british racing green. . .the most IRISH of colors

Gordon Bennett Motor Race 1903

Leinster Leader, Saturday 11 April 1903- Page 6.

"Each nation will have its own distinguishing colours. English cars will be painted green in compliment to Ireland"

THE GREAT MOTOR RACE.

The great race for the possession of the Gordon-Bennett trophy, which will take place in the first week of July, has an interest for Ireland which cannot be exaggerated. For the first time in her history Ireland will be the envy of the sporting world. She has been selected as the battle-ground on which to decide the supremacy of the latest inventions to revolutionise locomotion. France, Germany, England and America will enter the lists to fight out the battle of speed on the morning of the 2nd of July. The contest will not only be a test of speed, but a test of the native workmanship of each of the competing countries as well.

One of the conditions of the race is that the cars must be the absolute production of their respective nationalities. This rule is rigid, and cannot be evaded. The application of it handicapped England in the first years of the contest, for the art of manufacturing the electric coil, the most vital part of the machinery, in which the French were adepts[sic], was only acquired by England recently. With such tremendous international trade issues depending upon the result, it will be readily understood how keen will be the struggle.

When it was first decided to run the race in Ireland, Naas was spoken of as the likely starting and finishing point, but quite recently the English and French champions decided that the roads from Naas to Kilcullen and Newbridge would be unsuitable for high speeds on account of their numerous turns and twists. After inspecting the district they at last decided that it would be much safer to start the cars a few miles south of Old Kilcullen, at the Ballyshannon cross roads, where the road lies straight for nearly three miles. The fatal accident to Count Zborowski recently at Nice, who was to have been one of the competitors in the race, justifies this alteration. The Count failing to bring his machine completely round a corner a few yards from the starting point, dashed straight onwards into the rocks which border the road, and was killed. This unhappy incident should be a timely warning to all and sundry to avoid corners while watching the race.

Notices printed both in English and Irish will be freely circulated, illustrating the dangers run by crossing or running out on the course after a car has passed.

Each nation will have its own distinguishing colours. English cars will be painted green in compliment to Ireland, German white, France blue and America red, so that spectators will be easily able to distinguish the car’s nationality, however fast they dash by. Punctually at 7 a.m. on the morning of the 2nd July Mr. Edge driving the first of the English green cars, will be despatched, followed by France, then America, and lastly Germany. One can imagine with what eagerness all will strive to distinguish the colour of the leading car as it returns on its first round. It is expected that the last will not reach the finishing point before 4 p.m.. On the Curragh the finest sport will be seen, for there the racers will take advantage of the flat fields in their endeavour to pass one another, and the sight of two leviathans each travelling at the rate of 70 miles an hour within a few inches of one another will be a sight worth seeing.

It is a difficult matter to predict the ultimate winner, but if speed were the only factor in the race the French cars, which are universally acknowledged to be the fastest, would probably take the prize. The new German cars built especially for the race have come out 28 lbs. over the regulation weight of one ton, so there will ensue a process of “sweating” them down to the proper weight. The English Napiers have been built more for reliability than abnormal speed, and have already been thoroughly tested on the road, but it is yet undecided whether the third place will be filled by another Napier or by a Star racing car. The eliminating test to decide this will probably be run in Ireland over a 20 to 30 mile stretch in the course of the next few weeks. This will be a good opportunity to get an idea of the rate of speed at which they can travel. The Americans are still in the experimental stage, and have as yet taken part in no important contest. They are unknown factors in motor racing, and speculation is strong as to their speed and capabilities.

