I read a couple of stories the same day last week and I think I finally understand. Since I understand, I think I should let you know what it is I understand.
The first story was about Floridians who say they have had enough of destructive tropical storms and hurricanes and they are selling their property on the beach and moving away. My first thought was, are these people crazy? My second thought was that they aren’t making Floridians like they used to. Maybe it’s because the government is run by one of the bungling Bush brothers. I went to Florida several times in the pre-Bush era and I left with the impression that the place was a pretty good place to be. I remember I looked at the employment ads in the local newspaper the day before we left, once, thinking if a brother could find work this would be a good place to stay. I don’t remember there being many good jobs, however, and I would imagine after Bush’s “improvements” in the economy, it is probably worse today.
Tossing the employment issue aside, however, I would think that the climatic advantages of being in Florida would offset the occasional storm. Although I can understand having your house blown away twice in nine months would make one hesitant to stay. Surely, however, this is a fluke and the frequency of the recent storms would be a harbinger of a long period of good weather to come. Okay, you statisticians out there, I know that doesn’t mean squat, but common sense would seem to indicate that the worst might be over.
Unfortunately, the second story I read made me believe these Floridians might know what they are doing. The second story was about global warming, something I have always opposed, but an issue that is hard to get really excited about when the scientists talk about the temperature going up a couple of degrees every fifty years or so because of it. The story talked specifically about the waters of the Caribbean and noted they are getting warmer.
When it is 80 degrees here one day and 82 the next, I can’t tell the difference, but apparently, when the water in the Caribbean warms up two degrees, it can mean the difference between a storm that blows a couple of shingles off your roof and one that blows away your house. It is recognized that warm ocean water provides the power to tropical storms and hurricanes. If you watch The Weather Channel much, you have probably heard them talk about storms gathering power when they are out over the warm ocean waters and then losing power when they are over land.
The point made in the story I read is that the recent spate of powerful hurricanes is not just a fluke and that as the waters of the Atlantic and Caribbean warm there will be more and stronger hurricanes. The data would indicate that over and above the destruction that would occur in the United States, the less prepared islands and nations in the Caribbean should expect more massive storms and catastrophic loss of life.
This morning a killer named Katrina is on the loose. As she moves across the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico she is supposed to pick up strength and, who knows, she may kill again. I wonder how much we aided and abetted her years ago with a spray can in our hand. I wonder how much we are to blame because of not conserving our resources and not finding environmentally cleaner ways to create electricity or power cars. I guess when Florida is an inhabitable wasteland we’ll look back and wonder how it happened. Someone should have warned us this about this.
Surely it can’t be our fault.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Saturday, August 20, 2005
you never even call me by my name
I don’t go to cowboy bars much, but there seems to be a common thread that runs through my experiences at cowboy bars.
Many of you are probably asking, “Jimbo, is it that you always get into a bar brawl and some redneck breaks a beer bottle over your head?”
No, that’s not it.
Some others are asking, “Is it that you wake up the next morning in bed with your arm around a woman named Lauraleen who is so unattractive that you consider chewing off your arm and leaving—like a coyote entrapped in a barbed wire fence—rather than wake her up?”
No, not that either.
A few are asking, “Is it that you, after a few drinks, begin to weep into your beer and start singing a song in lamentation of a love that done gone bad?”
No, but you’re getting warm. It has to do with a song.
It seems that every time I go to a cowboy bar I hear the same song. Whether someone plays it on the jukebox or the band ends their evening performance with it, and the crowd all stands and sings along with them, or whether someone sings it on karaoke night, it’s always a crowd favorite. By the way, if presented with the option of attending karaoke night at a cowboy bar or staying home alone and being bored, there is only one logical choice: you’ll always be able to find something on television to entertain you.
The song I’m talking about is You Never Even Call Me By My Name, performed by David Allen Coe. If you are an aficionado of the song, you probably remember the lines:
Steve Goodman wrote that song
And he said it was the perfect country-western song
You may recall that a couple of weeks ago I wrote about John Prine’s latest CD and I mentioned Steve Goodman in my critique. I’ve always thought that You Never Even Call Me By My Name was an apropos song by which to remember Steve Goodman. He wrote several great songs, but they were all recorded by someone else, Banana Republics was recorded by Jimmy Buffet; City of New Orleans was recorded by Arlo Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, et. al., and, of course, David Allen Coe recorded the song that got this rambling all started.
