I had a chance last Sunday to talk to a fellow job seeker about his job search and we compared notes. While I’m looking for more of a managerial position, my friend Jonathan is looking for something more entry-level, since he is only eighteen. He also needs to find something within walking distance of his mother’s house, as he doesn’t have a car. His mother lives in the state capitol and Jonathan described to me the places he has applied and the names of the streets on which his potential places of employment are located. Not only will Jonathan be starting out on the ground floor, he will potentially be working on some street named after a president of the United States—and not top-ranked presidents, at that. Let me take you on a tour of his neighborhood—the mean streets of Capitol City-- from east to west.
Van Buren Street- Named after Martin Van Buren, a president whose native tongue was Dutch. In my reading about him, I found his nickname was Old Kinderhook (pretty catchy, huh?) and he was a fan of George Clinton. His picture makes it appear as if he had some kind of a white guy’s version of an Afro-Sheen blow out kit. I thought that maybe he wore his hair like that to emulate George Clinton, but I think the George Clinton with whom he was tight was not the one whose music we all know and love, as his presidency was more than 150 years before our George Clinton began recording.
Harrison Street- Named after William Henry Harrison, who was the oldest man elected to be president until Ronald Reagan. His picture indicates he had a big-assed nose. He also served only 30 days before he died. Some logic is starting to appear in these street names. As we go west, the streets are named after successive presidents. Harrison was succeeded by Topeka Blvd.
Topeka Blvd.- What the hell? There was never a president named Topeka Blvd. How did that one get in there?
Tyler Street- Named after John Tyler, the guy who pushed Topeka Blvd. out of the way and succeeded Harrison. It appears he was Harrison’s vice-president and was never re-elected, serving only four years. It looks as though his most important act as president was to meet his second wife and marry her while in office. Did fireworks go off when he met her? You bet. He met her at a ceremony during which a cannon exploded, killing two members of his cabinet and the father of his eventual bride.
Polk Street- Named after James Knox Polk, a guy who was ranked in the top ten presidents based on the research I read. I guess I’ll have to rag on him for the sort-of-mullet haircut he had. It is hard to describe, so try to look up his picture.
Taylor Street- Named after Zachary Taylor, who was known as Old Rough and Ready, apparently because he wore rumpled clothes and a straw hat, and not because of his sexual prowess. He only served sixteen months before he died in office and was succeeded by Western Ave.
Western Ave.- How did jump in line ahead of all the other dead presidents? Who named these streets, anyway?
Fillmore Street- Named after Millard Fillmore, who succeeded Taylor when he died. Fillmore served as president less than three years and when it came time for re-election, his party, the Whigs, failed to nominate him, so he ran for president on the ticket of the Know Nothing party. Now, we have had some presidents who arguably didn’t know anything, but I would propose that having “know nothing” written by your name on the ballot would not be a plus come election day.
Clay Street- Named for some guy named Clay, I guess. Logic would dictate that this street should be named for Franklin Pierce, the next president. I assume that it is because Pierce was a democrat and this is a republican state capitol.
Buchanan Street- Named for James Buchanan, who preceded Abraham Lincoln. Buchanan appears to be a man who did not enjoy his work. He told Lincoln on Honest Abe’s inauguration day, “If you are as happy entering the presidency as I am leaving it, then you are truly a happy man.”
My conclusion that Jonathan’s neighborhood is a grid of streets named for presidents whose achievements are not as well noted and accepted as those of some of our other, more illustrious presidents. And into this grid of streets, someone whose feel for history has allowed the naming of several streets to add to the asymmetry of the mean streets of capitol city. Maybe, it will allow, years from now, for someone to insert the name of another unremarkable man. Bush Street! I like the sound.
As for Jonathan and me, we’ll continue to pound the pavement, looking for that opportunity to end his unemployment and to keep me from entering mine.
At least that is our hope, here in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
the hygiene hypothesis
Recently, Jimbo’s girlfriend made a comment that sort of got me wondering. She complained that the house was not as clean as it should be and somehow hinted that this was a recent occurrence and that the house used to be clean. My reaction to her comment was to connect my being here with the dirt, and that somehow the lack of cleanliness was my fault.
