It's an outing of sorts, one by one companies are coming out with confessions that they inflated revenues and delayed the recognition of expenses. In the more publicized cases, the discrepancies run in the billions of dollars. But this only comes as a shock to women and old men. Everybody out there knows it's con and hustle. Most don't have the talent or the balls to pull it off, but they still get a vicarious thrill watching the big boys take it to the hoop. And it is not just one or two companies, it's like traffic on the expressway, everyone is speeding, but only the most flagrant violators will get slapped down.
We have all almost forgotten that in the 1980's, hundreds of savings and loans and banks made hundreds of billions of dollars in bad loans, under the watchful eye of the bank examiners and the Comptroller of the Currency. If the Federal Government hadn't come in to clean up the mess the entire banking system would have collapsed.
Rape and pillage. It has happened before and it will happen again. Must be something in the blood.
I played a little game this evening, with the Seven Deadly Sins - Avarice, Envy, Gluttony, Idleness, Lechery, Vanity,& Wrath - and the Seven Virtues - Charity, Faith, Fortitude, Hope, Justice, Prudence,& Temperance. I assigned one of each group to one of the seven spheres - Mercury, Venus, Mars, Moon, Earth, Jupiter,& Saturn.
Try it. I am not going to say that it is phun, but it is an interesting exercise.
Perhaps it is an indication of my character, for I felt much more at home with the sins that the virtues. But I consoled myself with the musing that this is the way of all flesh, akin to the doctrine, "Let all of the evil ooze out unto the mud."
I have felt the need for some mental stimulation and have begun to re-read, for the 3rd time - The Story of Civilization - Vol I - Our Oriental Heritage - Will and Ariel Durant. In my youth I was a voracious reader, and of all I've read, this eleven volume set remains the definitive reference on man's endeavors upon the planet. If you have any pretense to being a scholar or part of the intelligentsia, then some exposure to The Story is a prerequisite.
After discussing the need for a stable food supply, and fire, and cooking, Durant enlightens us with a reason there were so few fat women in primitive societies.
"Cannibalism was at one time practically universal; it has been found in nearly all primitive tribes, and among such later people as the Irish (hey I'm Irish), the Iberians, the Picts, and the eleventh-century Danes. Among many tribes human flesh was a staple of trade, and funerals were unknown. In the Upper Conga living men, women, and children were bought and sold frankly as articles of food; on the island of New Britian human meat was sold in shops as butcher's meat is sold among ourselves; and in some of the Solomon Islands human victims, preferably women, were fattened for a feast like pigs. The Fuegians ranked women above dogs because, they said, "dogs taste of otter."
Summa was a bookie, not the Vegas thing where 5 will get you 10, but a fairy that hung out around ink and parchment and leather bindings. Summa hung out around books. Sometimes bookies are call library angels, but Summa bristled at this nomenclature. She was always quick to point out that angels were entities that had been very bad, that were now trying to be good. Not so with fairies. Fairies had always favored phun and play and giggle, wiggle, laughing. Why be bad when having phun was so much better?
Summa's full moniker was Summapoeta. She favored the short sweetest of poems to the drudgery of wading through the ramblings of fools and their novels. Yes, beauty to Summa was to say much with little. -
And unto my beckoning
it did come
a perfect point
of celestial splendor
and with this light
I now see
the beauty amongst the shadows.
- to Summa this was a zillion times more beautiful than any novel.
He was a big guy and he was beat. For the last 6 days, he had been making all kinds of things - shapes, and colors, and places for things to unfold in.
And on the 7th day, the big guy stood before the swirling firmament, "Dammit! All I wanted was some Fresh Fish."
I repeat this ever Sunday. There is a metaphysic at work here. If you have ever created, made, anything, you know that there is always a lot of stuff that you throw away - not needed. Perhaps we are an after thought, or not needed at all? Perhaps it was something else, the swirl of the galaxies or the twinkle of the stars?
I am a little sad. I am imbibing the last of the Bulgari. It has certainly served me well and now no more. First the colors and now the wine. They're taking all my phun away.
About 5 years ago, I really lucked out. On a visit to The Liquor Store of the Stars, Reno, the owner, asked me if I would be interested in some 1995 Bulgarian cabs and merlots. He was letting them go at $15 a case. At less than $2 a bottle, how bad could it be? I bought 2 cases. After a decanting and a tasting, I hurried back the next day to buy the remaining 5 cases. The Bulgari was easily a $10-$15 vintage.