I’ve seen Steve Goodman perform this song live several times. Once it was before 20,000 people in Kemper Arena in Kansas City. That night, Steve borrowed a cowboy hat from some guy in the crowd and wore it while he sang. The song was originally written as satire—that there are certain common elements to country songs—and this one song encompassed many of them. Say what you want about hillbillies, they understood the joke and had no problem laughing along.
As a brief aside, you may recall that I told you a couple weeks ago that on Steve Goodman’s live album he said that he and John Prine wrote City of New Orleans, together. In my research this morning I found that Steve Goodman also gave credit to John Prine for co-writing You Never Even Call Me By My Name, but that John Prine “would not admit it.”
It’s early morning here in the great plains and we have a decision to make: whether to put John Prine’s Fair and Square or Steve Goodman’s live CD into the computer and listen. These are the kinds of tough decisions we have disciplined ourselves to make and I’m sure we’ll make the right one.
We usually do, here in Jimbo’s world.
Many of you are probably asking, “Jimbo, is it that you always get into a bar brawl and some redneck breaks a beer bottle over your head?”
No, that’s not it.
Some others are asking, “Is it that you wake up the next morning in bed with your arm around a woman named Lauraleen who is so unattractive that you consider chewing off your arm and leaving—like a coyote entrapped in a barbed wire fence—rather than wake her up?”
No, not that either.
A few are asking, “Is it that you, after a few drinks, begin to weep into your beer and start singing a song in lamentation of a love that done gone bad?”
No, but you’re getting warm. It has to do with a song.
It seems that every time I go to a cowboy bar I hear the same song. Whether someone plays it on the jukebox or the band ends their evening performance with it, and the crowd all stands and sings along with them, or whether someone sings it on karaoke night, it’s always a crowd favorite. By the way, if presented with the option of attending karaoke night at a cowboy bar or staying home alone and being bored, there is only one logical choice: you’ll always be able to find something on television to entertain you.
The song I’m talking about is You Never Even Call Me By My Name, performed by David Allen Coe. If you are an aficionado of the song, you probably remember the lines:
Steve Goodman wrote that song
And he said it was the perfect country-western song
You may recall that a couple of weeks ago I wrote about John Prine’s latest CD and I mentioned Steve Goodman in my critique. I’ve always thought that You Never Even Call Me By My Name was an apropos song by which to remember Steve Goodman. He wrote several great songs, but they were all recorded by someone else, Banana Republics was recorded by Jimmy Buffet; City of New Orleans was recorded by Arlo Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, et. al., and, of course, David Allen Coe recorded the song that got this rambling all started.
I’ve seen Steve Goodman perform this song live several times. Once it was before 20,000 people in Kemper Arena in Kansas City. That night, Steve borrowed a cowboy hat from some guy in the crowd and wore it while he sang. The song was originally written as satire—that there are certain common elements to country songs—and this one song encompassed many of them. Say what you want about hillbillies, they understood the joke and had no problem laughing along.
As a brief aside, you may recall that I told you a couple weeks ago that on Steve Goodman’s live album he said that he and John Prine wrote City of New Orleans, together. In my research this morning I found that Steve Goodman also gave credit to John Prine for co-writing You Never Even Call Me By My Name, but that John Prine “would not admit it.”
It’s early morning here in the great plains and we have a decision to make: whether to put John Prine’s Fair and Square or Steve Goodman’s live CD into the computer and listen. These are the kinds of tough decisions we have disciplined ourselves to make and I’m sure we’ll make the right one.
We usually do, here in Jimbo’s world.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
cooking with pam
Last night we watched some of the celebrity roast of Pamela Anderson. Because it was on Comedy Central we figured it would be funny and we could enjoy a little light-hearted humor. Unfortunately, I didn’t watch Baywatch—I must have been doing something the night it was on—so I don’t have a lot of familiarity with Ms. Anderson’s body of work. Many of the roasters made extensive references to a video the Ms. Anderson made with her boyfriend, a musician named Tommy Lee. Unfortunately, I missed seeing that video, also. I hoped to learn a little about Ms. Anderson, but most of the roasters used a plethora of language that the network felt necessary to censor, so their stories were difficult to follow.
As for Ms. Anderson, she is obviously a nice looking woman with voluminous tetons and a discernible degree of pride in them. It is as if she was saying, “Look at these!”
Now, Mr. Lee, who appears to be a man of average stature, was praised by many of the roasters as being a man of considerable size. They say that television makes one look ten pounds heavier, but obviously Mr. Lee is an exception to that rule.
Also prominent in the roast was Courtney Love. By some of the comments made, it is apparent that Ms. Love possibly once had a substance abuse problem, although she denied that it was still an active problem with her. I am concerned, by her detached mindset, that Ms. Love might not yet have shaken her demons.
