– Gene –
Yesterday while emptying out my closet I found a tape-sealed box that I had not looked into for a long time. So I opened it and found some old yellowing sample copies of published pieces I'd seen in print back in the 1970s era.
The first piece of writing I ever sold was an 80-word anecdote to the Reader's Digest for their Laughter The Best Medicine department. They paid me $80 for it. And that was circa 1970. I did not save a sample copy of it but it's the one I remember most vividly of all.
On January 1971 I sold a squib to True Romance magazine for $10. It appeared in their Pet Peeves section. Here it is:
Of playing cards with Hubby,
I've had my loving fill;
Whenever I win it's always luck—
Whenever he wins it's skill.
This first clip is of a "filler" I sold to Secrets for use in their October 1978 issue as a bordered insert in the body of one of their stories For this they paid me $10. (Don't forget, in 1978 ten dollars bought a lot more than it does today.
Below is a scan of the complimentary copy that accompanied my payment.
The next clip is a limerick I submitted to a Writers Digest contest. The subject of the limerick was to be some aspect of writing. The winners (about twenty of us) were published in the magazine and received a copy of the Writer's Market.
Here is my copy of the November 1978 issue in which the limerick appeared.
In October of 1979 I sold a story for $125 to one of the Women's Magazines, True Life Secrets. My story's title was Forget The Roses And Sunshine but the editor changed the title to Love's Forgotten Promise. They purchased the story just before I left Rensselaer to attend Valparaiso Technical Institute for two years, but it did not appear in print until the April 1980 issue.
And here is a scan of my complimentary copy.
In February 1979 I sold a short-story A Two Way Street to Insight. I don't remember how much they paid me for it but it seems that it was $250. Here is the acceptance letter.
Here is the Table of Contents page. (See page 8)
And here is the story's opening on page 8.
During the next few years I finally received my Associate Degree in Engineering Electronics and went to work in Chicago for AT & T Teletype Corporation. After working there for two months I posted an entry in the company's Safety First article writing contest and won first prize, which was publication in the Teletype Newsletter—and a large First Aid Kit.
I was too busy for the next few years to do much Fiction Writing.
In the 1990s I wrote and sold a bunch of four and eight line greeting card verses to various companies, but didn't save any of them. Most of them paid around $30 each. And I had a lot of poems published in Small Press magazines with no payment, not even a free copy. I have some of them packed away in a box somewhere. They've probably rotted away by now.
In 1991 I submitted a poem to the poetry magazine Feelings as an entry in their National Poetry contest. It won third place. Here's the notification letter.
And here's the clip:
That's all for now. Thank you for reading.
More another day . . .
Being in an ongoing funk of nostalgia lately, I have been seeking information about things relating to my early years. There are records containing objects and info regarding those times — and it satisfies some need inside me to view them.
Same building but entrance view, and in color
When I was just finishing up second grade I became eight years old and eligible to apply for a library card, which I did with joyful anticipation. The application called for the signature of a parent or guardian, and my parents refused to sign, on the grounds that they did not want to be financially responsible for damaged or lost books.
I was devastated.
But when my Uncle 'Buddy' (my mom's brother who had recently returned from WWII Germany) saw me crying he signed the paper as my guardian saying that what people didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
I was so happy that I immediately borrowed the two book maximum allowed to those of us who were young and therefore irresponsible. The first book I ever read from the Jasper County Library was Little Black Sambo and I'm sure that I read it at least twenty times before returning it.
That was my first leap into the world of Fantasy and I remained a fan of the genre (along with Science Fiction) for many years. If well written, I can still enjoy a good fantastic tale.
By the way — Uncle Buddy also let me sit on his lap and steer his 1940 Ford across the Grace Street Bridge. And he'd take me for really fast rides on his monstrous-big Indian Chief motorcycle. When Mom objected, Uncle Buddy would just giggle, toss me up onto his wide shoulders, and walk us away from her — and ignore her screeching.
Uncle Buddy was my hero.
Here is a sentence I read yesterday on one of those tips and tricks websites:
"As a side note, it is said that using :hover on anything else than As can create serious performance issues in IE."