It was a rush having 7 cases of wine at your beck and call. It could have rained rats and I would not have cared. I had the Bulgari.
I used the Bulgari as my house wine. When I didn't have anything else to drink, it was a Bulgari night. A couple of months ago, I began to suspect that the Bulgari had gone the distance and I have been hitting on it pretty hard. What you see in the decanter is the last of my stash. For all I know, it's the last of the 1995 Bulgari left on the planet.
Hail Holy Light begins Chapter 3, of one of the greatest accomplishments ever, Milton's Paradise Lost. I know when I was in college, where you found Milton you found me not. It was only much later that I picked it up once again and was enchanted. Lost is a rough go. There is no way you just do it cover to cover. But every now and then, I return and do a page or two and remain enchanted, still.
Plum came over the other night to woo me with her culinary skills. While she was in the kitchen, banging on her pots and pans, I got a bit carried away lighting candles. Messy but phun.
I flopka. He flopkas. She flopkas. It flopkas. You flopka. We flopka. They flopka.
The above was considered blasphemous. Much like the apple in the garden, there was only one admonishment - Thou shall not flopka.
About a week ago, 3/2/02, I came across a site - Magic Bus. This site is dedicated to a particular bus route in some obscure city. It isn't an oh,ah, wiz bang kind of site, but nonetheless I liked it. Magic Bus was about the author's bus ride to work every morning. I relished its simplicity.
I thought each morning, I would check the financial markets, the weather, check my email, and then kick back and take a little bus ride. I linked to the site - www.flopka.net/bus.html - but since 2/28/02, the bus doesn't seem to stop there anymore.
To flopka is the only sin. To flopka is to not post and published.
The above was written several months ago. Every now and then, I would go back to see if Fopka was home. My diligence paid off. About a month ago, I went back and Flopka had returned. Long may you ride.
And let Him be of the first letters of my book. And so it came to pass, that between the bosoms of the first consonant, with great care, was placed the breath of life. And from this metaphysic arose a form - the "B" -O- "B"
And He stood before them pristine and proud, and spoke with a voice that seemed to shake the firmaments,"Fear me not unless you have sinned.",and they all shook with fear.
For 2,000 years, they had heard of the vengeance for the weak upon the wicked. They yearned for this with each prayer and penitence. But now to understand that it was they who must atone. And they all shook with fear
And He stood before them pristine and proud, and he spoke in a voice that shook the firmament, "And to all of those that do not believe in Me I will smite thee down with balls of fire. I who have endured the pit so that others may cross, an ever vigilant defender of the abyss of the twain between the darkness and the light. Thou were given all and asked to do only one thing. Thou were given all and asked to do only one thing. Thou shall not flopka."
And a crowd gathered around Him. From the crowd an older woman with a yellow shawl yelled, " There are many who claim to have made the ascension. How do we know that you are the true "B"-O-"B"?"
And the one known to some as Rephat turned to face the woman, "Your question is the answer to all you seek. I am the true "B"-O-"B". For all are either "B" -O- "B" or becoming "B"-O- "B".
From - The Book of Many Lies - How to Pretend and Confuse.
I. If Bob is good
then the anti Bob is good.
If Bob is good
then from this goodness
can emanate only goodness.
the antithesis of good
is also good.
good = good
Bob = antiBob.
Then the anti Bob ≠ Bob
but then good ≠ good
Bob = antiBob.
That which is irrefutable
from (1) and (2)
Bob = antiBob
And these words seemed to give the crowd great comfort for they sat down among the olive trees and rejoiced with food and dance. And the old woman with the yellow shawl spoke into the night,""B"-O-"B" is always greater than my needs."
200.5 is what I now call my 401K. Equity investing is not a zero sum game. Since the market peaked about 2 years ago, $7 trillion dollars in market value has just disappeared. $7 trillion is a lot of money - $7,000,000,000,000. My economics is a bit off, but I think that $7 trillion is the value of about 2 years of the total output of the entire economy. In other words, everything that everybody did for the last 2 years has just disappeared.
We have been hearing report after report, that the economy is doing ok, in large part due to consumer spending, but it is really a canard. Within the last 2 weeks, investors have finally woken up to the fact that we are in big trouble. Two weeks ago, the Dow was down about 800 points, and this was followed by last weeks 700 point decline.
