The Jews Created This Mess, They Need To Clean It Up

A headline caught my eye the other day.

BEIT SHEMESH, Israel — A sign outside a row of synagogues directing women to walk on the other side of the street has turned this town near Jerusalem into a front line of a raging national debate about the imposition of strict social codes by ultra-Orthodox zealots.

A community of 86,000 about a half-hour’s drive from Jerusalem, Beit Shemesh has a growing ultra-Orthodox population. The town has become a cauldron of tension in recent days, with crowds of black-cloaked men assaulting television crews and facing off with police, pelting them with rocks and eggs.


These dumbasses actually believe that women shouldn't walk on the same side of the street as men, among a plethora of other ridiculous nonsense that they espouse.  

Then, in this morning's paper...

BETHLEHEM, Israel - The annual cleaning of one of Christianity's holiest churches deteriorated into a brawl between rival clergy Wednesday, as dozens of monks feuded over sacred space at the Church of the Nativity.  The monks were tidying up the church ahead of Orthodox Christmas celebrations in early January, following celebrations by Western Christians on Dec. 25.  The fight erupted between monks along the border of their respective areas.  Some shouted and hurled brooms.

Jesus H. Christ!  I don't need to go into the equally ridiculous shenanigans of Islam to make this point.  All three of these religions, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, were given birth by the Jews.  Each of them claim Abraham as their father.  They each worship the same deity.  Each of them have caused more trouble on this earth and been a bigger pain in the ass than all other religions combined.

The Jews created this mess, they need to clean it up.  

God, protect me from your followers.

No Margin For Error Vegetable Market

Peace and Beauty on my doorstep.

A couple of my favorite things this time of year.

My mother's Christmas cactus.  I inherited the cactus ("saved" would be a better word) following my mom's passing a couple of years ago.  It was forgotten and parched.   Each year it rewards me with its beauty and memories.

My Pink Perfection camellia.  If Nature produces anything more beautiful, I don't know what it is.

And, last but not least, the wonderful feeling of kindness and compassion that fills the air at this time of year. 

May you all be blessed.

What's Wrong With Me? Don't you have any respect for the dead?

This is the time of year when we are supposed to look back and wax nostalgic about people and events that have passed.  As I grow older, more and more the great giants, names that accompanied me throughout my lifetime for good or bad, have gone to the other world.  Usually there is at least one name each year who influenced me, be it politician or poet.

But this year, there was no such name in the news.  After scouring the NYT and Washington Post pages for deceased notables, I could find no one who had much influence on me at all.  Sure, there were those who were giants in their industry, but none that made me pause and reflect, including Bin Laden (especially Bin Laden).  Be that as it may, there are a few that bear recognition, at least from my perspective.  In alphabetical order:

James Arness.  How in the world is the world going to be safe without Marshall Matt Dillon?  Even today when I need something to fall asleep to, I'll look for Gunsmoke.  I enjoy seeing future stars in their guest appearances on the show, like Kurt Russell as a little boy.  Countless hours spent as a kid patrolling the neighborhood with my cap pistol ready to stand tall like Mr. Dillon. 

David Broder.  Pulitzer Prize winner, columnist, pundit.  It was my pleasure to meet and share lunch with Mr. Broder on several occasions when he would be a guest speaker at a small college where I worked.  I miss his segments on the Bob Edwards Show (XM-NPR).  A little more conservative than me, but a really nice guy with a great objectivity and knowledge of goings on inside of the beltway and a great conversationalist over a glass of wine.

Joe Frazier.   Heavyweight Champion of the World.  Nobody my age can forget the Thrilla In Manilla where Smokin' Joe knocked out Mohammed Ali.  No live television back then.  We all huddled around the radio hanging on every word.  Never met the man and don't know much about him but by all accounts a "nice guy" in a brutal sport.

Steve Jobs.  Here's a guy who had  influence over me whether I liked it or not.  If I never hear another Apple groupie extol the virtues of Macs over Windows again it will be too soon. Those people who rave over how much better Macs are fall into two categories, games and graphics.  Those who do business in the real world need an open source operating system that communicates and cooperates with everyone else.  Apple never quite seemed to figure that out.  But they do make fine toys.  I like my iPhone.

Andy Rooney.  'Nuff said.  Entertaining and insightful enough to make you sit through ten-minutes of obnoxious commercials to catch his three-minute segments.