When I saw the term "As" – at first I read it to mean the word "as" but with an upper case A. Then I wondered how, aside from context, one would determine if the writer meant "as" or the plural of A.
And I'm still wondering.
Weeds of religion and superstition flourish in the untilled soil of barren minds.
—Gene Chambers
More another day . . .
A website regarding Medical Marijuana caught my attention. It is interesting in that it caused me to ponder the notion of how crassly commercial can be the modern day doctor's practice.
The doctor seems to be cashing in on the prohibition of a drug by making it available to those who want to use it, hinting at a way for anyone to dodge the law when his service is purchased.
Not that I object. It's only a matter of time until the stuff is legalized. And taxed up the yazoo. In my opinion. And this doctor will then have to find a new method of raking in the cash. Poor old fella.
The links I provided to my 1950 5th grade class pictures seem to work for most people but not to all. But when the links are formatted inside a website they work for all. Here is the one that it seems everyone's browser is able to access: Links to pictures
I just ran across a website that buys manuscripts from Flash Fiction writers.
Submit manuscripts to
Flash Fiction
or start at their main page at:
http://www.flashfictiononline.com/
This could be an opportunity for creators of extremely short fiction.
While browsing through some Youtube videos, I ran across one that moved me somewhat. It's a short clip from the old sitcom The Wonder Years and it's titled Independence Day
It's probably due to old age, but it seems that I have been waxing nostalgic much too often lately.
And the posting of that pic is a prime example of this hyper-nostalgic bent.
__
When I first encountered this sentence:
"My mind is flooded with stories, and I wonder what to else share"
in a blog titled:
The Baliset Palimpsest
it seemed but a typo and I nearly ignored it. But then I began to wonder if this was perhaps a grammatical form with which I was not acquainted. After all, the sentence had been written by an Australian.
But a Google and a Bing search yielded only that one quote for The Baliset Palimpsest. And yet I still hesitate to mark it as an accidental error. I don't know why.
I wish someone would tell me.
Click the link to visit My New Blog
More another day . . .
Click the link to My New Blog
I do not intend to discontinue this journal but for the next few days I intend to concentrate on learning how to operate a blog. The blog has the same title— Jots & Tittles — but it will not contain the same material.
More another day . . .
After a brief exchange of ideas with a poet regarding poetic prose vs. simple prose I continued for a short time to muse upon the subject. My pondering was interrupted finally though when I read a poem exhibiting the following line:
the mud-plashed screen through which
And I sighed because I knew this meant I was in for a long stint of research via Google, comparing plashed with splashed.
I discovered that it's a simple thing after all. There is no difference in meaning.
Plash
A small pool of standing water; a puddle. Bacon.
"These shallow plashes." Barrow.
A dash of water; a splash.
To dabble in water; to splash. "Plashing among bedded pebbles." Keats.
Far below him plashed the waters. Longfellow.
To splash, as water.
To splash or sprinkle with coloring matter; as, to plash a wall in imitation of granite.
To cut partly, or to bend and intertwine the branches of; as, to plash a hedge.
The branch of a tree partly cut or bent and bound to or intertwined with other branches.
Plashet
A small pond or pool; a puddle.
Plashing
The cutting or bending and intertwining the branches of small trees, as in hedges.
The dashing or sprinkling of coloring matter on the walls of buildings, to imitate granite, etc.
Plashoot
A hedge or fence formed of branches of trees interlaced, or plashed. Carew.
Plashy
Watery; abounding with puddles; splashy.
"Plashy fens." Milton.
"The plashy earth." Wordsworth.
Specked, as if plashed with color. Keats.
So why the poet chose "mud-plashed" instead of "mud-splashed" causes me to suspect it might have been because a few famous poets from an earlier age had done so.
"So," I asked myself aloud, "what then distinguishes a poem from a piece of prose?"
And later I read a work written by Philip Levine.