The course will be kept clear by a guard of nearly 1,400 persons, and the whole length of the road will be roped off. The approach of the cars will be announced by buglers stationed at regular intervals, and all dangerous corners and bridges will be marked with flags. A request will probably be made to the farmers in the district which we are sure will be readily granted, to lend them carts and hurdles to block up all side roads and approaches. Intending spectators will do well to remember that on the day of the race the only way to the inside of the course will be through the “controls” at Kildare, Castledemott, Carlow and Athy. Through these towns the cars will be obliged to travel at a slow speed, preceded by a bicycle. The racing cars will be in Ireland several weeks before the contest, but will not be allowed to go round the course till the day of the race. Several fields have been purchased near the Ballyshannon cross roads on which large stands and enclosures will be erected for the accommodation of the foreign visitors – Sir C. K.

nothing like a tasty slice of pi, part quinze

happy pi day/hour/minute/second

3/14/15 9:26 and 53.589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609. . .seconds

cats: they think they own the house: epilogue

and now the saga ends, sadly.

jewels, the black cat, joined princess, the gray one, at the kitty playground in the sky. she stopped eating about a week ago, and i took her to the vet on tuesday, whereupon the doc informed me of the cat's kidney failure. she went quietly into that good night.

she lived with us 15 good years, and she was a wonderful companion. she was tough as nails, and gentle as. . .erm. . .a kitten.

jack and owen, the other two cats, know something is amiss. owen skulks about and won't venture into our bedroom where jewels would sleep. jack just looks more confused than usual.

something IS off. there is no chatter when I enter my room, no slumbering presence at the foot of my bed. she is gone. . .but this time there is no creepy emotional detachment. this is real, and my home is changed.

thanks for the memories, jewels. you will be missed.  farewell, cat.

-----

for a good chuckle, the rest of the story begins here. enjoy the saga.

nothing like a tasty slice of pi, part deux

happy pi day/hour/minute/second



3/14 1:59 and 26.53589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609... seconds

Bad Prediction of the day:

"There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home." 

-- Ken Olson, president, chairman and founder of Digital Equipment Corp., 1977 --

This sentiment was uttered at about the same time that
a guy named Steve Jobs was starting a little company called Apple

he aint heavy. . .he's my brother

gene and me, 26 may 1990

-------------------------------


The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother


So on we go
His welfare is of my concern

No burden is he to bear
We'll get there


For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother


If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another


It's a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share


And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy he's my brother


He's my brother
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

you're fired!

"leave my hair out of it!"

a toast to family

May the best ye've ever seen
Be the worst ye'll ever see
May a mouse ne'er leave yer girnal
Wi' a tear drap in his e'e
May ye aye keep hale an' he'rty
Till ye're auld eneuch tae dee
May ye aye be jist as happy
As we wish ye aye tae be

happy easter egg

blessed are those

to whom Easter is not a hunt…but a find;

not a greeting…but a proclamation;

not outward fashion…but inward grace;

not a day…but eternity.

--thanks to dave h for this one--

please be on the lookout. . .

i have some friends who have left their native iraq and are refugees from the current war. they need a place to stay, so i thought i'd mention you. they will be stopping by in the next couple of days. if you have room to keep them, even for a night, they'd be indebted to you for life--they'll do anything for you.

please be on the lookout. . .they'll show up in two cars--a green mercedes and a white mercedes.

they travel light, and won't be too much trouble.

would you mind lending a hand?

thanks.

click here for a picture so you'll know what they look like.

rise of the machines. . .

today is THE DAY that doomed all of humanity. . .because according to "Terminator 2," April 19, 2011 at 8:11 PM, Skynet became self aware, starting a chain of events that led to a war between man and machine. . .

so everyone, smoke em if you got 'em!!

--thanks to k woodman for this one--

Cemetery Watchman

My friend Kevin and I are volunteers at a National cemetery in Oklahoma and put in a few days a month in a 'slightly larger' uniform.

Today had been a long, long day and I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's and have a cold one. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever--the heat and humidity at the same level--both too high.


I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace.. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers--about four or five bunches as best I could tell.


I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: 'She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!' But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.


Kevin would lock the 'In' gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey's in time.


I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.


I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint.


'Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?'


She took long enough to answer.


'Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.'


'My pleasure, ma'am.' (Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.)


She looked again. 'Marine, where were you stationed?'


' Vietnam, ma'am.. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71.'


She looked at me closer. 'Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can.'


I lied a little bigger: 'No hurry, ma'am.'


She smiled and winked at me. 'Son, I'm 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off.. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time..'


'Yes, ma 'am. At your service.'