Jimmy Kimmel seemed to be the host of the event as he came back onstage a number of times. I have to assume that he and Adam Corolla are a gay couple, not, of course, that there is anything wrong with that. I know I have seen them together on television, but until last night I was not aware of their close relationship. Kimmel described how Corolla had performed a graphic and “unnatural” sex act with him. I thought that was somewhat out of place on a television program.
Overall I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed with Ms. Anderson’s celebrity roast. Perhaps it would have been funnier if it would have been on HBO so the language would not have had to be censored. Possibly it would have been better if the roasters would have watched their language a little more so less would have been cut out, and it would have made more sense.
Of course, had I been more familiar with Ms. Anderson’s work, I might have thought this thing was funny as hell. As it was, I was kind of on the outside looking in and wondering whether I should have been looking.
At least, that is our perspective in Jimbo’s world.
As for Ms. Anderson, she is obviously a nice looking woman with voluminous tetons and a discernible degree of pride in them. It is as if she was saying, “Look at these!”
Now, Mr. Lee, who appears to be a man of average stature, was praised by many of the roasters as being a man of considerable size. They say that television makes one look ten pounds heavier, but obviously Mr. Lee is an exception to that rule.
Also prominent in the roast was Courtney Love. By some of the comments made, it is apparent that Ms. Love possibly once had a substance abuse problem, although she denied that it was still an active problem with her. I am concerned, by her detached mindset, that Ms. Love might not yet have shaken her demons.
Jimmy Kimmel seemed to be the host of the event as he came back onstage a number of times. I have to assume that he and Adam Corolla are a gay couple, not, of course, that there is anything wrong with that. I know I have seen them together on television, but until last night I was not aware of their close relationship. Kimmel described how Corolla had performed a graphic and “unnatural” sex act with him. I thought that was somewhat out of place on a television program.
Overall I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed with Ms. Anderson’s celebrity roast. Perhaps it would have been funnier if it would have been on HBO so the language would not have had to be censored. Possibly it would have been better if the roasters would have watched their language a little more so less would have been cut out, and it would have made more sense.
Of course, had I been more familiar with Ms. Anderson’s work, I might have thought this thing was funny as hell. As it was, I was kind of on the outside looking in and wondering whether I should have been looking.
At least, that is our perspective in Jimbo’s world.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
children of a much lesser god
A couple of blocks away from chez Jimbo’s girlfriend there is a vacant lot that has been taken over by Christians. Actually some local church has replicated the Jerusalem marketplace of the era of Christ. The Christians wave at you as you drive by. Really, they are doing no harm. More power to them, if that’s what they are happy doing, and I can’t complain. My occasional desire to go in there and throw out the moneychangers is only for the humorous value and only in my own mind. I know all of you readers out there who are biblical scholars are coming out of their chairs right now. Before you remind me that when Christ threw out the moneychangers it was because the temple was being used for commercial purposes and didn’t happen in the marketplace, per se, please be assured I am aware of that. Like I said, my thought was for humorous value; in my own mind.
Unfortunately, not far away there are some Christians who need to have their asses kicked. I read, with some distress on Friday, that some Baptists from Topeka, Kansas, protested at the funeral of a soldier killed in Iraq. They said negative things about the soldier, carried signs and just desecrated decency in general.
Now, there are a number of us that are not fans of the war in Iraq, but one of the reasons for our concern is that American lives are being put at risk. I, for one, have nothing but respect for the American soldiers fighting over there. I hope they all come back safe, and we should honor the memory of those who don’t.
In my further reading I found that the aforementioned Baptists also protest gay weddings and gay churches. They protested at the 1998 funeral of Matthew Shepard, a gay man who was murdered in Wyoming. “When the going gets weird,” said Hunter Thompson, “The weird turn pro.” It seems to me that when you get a bunch of monotheists together bad things happen. They start wars; they fly airplanes into buildings and they dishonor the memory of honorable Americans.
And, of course, this group of Baptists just has to be from Kansas, helping to perpetrate the image of non-sophistication that we seem not to be able to shake.
One of the protesters said the young soldier was in hell right now. If there is a hell—and I hope there is—the protesters have bought and paid for their ticket there, and I don’t think they will see the soldier when they arrive.
I used to go to church with a lady who, when she heard of someone doing wrong to another person, would say that it “wasn’t a Christian thing to do.” Although she too was a Baptist, I don’t think I would be stepping too far out onto a limb by assuming she would have the same comment about these Baptists.