Coming Close
by Philip Levine
Take this quiet woman, she has been standing before a polishing wheel for over three hours, and she lacks twenty minutes before she can take a lunch break. Is she a woman? Consider the arms as they press the long brass tube against the buffer, they are striated along the triceps, the three heads of which clearly show. Consider the fine dusting of dark down above the upper lip, and the beads of sweat that run from under the red kerchief across the brow and are wiped away with a blackening wrist band in one odd motion a child might make to say No! No! You must come closer to find out, you must hang your tie and jacket in one of the lockers in favor of a black smock, you must be prepared to spend shift after shift hauling off the metal trays of stock, bowing first, knees bent for a purchase, then lifting with a gasp, the first word of tenderness between the two of you, then you must bring new trays of dull unpolished tubes. You must feed her, as they say in the language of the place. Make no mistake, the place has a language, and if by some luck the power were cut, the wheel slowed to a stop so that you suddenly saw it was not a solid object but so many separate bristles forming in motion a perfect circle, she would turn to you and say, "Why?" Not the old why of why must I spend five nights a week? Just, "Why?" Even if by some magic you knew, you wouldn't dare speak for fear of her laughter, which now you have anyway as she places the five tapering fingers of her filthy hand on the arm of your white shirt to mark you for your own, now and forever.
Is the above prose or poetry?
How about the one below?
Coming Close
by Philip Levine
Take this quiet woman, she has been
standing before a polishing wheel
for over three hours, and she lacks
twenty minutes before she can take
a lunch break. Is she a woman?
Consider the arms as they press
the long brass tube against the buffer,
they are striated along the triceps,
the three heads of which clearly show.
Consider the fine dusting of dark down
above the upper lip, and the beads
of sweat that run from under the red
kerchief across the brow and are wiped
away with a blackening wrist band
in one odd motion a child might make
to say No! No! You must come closer
to find out, you must hang your tie
and jacket in one of the lockers
in favor of a black smock, you must
be prepared to spend shift after shift
hauling off the metal trays of stock,
bowing first, knees bent for a purchase,
then lifting with a gasp, the first word
of tenderness between the two of you,
then you must bring new trays of dull
unpolished tubes. You must feed her,
as they say in the language of the place.
Make no mistake, the place has a language,
and if by some luck the power were cut,
the wheel slowed to a stop so that you
suddenly saw it was not a solid object
but so many separate bristles forming
in motion a perfect circle, she would turn
to you and say, "Why?" Not the old why
of why must I spend five nights a week?
Just, "Why?" Even if by some magic
you knew, you wouldn't dare speak
for fear of her laughter, which now
you have anyway as she places the five
tapering fingers of her filthy hand
on the arm of your white shirt to mark
you for your own, now and forever.
Now do I (an obtuse unlovely lout) know the difference between poetry and prose? That's a good question.
The Atlantic has an article – Cut This Story! – which presents one columnist's opinion as to why the print newspapers are being abandoned by their readers.
Michael Kinsley states that newspaper articles are too long; then he elaborates, showing specific instances of unnecessary verbiage.
The information in the article can be adapted to improving one's own writing.
Perhaps…
__
Probably my favorite website — edge — currently has an amazing index of knowledge called The World Question Center. At the moment it's the opening page of http://www.edge.org.
I enthusiastically recommend that everybody who is still interested in learning should take a look at it.
__
My friend from Idaho sent me a list that I just had to include in today's journal entry. So, get ready… get set… here it comes…
The economy is so bad…
I got a pre-declined credit card in the mail.
I ordered a burger at McDonald's and the kid behind the counter asked,
"Can you afford fries with that?"
CEO's are now playing miniature golf.
If the bank returns your check marked "Insufficient Funds," you call them and ask if they meant you or them.
Hot Wheels and Matchbox stocks are trading higher than GM.
McDonald's is selling the 1/4 ouncer.
Parents in Beverly Hills fired their nannies and learned their children's names.
A truckload of Americans was caught sneaking into Mexico .
Dick Cheney took his stockbroker hunting.
Motel Six won't leave the light on anymore.
The Mafia is laying off judges.
Exxon-Mobil laid off 25 Congressmen.