She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flower bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.


She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X.Davidson, USMC, 1943.


She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944.


She paused for a second and more tears flowed. 'Two more, son, and we'll be done'


I almost didn't say anything, but, 'Yes, ma'am. Take your time.'


She looked confused.. 'Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.'


I pointed with my chin. 'That way, ma'am.'


'Oh!' she chuckled quietly. 'Son, me and old age ain't too friendly.'


She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on  Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out and more tears flowed.


'OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.'


'Yes, ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?'


She paused. 'Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle, Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.'


She stopped! Whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.


I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.


'Get to the 'Out' gate quick.. I have something I've got to do.'


Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road fast. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.


'Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.' I humped it across the drive to the other post


When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: 'TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!'


I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye--full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.


She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice far beyond the realm of most.


I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.


Instead of 'The End,' just think of 'Taps.'


As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer:  


'Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us.'


Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.

-- author unknown --

let's be irrational

anybody want a twinkie?

think again.

twinkie ingredients revealed.

happy new year of the rabbit. . .chinese style.

Xīn Nián Kuài Lè de Tùzǐ

happy new year of the cat. . .vietnamese style

chúc mừng năm mới của con mèo

seen on the west end of an eastbound landscaping company truck. . .

no job too small.

i wonder: will they do weekly landscaping around this?

dubious grammar of the day. . .

Received this in an email today:

"The Last and Final Deadline for submission is this Friday, January 28."

Funny, but I didn't receive notice indicating there was a Second-to-Last and Almost Final Deadline. 

Doesn't "Deadline" imply Last Day, making "Last" redundant, and therefore "and Final" doubly-redundant?

Where do these people learn to write?

christmas wishes

Nollaig Shona agus Athbhliain faoi mhaise daoibh go léir!

Happy Christmas and lovely New Year to all!

merry retro christmas

goo goo g'joob

I am 雞蛋的人

I am 雞蛋的人

I am 的海象

(released this date 1967)

miss you, my brother.

From: Gene
Sent: Wednesday, December 13, 2006 2:25 PM
Subject: FW: thought

So, there I was, June 5, 2003…staying with my kids while my ex was out of town for the weekend.  I was in fairly good shape…matter of fact, I ran twice that day.  That evening after dinner, the kidlets and I went to Dairy Queen.  I had a medium cone dipped in chocolate.  Medium!  Heck…their medium is big enough to feed half of Scappoose, fer cryin' out loud!

Anyway, there I was, lying on the couch at around 11:30 PM, the kids were in bed when I started to feel heartburn?  It seemed to be a bad case of heartburn, probably from that danged dipped cone that I had at DQ, so I got up, went upstairs and woke my oldest boy (he was 16 at the time) and asked him to get me aspirin.  All that was in the house was those kiddie aspirins…you know, " St Joseph 's" aspirin.  So, I took 5…I figgrd that should be enough.  I went back downstairs…after 30 minutes, the feeling was getting worse and my boy woke up to my groans as I was lying on the couch and said something like, "call the hospital?"  So I did and the advice nurse suggested that she send an ambulance.  Umm…oookay? 

While I'm waiting for the ambulance, all of a sudden, I felp…umm…poopy, if you know what I mean.  So, I headed to the can, sat down and…ewww…but you know how you feel so much better when you have an upset tummy and you either have an "ewww" on the toilet or you throw up?  Well…I felt much better!  So much better that after the paramedics arrived and after they inspected, detected and did all kinds of nasty things to me, I said, "thanks boys but I don't need that ride after all!"  So, they had me sign the "I don't want a ride" waiver and off they went!

Ok…now it's 3:30 AM, and the feeling is MUCH worse.  I drag my butt off to the toilet again but, try as I might, nothing's coming out.  And as I try, with each attempt, I feel weaker and weaker.  This ain't workin' so I stumble out to the couch, sit and moan.  Yep, I woke my boy up again and he says, "go to the hospital?"  Yeah…good idea…but….my thinking was cloudy so, instead of getting wacked with a $1,000 ambulance bill, I said, "I'll drive".  Really stupid but here I am writing so it worked out.