In truth, the only thing holding the economy afloat is the voodoo economics of - buy furniture now and don't pay anything for 1 yr - but a car now and don't pay anything for 1 yr - get a credit card and charge a bunch of stuff and don't pay anything for 1 yr. It looks good on paper but it is actually very shaky.
Everyone will be watching the market today when it opens at 9:30 am est. Present indications via the Globex aren't encouraging. The overnight futures are predicting a substantial decline on the open. Still it is hard to predict how the market will end the day. But regardless of what happens today or this week, the stock market will not fully recover for many, many. years.
Any market recovery over the next couple of years will be very slow going. Succinctly, the reason for this is that when the market was continually rallying, everyone was making money and they just let their profits ride. But after a substantial bear market, there will always be a group of investors that will be so thankful to get even part of their money back, that they will sell into any attempted rally.
Hope you had fun at the Big Party, because it looks like we are going to be cleaning up the mess for several years.
I am not sure whether I should discuss this. It started a few years ago when I moved into these apartments. I would find myself doing strange things, especially at night when I was alone. I don't think there is a word for my affliction. That makes discussing it all the more difficult. I, I, I like to smell, I like to smell other people's, I like to smell other people's laundry when they use fabric softener. I have finally broken down and got some Downy and one of those little plastic balls of my own. But this is me, I've got everything but I haven't used them yet. And somehow sneaking is must more fun.
I am also rather fond of baby powder. I love it when I am out playing pool and they have run out of chalk and some thoughtful soul has procured baby powder. It's like open season on punks. It is a bit messy though. I tend to get a bit carried away and leave little hoof prints all over the green felt.
I have been dwelling on space. Einstein et. al., make a big deal out of time. Time is a relatively straight forward concept, but not space. We have the Big Bang and the expanding universe, but what did the universe bang into and exactly what is it expanding into? S. Hawking and all the other, we know just about everything but just can't seem to get it to work group, just conveniently assume space. But what is the difference between the area the universe has expanded into and that that still awaits? Conceptually, this is captured in the Qabalah via - a trinity, a trinity, we want a trinity - Ain Soph Aur, Ain Soph, and Ain. However, the concept of a prior raw space awaits the touch of another. Perhaps a dimensional collapse would provide more rigor.
Back to the planet. If the universe, that which was once teeny tiny and is now big, is expanding, what is it expanding into?
I was bored to the bone last night, apartment fever. My skin yearned to feel the scratch of the night. I needed some stars and moon and swirling black with beckonings from the shadows. And just maybe if I was lucky, some golden locks to caress, some hair to run my fingers through.
It was about 8:45 pm est, and my stomach was growling because I had been such a, hadn't fixed dinner yet, slacker. Part of me probably knew when I woke up in the morning, or that afternoon when I did the mall at lunch, or waiting at a red light on the way home, or the moment I slide the key in the lock after a hard day at work - but at that moment I was clueless. All that was hitting on my synapses was that I was, like a wolf, hungry, and needed to spread my wings and stretch my legs, and get my ass out of the apartment.
I took my shoes off, then my shirt and ditched it on the floor, and finally - they'll have to come off sir if you want to do it right - one leg at a time, I took my pants off and chucked them on a heap of jeans and causal slacks, that was growing on the sofa. Heading in the right direction but still several states away.
Tori Amos - Strange Little Girls - still wanted some dizzy, so I popped her in the little Sony CD player and kicked the volume up about half way, as I went to see what was cooking in the frig. Eureka! I still had about half of a 1.75 litre bottle of Finlandia Vodka ($24.99) slowing down in the freezer. The crest for the Dia is 3 reindeer with a big red dot over the antlers. I call going down, bucking up.
With a lucky Vegas shot glass in hand, I, pow! pow! pow!, bucked up a bit. I was aiming for the prefrontal lobe. My 3 shot pattern was a little scattered, left of center, but when you are shooting buck, God cuts you some slack.
I could tell you about taking a shower, and getting dressed, and chilling a bit more with the roe, and dancing with Tori to Heart of Au - but I thought I just did that.
I am a strong, May 20th, creature of habit. I was going to play it safe and head to Whiskers, my little neighborhood bar, for some wings and night stuff. But the moment I opened the door, I felt the magic of the night and the need to be elsewhere. Perhaps the neighbors wouldn't understand. Perhaps no one would. Not even the many I's that dwelt inside had it all together. Not until much, much, later would it occur to me that I was hunting for something different, maybe even a little strange.
