tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1256483898355481472024-03-12T22:48:14.666-05:00Evocationcregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-6911658883896211692015-05-17T23:38:00.002-05:002015-05-17T23:40:38.769-05:00Hacked Friday night from Houston areaJust interesting that my Google account was compromised Friday night. As all of mine are, it's a tough password-- not the kind you can guess. <br />
<br />
Using some sneaky tools of my own, it looks like, besides synching, every single post on this blog was accessed. A public blog, which no one reads, but which for a few hours, had access to the unpublished drafts--about a hundred.<br />
<br />
Looks like nothing changed-- but I've not the time to verify. <br />
<br />
I bet something comes of this. I mean, besides an auto synch, this is what the hacker wanted to see?<br />
<br />
Hmm. Doesn't leave many suspects-- but does point-- but then again, so does the IP address.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O18r13AgXUM/VVlsn0HRCGI/AAAAAAAACJo/3EFB6NXpJeo/s1600/16000%2BSpeyburn%2BCourt.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O18r13AgXUM/VVlsn0HRCGI/AAAAAAAACJo/3EFB6NXpJeo/s320/16000%2BSpeyburn%2BCourt.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, and here's a random picture-- because blog articles <br />and Facebook posts require them</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-57698045787046073462015-01-28T17:26:00.000-06:002015-01-28T17:26:44.644-06:00The Austin, Texas, Mountain Cedar Page<br />
At first, all I had been told about Austin's Mountain Cedars was that the pollen made the evening skies a beautiful purple and provided for amazing sunsets. Liars!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gY6neJKJUlo/VMlmGaFPFHI/AAAAAAAABuk/WijYIjBPd_g/s1600/cedar%2Bpollen.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gY6neJKJUlo/VMlmGaFPFHI/AAAAAAAABuk/WijYIjBPd_g/s1600/cedar%2Bpollen.gif" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isn't that a lovely shade?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It turns out, that the tree is really a juniper, not a cedar. The official Latin name is, <i>Juniperus ashei</i>. <br /><br />I studied a little Latin:<br /><br /> <i>juni </i>for "worthless" + <i>perus </i>for "plant" and <i>ashei </i>which is the word for "hateful." <b>Worthless plant, hateful.</b><br />
<br />
For the first year, I was kind of like...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SxbrBN7LhAI/VMlnDGSIdmI/AAAAAAAABus/kAQTjChYFhc/s1600/defence_gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SxbrBN7LhAI/VMlnDGSIdmI/AAAAAAAABus/kAQTjChYFhc/s1600/defence_gif.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Could explain my grades that year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I moved back to Fort Worth where the early cowpokes either strung-up or shot every mountain cedar caught north of the Brazos River; and so enjoyed October through March again, which was kind of like...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GXt1OdzinzQ/VMloX2fS3hI/AAAAAAAABvM/2YJPySu72QU/s1600/url.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GXt1OdzinzQ/VMloX2fS3hI/AAAAAAAABvM/2YJPySu72QU/s1600/url.gif" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But then I was transferred back to Austin a few years later, and by December, I was thinking like...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Z-yeZ1DsR8/VMlpWKi56rI/AAAAAAAABvc/zXYpw4eT28Y/s1600/wood-chop-o1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5Z-yeZ1DsR8/VMlpWKi56rI/AAAAAAAABvc/zXYpw4eT28Y/s1600/wood-chop-o1.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a moral duty to:<br /> <b>Kill. These. Damned. Trees.</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The company transferred me back to Fort Worth; then off to grad school in Wisconsin; back to Fort Worth; off to California; and back near Fort Worth again. <br />
<br />
Then, ten years ago, I was back in Austin, and the first October, I was like...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvFP_UmwMcY/VMloXtpoFLI/AAAAAAAABvI/JHEtp664hzQ/s1600/treedeath.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hvFP_UmwMcY/VMloXtpoFLI/AAAAAAAABvI/JHEtp664hzQ/s1600/treedeath.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><u>We</u> have a moral duty to make these trees suffer!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
By February, I was like...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j9-T1BjQ_9g/VMloVhlYAbI/AAAAAAAABu4/OjJSdkAM7r0/s1600/flamethrower-o.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j9-T1BjQ_9g/VMloVhlYAbI/AAAAAAAABu4/OjJSdkAM7r0/s1600/flamethrower-o.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My God! The trees are attacking!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And like...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6iT7oO9lJew/VMloWaW0hcI/AAAAAAAABu8/XkcfM6x135o/s1600/tumblr_mi3wsuI9b61rmyhabo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6iT7oO9lJew/VMloWaW0hcI/AAAAAAAABu8/XkcfM6x135o/s1600/tumblr_mi3wsuI9b61rmyhabo1_500.gif" height="136" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If war is what these trees want, then...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
But after ten years of this, I'm like...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dgBVq-jPF2M/VMlsgurSWdI/AAAAAAAABvo/5wqOveIldJw/s1600/757602491_1639005.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dgBVq-jPF2M/VMlsgurSWdI/AAAAAAAABvo/5wqOveIldJw/s1600/757602491_1639005.gif" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gotta go! We're doomed!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-15902150199264669102014-12-20T13:10:00.000-06:002014-12-20T13:10:14.820-06:00Day 35<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Seven weeks since my sixteen year old daughter died in a traffic accident. I haven't gone a day without crying.<br />
<br />
Friends and family are gently seeking to "socialize" me-- get me out and around people. <br />
<br />
I have, kind of/sort of, gotten used to tearing up without warning. Sunglasses and/or an escape route into privacy are my best tools. Earlier in the week, I grabbed a tissue and muttered under my breath as I wiped my eyes, "A lot of Gabriella in the air today."<br />
<br />
I am trying to focus on other things.<br />
<br />
I need people. I need relationships. I need to get out of my own mind, out of my own inner dialogue. It is nice and orderly in my mind, and I like it; but I have a heart that needs to be fed by contact with others.<br />
<br />
So...<br />
<br />
I begin psyching myself up for the upcoming Christmas break and holidays, starting (more or less) with Friday night.<br />
<br />
Here is how that went...<br />
<br />
<br />
AUSTIN, 5:28pm:<br />
<br />
Friday night and I am coasting-- or trying to.<br />
Office party tonight, friend's birthday party tomorrow night. <br />
Pleased that I have: <br />
* one reindeer antler on my car (found in road-- symbolizes both Christmas and that I have been in battle!) <br />
* one Rudolf nose (also found in road-- different road-- same day) which my Yoda Christmas ornament hanging from my rear view mirror is currently wearing, and <br />
* a string of white "Advent Lights" draped from sun visor to hand holds across ceiling of my car-- and which drew a laugh from a passing APD officer on my way home from work today.<br />
Just loaded rowdy "Christmas" music on my iPad.<br />
One light day of work left (Monday) and then I disappear into family for few days.<br />
Drinking coffee, now, after five in the afternoon, to shift to a more casual schedule that allows for PEOPLE in my life. I like people-- from what I recall.<br />
<br />
AUSTIN, 9:27pm:<br />
<br />
So, arriving for the school's office party, wearing my best grin, best suit, flashy tie, I get out of my one-antlered car (with reindeer-nosed Yoda) and overhear four teachers energetically getting out of a pickup truck when one proclaims, "Party time!" with something of a roar.<br />
<br />
Intending irony, and teasing about the normal harried quietness I usually see of the teachers arriving at the school, I answer with my own low drawl (which I usually mask, but lapse into when I am tired-- or sad) not far from as "the Stranger" in the Big Lebowski would say it, "You don't know how often I hear that... in this teachers' parking lot... at seven AM... Monday through Friday."<br />
<br />
It was a good attempt, and got the laugh and the grins which I was mining for. Two steps later, a hug, and, "I am so sorry, I heard about your daughter... etc., etc. etc."<br />
<br />
All. The. Way. To. The. Door.<br />
<br />
You know that smell, probably burning calcium, when the dentist is drilling on your tooth? If a moment had a smell, that was probably it.<br />
<br />
"Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes... well... he eats you."<br />
<br />
I swear, as I table-hopped for the next hour, I never heard so many stories from so many parents with tales of their fifteen or sixteen year old daughters at Christmas.<br />
<br />
Okay, I get that they see me and it scares them; and so NEED to talk about what a precious treasure they have. But...<br />
<br />
Damn bear.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1R07cCydCeY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
</div>cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-90075402758708301222014-10-11T11:46:00.000-05:002014-10-11T11:46:30.484-05:00Economic Inequity of US Social Engineering<b><span style="font-size: large;">2013 Divorced Family Example</span></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Two children</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Each parent earning $15.00 an hour (full-time)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Male paying 40% of income in child support</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
Here are the numbers using IRS 1040 Tax Filing and Federal Poverty Level guidelines:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-insideh: .5pt solid windowtext; mso-border-insidev: .5pt solid windowtext; mso-padding-alt: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 480;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Line Entries <br />
(1040 Line Numbers)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Male <br />
paying 40% Child support<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Female receiving that
child support<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Gross Income (Line 38)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">31,200<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">31,200<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Standard Deduction (40)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">-6,100<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">-6,100<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(Line 41)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">25,100<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">25,100<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Exemptions (42)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">-3,900<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">-15,600<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Net Taxable Income (43)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">21,200<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">9,500<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Tax: (44)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">2,738<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">983<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Child Tax Credit (51)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">-0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">-2,000<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Tax Paid <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">2,738<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">0<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Net Income (Gross minus Tax)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">28,462<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">31,200<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Child Support<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">-12,480<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">12,480<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Actual Income:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">15,982<span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">43,680<span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Federal Poverty Level<br />
<br />
(is based on Net Taxable Income AND number in household, <i>not</i> Actual Income)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">11,670<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">19,790<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Below Poverty Level<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">No<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">Yes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="border-top: none; border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 159.6pt;" valign="top" width="213">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Qualifies for Subsidies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 73.8pt;" valign="top" width="98">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: Arial;">No<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-left: none; border-right: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border-top: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 1.0in;" valign="top" width="96">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: magenta; font-family: Arial;">Yes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The inequity, of course, is that the tax code (nor qualification for subsidies formula) factor child support -- paid or received-- at any point. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: cyan;">For a male, child support PAID is considered by both tax code and qualification formulas for assistance as INCOME.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;">For a female, child Support RECEIVED is not calculated, at all. <br />
<br />
Rather, having primary custody—even if only one day more than the male-- exempts her income from any tax, while qualifying her for assistance.</span><br />
<br />
Why is this so?<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13948129888290887129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-26158908966496644492014-08-24T19:11:00.000-05:002014-08-24T19:11:57.340-05:00Titan IIIC Night Launch from film "Marooned"The Internet is full of bad information, and you have to be really picky to care enough to try and correct it, but this one is a labor of love.<br />
<br />
Many film sites make mention of a "goof" or "continuity error" in the 1968 film, <i>Marooned</i>. <br />
<br />
The film of the rescue craft sitting on the launch pad is clearly a
Titan IIIC; but the launch sequence is often claimed to be a Titan II,
without the strap-on solid rocket boosters (SRB) attached.<br />
<br />
Space
exploration enthusiasts know the Titan II well, both as America's Cold
War era Intercontinental Ballistic Missile and, moreover, as the launch
vehicle which put all of the Gemini astronauts in orbit.<br />
<br />
Here are simple, single barrel, Titan II rockets in both ICBM and Gemini configurations at launch:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJ5aKeRr0II/U_puG1QBLmI/AAAAAAAABow/Sx-MKbQnSR0/s1600/Titan_II_launch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJ5aKeRr0II/U_puG1QBLmI/AAAAAAAABow/Sx-MKbQnSR0/s1600/Titan_II_launch.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Titan II - ICMB launch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3vmR-mrVS_I/U_puHr0-bsI/AAAAAAAABo4/aCC2SPkuBH4/s1600/Gemini-Titan_11_Launch_-_GPN-2000-001020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3vmR-mrVS_I/U_puHr0-bsI/AAAAAAAABo4/aCC2SPkuBH4/s1600/Gemini-Titan_11_Launch_-_GPN-2000-001020.jpg" height="320" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Titan II -- Gemini launch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Now, in <i>Marooned</i>, the launch sequence provides two problems for us. First, it is a rare night launch. There were only three, and that makes it difficult to see the details. Second, the camera is positioned in-line with the roll-away tower, so the view is across the line of boosters, rather than perpendicular to the line.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0z6KvQoXW80/U_puEs4-dJI/AAAAAAAABos/96hd6hcsUeU/s1600/Titan%2BIIIC%2Bfrom%2BMarooned.png" height="382" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two scaled screen shots from the film, Marooned:<br />
Left: Titan IIIC on the pad, from oblique angle.<br />
Right: Titan IIIC at launch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
At first, we only notice the slim single barrel of the Titan II; but next we can make out the red (or orange) painting of the TVC tank. No Titan II ever carried an external TVC tank, much less a red one. <br />
<br />
Watching the video, that red band on the tank moves with the rocket from the moment of launch-- it is not part of the launch tower.<br />
<br />
On closer inspection we can also see not one, but two nose-cones. We see the nosecone on top of the main booster-- but we also see, lower down, the top of the shorter SRB.<br />
<br />
We can also match the black striping; which matches the Titan IIIC configuration-- but that also nearly matches Titan II striping such as can be seen in the Gemini launch photo already shown.<br />
