sometimes it's not ugly.
Victim is a child from the projects, 14 or 15. Portly and shy, he told me he was changing for band practice when he was attacked. I didn't go to "high school", but I know what "band kid" means. This boy is one.
I asked him what instrument he played, and he told me the French horn. Hmmmm...
So while he waited, I went in to the office and ran up some Youtubes of St. Huberts-
Then I took him in and told him about the origin of the French horn and how it's still used in hunting today. Then I played the films, LOUDLY.
He was just fascinated. I could see that he had never heard of this stuff in his school or in the housing project where he lived. It was fun to give him a sight of a wider world, and to let him see there was a connection between himself and people from far away, long ago, and very different cultures.
His mother called me the other day and told me that he's still talking about it, looking history things up, etc.
Sometimes it's not ugly.
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