We get to the hospital at 4:30 AM, check in and 10 minutes later, I'm being wheeled into the emergency room.  They put me on a bed, hook me up with all kinds of wires and take all kinds of tests.  One of the male nurses comes up to me, tells me he's going to remove the wires from my body and then simply yanks them off all at once.  Ok…I have a hairy chest and well geez louise…get the picture?  Not pleasant!

            A few minutes later, the doctor in charge of the ER visits me and says, "You're having a heart attack."  Mmmhmm…I let that sink in and I ask, "are you sure?"  "Yes", he replies to which I reply, "are you really sure?"  He says, "let me ask you a few questions.  Are you having pains that run from nipple to nipple and straight down?"  "Uhh…yeah", I reply.  He continues with, "is the back of your neck sore?"  "Umm…yes", I quietly reply, feeling hopeless.  He then says somewhat sarcastically, "Umm…yeah…we're pretty sure you're having a heart attack."

            Half hour later, I'm medicated and being wheeled into the surgery room.  It's like a tv show...you know the scene from the patient's perspective…lying on his back, watching the ceiling tiles go by, raising your head a little, seeing the nurses pulling your gurney, looking back, seeing the nurses pushing your gurney and so on.  We roll into the operating room and I think to myself, "I know what's going to happen next" and sure enough, the roll me up to the operating table and say (I knew this was coming because I've seen it on tv), "One, two, three" and they hefted me up and off the gurney and slid me on the table..whoosh!  Yep…just like on tv!

            Surgery went well and before long, I was back in the Intensive Care Unit.  About a couple of hours later…I started to feel sick and I knew it was coming, so I grabbed the bucket and threw up.  You have to understand how much I hate tossing my cookies because I am a loud, violent thrower-upper…ughh!  I usually throw up chunks of kibbles and bits through my nose too!  But I got through it and nibbled on the saltines they gave me and sipped on my water bottle.  Soon, my doctor showed up to check on me.  He gave me a thing to help me with my breathing…kind of an exercise thing.  It was a round plastic tube with a plastic straw attached and a it had a flat round thing in the tube that you move up by sucking in air.  So I gave it a try and barely moved it!  He said that I had water in my lungs because of the amount of liquids I had been given and that, before he released me from the ICU, I had to suck on this thing, once every half hour until I could move the thing in the thing up 6 inches.  He left…I thought, I want outta here so I'm gonna suck on it every 15 minutes!  Well, by the end of the day, I had that thing in the thing going 12 inches…all the way to the top!

            O…bye the way, I threw up two more times that day and the third time, it was all liquid and it was a yucky brown color.  The brown…it was blood…some concern was felt by me and others!  My mother and brother came to visit me around 5 PM.  Mom left around 6:30.  At almost 7, I got that "I'm gonna toss cookies again" feeling and, since I didn't want to worry my brother any more than he was worried, I said, "Jimmy…I'm getting tired…I think I'm gonna sleep now".  He understood, said "see ya later" and took off.  The second he walked out, I grabbed the bucket and…

            I wake up…I'm shaking…I'm confused!  I look down at my toes and I've covered in brown-throw-up and the bucket is laying on its side.  "What the heck!", I'm thinking.  I look to my left…my nurse is sitting next to me…she looks concerned…I ask, "what happened?"  She says, "you threw up so hard, that you stopped your heart…but…you're okay now."  I look back over my right shoulder and notice a guy-nurse standing there, holding those paddles in his hand…you know, the paddles…the things that they use and yell, "CLEAR" and then they shock you with!  But he didn't need to use them but I was seconds away from that!