Congress says they are looking into this Bernard Madoff scandal. Oh Great!! The guy who made $50 Billion disappear is being investigated by the people who made $1.5 Trillion disappear!
And, finally…
I was so depressed last night when thinking about the economy, wars, jobs, my savings, Social Security, retirement funds, etc… I called the Suicide Lifeline. I got a call center in Pakistan, and when I told them I was suicidal, they got all excited, and asked if I could drive a truck.
More another day . . .
To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting.
–Edmund Burke
To write without reflecting is like eating a hot dog.
–Gene Chambers
Again, no journal entry today.
Real life demands its due.
More another day . . .
I have so much planned for today that there is no time for journaling.
More another day . . .
Yesterday, I posted links to the two sections of my fifth-grade class pictures, but after working at it for a long time, my ol' buddy and his wife and I finally figured out most of the names. And we discovered that the pictures contained students from both the fifth grade & fourth grade. It was evidently a combined class picture. This was not unusual back in those days. In 1950.
With only a couple names still missing, the latest links are:
I realize that not everyone who reads this will be interested in viewing my old pictures, but some will, and that's a good-enough reason for me to place them here in the journal.
__
Mike alerted me to:
The 12 Healthiest Foods in the world according to Jonny Bowden in Forbes magazine: "What you should be eating but are not."
While I learned long ago that a great many nutritionists are full-of-beans, this fellow seems to make a lot of sense. From what I have read, that is. My opinions are always subject to change, however, after absorbing further information.
Wouldn't you think School Lunches would contain those 12 food? Hah!
Unfamiliar Words
apposite
–adjective
suitable; well-adapted; pertinent; relevant; apt:
This is one of those seldom seen words that I should well refrain from using. Its use would likely brand me as pompous and so I should remember the word only for my personal ability to understand its meaning when I encounter it in someone else's speech or writing. Also, the words rarity and similarity to the word opposite also precludes its use.
__
Author Nicholson Baker — according to January 7, 2010's online edition of The Writer's Almanac — once said, "When I first wanted to be a writer, I learned to write prose by reading poetry."
That statement at first seemed to make sense to me, but the longer I pondered its seemingly contradictory meaning, the more convinced I became that it does not make sense at all. Not to my way of thinking that is. I am sure that to others it will be deemed quite profound, and perhaps even worthy of emulation.
Learning to write prose is better accomplished by reading prose — not poetry. The accomplished poet will write in a poetic manner. And that is best suited to composing poetry. Poetic prose is too obscure, too subjective and prone to personal interpretations rather than true understanding of the author's intent.
The poet relies on artistic concealment, choosing feeling words or phrases that communicate an emotion; a good prose writer communicates with direct, non-ambiguous words.
If that seems to be pedantic and irritating, I swear it's not intentional. It is not a statement of fact, but is merely one man's considered opinion. For whatever that may be worth.
__
A website titled Pharyngula has an example of how destructive parents can be of the welfare of their children when they allow ignorance and religious beliefs to interfere in education.
There is posted a note from parents to their child's school regarding permission for the child to go on a field trip to a museum. The parental response reads —
Just to let you it is not that we don't believe in things like that, it is just misleading when you talk about it being billions of years old, when we all know that the world is only about 6,000 years old. So why would I pay so that you can misslead my children, your world is just a revolving(?), ours has a start and an end. God created the world. He created animals and man all in the same week. It was also Adam who named all the animals, they will do the essay 'Rock and Minerals' but it might not be 5 pages long, and about billions of years, it will be according to the Bible.
I will be going away from the computer for a while pretty soon this morning, so this early posting will have to suffice, unless my trip to the DMV is shorter than I expect. If so, then I might add some more to this entry. But that is doubtful. This will probably be it for today.
JoAnn sent me a list of SMART ASS ANSWERS. Here is one of them —
A police officer got out of his car as a kid who was stopped for speeding rolled down his window.
"I've been waiting for you all day," the officer said.
The kid replied, "Yeah, well I got here as fast as I could."
When the cop finally stopped laughing, he sent the kid on his way, and without a ticket.