Myself, I would probably go just a little further. I’d say it was a rat-bastard thing to do.
But that’s just the way we feel, here in Jimbo’s world.
Unfortunately, not far away there are some Christians who need to have their asses kicked. I read, with some distress on Friday, that some Baptists from Topeka, Kansas, protested at the funeral of a soldier killed in Iraq. They said negative things about the soldier, carried signs and just desecrated decency in general.
Now, there are a number of us that are not fans of the war in Iraq, but one of the reasons for our concern is that American lives are being put at risk. I, for one, have nothing but respect for the American soldiers fighting over there. I hope they all come back safe, and we should honor the memory of those who don’t.
In my further reading I found that the aforementioned Baptists also protest gay weddings and gay churches. They protested at the 1998 funeral of Matthew Shepard, a gay man who was murdered in Wyoming. “When the going gets weird,” said Hunter Thompson, “The weird turn pro.” It seems to me that when you get a bunch of monotheists together bad things happen. They start wars; they fly airplanes into buildings and they dishonor the memory of honorable Americans.
And, of course, this group of Baptists just has to be from Kansas, helping to perpetrate the image of non-sophistication that we seem not to be able to shake.
One of the protesters said the young soldier was in hell right now. If there is a hell—and I hope there is—the protesters have bought and paid for their ticket there, and I don’t think they will see the soldier when they arrive.
I used to go to church with a lady who, when she heard of someone doing wrong to another person, would say that it “wasn’t a Christian thing to do.” Although she too was a Baptist, I don’t think I would be stepping too far out onto a limb by assuming she would have the same comment about these Baptists.
Myself, I would probably go just a little further. I’d say it was a rat-bastard thing to do.
But that’s just the way we feel, here in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
fair and square at last
Last Sunday, Jimbo’s sister showed him an article in a magazine about a new CD by John Prine—his first one in nine years. I came home and went to the OhBoy records website and bought it right away. It came in the mail yesterday and I am listening to it right now and I like what I hear. The CD is entitled Fair & Square.
I started listening to Prine in my late teens or early twenties and I became a fan right away. It was difficult for me to decide who was my favorite folk-rock singer, Prine or Steve Goodman. They helped to make my conflict less of a problem in that they wrote music together, sang together and performed in concert together. I understand they were also close friends. I’ve seen them perform together or separately more than a dozen times.
I associate Prine with my salad days, and I am still a fan, even as I am finishing up the main course of my life and looking forward to dessert.
Goodman, of course, was the one with the most commercial success artistically, probably because he wrote one of the greatest and most recorded songs of all time, City of New Orleans, but Prine started his own record company, OhBoy Records, and has enjoyed considerable commercial success, himself. As a brief aside, on Steve Goodman’s live album, he says that he and Prine co-wrote City of New Orleans. Prine accepted the posthumous Grammy for the song a number of years ago. Goodman, of course, died at a very young age.
If you are familiar with John Prine, you probably remember songs like The Great Compromise in which he was critical of the handling of the Vietnam War. On Fair & Square he comments negatively on the war policy of the one we call Dubya. On the song Some Humans Ain’t Human he says:
Have you ever noticed
When you’re feeling really good
There’s always a pigeon
That’ll come shit on your hood
Or you’re feeling your freedom
And the world’s off your back
Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq
Prine’s songs are stories with music playing along. You could argue he isn’t the greatest singer of all time, but you could also argue he may be the best wordsmith who ever picked up a guitar. On the many nights I saw Prine and Goodman together on the stage of the Uptown theatre, there was no doubt the best was on that stage.
My favorite song on Fair & Square is Morning Train, a song with a blues track and three-part blues harmony (with background singers Pat McLaughlin and Mindy Smith).
Hey, hey, brother Ray
What’d you mean by “what’d I say”
Some of Prine’s latest recordings have had a country-western tone to them, and although there are a couple of songs on Fair & Square to which you could cry in your beer, Prine has come back to his folk roots.
It’s good to hear from him again.
At least, that’s what we think here in Jimbo’s world.
I started listening to Prine in my late teens or early twenties and I became a fan right away. It was difficult for me to decide who was my favorite folk-rock singer, Prine or Steve Goodman. They helped to make my conflict less of a problem in that they wrote music together, sang together and performed in concert together. I understand they were also close friends. I’ve seen them perform together or separately more than a dozen times.
I associate Prine with my salad days, and I am still a fan, even as I am finishing up the main course of my life and looking forward to dessert.