            I notice that there are four or five nurses in the room…and they look like they're ready for action.  I notice another four or five nurses at the door and they too look like they're ready for action.  And then, I can't help myself…I start sobbing uncontrollably…it lasts about a minute.  And then in about 3 more minutes, I start sobbing again…I can't help it.  And then…in about 3 more minutes, I feel the sobs coming…and I get pissed!  I get pissed because I had a heart attack.  I get pissed because I'm gonna be bed-ridden for the next 4 or 5 days in the hospital and that's gonna be real boring!  I get pissed because I'm covered in my own puke!  I get pissed because I'm crying in front of cute nurses!  I just get really dang pissed and…I suck it in…gather myself…and I don't sob again.  And as I'm "sucking it in" I feel myself returning.  You know that scene in Terminator 2, the one in which the liquid nitrogen spills on the bad Terminator and Arnold walks up to the bad guy's frozen self and smashes him into a bazillion pieces with the 2x4?  Remember how the fire warmed up the pieces of the bad guy and how they rolled back together and slowly, the bad guy reformed?  That's EXACTLY how I felt…I could feel the pieces of me coming back to me…I could feel myself reforming as I was getting pissed and when I got really pissed and stopped the sobs…I had completely returned!

            Well…long story short…they rolled me outta the ICU the next afternoon right after I showed the doctor my sucking the thing in the thing ability!  And the doctor told me that as soon as I could walk a half a mile, he'd let me go!  The hall in the wing I was in was 1/8^th of a mile around.  I took a couple of strolls the day they moved me from ICU and then Thursday, the next day, I said to myself, "I am soooo outta here", and so I walked.  That afternoon, the doc came up to check on me and eventually asked me how far I walked.  I told him "12 laps".  I watched him calculate, I saw his eyebrows raise when he figured that I had walked a mile and a half and so he said, "ok fine…you're outta here tomorrow".  Before he left, I asked him what happened, what were the signs, what were my vitals?"  He said that my cholesterol was 129…that's dang good!  My blood pressure was 110/80…I had the blood pressure of a 16 year old (bye the way, I was 47 at the time) and my resting heart rate was 65…and that's good too!  "So why did I have a heart attack?", I asked.  He's from India and so in his cute Indian accent, he replied, "you inherited some faulty hardware".   Hmm…ya never know, do ya!

            So, I left the next day. 

But this isn't a story about my heart problems but the problems continued.

           

            This is a story about my girlfriend Sabrina and how much I love her…how much she means to me…and how I can not imagine a life without her.

            Like I said, the problems continued.  March 3, 2006, 11 AM…I go to the bathroom in the office building.  I'm sitting on the can and when I'm done, I reach to my left, place my hand on the roll of toilet paper and…I just sit there, not knowing what to do next.  So, I pull my hand back and think about it.  A minute later, I again reach for the tp and again…I don't know what to do next.  Another minute passes and again, same thing.  And then I notice that I'm slumping to the right and the more I try to sit up, the more I slump.  Now I'm leaning against the stall wall and as I thing to myself, "sit up stupid...what are you doing", I slump and eventually…all of a sudden, I'm lying on the floor in the stall, kind of in a fetal position with my pants around my ankles.  I think, "ok...this is dumb…git yer butt off the floor before someone comes in and sees you lying here with your pants around your ankles."  But try as I might, I can't move.

            I don't know how long I was lying there, 5 minutes or less and then I look up and there is a guy climbing over the stall wall and he looks concerned!  "Crap", I think to myself, "there's a guy climbing over the stall wall…and my pants are around my ankles!"  I struggle to move and do something…anything, but I can't.  A few minutes pass…maybe, I have no track of time…and now I'm being dragged by my shoulders by paramedics.  Where did they come from?!?!?  They're checking me out…I'm still fussin' with my pants…and then, I surrender…I become the leaf in the stream and I figure I'm gonna end up where I end up and so, like I said I surrender.

I feel no pain.  I feel no fear.  All I feel is inconvenienced and powerless.

Soon it's 1-2-3…poof, and they lift me into a gurney and roll me into the hall.  I see lots of people, a few I recognize.  And yes, my final thought when I see people is (can you guess it?), "My damn pants are still around my ankles!"  Priorities…gotta have priorities!  I learned later that my pants were pulled up before I was lifted into the gurney but what did I know?!