<br />
Finally-- and if you are already something of a rocket nerd-- the most obvious proof that the launch is of a Titan IIIC is the exhaust plume. <br />
<br />
Liquid fuel rockets (such as the Titan II) do not blow bright yellow exhaust plumes. A Titan II's plume (as can be seen in the first two images) is nearly invisible, very narrow, and slightly blue.<br />
<br />
The central unit of the Titan III is a Titan II, but the main booster's plume is overwhelmed by the always grandiose plumes of the strap-on SRBs.<br />
<br />
So what?<br />
<br />
There are two reasons to make note of this film sequence.<br />
<br />
To begin with, we have a very rare, and very dramatic film of a Titan IIIC night launch, and even better-- it was recorded using cinematographic equipment, because it was recorded for a major motion picture.<br />
<br />
Also, we have a mystery... <br />
<br />
We do not know which of three Titan IIIC night launches we are witnessing on the screen.<br />
<br />
There were three night launches of the Titan IIIC, 28-Apr-1967; 26-Sep-1968; and 23-May-1969-- as the film was released in late 1969, this could be any one of those.<br />
<br />
Here is the lowered quality video than the film or DVD would provide:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/WQNMzc8ZDLs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
I am uncertain if the first two clips of the nosecone are actual closeups of the launched craft or if they are of a mock-up. <br />
<br />
Marooned is a 1969 Columbia Pictures film, and the cinematographic quality of the shots of the Titan suggest that this is not "stock footage" and so is not in public domain. Therefore, this is offered under "Fair Use" but with due credit to:<br />
<br />
Columbia Pictures; <br />
M. J. Frankovich, Producer;<br />
Daniel Fapp, Director of Photography; and<br />
W. Wallace Kelley, Director of Photography, 2nd Unitcregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-58295285943604185152014-01-27T13:01:00.002-06:002014-01-27T13:01:52.380-06:00An Open Letter to Fundamentalists -- Duck DynastyI takes me a while to remember that Fundamentalists, whether Christian
or Muslim, hold legalistic understanding devoid of spirituality, because
legalism is all they crave for their cultures. There is no room for
the mystical, or the transcendent in Fundamentalism.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/knl31_oliZ0/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/knl31_oliZ0&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://youtube.googleapis.com/v/knl31_oliZ0&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<br /><br />Fundamentalism is new to Christianity, and the result of a separation from the mystical, spiritual, and historical Church.<br /><br />I am reminded of a title of a C.S. Lewis book: <i>Your God is Too Small</i>.<br /><br />Legalism
makes enemies of all who are unlike yourself, and that cannot be
reconciled with a Gospel of "Good News" or what God has revealed of
Himself in the New Covenant-- much less what He accomplished on the
Cross.<br /><br />The Bible is not a weapon, and if you insist on using it as such, there ought to be a "Conceal and Carry" law regulating who is authorized to use it.<br /><br />You protest against gays at the grave side services of
veterans and before their bereaved families and friends. You seek to
LEGISLATE your faith so as to FORCE others to accept it.<br /><br />Yet, the
human soul is attracted to God by its own nature. While sin separates
us, as does death, God the Son has provided a means to overcome all
which separates us from Him.<br /><br />The journey of such a soul, however,
finds it very difficult to find that journey toward God inside a Church
whose members and leaders would seek to block them from entrance--
intent on denying them access to grace. That is the failure of
Fundamentalism.<br /><br />To such, knowing Church history, the development
of Christian theology, the great and early saints and theologians who
fought against heresy, endured persecution, and passed on the teachings
of the Apostles-- some before the Christian Bible even existed-- is a
dangerous thing to be avoided.<br /><br />But study these things, some of us
do-- most of the Church does. The vast majority of the Church is
engaged in theological dialogue with one another. The Fundamentalists
except themselves-- deny themselves a place at the table by their
refusal to read and study what the Church has <i>always </i>said about the
faith.<br /><br />So "<b>God became man so that man[kind] might become God</b>" is an <i>alien </i>expression to the Fundamentalist? I have yet to find one who even knows this, THE fundamental statement encompassing the Gospel and the Christian faith.<br /><br />So
are the Three Creeds (Apostles', Nicene, and Athanasian) and the
Definition of Chalcedon-- all historic attempts by the educated leaders
in attempt to preserve the authentic faith from before there was a canon
of Christian scripture.<br /><br />Such scholarship was used by the ancient
Church to determine which, of many, sacred writings were authentic--
either written by Apostles, or by those who studied under one of the
Apostles. Prior to that, the traditions had been passed down from
bishop to bishop-- each accountable to the other, and none presuming
that their own own <i><b>private</b> </i>interpretations could negate the rest of the Church.<br /><br />That
requires extraordinary faith... plus discipline and study. Those who
lack any of those requirements will dismiss all scholarship and therefore
be unable to draw persons to Christ as He charged the Church to do.<br /><br />You may draw some to the Bible, but the Bible is not Christ. You may draw them to legalism, but legalism is not Christ.<br /><br />The
teachings of the ancient and undivided Church are not Christ, either,
but they are the fullest expression of what He taught and desires for
us-- but you would not learn them-- and accuse, berate, and abuse those
who do.<br /><br />Christianity is a
broad and deep faith, while some
show only a familiarity with the Bible-- estranged from the discussion
of the much greater, much richer fullness of the faith.<br /><br />It
frightens you only because it is unknown to you-- but that is your
choice. The Apostles knew it, and their successors knew it-- and it was
dangerous for them, too. As you see, it is dangerous for non-Fundamentalists to study
it as well... but that, too, is by <i><b>your </b></i>choice.cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-17548846473544979242014-01-27T12:50:00.000-06:002014-01-27T12:50:25.632-06:00Becoming a Man -- According to Women and Boys.<div class="Bt Pm" style="max-height: none;">
<div class="Ct">
Manhood, as opposed to being a boy in the 'hood.<br /> </div>
<div class="Ct">
I
submit "urban youth" (the visual identity in the video):</div>
<div class="Ct">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/hc45-ptHMxo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="Ct">
<br /></div>
<div class="Ct">
<br />...is a euphemism
for teenage boys living in a matriarchal society-- and if so, who is
defining "being a man": for them? Their mothers, their female teachers,
or other teenage boys?<br /><br />I had a father. I know what a man is,
what a man does-- and it compares poorly with what mothers, female
teachers, and teenage boys claim a man to be.</div>
</div>
cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-4143722024713217992014-01-27T12:43:00.000-06:002014-01-27T12:43:08.052-06:00Abortion Issue-- A Solution?Brit Hume starts the conversation, but does not dig deeper (so we will):<br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/zEs4pD9Dn14">http://youtu.be/zEs4pD9Dn14</a> (if it cannot be embedded)<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/zEs4pD9Dn14" width="459"></iframe><br />
<br />
First, if we know where babies come from, then we also know where the "choice" is to be made-- and <i>was</i> made.<br />
<br />
Second, if we do not know when a human life begins (Feeling pain? Consciousness? Incarnate soul?), then we err on the side of caution.<br />
<br />
Third, as a pregnancy out of wedlock is potentially two very negative things: A traumatizing social stigma and and an economic disaster. Morally and ethically, we do <b><i>not </i></b>get to choose to murder (see second item) to avoid these negatives.<br />
<br />
Fourth, the baby also recognizes the <b><i>father's</i></b> voice! That baby is every bit the choice of the father as it was the choice of the mother (see first item).<br />
<br />
Fifth, "conformation bias" when making a decision when in a social or economic crisis (see third item) is not necessarily forever. That is, women who have chosen to abort, often accuse themselves of murder afterward. And <i>that </i>has devastating traumatic effects upon the psyche.<br /><br />Ask any priest, ask any psychological counselor, ask any therapist. An abortion is one of the most common self-traumatizing regrets heard from women.<br />
<br />
In other words, if we do not know if the fetus is a human person or not, and make a decision we later regret in the case of abortion, that action is equivocal to murder which is a far greater trauma to carry than social and economic trauma.<br />
<br />
So it is that, outside of a spiritual life, the typical reaction to choosing an abortion is to accept, as FACT, that the abortion did not take a human life. Guilt avoidance will not allow but the most introspective to even begin to consider that one perpetrated an unimaginable horror on another for the shallowest of reasons-- the ultimate betrayal of their own nature.<br />
<br />
This then, leads to a person's determination to deny that <i>anyone </i>has a soul, that <i>anyone </i>rightly has spiritual thoughts, that <i>anyone </i>matters-- including themselves.cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-50416972397215862652014-01-27T11:55:00.001-06:002014-01-27T11:55:54.934-06:00Police State-- We Do Not Need More Cops If We Have to Hire Bad Ones.I ran across this video, doing the ghastly work of sifting through reports found at <a href="http://www.policemisconduct.net/" target="_blank">The CATO Institute</a>.<br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/0MTZNb99Hz4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="Ct">
As the Boy Scouts, churches,
and other organizations have so painfully learned, predators are
attracted to careers and work which put them in power positions over
their prey. When are the Police recruiters going to do the same?<br /><br />The
police need to be hunting the predators who carry badges-- it is not
like the good ones do not have some idea of what behavior marks a
predator as such.<br /><br />No one wants to be a "snitch" but we must protect the innocent from predators. <br /><br />In the Church, we are trained to look for signs. We keep a silent suspicion of anyone volunteering to work with youth, for example. We check <i>everyone </i>through the <a href="https://records.txdps.state.tx.us/sexoffender/" target="_blank">Texas DPS sexual predator website</a> (and most states have something similar). We do background checks and require volunteers to then take the same courses so that we are all watchdogs-- <i>sheepdogs</i>, really-- who <i>know </i>the wolves are out there. Moreover, cergy are subjected to a battery of psychological tests and profiling, before being ordained-- because they are expected to be the chief shepherd).<br /><br />I imagine, that the officers who work with the predator seen in that video had been suspicious of that man prior to this, but (as extreme as it is) it is becoming increasingly common. I have never heard of a policeman being terminated because his peers suspect he manifests traits of a predator. Why?</div>
<div class="Ct">
</div>
<div class="Ct">
<br />And, by the way, if you hear a police officer yell, "Stop
resisting!" You better be watching. Do not assume the person was resisting. I have seen that tactic used twice on a perfectly peaceful and complaint person being arrested. If you can safely do so, especially from a distance, it is a good idea to make it a routine to video any arrest you witness being made.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-31598651485042000232014-01-13T10:25:00.000-06:002014-01-18T10:49:41.069-06:00Favorite GIF imagesEvery now and then I run across a .gif image which interests me. Here is my little collection of favorites...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ge77_samRdM/UtQRIlwELfI/AAAAAAAABc4/GFEkCpx5MCM/s1600/2m8BXUfrip9pzsd1Wq9TCMHQo1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ge77_samRdM/UtQRIlwELfI/AAAAAAAABc4/GFEkCpx5MCM/s1600/2m8BXUfrip9pzsd1Wq9TCMHQo1_400.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trampolining Pachyderm </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y_ssXl63B9w/UtQRJL2nVuI/AAAAAAAABc8/oiiNvuvHxBM/s1600/26073ca70139f8809bcbe61cbc705af1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y_ssXl63B9w/UtQRJL2nVuI/AAAAAAAABc8/oiiNvuvHxBM/s1600/26073ca70139f8809bcbe61cbc705af1.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Help</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KBSFg34POV4/UtQRZa2bvsI/AAAAAAAABdg/IuLjxPYfIeY/s1600/11278989116_9c37ce48cb_o.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KBSFg34POV4/UtQRZa2bvsI/AAAAAAAABdg/IuLjxPYfIeY/s320/11278989116_9c37ce48cb_o.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Longest NFL Field-goal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ikRnRzx4K-Q/UtQROR3nosI/AAAAAAAABdA/dq8F_Dz34sI/s1600/ass-whoopin-tree_bits.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ikRnRzx4K-Q/UtQROR3nosI/AAAAAAAABdA/dq8F_Dz34sI/s1600/ass-whoopin-tree_bits.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man versus Cedar trees</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TISTxlTD9lI/UtQRUQkPoNI/AAAAAAAABdI/wbAXyjuW8q8/s1600/dar21.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TISTxlTD9lI/UtQRUQkPoNI/AAAAAAAABdI/wbAXyjuW8q8/s320/dar21.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never liked that bunny anyway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6hjyqgBriPQ/UtQRVxi7ZCI/AAAAAAAABdM/VRMsRi26jg8/s1600/driver+ejection+z811.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6hjyqgBriPQ/UtQRVxi7ZCI/AAAAAAAABdM/VRMsRi26jg8/s320/driver+ejection+z811.gif" height="197" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ejection</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kru0iOcBdV4/UtQRaGaj_3I/AAAAAAAABdk/qQCYxGGKP5w/s1600/lek9iJs.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kru0iOcBdV4/UtQRaGaj_3I/AAAAAAAABdk/qQCYxGGKP5w/s320/lek9iJs.gif" height="264" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No Hand Up for You</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QQBFuC5l25A/UtQRYNynUhI/AAAAAAAABdY/wQDmZu_qolo/s1600/noonearound_reddit.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QQBFuC5l25A/UtQRYNynUhI/AAAAAAAABdY/wQDmZu_qolo/s1600/noonearound_reddit.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transmission Skipper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m7b_kXXyp1k/UtQRZz-kLzI/AAAAAAAABdo/KOVGzJsO0h8/s1600/tumblr_kx0vudxfPD1qzt4vjo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m7b_kXXyp1k/UtQRZz-kLzI/AAAAAAAABdo/KOVGzJsO0h8/s320/tumblr_kx0vudxfPD1qzt4vjo1_500.gif" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spiral</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9lNSX3eHTw/UtQRa4pxgnI/AAAAAAAABds/kYokLF8zaSc/s1600/tumblr_l7l6v4xYMR1qcbr3zo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9lNSX3eHTw/UtQRa4pxgnI/AAAAAAAABds/kYokLF8zaSc/s320/tumblr_l7l6v4xYMR1qcbr3zo1_500.gif" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goat Rider</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ea7hKbH4aH4/UtQReGNr7cI/AAAAAAAABeA/IpbuldKw6Ro/s1600/tumblr_mpyhveyd4z1qdlh1io1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ea7hKbH4aH4/UtQReGNr7cI/AAAAAAAABeA/IpbuldKw6Ro/s320/tumblr_mpyhveyd4z1qdlh1io1_400.gif" height="116" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just want my tire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PZUX21L89fs/UtQRf985LXI/AAAAAAAABeI/mSFmrEIO_54/s1600/turtle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PZUX21L89fs/UtQRf985LXI/AAAAAAAABeI/mSFmrEIO_54/s1600/turtle.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shell Game</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tZKsNpQF26g/UtQRhJvGTCI/AAAAAAAABeQ/KjB3SsQ-0BQ/s1600/unloading+the+shuttle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tZKsNpQF26g/UtQRhJvGTCI/AAAAAAAABeQ/KjB3SsQ-0BQ/s320/unloading+the+shuttle.gif" height="243" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unloading the Space Shuttle into ISS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTiJpQyxGnM/UtqwUKMtOYI/AAAAAAAABeg/Ku61kmKGSRY/s1600/the-quick-brown-fox-jumps-over-the-lazy-dog.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTiJpQyxGnM/UtqwUKMtOYI/AAAAAAAABeg/Ku61kmKGSRY/s320/the-quick-brown-fox-jumps-over-the-lazy-dog.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Type one sentence...<br /> using every letter in the alphabet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-58566393203230374332014-01-12T08:32:00.001-06:002014-01-12T08:32:13.664-06:00Tortoise SurfingFor my friend, Sarah. A long running joke...<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GnDfj4RZmOI/UtKl07FpdSI/AAAAAAAABcA/GHI_BCTMsjg/s1600/.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GnDfj4RZmOI/UtKl07FpdSI/AAAAAAAABcA/GHI_BCTMsjg/s1600/.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u8UGZnZMXgY/UtKl0CV-1WI/AAAAAAAABb4/rJ43dZEtHEo/s1600/adfcd5628535e5dd89aba92676c.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u8UGZnZMXgY/UtKl0CV-1WI/AAAAAAAABb4/rJ43dZEtHEo/s1600/adfcd5628535e5dd89aba92676c.gif" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2prEjd9fK8Y/UtKl3IgTr_I/AAAAAAAABcU/EQXVjsQx_bs/s1600/reverse-1319651565_chicken_riding_a_tortoise.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2prEjd9fK8Y/UtKl3IgTr_I/AAAAAAAABcU/EQXVjsQx_bs/s1600/reverse-1319651565_chicken_riding_a_tortoise.gif" height="197" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t01ullNwZ5M/UtKl48_v8uI/AAAAAAAABcg/Uul1hBrv1L4/s1600/shibainutortoise.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t01ullNwZ5M/UtKl48_v8uI/AAAAAAAABcg/Uul1hBrv1L4/s1600/shibainutortoise.gif" height="320" width="227" /></a></div>