Those who have known me for a long time probably remember that when I lived in my own house the place was immaculate and dust or dirt was never to be found. Okay, maybe I was not a perfect housekeeper, but my house was very clean.
Okay, okay! I would clean the house occasionally.
Today, however, I read a story on Yahoo! Which hypothesizes that perfect cleanliness may not be the best thing for human longevity. Anyway, here is the story.
You dirty rat.
The story says that rats that live in unsanitary conditions in the wild have better immune systems than rats in the lab that live in ultra-clean conditions. Because those feral rats are exposed to dirt and bacteria at an early age, they aren’t as prone to the maladies that plague those of us who live in pristine environments. Scientists refer to this as the hygiene hypothesis, and their assertion is that our clean living could be responsible for our high rate of allergies and asthma, type 1 diabetes and arthritis.
If this theory is correct, it may mean that we need a paradigm change in our lifestyle. Perhaps we should teach our children not to wash their hand after going to the restroom. Maybe we should encourage our children to play in the dirt. Maybe we should invite some germs to dinner.
For the time being, though, we’re going to save this argument for the next time our girlfriend implies that anything disorderly around our abode may be related to yours truly. I will use the tactic that I am trying to make life healthier for her.
At least, that is the plan here in Jimbo’s world.
Those who have known me for a long time probably remember that when I lived in my own house the place was immaculate and dust or dirt was never to be found. Okay, maybe I was not a perfect housekeeper, but my house was very clean.
Okay, okay! I would clean the house occasionally.
Today, however, I read a story on Yahoo! Which hypothesizes that perfect cleanliness may not be the best thing for human longevity. Anyway, here is the story.
You dirty rat.
The story says that rats that live in unsanitary conditions in the wild have better immune systems than rats in the lab that live in ultra-clean conditions. Because those feral rats are exposed to dirt and bacteria at an early age, they aren’t as prone to the maladies that plague those of us who live in pristine environments. Scientists refer to this as the hygiene hypothesis, and their assertion is that our clean living could be responsible for our high rate of allergies and asthma, type 1 diabetes and arthritis.
If this theory is correct, it may mean that we need a paradigm change in our lifestyle. Perhaps we should teach our children not to wash their hand after going to the restroom. Maybe we should encourage our children to play in the dirt. Maybe we should invite some germs to dinner.
For the time being, though, we’re going to save this argument for the next time our girlfriend implies that anything disorderly around our abode may be related to yours truly. I will use the tactic that I am trying to make life healthier for her.
At least, that is the plan here in Jimbo’s world.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
words we understand about words we don't
I have a problem this afternoon and I am in a quandary. I find myself agreeing with the President. Many of you feel that if the president said a piece of paper before him was white, I would say it is black. Many of you feel that I would disagree with anything the President said, just to be disagreeable. That is not true. I disagree with almost everything the President says because he is usually wrong. Today is an exception.
President Bush said today that immigrants need to speak in English. I heartily agree. I’m tired of sitting on the phone trying to navigate through an automated receptionist only to be told, “Press one for English. Press two for Spanish.” And then the voice goes on to say something in Espanol that I do not understand. At that point I begin to think:
“Is she making fun of me? Is she saying, ‘For those who don’t speak Spanish, you can kiss my large behind?’”
I just wish people would talk in English, so you could understand them.
I remember seeing a story on the news last night about Dan El-Padilla, a classics student and a recent graduate of Princeton University. He just happens to be an illegal alien. He seems to be an extremely articulate young man, and according to his professors, he is a genius, or close to it. He was even the class salutatorian. Where I fault the young man, however, is that he gave the salutatorian address in Latin. Who the hell delivers a speech in Latin, that no one can understand? Okay, most of you would have understood him, but despite my occasional use of Latin, even I don’t speak it. It would take some sort of deus ex machina for me ever to learn to speak it fluently.
Like the President, it is our belief if you are going to live here, you need to speak English, rather than ramble on in some tongue where you could be disrespecting us, and most of us would never know. Most certainly not the President.
At least that’s how we look at it in Jimbo’s world.