More another day . . .
Too many other things to do. My mind is occupied with real-life thoughts.
Here are links to the two sections of my 5th grade class pictures.
More another day . . .
Did you ever read Rudyard Kipling's "Just So Stories" when you were younger? Did you at that time believe what you were reading? And later on as you grew older were you able to disregard the apparent falsities and still appreciate the sheer delight that you the child experienced while reading the stories?
In an article How Did The scientist Get His Ideas in The Chronicle Review, I read the following:
How did the leopard get its spots? Why do women conceal their ovulation, or menstruate, or experience orgasms? Where did the alphabet come from? How come the armadillo has a smooth "shell," but the rhino's is wrinkled? How did the camel get its hump?
These are legitimate questions but if a child were to ask you any one of them, what would you say?
Or if you are a fiction writer how would you work one of those questions into a compelling and exciting story?
It shouldn't be difficult to do as long as you are not emotionally wedded to the ridiculous concept of reporting only the absolute truth. Truth, after all, is not absolute, but is merely what the author can—through persuasive word-play—convince you to accept as truth.
Was it not Pontius Pilate who is reputed to once have asked this question of Jesus… What is truth?
Well, one could write a story from a slave's point of view? Perhaps a slave (a time-traveler in disguise) in the service of Pilate — but a Pilate who is himself another traveler from a different future time? And how about Jesus, also not the simple, pious, man-born-of-woman Terran Nazarene he pretends to be.
Oh I could just go on and on…
Unfamiliar Words
opprobrium
–noun
1. the disgrace or the reproach incurred by conduct considered outrageously shameful; infamy.
2. a cause or object of such disgrace or reproach.
pariah
–noun
1. an outcast.
2. any person or animal that is generally despised or avoided.
It seems to me that the previous subject — "TRUTH" — when wielded with excessive zeal becomes a perfect example of opprobrium. Whether or not you are a writer, if you constantly strive to tell the truth, the whole truth & nothing but the truth, you will soon come to know, without a dictionary, the definition of social pariah. And you will experience opprobrium.
There… two formerly unfamiliar words have now become familiar words.
Editor and journalist Herbert Bayard Swope is known for his quote —
" I can't give you a sure-fire formula for success, but I can give you a formula for failure: try to please everybody all the time."
He is also the person credited with coining the phrase "Cold War".
Just a random nugget of information I found interesting.
I would like to read a story wherein the main character ponders the statement, "I would lay down my own life to spare the lives of my brothers." only to discover, by means of introspection and self-analysis, that this altruistic statement is false (within his own mind) and he is at first startled but them elated by this stark revelation. Although he seemingly remains the same man to family and friends, his inner-self undergoes a radical alteration. And his life becomes…
I think this story does not exist.
So I (or you) should write it.
Someday soon.
Right?
(?)
Dealing With Bureaucracy
Last May I stopped driving for health-related reasons, such as poor and failing (uncorrectable) eyesight & critically-decreased action-reaction response times. Also degenerating muscle strength. Now I find that I need a new Identification Card, a Non-Driver card with photo. But I discovered that I could not obtain one online. I have to visit a local Motor Vehicle branch office.
My daughter told me she would drive me to one of the branch offices.
I called the office of the Tax Collector and after waiting on-hold for 45-plus minutes, a woman named Shirley came on. She said my total fee for an official Florida Non-Driver ID is $31.95 and the documents I will need are my original birth certificate, and a proof of residency. I told her that the landlady pays the utility bills and so she looked up alternatives and said that a voter registration card is an acceptable proof-of-residency. I have both of those.
But . . . she said that an appointment is not necessary, and in fact it is all walk-in, and an appointment is only made for taking driving tests.
There is a branch at 10131-24 San Jose Blvd. (halfway between Sunbeam and Hartley Rd) and it seems to be the closest to my home.
So, perhaps I can go over there tomorrow or the day after. We'll see.
Not looking forward to the visit, but that's part of modern life.
Example is the school of mankind,
and they will learn at no other.
–Edmund Burke
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More tomorrow . . .