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<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-21464981656165339302014-01-05T11:35:00.000-06:002014-01-05T11:35:36.324-06:00The Fall -- Three Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This fascinates for several reasons...</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AqAWxSIPia0/Uslc4jCp0eI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/HCQGWZjylIA/s1600/lek9iJs.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AqAWxSIPia0/Uslc4jCp0eI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/HCQGWZjylIA/s320/lek9iJs.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course, the <i>real</i> comedy is when the would-be rescuer, <br />at the very end, closes the hatch on the victim.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<h3>
<b>My first thought was of my own similar experience. </b></h3>
<br />
I was walking around a World War II era building at a municipal airport on a hot Summer's day in Texas. It had recently been annexed to house an Air Force Auxiliary (a. k. a., "CAP") Air Search and Rescue squadron to which I was attached as a Chaplain, and I had just returned from admiring a plane once owned by John Wayne-- the owner-pilot proud and wanting to show it off. <br />
<br />
In my case, there was no open hole, but the ground simply gave way. The grass had just been mowed, which made it all the more amazing that the weight of the riding lawn mower had not resulted in that machine and its driver breaking through, but all 170 pounds of me was enough to do it. The grass below my left foot simply did not have anything under it, and (just as the man in the gif image above is seen to do) I fell forward as I dropped down. <br />
<br />
Instinctively, I threw my arms out and forward, and managed to dig my fingers into the grass, leaving a hole even larger than the one in that image behind me. There was nothing under me. My legs and feet swung free. There was no one in sight, but I knew there were several person in the squadron HQ. When I pulled myself forward, the ground at my chest fell away, so I clung to grass and called out, "Help! I need some help!"<br />
<br />
About half a dozen persons appeared in a moment and grabbed me by my arms and by the collar of my suit, lifting me up and onto a not so firm ground. It was creepy. Peering down, we saw only blackness.<br /><br />Since most of our squadron was cross-trained and qualified for ground search operations, someone was able to produce yellow, "Do Not Cross" tape from their field kit, and cordoned-off the area. Airport personnel later reported that the concrete roof of a long abandoned and forgotten cistern or septic tank had collapsed, but left the few inches of earth and turf above it... until I passed over.<br /><br />
<h3>
<b>My second thought was a <i>vision </i>I had as I started my senior year in college.</b></h3>
<br />I have had visions (a. k. a., <i>spiritual experiences</i> or <i>religious experiences</i>) as a somewhat regular part of my life, and some of my earliest memories are of them. So it was not a surprise that I was having a vision, but the content always surprised me. <br /><br />Since about the age of ten years, I had known, or at least strongly suspected, I was called to be a Priest. That was fine except for the fact that I did not want to be a Priest. That calling or vocation probably, but not necessarily, had to do with why I was so often given visions; although at the time of this vision, none had anything to do with my being ordained a priest.<br /><br />Working my way through college as a grave-yard-shift Computer Operator for IBM, I was about a year away from graduating with a Bachelor of Business Administration degree, and had it in my mind that I would probably become a technical sales person in some high-tech industry (which I ended up doing for a few years, by the way). <br /><br />I had fallen in love with a beautiful woman two years before, and had just ended up on the receiving end of her own repressed trauma-- a horrifying tale she had not shared with me, and the relationship disintegrated... out from under my feet... as she lashed out at the world in rage. I was just her nearest (albeit, undeserving) target.<br /><br />Meanwhile, a series of short, very un-dramatic spiritual experiences which do not really qualify as "visions" were peppering me on a regular basis with the central thought of them being (and I paraphrase the content with intended humor), "Get thee to seminary!" They upset me. As I said, I did not want to be a priest.<br /><br />On the advice of my father and with his assistance, I quit working, got an apartment next to campus, and threw myself into my studies as a means to escape the grieving of my lost love. She had been my third love. My first (and <i>One. True. Love.</i>) had also broken my heart. My second ended when we went to different colleges after graduation from high school, also hurt. So, this third represented an intolerable pattern.<br /><br />To complicate things, I was aware that, while an Episcopal Priest can be married, it was normally only allowed if the person was already married when ordained. Otherwise, an unmarried priest was expected to take a vow of celibacy. A twenty-two year old, red blooded American male taking that vow? <br /> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Vow of Celibacy?</span></td></tr>
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Well, my normal routine was to get up early, fix coffee and breakfast, shower, go to early classes, finish at Noon, have a coffee while studying in the One O'Clock Lounge (home of the One O'Clock Lab Jazz Band) until the band played, chill while listening, and then do any library research, go home, eat lunch, complete all assignments, eat dinner, and start drinking to ward off feeling... anything.<br /><br />So there I was at the start of the very last step of my daily routine when it hit me. I sat down on the floor of the short hallway in my tiny apartment, closed my eyes and...<br /><br />
<i>the carpeted floor of the hallway simply ceased to exist. I fell. I fell down a earthen shaft of unimaginable depth. I was face down, and only saw the rough sides of the earth and rocks passing by at the very start of my fall, because in a moment, there was not any more light. I fell and fell. I merely </i>sensed <i>a bottom coming up to meet me. Perhaps it was an acoustic reference that triggered that sense, but just before hitting the bottom, I heard a voice. The voice said, "O God!" and, at that instant, my falling stopped. I hung there for just a brief moment, aware that I might be able to touch the floor of the shaft if I reached out my arms.<br /><br />I wondered about the voice and could still hear it-- in the way that you can be startled awake, find yourself in silence, but know the sound, or voice, which had caused you to start. The voice had been my own-- except my mouth had been closed-- and still was. And with that... </i> <br /><br />I was back on the carpeted floor of the hallway. Back in the dim light coming from the lamp on the end table next to the couch in the next room. My drink was sitting on the carpet next to me and I spoke before picking it up.<br />
<br />
"God? I really need someone to love, and to love me."<br />
<br />
I picked up my drink and finished it before going to sleep on the couch. I was woken the next (Saturday) morning by a knock on my door. I answered to find the pretty girl from across the hall standing there in cut-off shorts and a top which was only hanging from one shoulder. She said, "Hi, I live across the breezeway and decided I should introduce myself."<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b>The third thought I had has to do with a huge problem we have in our culture, society and politics...</b></h3>
<br />
The problem is dispassion. We do not hear the word often. I can define it, but want to back into that definition.<br /><br />An argument with a complete stranger and an argument with a beloved intimate are very different things. That difference is easy to see at work on the Internet. "Trolls" will write the most offensive and dis-compassionate things about or at a perceived adversary. <br /><br />Compare that to a disagreement with something one of your close friends posts on a social network, and the post contains an ideological statement with which you strongly disagree. The arguments will be very different.<br /><br />On a social network, it is not private, and you care about the other person's feelings even though you are at odds with them.<br /><br />Now consider a private argument between newlyweds. The disagreement takes on special meaning. You face this person every day, and any disagreement may seem intolerable-- in part, because unless it is resolved, the sense of being at odds might just be <i>forever</i>. So lovers argue passionately. That is, they care. It matters-- and the other person matters. <br />
<br />
Passion, literally means "suffering." We suffer for one another in the sense of desire, We suffer against one another in the sense of disagreements. It is not a terribly complicated concept as long as you are aware of it being at work in yourself and in your beloved intimate. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you love someone and they love you, your arguments are going to have every bit of the <i>passion</i> as does your desire for one another.</blockquote>
<br />
With that in mind, this comes up (or ought to) in discussions about a particular form of poverty: Homelessness.<br />
<br />
The statistics for causes of homelessness are difficult to compile. Somewhere around here, I have a US Federal Government form used to gather statistics about the causes and to be asked by the interviewer while conduction an annual homeless census. <br /><br />The form has a short list of items to offer a homeless man or woman in an interview, and there is no provision for answers which do not match the multiple choices provided. Basically, the question asked "To what do you attribute your homelessness?"<br /><br />Off the top of my head, the <i>allowed </i>answers were:<br />- Alcohol/Substance abuse<br />- Bad decisions<br />- Criminal record<br />- Dropped out of school<br />
- Excess debt<br />
- Inability to keep a job<br />
- Mental Illness<br />
- Physical handicap<br />
<br />
Having worked intimately with many of the over 5,000 homeless in the Texas county where I live, I know the most common two answers are not allowed as an answer:<br />
<br />
- Unjust divorce settlement<br />
- Unexpected job loss<br />- Employed but cannot support self due to high child-support<br />
<br />
But the overarching reason for which we have any homeless at all is... that the people closest to he homeless person, <i style="font-weight: bold;">before they became homeless,</i> did not care.<br /><br />I do not mean, "did not care <i>enough</i>." I mean, "chose not to care at all."<br />
<br />
That person had family, friends, and neighbors. The vast majority had co-workers and/or faith organizations (e.g., church) to add to their relationships. None of those cared. There was no passion for the person. Quite literally, no one in their lives thought the person important enough to them, to suffer for.<br />
<br />
This, by the way, is one of the very first concepts a newly homeless person comes to realize. They immediately come to the conclusion that they do not matter to anyone-- or at least not to anyone who was in a position to help.<br />
<br />
As a result of this harsh realization, the only friends the homeless person makes are other helpless persons.<br />
<br />
They trust no one who is able to help, because all of the person who they knew who were able to help them did not help. It is an easy divider. If someone has a good income, the homeless person knows, from hard won experience, that such a person will not help them (tossing a few coins their way on a busy sidewalk or at a busy traffic intersection excepted).<br />
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<br />Now, we look at this from the other side. We can forget the ideological bias of the survey questions. It was a loaded question intended to assign blame and/or to justify funding of Federal programs.<br />
<br />
Ask the persons who were in a position to help (e.g., offer a guest room or couch, offer a job) but chose not to do it. They will tell you, "Well, I knew something was going on, but I didn't want to get involved." You will hear a variation of that answer <i>every time</i>. It is <b>not</b> "apathy." It is lack of love, lack of passion, for the human person in their lives.<br /><br />Now, watch that would-be rescuer in that gif image at the top of this post.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
He sees the victim as he falls. There is an initial, instinctive impulse to rush to the falling man's aid. <br />
<br />
He opens the hatch and looks down and sees the man has fallen all he way to the bottom. Then he does something that none of us want to accept. He closes the hatch. The initial, instinctive impulse drove the rescuer to act, but once the impulse was acted upon, the rescuer became a disinterested witness.<br />
<br />
I once heard another priest describe the difference between <i>love </i>and <i>being in love</i> just that way. <br /><br />We see someone who strikes us as previously unimaginably wonderful, and that initial, instinctive impulse causes us to act. We are "in love."<br />
<br />
But then comes the most human of work. It is no longer an impulse, it is a mindfulness; and the action is no longer on impulse, but work. It requires effort. It requires passion. <br />
<br />
Incidentally, that priest held that the initial impulse to love a person is a God-given grace-- not an instinct. I believe he is right.<br />
<br />
If we give a tenth of our earning to the "Save the Whales" organization because it is our passion, but close the hatch on someone we see who has fallen, we have not lived up to our humanity. We have, I fear, excused ourselves from the glory and honor of the term, "human." <br /><br />But then, the root of the word, <i>human</i>, is "dirt."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13948129888290887129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-3328514542706785412013-12-28T21:37:00.002-06:002013-12-28T21:37:37.436-06:00Texas Trash<span class="userContent">"Texas Trash" -- my gift to pass on to the world, but it comes with a story...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A large roaster containing one completed batch of Texas Trash.</td></tr>
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This recipe has been around since before I was born and is a Giles
family staple. It is NOT your typical "Chex Mix" recipe and I have
never found anything like i<span class="text_exposed_show">t anywhere else.<br />
<br />
My Grandmother, Vida Gray Giles, (born a farm girl in Bastrop, raised
in Nacogdoches, transformed into a "Flapper" and finished as a gentle
and most loving dear lady anyone would ever meet) was the granddaughter
of a Texas Ranger in the Texas Revolution. <br /></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That is Gran, nearest the camera.</td></tr>
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<span class="text_exposed_show">She was the epitome of strong, kind, and smart Texas women. I do not think she invented this recipe, but she may have named it.<br />
<br />
"Gran" always made a batch of Texas Trash for the family visits to Nacogdoches; and with RC Cola or Dr. Pepper for the kids, sweet (mint) tea and beer for the adults, the Trash was the perfect snack for relaxing and catching up. It was a standard for watching football. I also am under the impression that every Bridge Table in East Texas had a bowl of it at center.<br />
<br />
When my brother and I were in college, the arrival of a shoebox in the mail, posted from Nacogdoches, meant we had received a half-batch, each, as a "care package." We were lucky if we could make it last more than a few days-- especially with roommates.<br />
<br />
I did not keep statistics but I believe there was a correlation between eating Texas Trash while watching football games. Texas Aggie, Texas Longhorn, and Dallas Cowboy victories may be a result of the Giles family tradition. We are not claiming credit-- just saying, "Maybe."<br />
<br />
Gran passed in 1994, and my mother kept the recipe alive, but it has now become a very rare treat, and an occasion for reminiscing. So, on the day before Thanksgiving, I asked my mother to direct and observe as I baked up a full batch. The image is of the results.<br />
<br />
Since it was perfect, I can now pass it on.<br />
<br />