Goodman, of course, was the one with the most commercial success artistically, probably because he wrote one of the greatest and most recorded songs of all time, City of New Orleans, but Prine started his own record company, OhBoy Records, and has enjoyed considerable commercial success, himself. As a brief aside, on Steve Goodman’s live album, he says that he and Prine co-wrote City of New Orleans. Prine accepted the posthumous Grammy for the song a number of years ago. Goodman, of course, died at a very young age.
If you are familiar with John Prine, you probably remember songs like The Great Compromise in which he was critical of the handling of the Vietnam War. On Fair & Square he comments negatively on the war policy of the one we call Dubya. On the song Some Humans Ain’t Human he says:
Have you ever noticed
When you’re feeling really good
There’s always a pigeon
That’ll come shit on your hood
Or you’re feeling your freedom
And the world’s off your back
Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq
Prine’s songs are stories with music playing along. You could argue he isn’t the greatest singer of all time, but you could also argue he may be the best wordsmith who ever picked up a guitar. On the many nights I saw Prine and Goodman together on the stage of the Uptown theatre, there was no doubt the best was on that stage.
My favorite song on Fair & Square is Morning Train, a song with a blues track and three-part blues harmony (with background singers Pat McLaughlin and Mindy Smith).
Hey, hey, brother Ray
What’d you mean by “what’d I say”
Some of Prine’s latest recordings have had a country-western tone to them, and although there are a couple of songs on Fair & Square to which you could cry in your beer, Prine has come back to his folk roots.
It’s good to hear from him again.
At least, that’s what we think here in Jimbo’s world.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
back home again
Jimbo spent most of the week on the road and I just sat around and did nothing yesterday. Our main office is in a small town with no airport so one needs to fly to Chicago and rent a car and drive four hours, or fly to Indianapolis, rent a car and drive for three. The quickest way to get there is to drive. Well, the quickest way is to fly a shuttle flight into Champaign-Urbana, rent a car and drive for an hour, but that is an expensive way to go, and not much faster. So, I drove up and back. It is a seven- to eight-hour drive each way.
In the words of John Denver:
"Hey it’s good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ‘n hey, it’s good to be back home again."
It’s also good to hear that Bill Frist has come back to his senses. I’m not a smart man, but I know what progress is. Bill Frist appears for all the world to be very intelligent, and it looks like he knows progress, too. Hell, we’re all educated and we all can do and say dumb things from time to time, but to violate your Hippocratic oath just to be able to suck up to the President caused me to lose respect for the intellect of the senate majority leader. I guess the flavor of Bush’s ass on his lips became unpleasant or pretending to be ignorant finally left a bad enough taste in his mouth that his conscience made him fess up to the fact that he wasn’t stupid after all.
Primum non nocere.
That’s Latin for, first, do no harm. Of course, it’s not actually part of the Hippocratic oath, but it is a common code of physicians. Hippocrates, of course, was Greek (or as I say, Greek to me), so he didn’t write in Latin. For a physician to oppose stem cell research is tantamount to a minister preaching atheism. It also goes against the code of doing no harm. The Hippocratic oath says, “I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required…” That is the part of the Hippocratic oath opposition to stem cell research violates.
History is littered with the corpses of victims of ignorance and religious persecution and this history lesson appears to have been lost on the current administration and its constituency of the religious right. When I saw the story about Frist’s conversion on Friday night’s news, they showed a group of guys, for balance, telling us how Frist was wrong. I was struck by their movie-villain eyes. But this is no movie in which their attrition will occur at the end at the hands of some hero, as the hero utters some catchy phrase. These are opponents of progress who may very well succeed.
But, as for now, I’m encouraged that someone on the other side has shown me that they are not all Neanderthals. To paraphrase what Paul Henreid, as Victor Laszlo, said to Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart, in the movie Casablanca:
“Welcome back to the fight. This time I know our side will win.”
Or, maybe not, but it is a step in the right direction. At least, that’s the way we feel here in Jimbo’s world.
In the words of John Denver:
"Hey it’s good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ‘n hey, it’s good to be back home again."
It’s also good to hear that Bill Frist has come back to his senses. I’m not a smart man, but I know what progress is. Bill Frist appears for all the world to be very intelligent, and it looks like he knows progress, too. Hell, we’re all educated and we all can do and say dumb things from time to time, but to violate your Hippocratic oath just to be able to suck up to the President caused me to lose respect for the intellect of the senate majority leader. I guess the flavor of Bush’s ass on his lips became unpleasant or pretending to be ignorant finally left a bad enough taste in his mouth that his conscience made him fess up to the fact that he wasn’t stupid after all.
Primum non nocere.