President Bush said today that immigrants need to speak in English. I heartily agree. I’m tired of sitting on the phone trying to navigate through an automated receptionist only to be told, “Press one for English. Press two for Spanish.” And then the voice goes on to say something in Espanol that I do not understand. At that point I begin to think:
“Is she making fun of me? Is she saying, ‘For those who don’t speak Spanish, you can kiss my large behind?’”
I just wish people would talk in English, so you could understand them.
I remember seeing a story on the news last night about Dan El-Padilla, a classics student and a recent graduate of Princeton University. He just happens to be an illegal alien. He seems to be an extremely articulate young man, and according to his professors, he is a genius, or close to it. He was even the class salutatorian. Where I fault the young man, however, is that he gave the salutatorian address in Latin. Who the hell delivers a speech in Latin, that no one can understand? Okay, most of you would have understood him, but despite my occasional use of Latin, even I don’t speak it. It would take some sort of deus ex machina for me ever to learn to speak it fluently.
Like the President, it is our belief if you are going to live here, you need to speak English, rather than ramble on in some tongue where you could be disrespecting us, and most of us would never know. Most certainly not the President.
At least that’s how we look at it in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
getting bad with the bad boy of poker
I sat across the table from arguably the best poker player in the world today.
It is Player appreciation weekend at Ultimatebet.com and Phil Hellmuth, Jr., the bad boy of poker is making surprise appearances at tables throughout the weekend. I was sitting at a $.25- .50 no limit table with two or three other players, when guess who shows up. He sat directly across from me and we went heads up three times. Twice, I was on a draw and he raised me big on the turn and I threw them away. The time I will tell everyone about (and as I get older, the story will get better) I had Jack/Queen of clubs and I raised fifty cents. Phil was on the big blind and he called me, as did someone else. I had a flush draw and straight draw on the flop and Phil checked. I raised fifty cents and he called. I hit the nut straight on the turn and bet again and he called again. The river was a rag, so I missed my flush, but I had the nut straight and there was no hand that could beat me. The board didn’t pair and there were no more than two of any suit on the board. To non-players, that means the straight was the best hand. The straight to the ace, which I had, is the best available hand in that circumstance. Players like Phil and I would call it, therefore, the nut straight, or, in shorthand, the nuts.
I bet big and Phil came back over the top. The third guy folded. I went all in and Phil called. Phil turned over JQ off suit and we split the pot.
I told him I’d tell my grandchildren that I went heads up with Phil Hellmuth and I didn’t lose. If he replied, I couldn’t tell. There were twenty people waiting in line to get on the table and two hundred observers and everyone was chatting.
I sent Ultimatebet an e-mail and asked if the player I had played was poker’s bad boy. They replied that according to their records, I had, indeed been playing this afternoon with Mr. Hellmuth.
I tell anyone who will listen that I absolutely don’t like Phil Hellmuth when I see him on TV. He was anything but a jerk this afternoon. Maybe I’ll have to change my mind about him.
I'm sure that Phil reads my blog regularly for tips to help keep his game sharp. The following is a special message just to Phil. I took it easy on you this afternoon, but look out next time, because I'll be playing for real.
At least around the table and here in Jimbo’s world.
It is Player appreciation weekend at Ultimatebet.com and Phil Hellmuth, Jr., the bad boy of poker is making surprise appearances at tables throughout the weekend. I was sitting at a $.25- .50 no limit table with two or three other players, when guess who shows up. He sat directly across from me and we went heads up three times. Twice, I was on a draw and he raised me big on the turn and I threw them away. The time I will tell everyone about (and as I get older, the story will get better) I had Jack/Queen of clubs and I raised fifty cents. Phil was on the big blind and he called me, as did someone else. I had a flush draw and straight draw on the flop and Phil checked. I raised fifty cents and he called. I hit the nut straight on the turn and bet again and he called again. The river was a rag, so I missed my flush, but I had the nut straight and there was no hand that could beat me. The board didn’t pair and there were no more than two of any suit on the board. To non-players, that means the straight was the best hand. The straight to the ace, which I had, is the best available hand in that circumstance. Players like Phil and I would call it, therefore, the nut straight, or, in shorthand, the nuts.