30 minutes later, I'm at OHSU ( Oregon Health Sciences University …one of the local and nationally famous hospitals).  There's a lot of people in the room and there seems to be confusion on who can sign for, as I learned later, experimental surgery.  They call my brother and my mother, but they're not home.  People from work are there, my girlfriend is there but since they aren't family, they can't sign.  Somehow, someone notices that I seem somewhat coherent so they suggest I sign.  Ok, I figure…gimme the pen.  But I can't read, I don't know what I'm signing…I'm nervous but, whatdaheck…I sign!  At first, I couldn't write coherently…my whole right side is virtually useless.  I'm pissed that I can't read my signature but finally, the effort of being pissed is too much, so I just scribble.  I doubt very much that it is readable but…good enough for the docs and whoosh…I'm off to surgery!

I don't remember anything until 7 PM that nite.  Apparently the surgery was done by 2 PM and I was moved up to the ICU around 4.  5 PM, I wake up to see this big guy, I think he was black or latino…I don't know…and he's yelling in my face!  He's trying to get me out of my drug-induced sleep and wake me the heck up.  So I wake up but…I don't remember anything else until 7 PM when I look to my right and see my girlfriend sitting there, watching me and being her beautiful self…and I look to my left and see my brother Jimmy sitting there also watching me.

I try to speak…a word comes out and then…nothing.  So, Sabrina and Jimmy play verbal charades and try to guess what I said and what I want.  A few long seconds go by and I utter another word…and the charades begin again!  A few more seconds go by and I again utter something…charades…and then, the effort of trying to talk is wearing me out and so, with my right hand, I make a waiving-off gesture and I utter the complete sentence of, "O…never mind."  We go through this effort concluding with the gesture and the "O..never mind" four or five more times until I give up and just let them talk too me and at me.  9 PM rolls around, Jimmy goes home.  10 rolls around and Sabrina goes, although I could tell that she didn't want to.

Next morning at 9:15, I pick up the phone and call Sabrina.  She answers and I say, "Hi baby…how are you?"  The words just roll off my tongue!  And she goes ballistic…she is beside herself, she can't believe I'm talking!  Later, I found out why.  You see, I had had a massive stroke.  Sabrina and my family were told that it was possible that, worst case, I could be a vegetable!  But only time would tell how much, if any I would recover.  Matter of fact, had I not been found for another 3 hours, I would've died and the fact that I was operated on within 3 hours is why I recovered.  Within 24 hours, I was 95% recovered and I recovered the other 4.99% within a month.  I had "expressive aphasia (?) which means I sometimes would get this blank expression on my face in mid-sentence as I tried to find a word to express what I was saying.  To some degree, I still, once in awhile, can't find the word.  And I still have the residual affect of my handwriting is crummy.  I used to have very nice penmanship.  Now, I have to make sure I pay attention to what I'm writing, otherwise it comes out barely readable.

Anyway, the next day, Sabrina came to visit me and she filled me in on all the details of what happened, why she freaked when I called her.  And then she let it slip…I don't know if she realizes the magnitude of what she said…but she said that, when the docs told her of my potentially bad condition, she told me how she started looking down the road, planning how she would take care of me!

My God!  We're not married!  And she is planning to take care of me!  My God!  My God!  My God!

You see, I have not been the best of boyfriends to her.  I've put us…I've put her through some rocky times.  So rocky that anyone else would've ended the relationship a long time ago.  Yeah, I could blame and I have blamed a lot of things I've been through before I met her but that is dishonest and cowardly.  Bottom line…I loved her the minute I met her…really…I'm not kidding…I knew I loved her and would love her within 5 minutes of being with her…but, my actions did not live up to the standard that love requires.

And now, day by day, I'm focusing on doing the things that love requires.  I've never really been "in love" until now so I'm still learning what that means.  I pray that her patience lasts a little longer so that I can show her what I've learned as I learn it and so that I can continue to show her, through my actions, for the rest of my life, how much I need her…how much she means to me…how much I love her…and…how much I am in love with her.

---------------------------------------------------------

Gene Callahan McCarthy 

Proud Father, Proud Son, Proud Brother

21 August 1955 - 18 May 2010

Too short a time indeed.

We love you. We will miss you.