That’s Latin for, first, do no harm. Of course, it’s not actually part of the Hippocratic oath, but it is a common code of physicians. Hippocrates, of course, was Greek (or as I say, Greek to me), so he didn’t write in Latin. For a physician to oppose stem cell research is tantamount to a minister preaching atheism. It also goes against the code of doing no harm. The Hippocratic oath says, “I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required…” That is the part of the Hippocratic oath opposition to stem cell research violates.
History is littered with the corpses of victims of ignorance and religious persecution and this history lesson appears to have been lost on the current administration and its constituency of the religious right. When I saw the story about Frist’s conversion on Friday night’s news, they showed a group of guys, for balance, telling us how Frist was wrong. I was struck by their movie-villain eyes. But this is no movie in which their attrition will occur at the end at the hands of some hero, as the hero utters some catchy phrase. These are opponents of progress who may very well succeed.
But, as for now, I’m encouraged that someone on the other side has shown me that they are not all Neanderthals. To paraphrase what Paul Henreid, as Victor Laszlo, said to Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart, in the movie Casablanca:
“Welcome back to the fight. This time I know our side will win.”
Or, maybe not, but it is a step in the right direction. At least, that’s the way we feel here in Jimbo’s world.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
things humans shouldn't have to see
Jimbo is on the road again this week, doing some computer training on our companies new manufacturing software system. I’m heading back home tomorrow. The rooms where we are doing our training are near the men’s locker room of the manufacturing plant at which we are training. During break yesterday and today, Jimbo saw things civilized humans should not have to see—guys with poor physiques taking showers. I mean, very poor physiques.
I’ll close my eyes tonight and tell myself it was just a bad dream, and when I wake up tomorrow, all memory of this will be gone, along with all thought of "that will be me in a couple of years."
In the motel in which I’m staying, I get a copy of McPaper delivered to my door every day. There was an interesting story about trees at the bottom of page one today, saying that trees help clean up the air. Not an altogether new and radical concept, but I’m glad to see the idea is making a comeback. It appears that someone has discovered that planting trees is a more economical alternative to building machinery to scrub the air. Maybe now that someone has a profit motive, the idea of cleaning air naturally with trees will catch on.
There is nothing like clean air and water to make quality of life better.
At least that is our opinion out here on the road tonight.
I’ll close my eyes tonight and tell myself it was just a bad dream, and when I wake up tomorrow, all memory of this will be gone, along with all thought of "that will be me in a couple of years."
In the motel in which I’m staying, I get a copy of McPaper delivered to my door every day. There was an interesting story about trees at the bottom of page one today, saying that trees help clean up the air. Not an altogether new and radical concept, but I’m glad to see the idea is making a comeback. It appears that someone has discovered that planting trees is a more economical alternative to building machinery to scrub the air. Maybe now that someone has a profit motive, the idea of cleaning air naturally with trees will catch on.
There is nothing like clean air and water to make quality of life better.
At least that is our opinion out here on the road tonight.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
this time it's war
Yesterday, my girlfriend and I finished up our vacation by doing some shopping, some dining and some movie viewing. The movie we saw was War of the Worlds. I say it is worth seeing, but it reminded me a lot of the 1953 version of which this movie was a remake. One difference was that Gene Barry portrayed a scientist in the original movie (he portrayed a grandparent in the remake). In the remake Tom Cruise portrayed a longshoreman, Ray Ferrier.
You may recall that Dr. Forrester, played by Gene Barry in the 1953 movie took an active role in trying to repel the aliens, even though all his work went for nothing, basically. He was unable to stop the aliens and, and as in the remake, we were all saved by a deus ex machina when the aliens breathed in a little of those bad bacteria and they all came down with something, got sick and expired. In the present version of the movie Tom Cruise adds a human face to tragedy as he tries to keep his life and family together while these aliens do all kinds of nasty crap to him, our planet and mankind in general. Cruise is the father of two children, but child rearing is not within his core competencies. When it comes time to sing a lullaby, the only one he can sing is Little Deuce Coupe.
You probably also recall that in the Halloween broadcast of War of the Worlds in 1938, the guy who was the protagonist was named Professor Farrell. Those of you around at the time probably remember this broadcast by the Mercury Theatre of the Air nearly scared the living crap out of everyone. I’m too young, of course, to remember it myself. Most of you probably are familiar with H.G. Welles original book, written in 1898. In all four renditions, the main character, whatever name or title, is basically a witness to the story and not the heroic figure who whips the aliens’ asses.