With the crickets baying at the half moon, I did a boogie check to make sure I had my wallet, cigarettes, and lighter, turned the key, and vanished into the thrill of the night.
Well, vanished isn't exactly right, I had to drive. But I had one of the best de's ever, Talk Is Cheap - Keith Richards, coming out of my speakers, and with a little fancy right foot work - gas, brake, gas - and a few lefts and rights, I found myself about 15 miles away at Dugan's, another quaint and curious, neighborhood bar. But not my, "Yeah, I have seen him around.", neighborhood bar.
It was early Monday night, and I wasn't expecting a crowd, but I could tell from the cars in the parking lot, that I wasn't the only one feeling the itch. I was a little disappointed though when I sailed in, all couples and groups, no strays. But I was already there and still, like a wolf, hungry.
I took a seat at an isolated area of the bar. I ordered 10 wings medium, a vodka shooter, and a Rolling Rock with a frosted mug. The chick behind the bar brought the rock and the shot. I lit a cigarette and waited for the foul.
It was only a little before 10 and people were still meandering in - a couple, two unrelated guys, another couple, two chicks, another guy, two more couples, and then there she was, perhaps an angel.
Well perhaps the angel of another. On an scale of 1-10, she was a high 5 or a low six. She was maybe 35, 5'4, and a little overweight. She was casually dressed - jeans, tank top, and sandals. But the thing that got me was her hair. She was a blond and she had her hair pulled back in a big floppy bun - "With perfumed hair, that came undone." But the thing that made the 10-7 split, was that she smiled, came right over to where I was holding reign, and said, "Hi, my name is Lea. Is anyone sitting next to you?"
I am not going to bore you with all the details of how cool I was, or that I bought - all the guys dig Lea because she knows onomatopoeia - several drinks, and shared my fair with her, and complimented Lee a hundred times on her hair, and made her laugh, and how I was going to pay the check with a credit card but somehow ended up using cash, or how I said, "Do you mine if we go to your place?"
Now a woman is a creature of many surprises. Instead of being put off by going to her place, Lea was relieved. She told me she liked me and everything, but she was a little worried and she would actually feel much safer with all her things and stuff and knowing where she was in the morning. And then she gave me a hot hug. I don't even think she even considered that we would probably trash her place and she would have to clean up the phun after I split.
I followed Lea home. She only lived about 2 miles from Dugan's. She had a neat, 2 bedroom apartment, and her roommate was elsewhere.
Lea told me to sit on the sofa. Then she put on some bitch in heat, lite a candle and some incense, and then went into the kitchen. Lickety split, she was back with some chilled chardonnay and the perfect pear.
Did we have phun?? Sure we did. The whole thing got started with me undoing Lea's bun, running my fingers through her hair over and over again, then pulling her beautiful blond hair to the side, taking a slurp of the wine, and squeezing some of the sweet, sticky, pear juice on her neck. We did it on the sofa, and in the kitchen, and we finally ended up in the room with a bed in it.
Everything is still cool and I think I will get away with it. I have before. But on the advice of council, I have been advised not to go into too much detail here.
Lee and I did make a mess and had lots of phun. Shortly after, she fell fast asleep, I didn't. I went into the kitchen looking for a distraction and I spied some scissors. I went back to see how my little princess was doing with her beautiful, beautiful, hair. Just a snip, she will never miss it. But once I started, I just couldn't stop. It was too perfect. Before I had finished, I had already filled up half of a Kroger sack. I wanted to shave the stubble but I was afraid that I would disturb my princess as she sweetly slumbered. Some discoveries are best made alone.
I haven't gone back to Dugan's or seen Lea since the scalping, but I have thought about her a million times. I wonder how she took it?
She probably woke up the next morning feeling a little different, you know, lighter and fresh. She probably attributed this to, bless her heart, me. And then perhaps she went to scratch her head and that is probably when the panic first started to set in, must have been a rush. One hand, then two, trembling, shaking, freaking out. And then stumbling to the - mirror, mirror, on the wall - who is the baldest of them all? Blood curdling came next, a scream, and then a gushing of fast hot tears down both cheeks, sobbing.
When I think about Lea and our time together, I always feel a little bit bad. I should have left a note, "If you don't like the new do, you can always wear a wig."