Elizabeth Taylor.  This obituary surprised me.  I thought she was already dead.  Few actors have the talent to make you love or hate them like Elizabeth Taylor.  An over-the-top primadonna in an over-the-top period, the last of the big budget studio stars.  Fell in love with her in National Velvet and hated her in Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe.  Of course, Cleopatra was one of the great spectacles of all time.

Dan Wheldon.  Champion.  Indianapolis 500 winner.  Died in a horrific crash in the last race of the 2011 Indycar season.  Don't know why, but I really liked the guy.  The first thing you think is, why did it have to happen to such a nice guy?  But then, you have to ask yourself if not him, who?  Racing is a dangerous sport, but so is football.  Comes with the territory.

Why Older Women Will Have Sex With You

That was the headline that grabbed my attention at the Huffpost this morning.  I wondered, has something changed?  Is there something I need to know?  Are there other reasons why older women are more likely to sleep with you than the reasons I already know?

It turns out that the answer is, no.  There aren't any new reasons.  Older and wiser and know what I want.  Past the social and mental hang-ups to one-night stands.  No longer thinking about relationships and having children, etc.  The same old reasons apply.  But now, it seems, there is a new twist.  It's now... trendy.  So trendy in fact, that there is a whole section of the Huffpost dedicated to it.  Love Post50.

Geese!  I thought this trendy thing started years ago with Sex In The City.  You know, another one of those TV shows that reflect real life... four beautiful women to whom sex is a hobby.  The kind of thing you see everyday.  Right?

Of course, it is true that women in their 50s are a much softer touch for sex.  Something any astute male figured out long ago.  Kinda like men figured out in the bar scene that "go ugly early" or "go for the fat girls" greatly increased your chances of getting laid.  But this new trend has nothing to do with the bar scene.  It's a social shift.

There's a huge retirement development in Florida called The Villages.  It's well known that there is more sex going on between the golf cart and walker set than any other place in the state.  My wife, who sells Medicare insurance, occasionally gives seminars at The Villages where she informs the oldsters about their insurance options.  But the geezers know what they want.  To hell with cancer, high blood pressure or gout, they go straight for the plan that pays for their Viagra.  At one recent seminar an impromptu discussion broke out between attendees on the best way to cut the Viagra tablets so as to get the maximum mileage out of them.

The psychologists and social bloggers can study this phenomenon for its root causes all they want.  I can save them a lot of time and effort.  The free love generation has now gotten education, careers, families, AIDS, and stuff like that behind them and it's time for a little fun.

Sex - Drugs - Rock n Roll!  Yeah baby!

Of Vampire Bats and Warm Cockles

I ran across this video at the Huffpost this morning and it reminded me of something similar that once happened to me.



When I was a little boy I found a baby bat in the yard.  He was no larger than the one in the video.  Of course, I brought him inside and put him in a shoe box where I made him a nice bed out of an old sock.  My mom got me an eye dropper so I could feed him warm milk.  My dad wanted to destroy him because bats were known carriers of rabies and he was afraid for my safety.  But I wouldn't let him do it.

To be honest, I was afraid as well.  Not of getting rabies, but of being bitten.  For all I knew, he was a vampire bat and I could see he had sharp little teeth.  Besides, bats are just scary creatures in the first place.  But my sense of compassion overcame my fear and I began nursing him. I was able to get him to take the milk from the dropper and over the next week or so he grew stronger.  I was esthetic that I was able to save this little creature and had become really attached and devoted to him.

Then, one day when I picked him up to feed him, he reached up with his little claws and grabbed onto my finger, just like in the movie.  It so startled me that I jerked my hand away, which threw him across the room, against the wall, and killed him dead.

Wheel of Missed-Fortune

She used to drive me crazy that wife of mine.

It had become our routine to eat dinner and watch television while sitting on the floor at the coffee table.  And, like so many other American families, we frequently found ourselves stranded in the wasteland between the national news and prime time. In our part of the country, that meant Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.

“The category is Titles,” Pat announces. The contestant spins the wheel and calls out, “Give me an ‘R.” “There is no R,” replies Pat. The next contestant spins the wheel. “Give me a C.” “There are two ‘C’s”, announces Pat. The audience applauds. Vanna turns the letters.  “The Iceman Cometh,” announces my wife.  "Who?,” was my informed reply.  It takes the contestants another five minutes to figure it out.