From the moment the aliens showed up on this planet they were doomed. It was just a matter of time. I saw the movie in a theater in Kansas, a state that boasts a state board of education that has members who don’t believe in Darwin and his theory of evolution. I have to believe, without really knowing much about H.G. Welles, that he must have known of Darwin and of natural selection. The actual heroes of this story and movie were bacteria and the God in which the anti-evolutionists do not believe. After millennia of being exposed to bacteria, the human race has evolved into a species that has immunity to these simple bacteria. The aliens showed up here without immunity. Natural selection made the human race superior to the highly advanced aliens.
If you don’t believe in Darwin, natural selection and evolution, then you won’t find this movie believable. Hell, you may not anyway. It was, however, a good couple of hours of entertainment.
At least that’s what we think here in Jimbo’s world.
You may recall that Dr. Forrester, played by Gene Barry in the 1953 movie took an active role in trying to repel the aliens, even though all his work went for nothing, basically. He was unable to stop the aliens and, and as in the remake, we were all saved by a deus ex machina when the aliens breathed in a little of those bad bacteria and they all came down with something, got sick and expired. In the present version of the movie Tom Cruise adds a human face to tragedy as he tries to keep his life and family together while these aliens do all kinds of nasty crap to him, our planet and mankind in general. Cruise is the father of two children, but child rearing is not within his core competencies. When it comes time to sing a lullaby, the only one he can sing is Little Deuce Coupe.
You probably also recall that in the Halloween broadcast of War of the Worlds in 1938, the guy who was the protagonist was named Professor Farrell. Those of you around at the time probably remember this broadcast by the Mercury Theatre of the Air nearly scared the living crap out of everyone. I’m too young, of course, to remember it myself. Most of you probably are familiar with H.G. Welles original book, written in 1898. In all four renditions, the main character, whatever name or title, is basically a witness to the story and not the heroic figure who whips the aliens’ asses.
From the moment the aliens showed up on this planet they were doomed. It was just a matter of time. I saw the movie in a theater in Kansas, a state that boasts a state board of education that has members who don’t believe in Darwin and his theory of evolution. I have to believe, without really knowing much about H.G. Welles, that he must have known of Darwin and of natural selection. The actual heroes of this story and movie were bacteria and the God in which the anti-evolutionists do not believe. After millennia of being exposed to bacteria, the human race has evolved into a species that has immunity to these simple bacteria. The aliens showed up here without immunity. Natural selection made the human race superior to the highly advanced aliens.
If you don’t believe in Darwin, natural selection and evolution, then you won’t find this movie believable. Hell, you may not anyway. It was, however, a good couple of hours of entertainment.
At least that’s what we think here in Jimbo’s world.
Friday, July 22, 2005
coming into laughlin
When I saw Hunter Thompson many years ago give a lecture at the University of Kansas, he was not impressed with the crowd, expecting us to be more boisterous than we were. He said, “ I remember when the only way to come into Lawrence was to blow in on a motorcycle.”
Well, the only correct way to come into Laughlin, Nevada, is to blow in on a jet. But since Laughlin has no airport, the only way to blow in is to fly into Bullhead City, Arizona, and limp into Laughlin on a bus, which is what we did last weekend. When we got off the plane at Bullhead City, my girlfriend asked me whether it was always as hot here as it was. I said, yes. It was only later I found out they were having a record string of days in the 120s (Fahrenheit, for those of you on the Pacific rim, who might have been asking at that point, “Wouldn’t temperatures like that cause the Colorado River to boil?”) I told my girlfriend it was a dry heat, but that wasn’t true, either. It was very humid. For those meteorology fans in the group, you are aware that humidity doesn’t allow the air to heat up as much as it can without humidity, so I didn’t know that it was possible to be 120 degrees and humid. It was a good excuse to stay inside. The comfort index was suitable to cook a frozen pizza in about 15 minutes.
Anyway, if you were wondering why you hadn’t heard anything from me the last few days, we were having fun in the sun in Laughlin. Jimbo’s girlfriend spent a lot of time at the pool and now she is brown as a nut. Of course some people would say that spending time out of doors in 120-degree weather would qualify one as a nut, but my girlfriend was careful to stay out of the afternoon sun.
I spent a lot of time at the roulette tables and had a good time. I played a poker tournament and finished in sixth place (but only the top four places paid). I had a good time but made no money.
Sometimes in life one has to get away from the ordinary and do things that are different. It was good to be on vacation, and it’s good to be back.
At least that’s the way we feel in Jimbo’s world.