To get your attention, you will need a half cup of BACON DRIPPINGS! <br />
<br />
Yep, that means you have to fry (and presumably eat) a lot of bacon. It is just a win-win scenario. <br />
<br />
[Frying between 12 and 16 strips of bacon should produce just about 1/2 cup of bacon drippings. No need to strain, or clarify, but let the sediments settle in the bottom of a container for best results.]<br />
<br />
<b>Now for the recipe:<br />
</b><br />
* 1 pound of butter (margarine is okay), melted.<br />
* 1/2 cup bacon drippings, melted.<br />
* 1/2 cup Worcestershire Sauce.<br />
* 2 teaspoons garlic salt.<br />
* 2 teaspoons onion salt.<br />
* 3 TABLEspoons chili powder.<br />
* 1 Box Life cereal (the necessary sweetness).<br />
* 1 Box Rice Chex cereal.<br />
* 1 Box Corn Chex cereal.<br />
* 3/4 Box Cheerios (those boxes are really big).<br />
* ~10 or 12 ounces of roasted peanuts (we toss in a can of Planters Peanuts).<br /><br />* Optional: Pretzels, most use the thin stick kind. I consider them mere "filler." Pecans (instead of peanuts)-- my favorite and in the original version my grandmother made, but that was when we could pick them off the ground and shell them ourselves. I have grown fond of the peanuts as a substitute. Some throw in a box of Wheat Chex, but others find they absorb too much of the tangier flavors. I like them.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everything you need, except that box of Life cereal,<br />
should be the regular kind and not cinnamon; and <br />I substituted a generic brand I trust for Cheerios.</td></tr>
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<span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent">* Melt the four sticks of margarine in the microwave, and then pour into a pot. Add the bacon drippings to that pot and heat on stove until all the drippings are liquefied with the butter. Then add Worcestershire Sauce, garlic salt, and onion salt, stirring until well mixed. It is sort of a flour-less roux, and looks like a roux.<br />
<br />
* In a large (really big--see picture) roaster, mix the cereals and peanuts, and then carefully stir cereal up from the bottom as you pour over the "roux" so that it is all evenly mixed.<br />
<br />
I used a large, flexible, and flat spatula so I could be sure to get all of the cereal off the bottom and bring it up.<br /><br />If you don't have such a huge roaster, you may wish to do this in batches which fit what you have-- perhaps mixing the ingredients and then splitting (before combining the roux with the cereal-- mixing those only when baking).<br />
<br />
<b>Now we are ready to bake.</b><br />
<br />
* Preheated at 300 degrees, bake, uncovered, for 60-75 minutes, stirring all contents from the bottom up, and from the sides in, every 15 minutes. You'll want that spatula I described and similar to the one pictured.<br />
<br />
* You can start eating as soon as it cools enough to not burn your mouth. If it seems "stale" then it isn't done. Stir and bake for another fifteen minutes. Sometimes one hour is sufficient, otherwise 75 minutes should do.<br />
<br />
My Mom and I scooped a bowlful, each, and then sat and drank her Sweet Mint Tea as we got caught up. That repeated several times over the next two days, and this morning, I filled seven large zip-lock baggies with what was left. I ate most of one bag on the train home, gave three to my brother when he picked me up from the station.<br />
<br />
Now that I know I do not have to ration the three bags I still have, I was feeling generous. </span></span>cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-65829528325649403332013-07-27T08:58:00.000-05:002013-07-27T09:19:07.903-05:00Discussion of Literature (Facebook Style)Well, he tried.<br />
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<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-85318901432359344872013-06-23T14:56:00.002-05:002013-06-23T18:57:25.569-05:00Stories wih BirdsI'm jaded, and I know it. I sometimes find myself not wanting to be around people. <br />
<br />
I like getting away to the woods, but being a city boy, that does not happen often. Fortunately, my workplace is set between two parks, one with a creek. We have lots of trees and lots of birds, and so for a few minutes a day, I walk over to one park, sit under a tree and enjoy the birds.<br />
<br />
I have two favorite kinds of common birds. Mockingbirds and Grackles.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="st">They <i>don't</i> eat up people's gardens, <br /><i>don't</i> nest in corncribs, <br />they <i>don't</i> do one thing <br />but sing their hearts out for us. <br />That's why it's a sin <i>to kill a mockingbird</i>."</span></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
When I was eight years old, my father had a pool built in our backyard. It was huge: forty feet long and twenty feet long, and just over eight feet deep. It became my sanctuary for five months out of every year. I would put on a stack of albums (we still used vinyl in those days), set the switches to the patio speakers, and then would float, swim, glide and dive for hours-- often with friends-- until dinner time.<br />
<br />
I tan very easily and quickly, and I got very dark. My father had Addison's Disease, and such deep tanning is a symptom (see pictures of John F. Kennedy, also an Addisonian, and note his constant tan) so the doctors periodically tested me for signs of having that disease, but I'm good. I once heard my mother comment to her friend that I could "get a tan standing in front of an open refrigerator door."<br />
<br />
My own version of that is, "Once we got the pool, I became the first <i>person of color</i> in our suburban neighborhood."<br />
<br />
After dinner, I was usually back in the pool-- observing that silly "forty-five minute" rule my mother enforced upon us. In the evenings, I usually had the pool and backyard to myself. I suppose it was the summer of 1969 that I realized something wonderful about Mockingbirds and sunsets.<br />
<br />
As the sun sets, Mockingbirds will find a high spot so that they can catch the last few rays of the sun, and once there, they will sing all the songs they have learned (and made up) into one long (fifteen minutes or so) beautiful song. It was like a daily "mix-tape" being played out from the TV antenna on top of our chimney above our two-story house. I suppose I had forgotten to turn the stereo on, or perhaps the family was watching TV in the den, but at any rate, one wonderful evening, I heard the Mockingbird. I climbed up on a barely inflated raft and floated in the vesper light, looking up at that little grey bird with the white racing stripe on each wing, and marveled.<br />
<br />
It was beautiful. I took the Mockingbird sunset ritual to be my own, and stopped swimming to simply float each evening when the Mockingbird took his aerial stage.<br />
<br />
If you live where Mockingbird are plentiful, you may know them for their aggressive defense of the nest if they have either eggs or young in them. Have you ever had a Mockingbird swoop down at your head? They will do it again and again if you are too near the tree where they have their nest.<br />
<br />
I cannot remember whether it was my mother or her mother that once told me that the Mockingbirds are tying to get some of your hair with which to line their nests, but I do not think that is true. They may pluck your hair as they swoop down on you, but that is to send you scurrying away, not for resources.<br />
<br />
I have a few Mockingbirds that "know me." At first, they would swoop down to warn me that I was trespassing. But they have also seen me stop and sit down and watch them while listening to their songs, and then seen me get up and leave when they stop. We watch each other, now, used to each other, and confident neither is a threat. Last week, I was headed to my usual place-- a sidewalk under several old trees, and set down. The Mockingbird in charge of patrolling that part of the sidewalk, flew past at a near, but not aggressive, distance and took a position facing me on a low branch about ten feet before me.<br />
<br />
He (or she-- I cannot tell them apart) perched and looked down on me for a few moments. I often speak to them when no one else is around, and said, "Well, good afternoon." The bird watched me, and then looked around and tweeted. It flew over to a cable holding up a backstop net behind the soccer field to keep errant balls from smacking pedestrians on the sidewalk. Again, it turned to face me-- about ten feet away-- and began to sing. The bird looked at me most of the time, and I sat there, sipping a Dr. Pepper and lit a cigar.<br />
<br />
It was a wonderful performance, but they all are. Was it really just for me? I think so. Here is why:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn18429-if-you-think-a-crow-is-giving-you-the-evil-eye.html" target="_blank">Wild crows can recognise individual human faces...</a><br />
<br />
The article suggests other animals can do the same, and I know it is true. My Mockingbird knew me. And while the linked article is about holding grudges, it works the other way, too. When I finish a loaf of bread, I always bring the heels for the birds near where I work. That is only about twice a month, but they know me, and some seem to even know my car.<br />
<br />
Two years ago this October, I started work at the place between the parks. It is a school associated with the Church. There is no Church building, it is just a feeder for a prep school. I am an ordained priest, but am not the Chaplain there. Maybe I should be, but I took a job there which had nothing to do with the priesthood simply because I had been out in the world making a secular living for about eight years and a friend called me up one day about the job opening.<br />
<br />
My friend is a beautiful woman in her late thirties, I think, and a extraordinarily talented singer-song-writer. When I met her through mutual friends, I soon learned that she had been the lead vocalist for a popular Punk Rock band in Austin before I moved here. I like music, and I like Punk Rock music, especially since I heard <i>The Clash</i> on Saturday Night Live. But that has nothing to do about birds.<br />
<br />
Here it is anyway (I cannot embed it here): <a href="http://youtu.be/Be2pMMYNzQ8?t=22s" target="_blank">The Clash, SNL appearance.</a><br />
<br />
<h3>
A Backstory</h3>
<br />
Austin is a music town, and many of my friends are musicians, song-writers, roadies, mixer/sound-check specialists (what do you call them?), and such. I have another friend who was making really good money going to the various music festival in Austin, and around the country, driving bands and roadies from their hotels to the music venues and back again, plus being available to show them the town-- good places to eat and or drink-- particularly the local places and not one where tourists would interfere. I asked a few question about hat work and <i>filed that away</i> as a possible means of making extra cash, since I still had a Commercial License (meaning that I can drive big vehicles with air-brakes, and even buses full of passengers) from a moonlighting job I took a dozen years ago.<br />
<br />
Well, the big ACL (Austin City Limits) music festival was about to invade this mostly college-town and my singer-songwriter, one-time Punk Rocker friend happened to be making a living working for a temp agency, and put out the word on Facebook that she needed drivers. I texted her that I had a CDL, and she got me a few "gigs," but not in the music industry. It was kind of fun work for not much more than spare change, but I got to drive Cobras, Jaguars, and other really neat cars for a car auction company.<br />
<br />
I had gotten to know my friend better by always attending any public performance she had. She did not advertise to her friends, but I saw her several times a week at work, and always asked, so kept up with her shows. She is terribly timid for a performer, and and so humble that she does not really believe that others are truly moved and awed by her music. She was trying out some new pieces mixed with some older ones in one of my favorite intimate music venues in town. Most of the patrons are in bands and looking for songs to include in their own act, and sometimes looking for talent to join their acts. I, however, went just because I got to hear great music no one else was hearing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://gp1.wac.edgecastcdn.net/802892/production_public/Venue/1157139/image/small/1327717098_redeyedflylogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://gp1.wac.edgecastcdn.net/802892/production_public/Venue/1157139/image/small/1327717098_redeyedflylogo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image stolen from Reverbnation.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before she went on, she liked to sit, smoke and chatter at a quiet table out of the way, and I enjoyed that as much as the performances. Once she is on stage, the music overwhelms with its power of notes and meaningful lyrics and people moving with the rhythm. I like that my other talented friends advertise their shows, and so all of our mutual friends will move heaven and earth to be there. We love to hear our friends perform, and love even more that fact that it has brought us all together for beer, conversation, and sometimes pool playing, afterwards.<br />
<br />
But Dee, I will call her, found it easier to perform to really small crowds when she was solo and as a result, several bands cover her songs but she was less well known than her songs. Once she was so lost in her own music that about five songs into an hour-long set she stopped and paused between songs and then admitted into the mic, "I have forgotten where I was." The audience smiled and waited and then she horrified me by looking out where I was seated in the back and saying my name and adding, "What have I not played?"<br />
<br />
It is not like I was prepared for that. I was lost in the music. too. But grace intervened and I called back, something like, "One about rolling over, one about the desert, one about the superman--" <br />
<br />
"Yeah! That's it. Thanks!" There was a lot of laughter at my stuttering surprise (and that I could answer!) as she launched into her next song. <br />
<br />
That really doesn't have anything to do with birds, either, but it gets there; and I'm just telling a story here as it comes to me.<br />
<br />
So, Dee and I get to know each other, and she knows I am a priest who went out of the Church to make my way in the world outside and finding it brutal and much different than I expected. I used to live in that world, but I seem to have lost my ability to cope with it on its own terms. One day...<br />
<br />
<br />
One day, I get a text message from Dee saying, "Call me! I have the perfect job for you."<br />
<br />
The church school was looking for someone to drive their athletic teams to practices and competitions. She knew it would be perfect because bus drivers make more than clergy (yeah, they really do) and because I would be in a church environment more or less separated from the ugly world outside. She gave me a phone number and I called, made an appointment for that afternoon, and walked out of the interview with the job-- all in the same day.<br />
<br />
So, I end up loving the place and the others who work there. Driving is driving, and I work out character and plot developments in my mind while I drive. I really do not like any children except for my own, so I ignore the teenagers on the bus, and engage my mind in driving while my subconscious works on dialogue. It worked for me, and I would come home ready to write, where I also had another job that had nothing to do with writing.<br />
<br />
After a year, the lady for whom I worked in my main job, died-- it was not a surprise, but it was awful none the less. At the same time, as if on cue, my church-school driving job went from temporary to full time employee.<br />
<br />
My hours began at 5:30 each morning, at which time I would begin preparing a bus for departure to pick up a few children at one campus and take them to the main campus. Most people would never guess, but we do not just jump in a commercial vehicle and <i>fire it up</i> to drive off. We pop the big hoods which swing forward to expose the huge diesel motor, climb up and check all the fluids, ensure the belts are in good shape, before we even start the motor.<br /><br />"Spill your coffee?" I may be asked.<br />
<br />
"No, bus juice."<br />
<br />
Then we wait until the motor's compressor charges up the air-brakes (twin tanks to 120 pounds each), check all of the gazillion lights and gauges inside and outside, check each tire, including the inner ones on the back, check leaf springs, air-lines, doors, windows, emergency exits, hatches, and fire extinguisher-- all to be entered into a report (log) which notes day, time, mileage and the results of the pre-trip inspection. When we are done, and assuming nothing is wrong with the machine, we can release the brake and roll out.<br />
<br />
At first, all of that took most of the time I had in the morning, but I got faster at it, and worked out a pattern that usually gave me at least fifteen to twenty minutes to get a cup of coffee and smoke a few puffs from a cigar. That allowed for a private schedule change that was very important me.<br />
<br />