I bet big and Phil came back over the top. The third guy folded. I went all in and Phil called. Phil turned over JQ off suit and we split the pot.
I told him I’d tell my grandchildren that I went heads up with Phil Hellmuth and I didn’t lose. If he replied, I couldn’t tell. There were twenty people waiting in line to get on the table and two hundred observers and everyone was chatting.
I sent Ultimatebet an e-mail and asked if the player I had played was poker’s bad boy. They replied that according to their records, I had, indeed been playing this afternoon with Mr. Hellmuth.
I tell anyone who will listen that I absolutely don’t like Phil Hellmuth when I see him on TV. He was anything but a jerk this afternoon. Maybe I’ll have to change my mind about him.
I'm sure that Phil reads my blog regularly for tips to help keep his game sharp. The following is a special message just to Phil. I took it easy on you this afternoon, but look out next time, because I'll be playing for real.
At least around the table and here in Jimbo’s world.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
another poker tournament
By having a blog, I qualify for an annual poker tournament. While many of you may think this is a shameless attempt to do anything to get into a tournament without having to pay any money, you'd be right. By putting this thing on my blog I get a free entry. If you blog and want to enter, you can too.
I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker!
This Online Poker Tournament is a No Limit Texas Holdem event exclusive to Bloggers.
Registration code: 7330476
Monday, May 15, 2006
a joke? a fairy tale, or the truth?
I read this today on Yahoo!
Am I lost in some distant reality or is there something I don't understand?
Read it on the link below.
Presidential administrations gone wild
Am I lost in some distant reality or is there something I don't understand?
Read it on the link below.
Presidential administrations gone wild
the colonel, the idiot and the maid of the seas
Once upon a time there was a graceful bird that was known by everyone as the Maid of the Seas. The Maid of the Seas was sleek and beautiful and she carried people across the ocean and brought them safely back home.
In the same period of time, there was an evil dictator who tortured and killed his people and spread his violence to all of the other countries in his region. He hated the United States. Some might have said that he hated our freedom, but he didn’t give a crap about our freedom. As a matter of fact, he probably would have laughed had anyone suggested he hated our freedom. He probably would have said that anyone who said he hated our freedom was some kind of dope, and he would have been right.
“Oh, Mother Goose,” many of you are probably saying, “You’re talking about that awful Saddam Hussein, aren’t you?”
No, children, I’m talking about someone who was so much worse than Saddam that he made Saddam look like, well, some kind of pussycat. I’m talking about a man who called himself “the Colonel.”
“Wait a cotton-picking minute, you Mother,” some of you are saying right now. “If you’re going to start bad-mouthing Colonel Harlan Sanders, you’d better bet that we’re going to open a king-sized can of whup ass.”
No! No! No! I would expect to have my ass whipped if I spoke irreverently about Colonel Sanders. I’d welcome it, because I would deserve it. I’m talking about Muammar Qaddafi, one of the lowest-life pieces of crap you’d never want to meet.
Anyway, the Colonel saw the Maid of the Seas carrying Americans from one side of the pond to the other and it ticked him off. He sent his henchmen to bring her down. It was a few days before Christmas—a holiday the Colonel disrespected—when his secret police brought down the Maid of the Seas, killing her and the Americans she carried. This atrocity would remain the worst act of terrorism against Americans until that sunny September morning in 2001.
Many years later, in that great country which was to have been the destination of the Maid of the Seas, the third character in our fairy tale, the Idiot, sought to be the leader. Somebody pulled some serious shenanigans, miscounted some votes and the Idiot was “elected” to be the leader.
The Idiot wasn’t smart enough to do the job he was elected to do, so he had some of his terrorist friends knock down a couple of buildings on that previously-mentioned September morning and his people were so frightened they would eventually make the mistake of electing him again.
Then the Idiot started a war and de-stabilized another foreign country, giving the terrorists a place to run around and do what terrorists do. There were as many terrorists there as there were maggots in a steaming pile of dog feces warming under the August sun. If one were to ignite a flare in that country in the dark of the night, it would illuminate scores of terrorists scurrying across the desert floor, like cockroaches spotlighted by a sixty-watt light in an urban tenement kitchen.