We weep because you are gone in body,

We rejoice because you are here in our hearts.

Save a seat at God's banquet for us.

Hoist a glass of the Water of Life with Dad,

And save a drop for me for when I join you.

If you think this is ugly, YOU SHOULD SEE THE FRONT END!

ignorance is. . .umm. . .

Good for you, Sarah Palin. A lesser human might have wilted under the blaze of her own, blinding hypocrisy.

But not you. You're a regular gal who gets paid $100k for a night of speaking. Only in your world could a Tea Party made of mostly old, rich whites bitching about taxes somehow be called a "revolution."

And you keep on:

• Taking shots at the "elite media" while flying through your multi-million-dollar book tour in a Learjet.
• Ranting against "socialized healthcare" even though your own family hopped the border to mooch. . .um. . ."socialized healthcare" from Canada.
• Calling yourself a feminist despite being the furthest possible thing from it.
• Complaining about "gotcha" journalism despite recently having to be told that Africa was not, in fact, a country.
• Lecturing people about abstinence-only education when your teenage daughter is already a single mom.

Yes, ignorance must truly be bliss.

Too good not to share.
headlineshirts.net

click here to see the t-shirts

rally to restore sanity. my birthday. coincidence? i think not.

now this is cool. . er, rather, hot!

These candy apple red cylinders started out life innocently enough as a couple of fire extinguishers. But after they ran out of foam, they got a second life as a pair of speakers.

http://technabob.com/blog/2008/10/30/fire-extinguisher-speakers-are-hot-hot-hot/

the rent is too damned high

The most interesting debater in Kentucky this week was Jimmy McMillan of The Rent Is Too Damn High Party.

image: nydailynews.com

McMillan wore black gloves and had a moustache that wound around his head like a ribbon, and a goatee that looked like two little fuzzy gerbils hanging from his chin. He was very, very, very angry. . .particularly about the rents, which he pointed out were too damn high.

After the debate, Sarah Maslin Nir of The New York Times tracked him down in Brooklyn to discover that McMillan’s own personal rent is, according to McMillan. . .zero. His landlords, he said, are “like family. They don’t want me to pay any money at all. I am basically living rent free.”

'Scuse me?

nytimes.com

what's wrong with this picture?

the weirdest dream i have ever had, or i was so tired i was fried.

This was my dream. Last night.

• • • • •

I was a Captain in the United States Army, stationed as a NATO Liaison Officer/Advisor at a small Russian Military Academy outside Moscow.


At one time we had a visiting dignitary—a Colonel from the USA—who was treated to the finest of Russian hospitality.


He and the other Russian Officers had all sat down in the Mess Hall to a lunch of Chicken, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy, Biscuits and Corn, much to the Colonel’s delight. He ate at a leisurely pace; his hosts enjoyed the time as he regaled them with stories of life in the Southern United States.


Sharply at noon, the Mess staff hustled all of them away from their table—500 or so cadets were due to flood through the doors in moments for the midday meal. The Colonel was beside himself, for he hadn’t finished his meal.


It was shortly after this when I came to meet the Colonel in the Commandant’s office for the first time. 


He was livid, in a forceful-with-a-Southern-charm kind of way. He was there to complain about his treatment in the Mess Hall, and I had to act quickly.


The Commandant did not know how this Colonel could not possibly understand that feeding 2,000 cadets in four shifts required clearing the Mess Hall every half hour starting at noon, hence the abrupt end to their otherwise leisurely midday meal. He was embarrassed, but he certainly did not want to receive a lecture on how to run his school and his Mess hall.


I translated the Commandant’s concerns and apologies in the most diplomatic of terms to the Colonel, and explained that no slight or insult was intended by the Russians when they terminated his lunch, fabulous as it was, with all haste and no warning.


I explained in Russian to the Commandant that the Colonel was an American celebrity of sorts, and he must be treated with the utmost care. I told the Commandant exactly who this visiting American was.


The visitor was Colonel Sanders.

• • • • •

This work is Copyrighted ©2010 by boredstiffgeeks.

It may not be reproduced in any manner 

without the express written consent of the author.