You see, priests in my tradition follow a Benedictine rule of <i>work, prayer and study</i>. You do all three each day if you can. I start my day with a very formalized traditional thing called the "Office" which is also known as the "service of Morning Prayer." There is also an Evening Prayer done at sunset each day. Most people do not know priests do these, anymore than people know that professional drivers do what they do-- it just happens unseen.<br />
<br />
I can usually do the Daily Office in about fifteen to twenty minutes and so, after preparing the bus, I sat down under the bus-yard's parking lot lamp and did my work of prayer. I never counted (and I am not going to start now) but it is about twenty pages of prayer and scripture readings each morning.<br />
<br />
<h3>
But birds! Where are the birds in this part of the story?</h3>
<br />
Okay, now I can get back to birds. <br />
<br />
While checking the outside of the vehicle, the back of the parking lot is lined with large old trees. When I first started, every morning I would startle a dove that nested in one of those trees as I went around checking things in the dark with a flashlight. That sudden movement over my head and rustling in the nest would startle me as well. To solve this, I learned to cut my light and walk very quietly. I do not think much about doves. They are not very smart, and so have little, if any, character; but all the more reason to not scare one-- they have enough trouble remembering the breathe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Mourning_Dove_2006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Mourning_Dove_2006.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I would like to buy a clue, Pat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
As the days grew longer again, the sky was beginning to brighten as I sat there with cigar and coffee, cross-legged (they used to say, "Indian Style", but now people think it as the "Lotus position") doing my <i>other</i> work-- my spiritual work. By then, the only other sentient creatures aware of my presence were used to me. All of them were birds.<br />
<br />
By the time-change in the Spring, the birds were up and flitting about for breakfast while I prayed. I speak while praying, usually, but in a soft and quiet voice. I once heard it described as, "Just loud enough for the Angels to hear." The birds heard me too, but they were not competing. Grackles would walk around comically in the grass and on the asphalt and watch and listen to me. Mockingbirds would fly about very quickly grabbing small insects in flight for themselves and their young.<br />
<br />
But when I finished-- always when I finished-- the birds would begin their calls. It did not matter where the Sun was in the sky, they did their business quietly until I finished. I had become part of <i>their </i>morning ritual.<br />
<br />
Likewise, when Christmas break had come (we had work to do-- we took down decorations at the school, changed air-filters in each of the classrooms, and such) I would still go out for morning coffee, cigar and prayer, but on the far side of campus from the buses and into the park across the street by the creek. It was cold, but I was dressed for it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8e/Quiscalus_mexicanusMPCCA20061226-0567B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8e/Quiscalus_mexicanusMPCCA20061226-0567B.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smart and polite company. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The second time I did this, I noticed about a dozen Grackles sitting on a power-line running parallel to the sidewalk I crossed on my way into the park. They were all facing the rising Sun, up just high enough to be in the warming rays, and they were all watching me. That amused me and I laughed, smiled, and spoke to them, "Good morning" as I passed beneath them. I went down the hill because I could see a sunny spot between some trees where I could catch the warmth (such that it was) and see the water flowing.<br />
<br />
I sat down (Yoga-like, Indian-style, cross-legged, or whatever-- it is just how I sit-- always have) and lit my cigar. Immediately the twelve Grackles came swooping down the short hill and landed in a semi-circle in front of me. They began hunting bugs in the grass, and making quiet sounds to one another. I thought they wanted food and set my coffee down to show my hands were empty except for the cigar and said, "I have nothing for you."<br />
<br />
I talk to inanimate objects as well. For an example, and most recently, to my microwave oven. When my coffee is reheated, it always plays the first three notes of the transitional part of the Blue Danube-- the notes that come right after the dramatic, Bum-bum-bum! and go Bah! Bah! Baaah!. It is only one note, played three times, but it is the Blue Danube. I often say, "Thank you" as I open the door and walk off with my coffee whistling the Blue Danube (which has nothing to do with birds). <br />
<br />
Which reminds me... At work we have an elevator which only services two floors. The building only has two floors. When I get on, and the door closes, I smirk and say, "Really? You need me to push a button in case you might be confused? Just go to the <i>other</i> floor. How difficult is that?" Despite my chastising condescension, the elevator waits until I push the correct button. It is a silly game. I don't like that elevator. Anyway...<br />
<br />
The Grackles stayed anyway (despite my not having any food for them-- in case you forgot where I was going), just hanging out with me as if I were one of their flock. That was the first time, but it was an instant routine-- or ritual. The birds would wait for me at the wire above sidewalk and then join me beside the creek. It is impossible not to notice their company. They did not get <i>a thing</i> out of it, but did it anyway. Interesting.<br />
<br />
Because I appreciated their company so much, it was when school started back up that I started binging my bread scraps every week and a half or so (I do not count pages of books and I do not track how long a loaf of bread lasts me) to the birds in the parking lot, but not by the creek because I didn't go there anymore.<br />
<br />
They watched as I tore the bread into pieces small enough for them to handle and to fly while holding in their beaks, but all waited patiently until I was done, and then moved in, calmly, to get a piece. I was with two other co-workers-- my favorites. We were getting ready to take a bus in for its annual inspection and looking for anything that might need repair while it was in the shop. They were already in the bus going through different parts of it, and when I finished distributing the bread I climbed in and took a seat midway down the aisle.<br />
<br />
Just as one said, "I think the birds are happy with what you brought" a mid-sized Grackle came flying up to very window I was nearest and fluttered before the window like a hummingbird, looking at me. It held that hover for as long as it could, struggling mightily, since, as a rule, Grackles do not hover; but this one did.<br />
<br />
We all laughed and I said, "You're welcome" because there was no doubt in our minds why that bird had come to my window.<br />
<br />
<h3>
I'm a dog person really. </h3>
<br />
I grew up with dogs. My Dad was, thank God, a dog person of the first order. My first dog I do not remember. His name was Caboose, and he was a long-haired mutt of medium size. Stories about me and that dog were told for years, and how sad I was when he "ran away" (parent code for "hit by a car and died" at least I think. My big brother, having read the first draft of this seemed crushed at my supposition. I asked him to ask our Mom, but he insists on the "ran away" story, so we'll go with that ).<br />
<br />
My Dad soon got us a new dog. He got it for himself, but I was there the night he picked out <span class="st"><i>Snicklefritz</i></span> from the litter and was a delighted and utterly surprised four year old following the dachshund puppy down the sidewalk to our car. <i>Snick</i> died when I was seventeen and my Dad and I took turns with the shovel and both cried (out of sight of Mom) as we stood there. I had made the casket and Dad selected what else to put in it. My brother was away in college.<br />
<br />
When our Dad died almost three years ago (or is it four?), by brother said to me, "Snick and Dad are finally back together." He is right. I am sure of it.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/27/Short-haired-Dachshund.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/27/Short-haired-Dachshund.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not a bird, <br />
but I had a dog like this one, <br />
except my dog had a beer belly and his tail was always up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I went to college, a dog was out-of-the-question as they were not allowed where I lived and I really didn't have time to be the kind of dog owner I needed to be. But I went to a big party where this parakeet was flying around freely in that large main room. I was quite taken by this and ended up playing with it-- previously having no idea parakeets could be tame and playful. The bird had many toys, and would play with them, or perch on my finger.<br />
<br />
I knew that I needed a pet-- someone to excuse my tendency to talk to myself (and this was before I owned a microwave of my own) so I went to a pet store and picked out a baby parakeet. I named him <i>Blue Max</i> (after the movie about the World War I flying medal of the same name) but called him Max for short. Fortunately, he was blue in color, so the full name made since, and besides, I have always gone by my own middle name. I suppose, had he been green or yellow, most of my friends who knew his full name would have privately held that Max was probably a bit melancholy, which was not like Max at all.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ibr8fo9mYuQ/UcdJciVrquI/AAAAAAAABWA/BHXJdbmcVt4/s1600/max+and+crews.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ibr8fo9mYuQ/UcdJciVrquI/AAAAAAAABWA/BHXJdbmcVt4/s320/max+and+crews.png" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Besides avocado, Max had a bit of a gambling habit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
From day one, Max lived in a cage home which is where he slept (with a towel over it) and eat, and of course, where he pooped, but his cage door was always open, and he had free run of wherever I lived. He flew from room to room, but once in the room where he wanted to be, he <i>walked</i> everywhere. Like a dog, he celebrated when I would come home from work at night. He would tweet while flying about the room excitedly and wait until I set down my briefcase and took my place on the couch. Then he would fly to the back of the couch and hop up on my shoulder and tell me all about his day.<br />
<br />
Some parakeets can talk, but Max was not like that. He <i>thought</i> he talked and made talking-like sounds, but it was not words. Not knowing that, he would make talk-like sounds into my ear for several minutes and then get lost in preening himself and the longish hair I wore behind my ears and sometimes fall asleep there. He was probably tired from whatever he had been doing all day, which he tried to tell me about, but which I will never know. It <i>sounded </i>exciting, so it probably was.<br /><br />Summers, when I was home from school, my parents took a liking to Max. My father had a ritual of fixing a heavily iced down Bourbon and Coke when he got home from work. In my absence (I got home from work, last), Max had learned to greet my father much like he did me, but since my father had little hair, did not preen by father. Instead, he explored this odd smelling drink in my father's hand. He took a sip, and the rest is history. I would arrive home to find my father greeting me but not my bird. <i>Max </i>was too drunk to fly. <br />
<br />
Despite the drinking problem, Max was very well mannered <i>unless</i> I was serving guacamole. The bird was nuts about avocado and nothing got between Max and his avocado. I was home for Christmas break and the whole family was gathered for dinner. They all liked Max, and he flew free in their home as well. This is when we learned he was a junky. The main course was probably brisket (I mean, we are Texans, after all) but we had guacamole on tostadas as the "salad."<br /><br />Another birdless side-story, strikes me: We ate a lot of brisket, and my mother made a great one. I think it is when she went back to college for another degree that we started getting even more brisket, beginning on Sunday night, and then as left overs to reheat and sandwiches for the days following. It was less work for her. No one wanted to complain, but variety, not the brisekt, was lacking.<br /><br />So, one Sunday night my brother leaned across the table to me and whispered, "On the first day of brisket." I was not sure what he mant, but when dinner was served, he looked at me, counted down silently using his fingers and mouthing, "Three, Two, One" and intoned (to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas), "On the first day of brisket..." My Dad had joined in and Dada and I paused after "my true love gave to me" but by brother had created a verse-- which I no longer can remember. Okay, back to the bird.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Guacamole Incident.</h3>
Max landed on my shoulder, as was typical, but marched purposely down my sleeve, over my plate and up to my wrist which was holding the tostada. He then took a beak-full of guacamole before I could shoo him away. When I did try to shoo him, he simply flutter to one of the other plates at table and landed smack in the middle of the guacamole. We all had green parakeet <i>tracks</i> up and down our arms-- signs of a dangerous habit.<br />
<br />
<br />
As one would expect, the addiction had a tragic end: heart disease, doing tricks for avocado products, and such.<br />
<br />
Years later, he was found cold and still in the bottom of his cage, green smears on his beloved mirror and avocado skins littering the floor.<br />
<br />
I did have more dogs, but none of their stories involve birds. <br /><br />Again, my brother intervenes and wants me to include the story about how our dachshund <i>allegedly </i>ate our neighbor friend's chicken. That chicken was our friend's pet and I felt terrible about it. I hope they catch the dog who actually did it. I have never felt comfortable with the suspicion placed, unjustly, on our sweet, feather-faced dog.<br /><br />Well, at least that story had a bird in it, briefly; and even if it was fateful and tragical. But, really, my brother is not normally such a buzz-kill.cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-50632027283231464982013-02-14T07:32:00.001-06:002013-02-14T07:32:11.115-06:00Missed Opportunity (Happy Valentines)It was six years ago on Valentines Day. <br /><br />She was my pretty and soulful "spiritual friend" and co-worker. She stopped by my office at quitting time, and suggested we take our two shredded hearts out for a drink. <br />
<br />
Walking along the busy sidewalk, we stopped before a shop window and looked at a t-shirt design mocking Valentines Day. Wordlessly, she took my hand, and we walked along knowing the other understood. <br />
<br />
I look back on this day with such regret of missed opportunities; and I, with a bitter-sweet hope, like to think she does, too.<br />
<br />
What could have been... What I should have done... How things might be different if only...<br />
<br />
Yes. I know, now. <br />
<br />
I should have bought that shirt. cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-78018412919062454872013-02-09T18:21:00.003-06:002013-02-09T18:21:43.097-06:00Losses<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">I woke this morning to loud noises outside my bedroom window. I then
watched two men with a tow-truck repossessing a neighbor's car. I
worried that there would be a confrontation. There was not. I imagined
my neighbor sitting up in his or her own bed watching, quietly resolved
that there was nothing left to do.<br /> <br /> Earlier this week, I came
home from work and stopped in the parking lot thinking I heard a cry.
After a few moments, hearing nothing, I continue toward the steps of my
apartment and heard it again, louder, and could identify the neighbor's
unit. "Oh God, NO! Oh, please! You can't do this! Why are you doing
this?!" Heart wrenching words. <br /> <br /> Had he caught the love of
his life with another? Had his computer just crashed as he was
leveling-up on a video game? I don't know my neighbors, yet, so I could
not judge-- but hoped for the latter as I went up to my place.<br /> <br />
Monday, I have to dig up my own loss. The loss of my two children
which coincided with the loss of my work, my home, everything I had ever
owned, my hopes, my dreams, and my marriage. It might have been a
house-fire which only I survived, so complete was the destruction and I
sometimes describe it that way as a metaphor. <br /> <br /> About fifteen
years ago, on a rainy Fourth of July, I helped fight a house fire with
garden hoses because the only firetruck was stuck in a parade ten miles
away. When the mother emerged from the house, I asked, "Where are the
children?" She said she thought they were in the back bedroom. Two of
us tried to get to the back bedroom from inside, but were driven back by
flames, and the lack of air did not allow for second tries. <br /> <br /> I
went around back, outside, and after several attempts to break out the
window to that room which was just above my head, I watched in horror as
the curtains roiled against the glass in black smoke and red flame.