Well, the only correct way to come into Laughlin, Nevada, is to blow in on a jet. But since Laughlin has no airport, the only way to blow in is to fly into Bullhead City, Arizona, and limp into Laughlin on a bus, which is what we did last weekend. When we got off the plane at Bullhead City, my girlfriend asked me whether it was always as hot here as it was. I said, yes. It was only later I found out they were having a record string of days in the 120s (Fahrenheit, for those of you on the Pacific rim, who might have been asking at that point, “Wouldn’t temperatures like that cause the Colorado River to boil?”) I told my girlfriend it was a dry heat, but that wasn’t true, either. It was very humid. For those meteorology fans in the group, you are aware that humidity doesn’t allow the air to heat up as much as it can without humidity, so I didn’t know that it was possible to be 120 degrees and humid. It was a good excuse to stay inside. The comfort index was suitable to cook a frozen pizza in about 15 minutes.
Anyway, if you were wondering why you hadn’t heard anything from me the last few days, we were having fun in the sun in Laughlin. Jimbo’s girlfriend spent a lot of time at the pool and now she is brown as a nut. Of course some people would say that spending time out of doors in 120-degree weather would qualify one as a nut, but my girlfriend was careful to stay out of the afternoon sun.
I spent a lot of time at the roulette tables and had a good time. I played a poker tournament and finished in sixth place (but only the top four places paid). I had a good time but made no money.
Sometimes in life one has to get away from the ordinary and do things that are different. It was good to be on vacation, and it’s good to be back.
At least that’s the way we feel in Jimbo’s world.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
a lot of bull
Last week the festival of San Fermin began and they ran the bulls through the streets of Pamplona, Spain. You probably are familiar with the description of the festival of San Fermin from Hemingway’s book The Sun Also Rises. Hell, I’m sure most of you can recant that episode of the book verbatim.
One could argue that Hemingway was one of the finest American writers (I won’t be disagreeing), but I question whether he would he would enthusiastically encourage the fixation some people seem to have about going to Spain annually with the goal of avoiding being gored by a bull.
You may recall that the main characters in his book were wandering aimlessly through Europe (and life) in an alcoholic haze, looking for something and not finding it—a group of guys chasing some chick named Brett. I would compare it to a pack of dogs chasing a bitch in heat, except dogs don’t drink. If dogs had a taste for alcohol and liked to get liquored-up, then it would be a good comparison.
“You are all a lost generation,” said Gertrude Stein, and The Sun Also Rises is probably the one novel that best describes what she meant.
Anyway, romantic as the concept is of running ahead of a bunch of angry bulls that would like to get their horns in you, it doesn’t sound like Jimbo’s idea of fun. One could save the airfare by just finding the local heavily traveled interstate and running in front of the cars. In my geographic area there is enough danger driving a car on the aforementioned interstate and surviving, which I do every day routinely, despite the danger rather than because of it.
If you really crave danger, you could go to work for the CIA as an undercover operative and then get your name into the hands of Karl Rove. That could really be dangerous.
But, for me, I think I’ll keep my derriere off the radar screens of angry bulls by not running out in front of them. My idea of romance is not having to explain scars inflicted on my body by bullhorns. I won’t go looking for danger; I’ll let it find me.
And here in Jimbo’s world, we hope it won’t.
One could argue that Hemingway was one of the finest American writers (I won’t be disagreeing), but I question whether he would he would enthusiastically encourage the fixation some people seem to have about going to Spain annually with the goal of avoiding being gored by a bull.
You may recall that the main characters in his book were wandering aimlessly through Europe (and life) in an alcoholic haze, looking for something and not finding it—a group of guys chasing some chick named Brett. I would compare it to a pack of dogs chasing a bitch in heat, except dogs don’t drink. If dogs had a taste for alcohol and liked to get liquored-up, then it would be a good comparison.
“You are all a lost generation,” said Gertrude Stein, and The Sun Also Rises is probably the one novel that best describes what she meant.
Anyway, romantic as the concept is of running ahead of a bunch of angry bulls that would like to get their horns in you, it doesn’t sound like Jimbo’s idea of fun. One could save the airfare by just finding the local heavily traveled interstate and running in front of the cars. In my geographic area there is enough danger driving a car on the aforementioned interstate and surviving, which I do every day routinely, despite the danger rather than because of it.
If you really crave danger, you could go to work for the CIA as an undercover operative and then get your name into the hands of Karl Rove. That could really be dangerous.
But, for me, I think I’ll keep my derriere off the radar screens of angry bulls by not running out in front of them. My idea of romance is not having to explain scars inflicted on my body by bullhorns. I won’t go looking for danger; I’ll let it find me.
And here in Jimbo’s world, we hope it won’t.
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