PS - Yeah, I know you wanted to see a pix of the bald headed chick and everything. It would certainly be a top 10 for me if I had it. But I violated the first principle of a gonzo photographer. I left my camera at home.
by robert d
"Out of the Worry of Doing and into the Bliss of Done" (John Donne)
I've finished Part III of Scream. I think you will like it. It has a nice little hook at the end. I am going to change the title though. It is either going to be - Things to Do With a Woman While She is Sleeping - or - I Never Use My Real Name When I'm Away From Home. I will probably go with the first title. I'll put Part III up in a day or so. It's a must, so don't miss it.
If you haven't hit on Parts I&II, scroll down a bit. I am sorry that Part II comes before Part I, but it is a Blogger thing.
And what can be done? She grows more beautiful with sleep and upsets all the men in the village with her barefoot dancing. Find her a job where she must wear shoes. No! Make the beautiful young woman dance upon the grapes and make wine.
And as the young woman began to pound the fruit of the vines under her feet, her pulse quicken. And beneath her she could feel the pounding heartbeat of the mother earth, dazzled and intermixed with a thousand civilization. She closed her eyes and she let the pagan drums take control. Her contentment and peace, intermingled with the fury and passion. Her hips swayed for the unseen Lord. And her arms glisten with the sweet juices from the grapes, beginning to mix with her own perspiration from the dance and the sun. The color of the purple stain upon her flesh looking like a new canvass, a scarlet purple against a milky white cloud. Seductively, she slowly stroked and caressed her own body. Gentle as a woman touching the face of the rose, stroking each open petal to find the hidden treasures.
I'm a bag man. Everybody seems to know. Well it is kinda hard to hide.
When I want to get a lot of attention I wear a paper bag over my head. I am partial to Kroger paper sacks. I have tried lots of others but a Kroger paper bag fits just right and has a unique fragrance.
"Paper or plastic?"
"Oh paper. You can see through plastic."
I cheat a little when I go Krogering, I roll up the end of the bag so I can just see the ends of my feet. That way I can slowly get around without causing to much damage. But driving is still a bitch.
I don't have car insurance anymore. Yeah, I have had a few accidents. I thought I had it worked out. Only bag on the expressway. You don't have to worry about turning or lights or anything. You can't bag and listen to music too loud. It helps to roll the windows all the way down. If you hear desperate car horns honking from the left - veer right. If you hear a bewildering sound from the right - try easing to the left. But as I found out last time, if you hear horns everywhere you are fucked.
I'm trying to cut back on bagging, especially the driving part, but it's hard. There's something about the crinkle/crackling of new paper as I bag up that still has a hold on me.
I am reading Little Birds by Anais Nin. Well reading is not exactly right, it's not a cover to cover pursuit. But every now and then, I pick up Anais's (she has the funny little double dot symbol over the i) little ditty and give it a go. Little Birds is a collection of short stories. Little Birds is a collection of soft and fluffy porn.
According to the preface, Anais Nin was a house mother to a group of Bohemians - painters, poets, writers, and such. One of the ways she paid the rent was by writing soft porn. Although each work has the delicate touch of a woman, what is soft today, during its time, was probably much more enticing.
In the spirit of Nin, I will try my hand at a little billow and fluff.
She had nice breasts, with when she got excited, with pouty black nipples. Excuse me, I stand corrected, those perky little beckonings weren't balck, they were brown. Let's just say a proud pair of sensitive flesh.
She was trying something different. She had the kind of bra where you could pull a little bit and get the cups to catch underneath, pushing the breasts up, with taunt breasts beckonings - beckoning my quiver, beckoning my touch...
"Can I help you sir?"
"I'm starting an endeavor and need something very small."
"As small as you can make it, and then smaller."
"You mean you need something teeny tiny?"
I am not that good at conjuring up the very small. I have to approach small in steps. I do it like this.
I look at something. Then I say, "This is composed of atoms." Then I say, "Atoms are composed of electrons, neutrons, and protons." Then I say, "Of the three components of the atom the swirling electrons are the smallest." Then I say, "I have forgotten but the electron is composed of particles even smaller." Here I stop and say, "This is my smallest." Then I take out a hammer and smash it and make it smaller still.
In the beginning there was not much. It was so teeny, tiny.
We share freely
but not all
so we may know our brothers.
For our mother never tells
because she loves us all.