The Idiot had made the world a haven for terrorists, but he still was not happy. What could he do, he asked himself, to aid and abet yet another terrorist?
The Idiot went to the office of his second-in-command—a man who was known as Shotgun, after the weapon he loved to discharge when he had gotten a few drinks in him. Shotgun was cleaning his namesake weapon when the Idiot paused outside his office. The Idiot was careful to announce himself before entering Shotgun’s office so as not to take a load of birdshot in his smirking countenance, as Shotgun was known to shoot from the hip (first, and ask questions later).
“I want to bring the Colonel into the fold. I want to restore diplomatic relations with him and his country,” said the Idiot. “He was the one who brought down the Maid of the Seas.”
“They say that the camel jockey used Semtex,” said Shotgun. He racked his signature weapon and added, “Give me this baby and a pint of Old Granddad and I could’ve done her just as good.”
“So we’ll do it, then,” said the Idiot.
“Sure as hell,” said Shotgun. “Now hand me that bottle from inside the top drawer.”
So the Idiot decided to make friends with yet another terrorist, because one never knows how much help one will need if the other party ever gets into power. And so the Idiot, the Colonel and Shotgun became fast friends. Legend has it that even to this day, if you listen really closely, you can hear the three of them, firing away, blasting their empty bottles full of birdshot.
From the looks of things, my children, this appears to be one of those fairy tales where not everyone lives happily ever after.
In the same period of time, there was an evil dictator who tortured and killed his people and spread his violence to all of the other countries in his region. He hated the United States. Some might have said that he hated our freedom, but he didn’t give a crap about our freedom. As a matter of fact, he probably would have laughed had anyone suggested he hated our freedom. He probably would have said that anyone who said he hated our freedom was some kind of dope, and he would have been right.
“Oh, Mother Goose,” many of you are probably saying, “You’re talking about that awful Saddam Hussein, aren’t you?”
No, children, I’m talking about someone who was so much worse than Saddam that he made Saddam look like, well, some kind of pussycat. I’m talking about a man who called himself “the Colonel.”
“Wait a cotton-picking minute, you Mother,” some of you are saying right now. “If you’re going to start bad-mouthing Colonel Harlan Sanders, you’d better bet that we’re going to open a king-sized can of whup ass.”
No! No! No! I would expect to have my ass whipped if I spoke irreverently about Colonel Sanders. I’d welcome it, because I would deserve it. I’m talking about Muammar Qaddafi, one of the lowest-life pieces of crap you’d never want to meet.
Anyway, the Colonel saw the Maid of the Seas carrying Americans from one side of the pond to the other and it ticked him off. He sent his henchmen to bring her down. It was a few days before Christmas—a holiday the Colonel disrespected—when his secret police brought down the Maid of the Seas, killing her and the Americans she carried. This atrocity would remain the worst act of terrorism against Americans until that sunny September morning in 2001.
Many years later, in that great country which was to have been the destination of the Maid of the Seas, the third character in our fairy tale, the Idiot, sought to be the leader. Somebody pulled some serious shenanigans, miscounted some votes and the Idiot was “elected” to be the leader.
The Idiot wasn’t smart enough to do the job he was elected to do, so he had some of his terrorist friends knock down a couple of buildings on that previously-mentioned September morning and his people were so frightened they would eventually make the mistake of electing him again.
Then the Idiot started a war and de-stabilized another foreign country, giving the terrorists a place to run around and do what terrorists do. There were as many terrorists there as there were maggots in a steaming pile of dog feces warming under the August sun. If one were to ignite a flare in that country in the dark of the night, it would illuminate scores of terrorists scurrying across the desert floor, like cockroaches spotlighted by a sixty-watt light in an urban tenement kitchen.
The Idiot had made the world a haven for terrorists, but he still was not happy. What could he do, he asked himself, to aid and abet yet another terrorist?