The next puzzle is two words comprised of about two dozen letters. The contestant spins the wheel and after three letters are displayed, “Chrono-synclastic infundibulum,” proclaims my partner with glee. “WTF! There's only three letters on the board!” I exclaim.  Another ten minutes confirms her answer.

At the end of the program, Pat and Vanna, standing arm in arm, announce that if you would like to be a contestant on the show the Wheel of Fortune motor home will be in the following areas.  Sure enough, there it is, Baja Georgia is a stop on the way. Wife has a gleam in her eye.  A month or so later she gets a phone call during dinner and starts jumping for joy.  Seems we’re headed for La La Land and the Big Wheel in the Sky!

It turned out that the Wheel of Fortune motor home did indeed visit Baja and wifemate decided to audition. She didn’t say anything about it because she was afraid she wouldn’t be selected and would be embarrassed. I could have calmed her fears for I knew that anyone who could rip through the Daily Jumble and the NY Times crosswords like she could was a shoe-in.

“So how does this work?,” I asked. “Do they send us plane tickets?”

“No,” she replied, “We have to buy our own.”

“Well, do they put us up?” I asked.

“No,” she answered, “We have to get our own rooms.”

“Well what the hell do they pay for?” I inquired.

“Nothing,” she responded. “But we get a discount at the Universal Hilton.”

Okay, two round-trip air tickets and five days at the Universal Hilton (We decided to hang for a few days to visit friends and family.)… $2,500 (in late 80’s dollars).

“Dang,” I thought, “for that kind of cash we could go to Paris. She’d better win or we’re screwed.”

The day of the show dawned bright and early. Had to be there by 9:00 am. Caught a cab for the short ride over to Universal Studios.

She was impossible to live with. PMS on steroids. The ultimate stage fright anxiety attack, although we were both on-air television veterans. By the time we got to the studio I was the most inconsiderate and worthless SOB on God's green earth.  We were off to a good start.

Fortunately, we were separated immediately upon arrival, contestants off into the nether-world, the rest of us into the studio audience where we were given instructions on proper behavior and told to keep an eye on the guy with the “applause” sign. No food, no drinks, no nothing.

After about an hour of sitting in a dark studio I decided to go in search of a cup of coffee. It turned out that the only source for such was a vending machine. I opted to go across the street to a café. The security guard informed me that if I left the building I might not get back in. I informed him that I had a medical condition that required me to have a bottle of water at all times and pointed out that none such was made available by the studio nor any mention of lack of same in the instructions sent to us from the show’s producers and that if I had an attack and died, the responsibility would be on his shoulders. Luckily he bought the blarney and I enjoyed a badly needed cup of coffee and a bagel before returning with a bottle of water.

I got back and took my seat just as the proceedings began. The first three contestants came out, my wife not among them. It took about an hour to tape the show followed by a thirty-minute break. Next group. Wife not among them. Repeat same. Again, no wife, no food, no refreshments, no nothing. By now, it’s late in the afternoon and I’m the one with PMS on steroids.  If you've ever sat through an entire day of Wheel of Fortune, then you understand.

Finally, the last group comes out and there she is, somewhat bedraggled but giggly and chipper as ever. Dutifully, I applaud and violate the rules by hollering out, “Go Punky!” Evil-eye from floor manager. I look around like, “Who, me?” Floor manager knows he has a wise-ass on his hands.

First contestant up, wifemate! Big puzzle. Lot’s of words. She’s playing it like a pro. Milking it for all it’s worth. Her prize total is something like $18,000! Now I really am hollering and cheering. Not only that, I’ve got everyone around me hollering and cheering as well cause they’re all just about as bored and ready for some action as I am. The floor manager is pissed but he can’t figure out what to do about it. There’s safety in numbers.

Then it happened. The inexplicable. Punky got flustered and called for the same vowel twice! BUZZZZZZER!! “Sorry ‘bout that,” quipped Pat. On to the next contestant. The whole thing… visions of grandeur, new car, big screen TV, Bermuda… down the crapper. Punky was devastated. Me too.  Fortunately, she managed to recover her composure in time to rack up $2,300 in cash on the last puzzle. But still, there it loomed before her, The Big Winner… $63,000 in cash and prizes and a new car... and it wasn’t her.