The children, I soon learned, were safe at the house next door. The
horror, however, was real... and foreshadowing.<br /> <br /> I only FEEL the
loss of my children now. Periodically, I go to court to protest, but
now I go as a stranger to my children with nothing to regain -- except
my own voice. My children do not remember me. I go only for me. <br /> <br />
I have these boxes -- haunted boxes. In some are records of all the
efforts I made trying to locate my children, regain, and maintain
contact with them only to find them disappearing again. I have to go
through these this weekend and the memories threaten when I open them. <br /> <br />
In other boxes, there are toys and keepsakes my children asked me to
keep safe for them when we were still in each other's lives. I am
afraid of those boxes-- they hurt. I cannot tell the difference between
which boxes only threaten and which boxes stab upon opening, until I
remove the lid and look inside.<br /> <br /> When I was a child, the scariest and worst words from the Bible were these: <br /> </span></span></span></span></h5>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"> <i>And he said unto them, "Verily I say unto you, There is no man that
hath left house, or wife, or brethren, or parents, or children, for the
kingdom of God's sake, who shall not receive manifold more in this time,
and in the world to come eternal life."</i></span></span></span></span></blockquote>
<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> I cannot imagine an
UGLIER expression for the need of hope than those words-- except,
perhaps, describing a house fire in which everyone and everything is
lost.<br /> <br /> As a child, I feared that those words could foreshadow my
own life, and I cannot understand why I feared those words-- even now. Yet, I was right to fear them.</span></span></span></span></h5>
cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-4382230544128028022013-01-22T01:20:00.000-06:002015-07-31T09:08:14.971-05:00Tragedy: Columbia<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>[Originally posted July 25, 2012, re-posted, now, as the tenth anniversary of the tragedy approaches.]</i></span><br />
<br />
On February 1, 2003, the Space Shuttle Columbia, Mission STS-107, broke apart over Texas killing the crew of seven astronauts after sixteen days in space. The disaster was precipitated by damage to the left wing sustained on launch from a piece of foam insulation falling from the external fuel tank and striking the leading edge of that wing.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/t0zBuFfcYNo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe>A cracked or dislodged ceramic tile or cracked leading edge of reinforced carbon-carbon of the left wing allowed the hot gasses experienced by spacecraft during reentry to either shear or melt-through portions of the wing structure, ultimately causing a total breakup of the spacecraft. <br />
<br />
The crew of seven were Rick Husband, Commander; William McCool, Pilot; Michael P. Anderson, Payload Commander; David M. Brown, Mission Specialist 1; Kalpana Chawla, Mission Specialist 2; Laurel Blair Salton Clark, Mission Specialist 4; and Ilan Ramon, Payload Specialist 1.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<b>The events with commentary.</b><i> </i></h3>
<h3>
<i><br /></i></h3>
<i> Times are listed in Houston, Texas (Mission Control) time.</i><br />
<i> FDL = Flight Director's Loop, with time indexed</i><br />
<i> OBV = On-Board Video, with time indexed<br /> (see "Resources" section, below)</i><b><br /></b><br />
<br />
07:41:29 (FDL 1:10/ OBV 2:29) “<span style="color: lime;"><b>Yep.</b></span>”<br />
<br />
On the Flight Director’s Loop (FDL) is heard, but not transcribed, a short voiced, “Yep” or “Yip.” Due to the very few transmissions received from the shuttle in its last hour, some had wondered if this may have been an expression of surprise by one of the crew. However, both William McCool and Kalpana “KC” Chawla use the term, “Yep,” frequently. <br />
<br />
It is not clear if McCool (the only person aboard the shuttle, other than Husband, who would be heard on the FD loop) had uttered the word and inadvertently keyed his mic; but, at this point in the flight, it is clear from the video and from flight data that nothing unusual is taking place. In fact, Entry Interface (EI) has not yet begun, so the spacecraft is not undergoing any stress or heating.<br />
<br />
07:44:09 (FDL 3:50/ OBV 5:09) Entry Interface. The shuttle first enters the Earth’s atmosphere at about Mach 25 and 400,000 feet in altitude. Nothing on either recording signifies this technical fact. It is mentioned, here, because it is the first moment in which the vehicle begins to make contact with the atmosphere.<br />
<br />
07:49:00 (FDL 17:39) The portion of the on-board video released by NASA to the public ends here. <br />
<br />
Some, mistakenly, believe that the video “breaks-up” at this point coincident with the shuttle breaking up. The shuttle is flying normally and the cabin is unaffected by whatever damage may have begun. The crew was above the Pacific Ocean, about 260,000 feet up, traveling at Mach 24.56.<br /><br />Whether there is any usable video after this point is not clear.<br />
<br />
07:49:47 (FDL 18:28) “<span style="color: lime;"><b>Roll ‘em right</b>.</span>”<br />
This unidentified voice (probably in Houston) may be making mention of the first right hand roll of the shuttle which was initiated fifteen seconds prior to this comment. As the craft slows, it commences an “S-turn” maneuver: rolling right, then left, then back right, to bleed off speed.<br />
<br />
07:49:49 (FDL 18:30) “?<span style="color: lime;"><b>-dis-eleven</b></span>”<br />
“Eleven” being the only full word heard, this voice is unidentified and immediately follows the different voice mentioned above. The phrase is abrupt and perhaps emphatic, but there is no evidence from the telemetry that those on board the shuttle might have any cause for either stress or alarm. The shuttle is not yet five minutes into the entry-interface (EI) and the first indication of trouble with the left wing (the four failed hydraulic transponders) does not begin for another three minutes and ten seconds.<br />
<br />
Note that this is less than one minute after the released (but not necessariuly <i>full</i>) version of the on-board video ends, which gives cause for consideration. It is almost nine minutes before any communication with the astronauts is heard again.<br />
<br />
A possibility: When the external pressure reached 2 pounds per square foot (Qbar) the wing control surfaces become activated as they then can become useful for controlling the shuttle as it enters the atmosphere. At 10 psf, the roll jets are deactivated as they are no longer needed. This threshold was reached moments before this transmission. It is possible that a NASA engineer inadvertently keyed a mic while discussing this phase of the descent with another, perhaps referring to the current telemetry indicating <i>eleven </i>psf.<br />
<br />
07:52:59 Four hydraulic transducers wired in common along the leading edge of the left wing, just where the foam insulation struck the wing at launch, begin to fail—all four go “off-scale-low” (OSL) within about 30 seconds.<br />
<br />
In hindsight, the sensor wiring was sheared by the plasma encroachment due to a broken or missing ceramic tile which served as the shuttle's heat shield during re-entry. At the time, Mission Control was assuming that the sensors had simply been knocked loose by the foam impact incident during launch. The sensors failures occurred as follows:<br />
<ul>
<li>07:52:59</li>
<li>07:53:10</li>
<li>07:53:11</li>
<li>07:53:32</li>
</ul>
07:53:28 The shuttle crosses the coast over California. The group responsible for monitoring and diagnosing the shuttle telemetry, MMACS (pronounced, "macks"), is concerned about the new data. Meanwhile, and unknown to Houston, video from television and amateur recordings indicate signs of debris falling from the shuttle:<br />
<br />
(See Notes concerning Video and Photo Evidence below this section).<br />
<ul>
<li>07:53:46 Debris #1</li>
<li>07:53:48 Debris #2</li>
<li>07:53:56 Debris #3</li>
<li>07:54:02 Debris #4</li>
<li>07:54:09 Debris #5</li>
</ul>
07:54:24: (FDL 22:49) MMACS calls the Flight Director and says, “<span style="color: lime;"><b>FYI, I just lost four separate, uh, temperature transducers on the left side of the vehicle-- the hydraulic return temperatures. Two of them on system one, and one each on systems two and three</b>.</span>”<br />
<br />
As MMACS and the Flight Director discuss the transducer failures. The commonality is quickly determined to be in the position of the wiring of these sensors, all on the leading edge of the left wing. Mission Control is also checking for other signs that the shuttle may be in danger. Its flight characteristics are normal, but other data is beginning to show that the flight control surfaces are having to work harder than usual to keep the shuttle on course, and that some sensors are indicating temperatures slightly higher than expected.<br />
<br />
While Houston remains unaware of the video evidence of debris trailing behind the shuttle, the situation is quickly degrading as it passes over Nevada, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and into Texas. Several amateurs and local television stations in those states videotape the shuttle as it passes overhead:<br />
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<ul>
<li>07:54:33 A bright flash is seen on video taken of the shuttle.</li>
<li>07:54:36 Debris #6 (one of the two brightest debris events, and so probably more significant)</li>
<li>07:55:05 Debris #7</li>
<li>07:55:23 Debris #8</li>
<li>07:55:26 Debris #9 </li>
<li>07:55:27 Debris #10</li>
<li>07:55:37 Debris #11</li>
<li>07:55:45 Debris #12</li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li> 07:55:49 The shuttle now enters sunlight, dawn. More local video records continued damage:
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>07:55:56 Debris #13</li>
<li>07:55:58 Debris #14 (the second of two bright, and so probably large, debris events)</li>
<li>07:56:10 Debris #15</li>
<li>07:57:24 Debris #16</li>
<li>07:57:54 Flare 1 (Photographed by personnel at Kirtland Air Force Base, NM)</li>
<li>07:58:00 Flare 2 (From the same armature photo set as above. This is the final piece of external evidence prior to LOS and until the video of the main break up near Dallas, Texas)</li>
</ul>
07:58:38 Shuttle tire pressure sensors begin to fail.<br />
<br />
07:58:40 MMACS begins to report the tire sensor failures it has received from telemetry.<br />
<br />
07:58:44 (FDL 27:10) “<span style="color: lime;"><b>and, uh, Houst—</b></span>”
Four seconds prior to this, Husband and/or McCool would have seen a fault indication from the <span class="st">Backup Flight System (BFS) concerning the Tire Pressure.</span> <br />
<br />
Some have transcribed this as "<b>Feelin' the heat.</b>" Most transcripts render this otherwise, usually as, “<b>and, uh, Houst—</b>“ and as a broken, or interrupted, transmission. It has been noted that it does not make sense to start a sentence with a conjunction, yet the transcript shows that Husband does this often, “and, uh, Houston” is almost certainly the correct transcription of what was being said. The voice is calm, the conjunction, “and” suggests the intent to pass information or to ask a question. <span class="st">
</span><br />
<br />
07:59:02 (FDL 27:39) MMACS calls the Flight Director with the new information about tire pressure, “<span style="color: lime;"><b>We just lost, uh, tire… pressure on left outboard and left inboard, both tires.</b></span>”<br />
<br />
07:59:09 (FDL 27:46) CAPCOM calls Columbia to state that Houston can see that astronauts have a BFS Fault warning on the shuttle's console. “<b><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: lime;">And Columbia, Houston, we see your tire pressure message and we did not copy your last.</span></span></b>" Mission Control is also acknowledging receiving a partial voice transmission. "Did not copy your last" would be expected to provoke the astronaut to repeat the previous transmission.<br />
<br />
07:59:16 (FDL 27:53) “<span style="color: lime;"><b>Roger, and uh—</b></span>“
These are the last words received from the shuttle. Ten seconds earlier, an on-board indication that the left landing gear was in the deployed, "down and locked," position had been seen by the astronauts. This is probably an electrical malfunction from damaged sensors as the "up-lock" indicator remained on. The "down-locked" indication is the most likely message content intended by the astronaut when the transmission was interrupted.<br />
<br />
Communication is often intermittent during this stage of re-entry, so it is not clear if the transmission was interrupted by events taking place on board the shuttle or due to the more prosaic reasons. There is no indication of stress in the voice. In saying "Roger," the astronaut is stating that he understood the previous message.<br />
<br />
<b>THE LIVES OF THE CREW</b> are lost sometime in the next ninety seconds. Loud alarms sounded within the crew compartment, the interior lighting went dark, the shuttle began to tumble, rapidly, end over end as McCool worked controls until the cabin tore open. <br />
<br />
That McCool was working the controls, a detail released by NASA, might reasonably be interpreted as the result of having recovered more of the on-board video than has been released; however, NASA has hard evidence of this detail. Specifically, the control panel before McCool's seat was found on the ground in Texas. The manual switches were mechanically held in their last position (a feature of the switches to prevent accidentally bumping) and the switch settings clearly show that the astronaut was attempting to restart failed Auxiliary Power Units (APU).<br />
<br />
While the suits the astronauts wear could protect them from the explosive-decompression, none had the visor down and sealed at break-up. Furthermore, the pressure suits were unable to provide protection when exposed to the same forces which caused the shuttle to disintegrate. It is believed that all seven were unconscious within <i>six seconds</i> of the cabin breach and probably dead prior to the cabin break up.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KFxUppUxuy4/Tyll8VuzG7I/AAAAAAAAKww/cObzXEOeGI0/s1600/5089427-md.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KFxUppUxuy4/Tyll8VuzG7I/AAAAAAAAKww/cObzXEOeGI0/s320/5089427-md.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://best-of-texas-blogs-amarillo.blogspot.com/2012/02/so-im-lying-in-bed-on-cold-february.html" target="_blank">Steve Douglass</a> photo from Amarillo, Texas.<br />
Note the irregular track.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Over the next few seconds, detailed below, Mission Control is trying to find commonality between other data of concern, as other sensors are displaying erratic or unexpected data.<br />
<br />
07:59:30 Altitude 200,676 feet, Mach 18.6. Last telemetry before loss of signal (LOS).
Communications, expected to be bad, are worse than expected. Reconstructing the final data, all telemetry from the left wing sensors failed at about this moment.<br />
<br />
07:59:37 LOC (Loss of Control). The hydraulic lines which powered the wing's control surfaces were severed. Based on recovered data, the shuttle was still on autopilot, one astronaut bumped the control stick and quickly entered the key sequence to reinstate autopilot. The crew cabin still retained normal pressure, and power and lighting (including instrumentation) were still available.<br />
<br />
07:59:46 The Columbia is beginning to twist out of control about forty miles west of Fort Worth.
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<br />
07:59:46 (revised from 08:00:04) Debris A (first major section of shuttle breaks away-- believed to be the left OMS Pod Cover).<br />
<br />
08:00:02 (rev. from 08:00:17) Debris B (probably a portion of the left wing)<br />
<br />
08:00:03 (rev. from 08:00:20) Debris C
(another portion of left wing)<br />
<br />
08:00:04 Last data (partial and corrupted) received from shuttle telemetry.<br />
<br />
08:00:05 (rev. from 08:00:18) onset of Main Body Break up.<br />
<br />
08:00:40 Crew Cabin break-up. At main body break up (above) crew cabin began to separate from the rear portion of the shuttle. The analysis of the data and the recovered debris suggest that the cabin was probably breached at about this time, first with small leaks and then with more catastrophic holes. None of the crew had their helmet visors down, so the effect, on the astronauts, of depressurization was nearly immediate, and bringing about unconsciousness or death-- no longer breathing.<br />
<br />
As mentioned above, the console which had been before Shuttle Pilot McCool's seat was found and the switch positions noted. The switches are mechanically locked in position. While none of the astronauts had time to complete the task of lowering their visor to seal their suits (indicating how quickly the depressurization incapacitated them), McCool had reset the switches from the last known position so as to attempt a restart of the two Auxiliary Power Units (APUs) which had failed at the main body break-up.<br /><br />Review of the data strongly suggests that the astronauts' lives were lost instantaneously, due to the violent forces of the tumbling and break-up of the vehicle-- much like in a high-speed automobile accident in which unconsciousness and death are effectively simultaneous.<br /><br />While the ground had been aware of the potential damage to the left wing at launch, the crew was not informed of this. Consequently, while Mission Control was more prepared to fear the worst as the sensors began to show abnormal readings, it was only the last 90 seconds in which the crew could have begun to suspect a catastrophic problem might be developing, and based on McCool's attempts to restart the power unit during that time, the crew seemed to believe that they could recover from the failures up until the moment of unconsciousness.<br />
<br />
<b>AT MISSION CONTROL</b>, unable to reach Columbia, radars are set to scan, but fail to lock. Attempts to raise the crew using UHF are met by silence.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/cbnT8Sf_LRs/0.jpg" height="266" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cbnT8Sf_LRs&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cbnT8Sf_LRs&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>The eye-witness and video reports are beginning to come in to local television stations in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Word of a broadcast made by WFAA TV in Dallas on behalf of CNN reaches Mission Control Manager, Phil Engelhauf (11:51 into video to right). The video, described to him, clearly shows that the Shuttle is in pieces. It has broken up.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Engelhauf looks to his right and sees astronaut and Deputy Director of Flight Crew operations, Ellen Ochoa. He tells her the shuttle has broken up over Dallas. Her face shows agony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Engelhauf then stands and tells Flight Director LeRoy Cain the same news. After a brief discussion, the Flight Director turns away, to refocus the Mission Control Center.<br />
<br />
08:03:34 The last pieces of the shuttle impacts the ground. Sonic booms
left by debris having dropped from the main body long before the final
break up are heard in areas as far west as Fort Worth, Texas, and debris
rains down in a path ranging from there to western Louisiana.** </div>
<br />
08:12:32 (FDL 41:13) Cain says, “<span style="color: lime;"><b>GC, flight, Lock the doors.</b></span>”
That statement was understood by all those present. The mission was no longer about saving lives, but about saving data. The expression is as figurative as it is literal. Mission Control is in lock-down, no persons, data, or communication is to come in or to go out except between Mission Control and recovery forces.