But amongst her lovers
there is one
who marks his offspring
in a special way.
And these are the ones
that we seek,
these we call
Genii are excessively prolific. It is as if they are compelled to disseminate and share. No obstacle impedes their ability to make the subjective, objective. There is always an established corpus associated with the endeavors of the genius, a corpus being an interconnected body of work.
I haven't seen the movie, but I read A Beautiful Mind by Sylvia Nasar, the story of the life of mathematical genius and nobel laureate John Nash. The outstanding feature of John's life is that throughout it all he was obsessed with committing to paper in symbols strange his thoughts and obsessions. It was almost as if the faithful scribe could not stop.
We have all channeled the flow and when we are there it is wonderful. We create with impunity. The work is ready to come forth and all we need do is jiggle our hook a bit - Fresh Fish. We are alive and whatever else we might believe, we know in our heart and soul and whatever else we hold sacred that the magick is in the doing.
The difference in us and them though is that they are not easily distracted. The trinity of the genius being energy, focus, and persistence. They instinctively banish all the distractions. With laser concentration they focus and bore deeper. They take what is given and ask for more. The more amazing being that they never ask for the impossible.
The metaphysic in reviewing the work of a genius is to ask why? What is the genius trying to achieve? What is the entity with an established corpus yearning for? One might venture fame and fortune but this is almost never the case. In fact where this is the motive the work is suspect. For all genii the purpose is the same. There is one unifying principle. The genius with symbols strange is striving for communication with others, with the kindred, with entities like themselves.
Edgar Allan Poe is my favorite poet. There is little doubt that Poe was the John Nash (A Beautiful Mind) of American Literature. The ups and downs of his life are indicative of a manic depressive, but a genius nonetheless. Everything that Poe touched bears the signet of The Muses.
The Raven is my favorite poem. Annabel Lee rides high on my top ten list. The only other offering that comes close to these is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. Paradise Lost would certainly also make the list, but I really don't consider Milton's opus a poem, it is much more a story.
About five years ago, I tried to memorize The Raven. My mind is not what it used to be, but I diligently worked at reproducing this masterpiece. After about a week, I had committed about a third of it to memory, but could go forward nevermore. I was exhausted, weak and weary, but Poe just snickered and went on and on. The Raven is 17 stanzas long. If you ever get it all down I will certainly be impressed.
With some literary license, I took the verse to Annabel Lee and set it to music, a transformation of stanzas into staves. I actually set the verse to the chord progression of The House of The Rising Sun. There is a bit of irony here. The House of The Rising Sun is the first song I learned to play on the guitar. Annabel Lee will probably be the last song I ever write.
Scattered throughout my writings are a few quaint and curious clues, clues to my propensities and predilections, clues to my fancy, clues to my familiars. I suspect that for most who have encountered these quibbles and quirks they remained "quaint and curious" and nothing more.
And when Adam returned from his daily travails in the garden, he was shocked to see both Lilith and Eve, together, waiting for him. All of his cunning and wit for not, they had found each other. He was instantly at the ready, for another Bitches' Day in Paradise.
I got busted yesterday. I got caught. What makes it worse is that I got, hands up, arrested. I am a HO now, a habitual offender. I got popped for playing Let's Pretend.
You know. Let's pretend I'm young. Let's pretend I am way cool. Let's pretend I do everything right and never pull a boner.
I don't seem to be able to stop pretending. I have already started doing a little Let's Pretend this morning. And I know I will be Let's Pretending tomorrow. What makes it so hard to stop is that everyone seems to be playing Let's Pretend together.
So remember, I am brilliant, sagacious, wealthy, puckish, in great shape, sexy, and very successful. And I'll pretend you are anything you want to be. Well except, you know, Robert "d" is the coolest.
Go you not too far here, because the path is littered with the remnants of the fallen.
When contemplating the hierarchy of the angelic, the astute will note that there is more than one type of angel and thus conclude that not all angels are the same. And if there is a difference between some, then why not all?
And Milton tells us that Lucifer's legions numbered 1/3 of the total. And in battle, Lucifer lost, being outnumbered, 2 to 1.
I'm sure i don't have it right, but it is meant to imply - comforted by a stranger. The phrase is attributed to the french author Henri de Balzac. Balzac was renown for the number of characters in his stories, a few of his longer works had hundreds.