The Idiot went to the office of his second-in-command—a man who was known as Shotgun, after the weapon he loved to discharge when he had gotten a few drinks in him. Shotgun was cleaning his namesake weapon when the Idiot paused outside his office. The Idiot was careful to announce himself before entering Shotgun’s office so as not to take a load of birdshot in his smirking countenance, as Shotgun was known to shoot from the hip (first, and ask questions later).
“I want to bring the Colonel into the fold. I want to restore diplomatic relations with him and his country,” said the Idiot. “He was the one who brought down the Maid of the Seas.”
“They say that the camel jockey used Semtex,” said Shotgun. He racked his signature weapon and added, “Give me this baby and a pint of Old Granddad and I could’ve done her just as good.”
“So we’ll do it, then,” said the Idiot.
“Sure as hell,” said Shotgun. “Now hand me that bottle from inside the top drawer.”
So the Idiot decided to make friends with yet another terrorist, because one never knows how much help one will need if the other party ever gets into power. And so the Idiot, the Colonel and Shotgun became fast friends. Legend has it that even to this day, if you listen really closely, you can hear the three of them, firing away, blasting their empty bottles full of birdshot.
From the looks of things, my children, this appears to be one of those fairy tales where not everyone lives happily ever after.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
crack the code. crash the symbols
A woman’s reputation is besmirched by people spreading falsehoods. The man who knows the truth is murdered. As he is dying, he leaves clues that only a few people can decipher. The clues lead us through a mystery that has more twists and turns than a roller coaster.
Oh, by the way, did I mention the woman was God’s daughter-in-law?
Despite the fact that The Da Vinci Code has been on the bestseller list for a year, Jimbo just got around to reading it last week. I mentioned that the movie based on this book was coming out later this month, and a friend who had the book loaned it to me.
Thanks, Tim.
Anyway, if any of you are among the few who haven’t read the book, I would suggest getting it on to your “to do” list as soon as you can. This is the best book I have read in a while.
The Da Vinci Code is about a college professor, Robert Langdon, who writes a manuscript about symbolism in which is a key to unlock a secret that has been protected for decades by sinister society. When a curator at the Louvre in Paris, who is a member of the secret society, is killed, he leaves clues for Langdon to help lead him to discover the secret. The police interpret his clues as an accusation that Langdon killed him, so throughout the book, Langdon is running from the law, trying to find the solution.
We find that Leonardo DaVinci was once a member of the secret society and the primary clue left by the curator is to lie on the floor mimicking the drawing of the Vitruvian Man, Da Vinci’s famous sketch detailing the relationship between anatomy and mathematics.
Langdon is aided by the granddaughter of the curator, who is a code expert, and by combining their expertise, they are able to twist their way through this suspense novel.
This is definitely on my “recommended” list, and I’m looking forward to seeing the movie later this month.
At least, that’s our opinion here in Jimbo’s world.
Oh, by the way, did I mention the woman was God’s daughter-in-law?
Despite the fact that The Da Vinci Code has been on the bestseller list for a year, Jimbo just got around to reading it last week. I mentioned that the movie based on this book was coming out later this month, and a friend who had the book loaned it to me.
Thanks, Tim.
Anyway, if any of you are among the few who haven’t read the book, I would suggest getting it on to your “to do” list as soon as you can. This is the best book I have read in a while.
The Da Vinci Code is about a college professor, Robert Langdon, who writes a manuscript about symbolism in which is a key to unlock a secret that has been protected for decades by sinister society. When a curator at the Louvre in Paris, who is a member of the secret society, is killed, he leaves clues for Langdon to help lead him to discover the secret. The police interpret his clues as an accusation that Langdon killed him, so throughout the book, Langdon is running from the law, trying to find the solution.
We find that Leonardo DaVinci was once a member of the secret society and the primary clue left by the curator is to lie on the floor mimicking the drawing of the Vitruvian Man, Da Vinci’s famous sketch detailing the relationship between anatomy and mathematics.
Langdon is aided by the granddaughter of the curator, who is a code expert, and by combining their expertise, they are able to twist their way through this suspense novel.
This is definitely on my “recommended” list, and I’m looking forward to seeing the movie later this month.
At least, that’s our opinion here in Jimbo’s world.
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