When we got back to the hotel we went straight to the bar. Martinis, straight up, with a twist. After a few of those babies things looked somewhat better and we decided to go up to the rooftop restaurant and get a bite to eat.  The elevator opened and we got on, joining another person already there. It was Telly Savalas. We looked at him. He looked at us. You could see the “Oh shit” in his eyes. Trapped with two crocked tourists. After a moment I muttered, “Wheel of Fortune.” He cracked up laughing and asked, “Did you win?,” to which Punky replied, “What does it look like?” He laughed even harder, as much relieved not to be faced by two pawing autograph seekers as the humor of the situation I’m sure.

Over dinner I apologized for causing a commotion in the audience and distracting her from the game. She said, “Forget it, you could hardly hear the audience from the stage anyway.” “I just got over-excited and blew it,” she continued. “But thanks for the thought.”

At least we got an almost-free vacation out of it and for several weeks thereafter, strange packages arrived at the door. A cheap-ass vacuum cleaner, some sort of kitchen gadget, a variety of food stuffs and more I’ve since forgotten. And, of course, a story for my blog these twenty-odd-something years later.

Postscript:

Susan and I split up some years ago.  I suppose it was just too much to expect that a BBQ loving Florida Cracker and a charter PETA New York Jew could really pull it off.  But we gave it a good run and remained close friends.  Sadly, Susan lost a battle with cancer a few months ago, shortly after this picture was taken.  In my heart I still love her and I'm deeply saddened that I will never see her again.

Viya con Dios lover.

Mumbai, U.S.A. A bedtime story.

Picture this… You’re a diplomat stationed in Bombay, India, late 1960’s. You live in the diplomatic compound, a high-walled community that virtually shuts out the outside world. Within the compound live diplomats and their families from all over the world. The grounds are beautiful. Lush vegetation and colonial-style buildings. Servants attend to their every need. They have all of the amenities and social interaction of any close community. A club with pool and tennis and restaurant and bar and snooker… you get the picture.

 

By day the diplomats go to their various embassies or consulates and represent their respective country’s interests, which often gets pretty heated. But by night they lounge and enjoy cocktails together at each other’s homes or at the Club.

No one leaves the compound on foot or unattended. If you do stubbornly decide to go for a walk outside of the compound, a couple of Gurkas go with you. Although this is highly unlikely because there is every reason not to walk outside. For outside the walls of the diplomatic compound lie the streets of Bombay, a teeming mass of humanity living on the verge of extinction.

This scenario is true, related to me by my uncle who was a diplomat working for the U.S. Information Service at the time. Propaganda was his game and he was good at it because he liked and embraced the different cultures in which he was stationed. People naturally gravitated to this tall, handsome American with gentlemanly manners. 

Uncle Milo told me he once insisted on taking a walk outside but it took some time for the two Gurkas to open the man gate. Something was blocking it. It turned out to be a dead body on the sidewalk outside. He told me that the thing that got to him most on the streets outside of the compound was the stench. Even more than the permeating filth and poverty and death. He said that the contrast between the haves and have nots in India was so stark as to be shocking.

It wasn’t at all unusual to see great antique Rolls Royce’s, Bentleys, Auburns or Dusenbergs on the street in perfect operating condition because the wealthy owners simply had new parts milled every time anything broke. He said the cars were often better than new.  Uncle had the best of everything while there, tailored clothes, the finest medical care, household servants… because he could afford the best of everything. A bureaucrat’s salary made you a well-to-do man there, in that place and time.

Here’s the take-away. Do gated communities adjacent to public housing ghettos sound familiar? Do run-down county medical clinics crowded with the unwashed, or simply unlucky, sound familiar? Do people who are simply cast aside and living on the street because of accident of birth or situation sound familiar?

No child in this country should go hungry, but they do. No one who is disabled and unable to take care of themselves should have to fend for themselves on the street, but they do. No one should be left destitute in old age because they’ve been stripped of everything they have by the medical industrial complex, but they are.

The scene depicting India above is happening to some degree or another right here, right now, in the good ole U S of A every day. If you believe that good medical care, a good education, a meal and a roof over your head is the least we can do for each other, it’s time to speak up.  If you voted for and really want Change, you had better start raising hell about it! The money grubbers are pulling out every trick in the book to kill it...  and you.

Jaws... for real!

My nephew, a Master Chief in the Coast Guard, was fishing with some buddies just offshore of Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina when a visitor showed up, a fish not common in these waters.  Worth a look.



I used to fish for sharks in the surf when younger and I can tell you, if you swim in the ocean, you swim with sharks. Fortunately, none of them see you as bait, except for this guy, who sees you as lunch.