Henri was his mother's second offering. Her first child, also a boy, died shortly after birth. The mother attributed this to something in her breast milk. So with the expected arrival of another, arrangements were made to hire a wet nurse for Henri - souri pas estrange - comforted by a strange.
And before each battle, the Bobs would gather to hear the words of their high priests - "All that hear the word of Bob are saved. All that hear the word of Bob are saved from the welter. All that hear the word of Bob are saved from confusion. All that hear the word of Bob are grateful. All that hear the word of Bob are content. All that hear the word of Bob know peace."
And before each battle, the antiBobs would gather to hear the words of their high priests - "And in the beginning there were many gods and now there are none. There is no truth only lies. Like a snake hissing in a pit, words spoken are like venom to the mind. Shield yourself from falsehoods and lies. Fight for the light and the darkness so that all may be free."
Sometimes I have got it and sometimes I don't, but last night was a keeper. For most, last night was a dazzling array of fanfare and pyrotechnics, 30 or 40 minutes of ohs! and ahs!, and then nothing.
No so here. I maintained a consistent, steady pace and went on and on and on - all night long. Actually, I was still going after the sun came up. I probably could have turned it into a nooner, but around 9 am I pulled the plug.
Last night and during the early part of the morning, I used my new, blinking, red, white, and blue, 4th of July lights, for the first time and I blink, blink, loved them.
"Daddy?" "What did people do before there was Blogger?"
Before there was Blogger, and Word, and cut and paste, and save and delete, and such, more than a few of us captured the moment with pen and yellow legal pad. I am actually crafting this now on a yellow legal pad. Next, I will probably input it using Word, and then eventually, paste and copy it into Blogger. I have done it any number of ways, but paper and pen will always be a fav. The heft and glide of a good pen, my mark upon the parchment thus.
Ignatius Reilly was one of us. I only vaguely recollect him, but he was always with yellow legal pad at the ready, a faithful scribe. Ignatius Reilly was the main, and yes he was, character, in O'Toole's, A Confederacy of Dunces.
What an apt way to describe so many lives?
So whenever you blog, homage must be paid to the ancestors, those that used the old magick of paper and pen. And to the old one's, Igi was a God.
Cindy hadn't really lost her slipper, she left it behind in the garden on purpose. Better that, then to muck up the pumpkin. But now there was this handsome prince, incessantly searching, for the foot that fit the shoe with shit.
That's what I had for dinner last night. And yes it was, it was wonderful.
I had a home grown, never been refrigerated, tomato and cheese sandwich, with mayo, on san fran sour dough, with a dusting of garlic salt and pepper. My legs grew weak with every bite.
And then it was there and I said, well I said what I often say, why not? The watermelon was the best yet. It was a seedless, pouty red, down your face juicy, wonder. How good was the watermelon, really? The watermelon was mine and I was a once and future king.
This is true, a good book is worth its weight in gold. But what is a good book? The answer is rather simple. A good book is a book that one enjoys reading over and over again. A good book is one that has jousted and jest and won your heart. A good book is one that you could never, never, never, have written. A good book is always eager for your touch.
"Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -"
I've gotten a few entries in the contest to guess the number of socks and underwear I have. The consensus is that I have approximately 65 pairs of socks and 35 pair of underwear. The sock number seems about right, but I suspect the underwear figure is too conservative.
One respondent, however, thinks I wear sandals all the time and doesn't think I have any socks. Furthermore, they considered my claim of a sock drawer to be a ruse or a canard.
To dispel any lingering doubts as to my claim of a sock drawer, I offer the snap below as proof of its existence.
But how do you know that this is a snap of my sock drawer, the sd of the legendary gonzo digital journalist, robert "d" snaps? It could be a snap of my roommate's sock drawer, but I don't have a roommate. Or maybe I knocked on a neighbor's door and inquired as to whether I could take a snap or two of the sock drawer belonging to the man of the house, but I am not that cool. Or maybe I found this snap of a sock drawer somewhere out on the web, but I expect that the snap above, of the sd of the legendary gonzo digital journalist, robert "d" snaps, is the only snap of a sock drawer in existence, web or otherwise.
To know one must have faith, and it helps if you are wearing cool socks.
It's July 1st and I am ready. I changed all of my calendars last night so I will not miss my lady again. According to the wolf calendar, that I have neatly tacked to the wall, near the nightstand with the shadeless lamp, the full moon for July 2002 falls on July 24th. I will be ready.