<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
Resources:</h3>
Several resources were used in this study of the
events of the final hour of the Columbia and her crew. The focus was to
present a narrative of events with a passing acknowledgment of the
existence of several popular, but factually incorrect, assertions found
on the Internet.<br />
<ul>
<li>Flight Director’s Loop – an hour long audio recording of all
communications going through the Flight Director, LeRoy Cain. (Public
Domain)</li>
<li>A time-stamped transcript of that audio loop: <a href="http://www.interspacenews.com/FeatureArticle/tabid/130/Default.aspx?id=525" target="_blank">http://www.interspacenews.com/FeatureArticle/tabid/130/Default.aspx?id=525</a>
(copyrighted by Interspacenews.com and may not be copied without
permission) "Times are approximate to within +/- five seconds." </li>
<li>A 10 minute video from the flight deck of Columbia at re-entry: <a href="http://youtu.be/45r6Ow1tQlM" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/45r6Ow1tQlM</a> (Public Domain)</li>
<li>A transcript of that video: <a href="http://www.sts107.info/reentry/onboard/Reentry%20flight%20deck%20dialog.htm" target="_blank">http://www.sts107.info/reentry/onboard/Reentry%20flight%20deck%20dialog.htm</a> (copyright 2005 Philip Chien, All Rights Reserved) </li>
<li>STS-107: Accident Investigation Ground Track and Events Summary Rev. 15 - March 17, 2003 at <a href="http://spaceflight.nasa.gov/shuttle/archives/sts-107/investigation/timeline/rev15/index.html" target="_blank">http://spaceflight.nasa.gov/shuttle/archives/sts-107/investigation/timeline/rev15/index.html</a> (Public Domain) These documents include precise time stamps of events. <br />
NOTE: This document and several other official NASA documents had not
been corrected regarding the timing of video sighting of Debris A, B,
and C, and the Main Body Break-up-- some eighteen seconds prior to that
indicated by the time-stamps).</li>
<li><a href="http://www.nasa.gov/pdf/298870main_SP-2008-565.pdf" target="_blank">Columbia Crew Survival Investigation Report [NASA/SP-2008-565]</a> A 400 page .pdf file.</li>
<li>Various interviews, articles, videos and NASA documents.</li>
</ul>
Source data and links (all times in Central Standard Time):<br />
<a href="http://www.netwrx1.com/georgek/STS-107/STS-107.Entry.FDLoop.16k.full.mp3" target="_blank">FD Loop</a> 07:31:19 to 08:29:52 <br />
<a href="http://www.interspacenews.com/FeatureArticle/tabid/130/Default.aspx?id=525" target="_blank">Interspacenews transcript</a> 07:32:34 to 08:30:05<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/45r6Ow1tQlM" target="_blank">On Board Video</a> 07:39:00 to 07:49:00 (see <a href="http://www.sts107.info/reentry/onboard/Reentry%20flight%20deck%20dialog.htm%20" target="_blank">transcript</a>)<br />
<br />
Time stamps are approximate, and adjusted from other estimates to known timing of specific events. <br />
<h4>
Video and Photo Evidence </h4>
Amateurs and various agencies provided images of the Shuttle's Reentry which were analyzed for clues as to the timing and severity of visual anomalies.
Each video or still image source is given a serial identification code as EOC2-4-00##. Important video evidence of reentry debris are as follows:<br />
<br />
EOC2-4-0064 07:53:13 - 07:54:17 <span class="st">(Lionel Machado, Fairfield, CA) </span><br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29770554@N04/2791913680/" target="_blank">EOC2-4-0055</a> 07:53:38 - 07:54:51 (Jay Lawson, Sparks, NV)<br />
EOC2-4-0034 07:54:04 - 07:54:45 (Reno, NV)<br />
EOC2-4-0056 07:53:28 - 07:54:29 (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/xb70man/1346938758/in/set-72157601920595081/lightbox/" target="_blank">Rick Baldridge</a>, Mt. Hamilton, CA)<br />
EOC2-4-0009B 07:54:17 - 07:55:13 (<span class="st">John Sanford, </span>Springville, CA) *<br />
EOC2-4-0030 07:54:37 - 07:56:06 (Paul Adams, Las Vegas, NV)
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/wyKXCt7p6bU" target="_blank">EOC2-4-0017</a> 07:54:45 - 07:57:30 (Chris Valentine, North of Flagstaff, AZ, seen above)
<br />
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EOC2-4-0028 07:55:05 - 07:56:02 (St. George, UT)<br />
EOC2-4-0021 07:55:13 - 07:56:16 (St. George, UT)<br />
EOC2-4-0005 07:55:18 - 07:56:10 (Ivins, UT)<br />
EOC2-4-0050 07:55:31 - 07:55:55 (St. George, UT)<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/OZVBfiZvZos" target="_blank">EOC2-4-0018</a> 07:59:41 - 08:00:05 (Bob Butsch, WFAA, Duncanville, TX, seen above)<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/gxXr86aIRwA" target="_blank">EOC2-4-0024</a> 07:59:42 - 08:00:17 (McNew, Arlington, TX)<br />
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<br />
EOC2-4-0025 08:00:21 - 08:01:19 (Camp Swift, TX)<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/lNfEUkxmliQ" target="_blank">RV2</a> 08:00:26 - 08:01:19 (Apache Helicopter video, Ft. Hood, TX)<br />
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<br />
<b>Compilation:</b><br />
<br />
Chris Valentine compiled most of the above and produced an excellent video entitled, <i>Columbia Reentry Reconstruction.</i> Besides portions of videos contained elsewhere in this article, including Mr. Valentine's own, it contains clips of the following videos which cannot be found anywhere else on the web: Mt. Hamilton, CA; Sparks, NV; Las Vegas, NV, Irvins, NV; at least one of the three from St. George, UT; Kirtland AFB, NM; and what may be the Camp Swift, TX, video:<br />
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<br />
<b>Alternates: </b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/1oBTzbKx0jo" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/1oBTzbKx0jo</a> The WFAA/TV broadcast, EOC2-4-0018.<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/clseDHnTx08" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/clseDHnTx08</a> Short version of McNew, EOC2-4-0024. <br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/lNfEUkxmliQ"></a><br />
<h3>
Notes: </h3>
* The significant time adjustments stem from an oft reproduced error in an early NASA report.<br />
* Several good sources for the Scott Lieberman image taken from Tyler, Texas: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.tylerpaper.com/apps/pbcsi.dll/bilde?Site=TP&Date=20130201&Category=NEWS01&ArtNo=130139931&Ref=AR&MaxH=300&MaxW=330" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.tylerpaper.com/apps/pbcsi.dll/bilde?Site=TP&Date=20130201&Category=NEWS01&ArtNo=130139931&Ref=AR&MaxH=300&MaxW=330" height="165" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.tylerpaper.com/article/20130201/NEWS01/130139931">http://www.tylerpaper.com/article/20130201/NEWS01/130139931</a>, and<br />
<a href="http://www.poynter.org/latest-news/mediawire/202526/texas-doctor-who-captured-iconic-image-of-columbia-disaster-is-now-a-working-photographer/" target="_blank">http://www.poynter.org/latest-news/mediawire/202526/texas-doctor-who-captured-iconic-image-of-columbia-disaster-is-now-a-working-photographer/ </a>and this interview...<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/jaRaJWvq6pY?t=5m9s" target="_blank">YouTube video</a><br />
<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
** Editor's note: </h4>
At 08:00:02, Columbia passed over my home in Alvarado, Texas, thirty miles south of downtown Fort Worth. Two to four minutes after passing, the ground rumbled and overlapping sonic booms were heard as many pieces of lower-flying debris passed overhead at multiples of the speed of sound. Calculations suggest that any debris passing near overhead would have been in free-fall for at least two minutes-- that is, probably debris from (or after) the "07:59:30" event.
<span style="color: #ffd966;">(last update, 21-Jun-2013)</span>
<br />
<br />
-- W. Crews Giles, copyright 2012, 2013, all rights reserved.<br />
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-69598068155440547032013-01-15T13:32:00.000-06:002013-01-20T09:21:54.359-06:00Colors of the dream.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/c0.0.336.336/p403x403/386046_353558644673595_1744144592_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/c0.0.336.336/p403x403/386046_353558644673595_1744144592_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A man sits in a jail and writes a letter using the margins of newspapers and scraps of other paper. As he scrawls out the letter, the man quotes Augustine, Aquinas, Buber, Tillich, and T. S. Eliot. Each of those would have a powerful influence on my own life, but to quote them from jail? This is no ordinary man. He would argue that point, but the man was a gift to us. His passion was contagious, and he lived that passion.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
My Martin Luther King story:</h3>
<br />
A child of the sixties, or seventies, I was too young to understand the civil rights movement until I was about seven or eight-- and by that time, much of the most dramatic aspects had run their course. The schools integrated without my notice-- my schools anyway. My father's black business associates at IBM lived in our neighborhood and visited our house. My favorite classmate in French class was a pretty black girl, and neither of had a clue that some did not like our friendship.<br />
<br />
In 1974, I entered my Sophomore year in Richardson High School as a typically awkward blend of terribly shy and yet extroverted. I would throw myself into passions and interests, but when in mundane social settings, I would tend to be quiet and reserved. <br />
<br />
My mother and my Speech Class instructor, Mrs. McClure, conspired against me-- in my presence-- and I was powerless to do anything about it.<br />
<br />
On <i>Parents Night</i>, my mother dragged me along to accompany her, and meet with each of my teachers as did many of the other parents of incoming students. I did well in that class, despite the stark terror of having to periodically stand before two or three classes brought in to add to the torment as I gave an oral presentation at a podium.<br />
<br />
Mrs. McClure was a pretty, blonde, twenty-something, with a smoky voice. She had written and choreographed a presentation based upon several Martin Luther King speeches and needed at least a dozen students to agree to participate in a yet-to-be-booked debut. Despite my humble, "You can get many others better than me" objections, my mother and Mrs. McClure drafted me into the performance.<br />
<br />
By that time in the semester, I was already realizing I liked public speaking. My first taste of it had been in seventh grade when we had to write a story and deliver it before the class. I knew my story was good, but I was in agony before being called up to read it before the class. When I did, I changed. The others loved my story and suddenly I was one of the "cool" people in school. Go figure.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I showed up at the rehearsals and may have been the only sophomore in the group-- all older, taller (including the girls) and all with more experience. Many had been in school plays and such. I was NOT in my element, but persevered.<br />
<br />
The performance was booked, and we gathered in the school parking lot one Wednesday evening just before sunset. Before piling-in the cars to caravan to the Elementary School Auditorium-- our venue-- Mrs. McClure <i>came clean</i> with us.<br />
<br />
"I am dating this man who has a son in Boy Scouts. He was appalled to find that the Scout Troop was all white-- no blacks even though that High School was about twenty percent minority. He mentioned this to some of the other fathers and said he had never heard so many racist remarks in all his life.<br />
<br />
"Well, we talked about it, and I came up with this idea. I wrote this little play just so that we could maybe make a difference for those kids-- maybe even some of the adults. Let them hear the words of hope and promise and take it to heart?<br />
<br />
"Well, anyway, I decided I need to tell you the back-story because this could be very serious. What I mean is that by-and-large, the audience is going to be hostile to what I have asked you to do. I don't know, but some may walk out, they may yell ugly things. I simply do not know what to expect. What I want of you is to continue no matter what happens just as we have rehearsed. If they hate you-- it is the message they cannot hear-- not your performance. Also, I now need to ask you if you think you can do that. I should have told you this before, but I am telling you now, and if you want to back out-- that might even be the wise thing to do."<br />
<br />
Everyone, of course, was willing to go ahead. When "nigger jokes" were told, my crowd had always found them distasteful and hateful and did not participate. Such jokes never received a laugh, but usually received criticism of the teller. In Texas, I never saw racism with anymore force than a whimper. It was not part of my culture. It did exist, but it was never near me.<br />
<br />
<br />
I sat cross-legged in the back of Mrs. McClure's old Suburban (those were ranch vehicles in those days, not luxury SUV's) with three pretty schoolmates, while others packed the rear and front seats. Still others were in other cars going with us. We rehearsed all the way.<br />
<br />
We arrived, prepared ourselves behind the curtain on the stage, took our places, waited for the curtain to open and, when they did, stared into the lime lights. The instant we began, we moved to our marks in constant and fluid motion, no one messed up a line, and the one act performance was over too soon for many of us-- we had fun.<br />
<br />
I saw some angry looks, and a few fathers collected their sons (three, maybe as many as five out of perhaps two hundred) and walked out with words being uttered I could not make out-- but angry words they were. We pressed on without a hitch throughout. The curtain closed when done.<br />
<br />
At first there was enthusiastic applause. That quickly died to about 60% continuing, somehow muted as about 40% held their hands still in their laps. There was discussion we could not hear among the boys. The curtain re-opened just after Mrs. McClure beamed with pride at us, and then joined us for a bow.<br />
<br />
We joined hands in a single line across the stage and bowed together. We watched with interest the boys stony-faced glares mixed with smiling and applauding boys. The applause grew and the peer pressure of those applauding had more force than the peer pressure of those resentful. That applause was for Doctor King.<br />
<br />
Applause is also due to Mrs. McClure. God bless her bleeding heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
WCG+ 16-Jan-2012cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-46870235709159283442012-12-22T15:11:00.005-06:002012-12-22T15:11:55.970-06:00lost keys and dirty looksMy once-upon-a-time wife who threw her car-keys in the trash or placed them in the mailbox about as often as she set them on a shelf in the refrigerator. Years of this produced...<br />
<br />
"I have lost my keys again, can you help me look?"<br />
<br />
"Sure. I'll check on the roof, and you check the fireplace."<br />
<br />
She called me a name.cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-17692669130332945172012-11-30T05:15:00.000-06:002012-11-30T17:11:46.589-06:00Glitter-headMy best buddy in college always dated beautiful women. One afternoon hanging at Gerry's apartment before heading off to one of our adventures, I was charmed to meet another gorgeous woman who I took to be his latest conquest, Nadine. <br />
<br />
Nadine had just dropped by and treated me as if an old and cherished friend. I was looking for subtle cues that I should leave the two of them alone, but none was coming. Instead, she left an hour or so later, and I asked Gerry, "Why have you not told me about Nadine?"<br />
<br />
"Pretty, isn't she?"<br />
<br />
"And fun."<br />
<br />
"Yes, but not my type."<br />
<br />
"Exactly your type. You mean you are not dating her?"<br />
<br />
"No. She has the looks, but...well, you know how if you shine a light at a deer, it will just freeeze and stand still staring into the light-- utterly baffled?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, but Nadine didn't come off that way."<br />
<br />
"She is not that way and that's the problem. I want the girl who will be baffled by a flashlight."<br />
<br />
He was serious. <br />
<br />
I was dating a wonderful girl so did not pursue Nadine, but saw her off and on at parties and dinners over the next few months. Then she stopped being around. Gerry explained that Nadine had a bad cancer and was pretty sick from the Chemo and Radiation. He told me all her hair was gone.<br />
<br />
That, too, was tragic as Nadine had beautiful and plentiful hair reaching thickly almost to her hips. I said, "It will take her years to grow it back out as she had it." I was fishing, but the fish which bit was not anything I wanted to keep.<br />
<br />
Gerry answered, "I don't think she has <i>years</i>, my friend."<br />
<br />
"Oh, no."<br />
<br />
"Yeah."<br />
<br />
"Is there anything we can do?"<br />
<br />
"No, she is taking it amazingly well. She is fighting like Hell." He smiled, then laughed, drew on his cigarette and said, "Last week, she psyched herself up to go out, and I went with her. She had shaved her head so that it was shiny, and then -- you know she is artistic? -- she did this thing with glue and glitter all over her head, so that it was like sparkly gold, and purple. Here was this bald girl and she was the hottest woman around. She was loving the attention and danced most of the night."<br />
<br />
We both sat, smiling, enjoying the bittersweetness of the story in silence.<br />
<br />
Nadine died soon after that. I never saw her without her hair, but wished I had seen her with the glitter.<br />