It's been downright cold here for the last few nights but the sun came out and shone brightly yesterday and it warmed up to the sixties yesterday around two in the afternoon, so I walked my daily two miles in relative comfort.
When the temperature dropped down into the twenties last night I was sound asleep under the covers and my heater was reliably kicking on and off and so I did not notice the cold. And I slept soundly for a full ten hours, arising at eight o'clock this morning.
And now at nine A.M. I sit before my keyboard musing about quantum-theory and teleportation while sipping a cup of Hazelnut flavored coffee enhanced by the addition of a heaping teaspoonful of Domino Pure Cane Sugar and a large dollop of Pet Evaporated milk.
Life is good.
Research is, at this very moment, being pursued as to quantum positioning and could eventually yield astounding additions to human knowledge. But unless this new accumulation of data is transformed into some practical application (such as establishing practical teleportation of solid objects) this endeavor will be in vain.
Imagine how the enhancement of a $19.99-priced 1940s style adding machine into some similarly-sized $1,000-priced 2010 device called a 'computer' would have fared if industry and the general public were not intellectually-prepared for its emergence.
Teleportation — Wow! (Beam me up, Scotty) Just Imagine!
If you can. If you will. But of course, you cannot… or will not.
Sometimes I feel so isolated.
So alone.
Note . . .
The title of today's entry is a link. . . for those readers who did not notice it.
It seems that time got away from me this morning. It's noon. Several real life incidents kept me from writing more in today's entry.
Send A Comment
More tomorrow . . .
A stray statement in the Rensselaer Adventures blog concerning churches — "Though it is a simple structure, this church has stained glass windows." sparked my curiosity. "What," I asked myself, "is the significance of stained glass windows with regard to churches? And why are they seen as symbols of holiness?
The internet surely can provide an answer to those questions, and I intend to institute a search soon. ( If I don't forget.)
Unfamiliar Words
diffident
–adjective
1. lacking confidence in one's own ability, worth, or fitness; timid; shy.
2. restrained or reserved in manner, conduct, etc.
Note:
I'd always had the general impression that "diffident" meant 'unconcerned' and this points out the value of looking up Unfamiliar Words.
Another note of interest (to me anyway) is mis-application of the two-word terms: promises to and threatens to. It seems wrong somehow to say, "This hurricane 'promises to' be the most devastating in history." More appropriately one might say: "This hurricane 'threatens to' be…"
Yes? . . . No?
What do YOU think?
Two separate postings from the comments section of the AWAD newsletter…
In physics there are two kinds of changes, continuous & quantum. Continuous changes happen across a range of values, think moving a rock from point A to point B by sliding it across the floor. A quantum jump, on the other hand is from A to B without ever being in the middle.
and
Thanks for noting the fact that the scientists' definition of quantum is different from that used by the general public. A quantum jump is special because it is not a continuous transition, but instantaneous, with no intermediate stages. It might be thought of as moving from the first to the third floor of a building, without ever being at the level of the second.
Reading these two comments ignited my interest and nagged at me to look into this "quantum" thing. The ability of an "object" to exist in one specific location at one specific point in time and able to vacate this location to instantaneously appear in a different location without apparent movement through "space" intrigues me.
That is the definition of Science Fiction's "teleportation" — is it not?
There is a real-life situation that demands my attention, so today's entry must necessarily be an abbreviated one.
A Personal Note . . .
It drives me up the wall–
when I hear someone say
"SANG-witch"
instead of
"SAND-wich"
And I know not why.
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More tomorrow . . .
It's quite cold (outside) this morning here in North Florida as I sit here at my keyboard. The temperature fell down into the twenties last night; so I am told by the radio weather people. They are also forecasting these low temperatures to continue for the next few days. I have my thermostat set to the point where my flesh feels a bit of a chill just before the heat kicks on. I like it like that. I have no need for the decadence of 'comfy' and 'toasty' warmth.
Yesterday I wrote of my having never been inside a Starbucks Shop and never tasted their coffee. Well hold on to your hat—
I do not own a cell phone
and never have… and probably never will. I have never
"text-ed"
— and have no desire to do so.
Oh, I've used a cell phone, back in the latter days of the 1990s, until I retired in June of 2001, when at that time I turned in my company-provided phone and then never touched one of the intrusive, nerve-wracking things again. Why anyone would deliberately expose themselves to such blatant slavery to the commercial interests is a great mystery to me.
Not that cell phones lack legitimate uses. Of course they do,. In business and industry they are consummate time-savers and profit-increasing conveniences.
But nowadays it seems that even ordinary citizens have been captured, tamed, and completely domesticated by profit-seeking heads of the corporate crowd.
Hordes of hurrying consumers have been imprisoned by the manufacture of an artificial need for constant communication with family, friends, acquaintances, or seemingly anyone willing to engage in conversation, and thereby provide a necessary distraction from acknowledging the meaningless horror that modern-day human life-in-the-hive has become.
I see this, though, not in a negative sense but merely as an incidental step in the inexorable advance of evolution as it lumbers toward an unknowable goal by means of constant change and essential adaptation. It's the way things are.
One might label this principle as The Inevitable Course Of Mother Nature.
A simpler, gentler soul speaks with reverence of The Holy Will Of God.
And the stymied cynic says, "It just is — It is what it is and that's all it is".
I hesitate to leave this subject dangling, but my thoughts have wandered to another subject at the moment. Perhaps I will return to pursue my conclusions of the present generation's instantaneous-communication, computer-assisted culture at some later time.
Or not…
An unfamiliar word —
maleficent (muh-lef-uh-suhnt)
– adjective doing evil or harm; harmfully malicious:
Use the word in a sentence —
In his book The God Delusion Richard Dawkins hopes that practitioners of religion will shrink its maleficent role in civilization.
Well, that sentence certainly does illustrate the meaning of maleficent.
The above band seems to be a client of Band Camp which you might want to check out if you are the member of or affiliated with a modern music group.
Here is what the Band Camp people say about themselves:
We provide fast, dependable streaming and downloads of your entire catalog, adorn your tracks with all the metadata they need to sail into iTunes with artwork, titles, and so on intact, and mutter the various incantations necessary to get your site top-ranked in Google. All things we know you could do, but we suspect you'd rather focus on your music. Well, think of us as your invisible bandmate who loves that other stuff. And we won't even ask to play tambourine.
They also say, "Sign up now (and yes, it's free)" — but I wouldn't bet on that.
You can watch a short movie about them here http://www.bandcamp.com/
Again I attempted to view the Sunday Morning TV news shows. And once again I gave up in disgust after only a few minutes. They've all become no more than showcases for Big Brother (Obama) propaganda.
That's my considered opinion.
— dixi —
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More tomorrow . . .
In keeping with my New Year's resolution of aiming my commentary toward a higher level than previously, I'd like to point my readers to a New York Times contributor's opinion piece illustrating how fortune seems to grin naughtily at the eventual outcome of all the popular scare-stories that emerge from today's profit mongering service minded mass media.
You can read it here → It's Always The End Of The World As We Know It
If you chose not to read the short essay, allow me to inform you that it points out the folly of being one of those gullible whimperers gentle souls who latch onto every little tremor in the wind and then expect a hurricane to arise from it and destroy the entire area.
Such as those liberal-leftist-loonies enlightened loyal progressives who have fallen for subscribed to the sheepple idiocy popular cause of man-made global warming climate change.
Good Lord! Goodness Gracious! It certainly is a bitch difficult to adhere to a New Year's resolution.
But I'm a'tryin'.
January 1, 2010 is NOT the start of the 2nd decade of the 21st century.
It was quite funny to listen to the Talk Radio host who cannot understand that the entire span of this next year labeled 2010 will be the actual last year of the decade, and that January 1, 2011 will begin the next decade, the second decade of the 21st century.
First recorded decade:
Begin at- - - 0 to year 1 is the first year of the decade.
End of year 1 to end of year 2 = two years of the decade.
End of year 2 to end of year 3 = three years of the decade.
End of year 3 to end of year 4 = four years of the decade.
End of year 4 to end of year 5 = five years of the decade.
End of year 5 to end of year 6 = six years of the decade.
End of year 6 to end of year 7 = seven years of the decade.
End of year 7 to end of year 8 = eight years of the decade.
End of year 8 to end of year 9 = nine years of the decade.
End of year 9 to end of year 10 = ten years of the decade.
Count the entries above. There are ten. That's one full decade that passed.
The next day is January 1, of the year 11 which begins the second decade.
This therefore shows that January 1, of the year 2011 begins the new decade.
(The second decade of the 21st century)
Right? RIGHT!
Oh, there are those of course who would seek to obfuscate this simple truth with mathematical mumblings and others who wield twisted wordy-webs of tangled logic — both of whom will argue on merely for the love of argument.
I am probably being a damned darned fool for getting involved in silliness such as this. Some reader might find my comments pedantic and annoying.
Do you suppose?
While I was rummaging around in my closet and looking through some of my old photograph albums, I found this picture of myself and Bonnie Kay, who would later become the mother of my four children. The photo was taken in the late 1950s — the Elvis years. Check out my sideburns and pompadour.
Oh, and by the way . . .
Want to know my secret of
how to attract all the girls?
Yep, that'll do it every time.
Raymond Chandler fans will want to read In Praise of Philip Marlowe which is a tribute written by Mick Hume for the spiked review of books. I liked it.
I enjoy reading most of the reviews from "spiked" and that's why there sits a shortcut icon link on my computer's desktop. To remind me to visit that site occasionally to read another review. Can't take too many doses of other men's literary opinions without finding that they tend to grow a bit stale if overdone.
I've never been inside a Starbucks Coffee Shop. That's the truth. Never tasted their witch's brew. The closest I came to such extravagance was occasionally indulging myself when in a Mall by buying a 99-cent cup of plain black coffee at Barnie's (a long time ago) and chiding myself for spending even that much.
For I was raised, you see, during the era of the nickel cup of coffee with free refills. And I was one who joined the throngs that railed long and hard against the doubling of that price to a dime a cup.
Our objections were ignored. The government opted to not step in and fairly regulate the retail coffee industry. And just look at the economic turmoil our nation is in today.
What this country needs is a good five-cent cup of coffee.
I found an old photo of Grandma and Grandpa Morris as they stood in front of the new gravestone they'd just bought in Weston Cemetery. I sure miss them.
There is no distance
on this earth
as far away
as yesterday.
—Robert Nathan
More tomorrow . . .
The first day of this new year called for a brand new layout of my journal, so here it is. Now I'm not so sure about it. Feedback is always appreciated any time, but especially so today when I am starved for input that pertains to the new design. Font style, for instance. Which is better, this one or the one above?
New Year's Day is the time for new beginnings, for a new start — a time for improving the old and the time-worn. It is the perfect time for…
Resolutions!
Another long-standing revered tradition that nearly everyone has, at one time or another, ardently embraced. But no one I know, not a single soul, has ever resolved to change a habitual harmful behavior, then followed it through to a satisfactory conclusion; none has persisted in adherence to such a vow until a clearly stated goal was achieved.
Ah well. No matter. We're all human, after all.
At this moment, as I sit writing this, I am moved to make one resolution, no matter what I just stated above.
I would dearly love to completely change this negative personality of mine into one that truly sees the good in all things great and small.
To be a man who abstains from criticizing those who work to shape this world in which we live according to their particular vision of how things should be.
To accept without disdain all of the other persons and the various peoples that inhabit the planet along with me.
A worthy goal perhaps, but not so easily achieved. For I do not believe in any magic, you see. But I should be able to take a first small step toward attaining that goal.
Okay then:
I do hereby resolve to write throughout the year 2010 CE of primarily positive themes in a mainly inspirational manner.
And that is my New Year's resolution.
Un oh! But, now what am I going to write about?
quandary
–noun
a state of perplexity or uncertainty, esp. as to what to do; dilemma.
Now let me see . . .