<br />
She was my age at the time, twenty-three, and in college. Her degree was progressing as she could pay for it. Nadine worked as a cashier at a Dallas/Fort Worth area supermarket, Kroger, that degree was going to take some time. Cashiers had little or no health insurance.<br />
<br />
After her death, Gerry told me that she had racked-up enormous debt for her medical bills. All through her treatment, her employer had told her not to worry. Her paychecks kept coming, her apartment and utilities were paid, and, when she died, Kroger paid the medical bills so that her family would not have to.<br />
<br />
There are real humans among us. Look for them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-12169792613481366122012-11-28T20:03:00.000-06:002012-11-28T20:20:30.735-06:00The Memory-Box (Beauty in Discomfort)I was in college and my girlfriend had made plans for us to go to a dinner party with one of her co-workers, Lavonne. I had heard how mean Lavonne was for months.<br />
<br />
Cathy said, "You know who I am talking about, right?<br />
<br />
I said, "Yes, no one likes her, including you. Why are we being invited, much less going?"<br />
<br />
"It seemed really important to her, and that I bring you. I don't think she has any friends-- I mean, if she asked me. I was kind of on the spot, so I accepted. I'll make it up to you."<br />
<br />
"How does she even know about me?"<br />
<br />
"She has heard me talking in the office about you. This is so weird. I never speak to her at all-- about anything-- and she just comes up and says she is having a diner party and wants me to come and to bring you."<br />
<br />
So we went. We were the only guests.<br />
<br />
Lavonne served a horribly burned sauce over spaghetti, stale bread, and iced tea to us in her small apartment. Cathy and I shared a smile after the first tastes of the meal and politely ate everything on our plates. It was excruciating.<br />
<br />
We were not expecting to be the only guests, and had planned to be among the first to leave, but we felt trapped. Cathy cleverly and seamlessly brought the conversation around to the movie we were going to see that night and Lavonne stated, flatly, "You cannot leave yet."<br />
<br />
She rose from the table, stepped to the bar which opened to the kitchen and retrieved a large hat-box, returning to the tabel with it and sat.<br />
<br />
She opened the box and it was full of hundreds of photos of people we did not know (nor ever would).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F_Kl_BE4OUo/Td2-4aQDQVI/AAAAAAAAEP0/K98bt7cjX8Y/s1600/Box+of+Pics+at+Moms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F_Kl_BE4OUo/Td2-4aQDQVI/AAAAAAAAEP0/K98bt7cjX8Y/s320/Box+of+Pics+at+Moms.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <a href="http://packpeddler.blogspot.com/2011/05/box-of-old-pictures-chicago-dogs-and.html" target="_blank">Pack Peddler's Place</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For another two hours, Lavonne pulled out one picture after another, telling us all she could think about those in the picture and adding side-stories which did not form a coherent thread for us to follow. But she narrated each old photograph (and some new), in such a way that she seemed to be getting to a point. I was trying to follow.<br />
<br />
"Now wait," I said, "Malcome is your Uncle, right?"<br />
<br />
To my astonishment she answered, "No. A cousin, but it doesn't matter if you can keep up-- I'm just going to go through these and say what I remember."<br />
<br />
It was confusing. She knew it was awkward, she knew she was being rude, and she did not care about that. We were captives unless we were willing to be as rude, and we were not willing. I was praying for the bottle of wine we had brought to be opened, but Lavonne had already told us she was Baptist and did not drink nor did she allow others to drink in her home. For this, someone invented hip flasks, but I never have owned one.<br />
<br />
Lavonne got to the last picture, and she was visibly tired. She closed the box, and stood to start taking our plates to the kitchen. She refused our help, but instead, ushered us to the door and thanked us for coming. Whatever Lavonne had intended, she had accomplished.<br />
<br />
In the car, Cathy and I laughed about the awkward experience as we rehearsed the evening. We had missed our movie and the start of the showing after that one. It was so strange, and we could not fathom what part Lavonne thought we had played in her evening-- we certainly had no idea why we had been invited, or what possible enjoyment Lavonne might have derived from it. We could have been complete strangers-- and practically were. <br />
<br />
<b>Two weeks later...</b><br />
<br />
Cathy called.<br />
<br />
"Remember Lavonne?"<br />
<br />
"Of course, but I am not sitting through another one of those dinners." I was joking, but was filled with dread that was exactly what Cathy was going to tell me.<br />
<br />
"No. It is not like that. Now it makes sense what she did. Lavonne died."<br />
<br />
"Died?! How?"<br />
<br />
"Cancer. She has known for months. She knew she only had a few weeks when we were there. She went to the hospital the next morning."<br />
<br />
"And so she wanted to go through her box of memories, but did not want to be alone?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. I feel... well, honored."<br />
<br />
"Me too. I also feel like a jerk."<br />
<br />
"I did, at first. But, she was not likeable. She was rude, knew it, and did not care. We are just the only people that did not turn her down. She asked a lot of people before cornering me. She really was desperate for company that night. If she thought we were important to her, she would have told us what was going on. We were not important."<br />
<br />
"No. But we were there; and for that, I am thankful to have served that purpose."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-34017559050623290252012-11-16T23:05:00.000-06:002012-11-16T23:20:07.973-06:00MysteryInside, the signs were everywhere stating not to touch the walls.<br />
<br />
I stood at the East end inside of the structure, and while others read the bronze plaques arranged along that wall, I centered myself, crouched down, dropping to one knee and touched the floor-- pretending to be reading a plaque set at ankle height.<br />
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<br />
I then stood, facing that wall, and looked up.<br />
<br />
I wondered who else had stood exactly there and dropped to one knee, and then raised his eyes skyward. I wished... well, I wish for a lot of things that do not seem possible.<br />
<br />
Amazing things took place inside that building, and all the bronze plaques tell of some. I love the story-- it is part of my culture. Yet, the most amazing things that ever happened there, took place right where I dropped to touch the floor-- just a few feet from the East wall. The other story, the one without the plaques, is one of Blood poured out for many. I remember the one, but participate in the other.<br />
<br />
If a building could scream, she screamed in 1793. I understand.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
There is back story, also a mystery: That holy place was my first stop on a special spiritual pilgrimage I began this morning. I was searching for something-- an answer.<br />
<br />
I was not yet five years old and we lived in Fort Worth. The memory is vivid.<br />
<br />
I woke from a sound sleep in the back of the car. I had no recollection of being put in the car. They must have carried me from my bed in the wee hours of the morning and headed out.<br />
<br />
It was in whatever car the family drove before the blue Galaxy 500, and before Dad bought the 1964-and-a-half Ford Mustang. My mother and father were there, but my big brother was not. They hurriedly unloaded the car, and me, into a motel room in downtown San Antonio. 'Might has well had been a piece of baggage. Something was wrong and the adults were not telling. My mother crawled in bed, as my dad ran a quick errand.<br />
<br />
He returned with some food and drink, crackers for me, if I recall, and a small plastic bag of silver and gold plastic medieval knights. Period army men. The motel room carpet was blue and green checkers of about one inch squares. Mom slept, and I played with the army men without much interest. I did not know why we were there, why Dad was leaving, why Mom was not talking and then sleeping. She took a long bath at some point. <br />
<br />
I remember being terribly afraid that my Father was leaving and he seemed afraid for me. His fear did not add to my own, but instead, I loved the empathy. As long as he knew, I need not struggle about it.<br />
<br />
I remember being alone as mother slept in the bed and having those two dozen or so silver and gold plastic men, not knowing anything about medieval knights, and not knowing what to do with them. I paired them by their kind. Gold and silver knights with a sword slashing in this pile, Gold and silver knights with bows in that pile. I worried that I would be bored-- and being bored is the most intolerable situation for me. I could not read yet, there was no TV, and my brother was, inexplicably, absent. I had twenty four or so plastic men, and the options seemed quite limited. I was worried.<br />
<br />
Eventually, mother was up, dressed, and ready to go. We left the motel room-- it had to have been a motel because the door opened to the outside, but not to a parking lot. Mom was stressed. I just knew-- but I did not know why she was stressed.<br />
<br />
We crossed a street. And the sun was very, very bright. It beat down on us with tremendous heat. There were large display windows along that block where we had crossed, in one or two of them, beautiful scale replicas of circus wagons. I thought they were trains. I thought they were trains for two reasons. First, I had never seen or heard of a circus wagon. Second, small model displays in downtown window displays, for me, had always been of one of the two major categories: Train set displays, and everything else. That second category was the mundane kind and included mannequins wearing clothing, scarfs, purses, suits, shoes, watches and so on. Only the first category had any value.<br />
<br />
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<br />
My nose to the glass as I marveled at the details of the models had mother's interest. She pointed out that, rather than trains they were circus wagons, and told me that I did know about circus wagons, because that was what the box of Animal Crackers were supposed to look like. I never realized that, and remember studying a box when we returned to Fort Worth. She was right.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
She stepped inside a recessed entry door and we went inside a dark little room with a glass case to the right and a hall way off to the left rear of that little room. I had been to toy stores, and glass counters is where they had model trains. This one did not have model trains in it. The bald man sitting behind the counter was friendly toward my Mom but not to me. I imagine she got a lot of that -- but that is an adult thinking, not a four year old.<br />
<br />
I was expecting a toy store, but instead was at a counter where the man was explaining admission and times. Mother was saying something about "Maybe next time." I was not interested in a tour of anything. I liked the zoo but did not like the circus. I liked animals, but I did not like animals doing tricks-- and I HATED clowns. I fully understand, at some deep intuitive level, the toy blow-up clown that's only purpose was to be punched. Anyway, a toy store would have been alright, but I wanted my Dad.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
We went to a building which had crash-bar doors and went through one. Mom and I were in the back of the largest room I had ever seen except for in a Church. It was filled with men in suits all facing a stage with a podium. My Dad was speaking there. Mom found us two seats at the back and we sat down there. I have no idea what my Dad had said, but the men were laughing, and clapping. My father was enjoying himself, and all those business men were enjoying him. He finished and I filed-away that there was a whole side of my Dad I did not know about-- he was known by a lot of people and spoke in front of hundreds of complete strangers (to me) and they liked it when he did. It was one of those "the world just got a lot bigger" moments for a child.<br />
<br />
Dad came straight from the podium and joined Mom and me, and Mom was happy, Dad was happy, and I was relieved. We left immediately. <br />
<br />
The memory, as I just recounted it, kept coming back in such vivid detail that I believe my mind wanted me to examine it more carefully-- my own self showing me something and demanding that I apply my adult mind and experiences to that childhood memory-- because there was something important that my child-self missed.<br />
<br />
Using Google searches and Google Earth, I discovered that we had been at the Hertzberg Circus Museum, and that my father had almost certainly been speaking at the Villita Assembly Building. Fine. Details now supplied, now what?<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I have mulled it all over, and come up with little of use.<br />
<br />
This morning, I drove to San Antonio, stopped by the Alamo, and then walked to where the Hertzberg Circus Museum had been-- hoping for something which would make sense-- a jogged memory, a new piece of the puzzle to work with, sudden inspiration simply by being in the place? Nothing. I walked for over two hours. Nothing. But I did my spiritual duty: I pursued meaning and understanding.<br />
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Maybe it will still come.<br />
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<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-389269670959249272012-11-14T16:29:00.000-06:002012-11-15T04:54:27.098-06:00Secret Austin, Texas, DirectionsThe sun was square this morning.<br />
<br />
Driving up MoPac* at dawn, the big red ball of the Sun rose in a narrow slit between two layers of clouds. As I glanced again, the same horizontal slit appeared between two downtown skyscrapers, causing a vertical slit of the same dimension. Thus, I witnessed the Sun rise as a square.<br />
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* "MoPac" is Austinite code for "Loop 1" (which is not a loop) so our directions make no sense to visitors. We have many other secret directions:<br />
<br />
* "The Drag" means Guadalupe, between MLK and 29th. All other stretches of Guadalupe are called Guadalupe (a barely audible, hard g, and no "aye" on the end-- (G)uad-a-loop).<br />
* We have have a 1st Street-- and it intersects 2nd, 3rd, 4th... through 18th street. The real 1st Street takes us townees place we go-- they are not for you. What you think is 1st Street is <span class="st">César Chávez. Which ever way you pronounce it, we will pronounce it the other way.<i><br />
</i></span><br />
* We may call 26th Street "26th" whether it is marked as "Dean Keaton" or "Manor" (which is not pronounced in any way you could guess).<br />
* We all know that "North Loop" is 53rd-- and that it is not a loop (and North Loop crosses Burnet, which is not pronounced in any way you could guess).<br />
* When we say "take the 38th and a Half street exit," we refer to what is marked as 35th Street.<br />
* There is an apparent rip in the space-time continuum along 35th and 38th streets. In that region, 35 and 38th (which we call 38th 1/2 Street for reasons of our own) are one in the same, while 36th, 37th and their halves simply do not seem to exist. A few have tried to follow 35th Street only to find they are really on 34th. Likewise, in places you can turn on 38th 1/2 Street only to find you are on 38th (and no 100ths) Street. <br />
* We may tell you to take 38th and a Half and then turn on Burnet, but only we know it is marked "Medical."<br />
* "Koenig" (Kay'-neg, sometimes Coy'-nig) when we refer to parts of 290, Allandale, Northland and FM 2222.<br />
* We say "Capital of Texas Highway" for "Loop 360" (which is, as you may now have guessed, not a loop) -- unless speaking among ourselves, when we call it "360."<br />
* They had to close Mueller Airport, because everyone mispronounced it (its Miller), and move it to ABIA (which we all call "Bergstrom"-- because we are mean).<br />
* To go from 4th Street to 38th Street on Pleasant Valley, go north on Pleasant Valley, turn straight on Chestnut, then, at your first opportunity, turn straight on Cherrywood. We will call it which ever one we feel like calling it in the moment.<br />
* So, you are taking 290 from IH-35 to Oak Hill? We can give you direction on how to do that, with several exits, and we will not once mention 290, but we will mention "Ben White" -- good luck with that.<br />
* We say "Ben White" or "Ed Bluestien" but only because there are no signs using those words.<br />
* On some (and I'm not telling which) entrances to MoPac, you have to turn right to go left, and turn left to go right. There are signs, but those signs are only visible when you have committed to the (wrong) lane. No one will let you over, because no one let us over-- it is how we learned so it will be how you learn.<br />
* Headed to the Formula 1 Race? You are going to take Highway 71, of course. But we do not call Highway 71 that. What we call it depends on where we are... and our mood.<br />
* <span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">If you hear on the radio that the "Upper Deck is shut-down," you will have, at most, 4.2 seconds to choose the correct lane before you are committed-- and you will choose the wrong one because we do not give visitors so much as a hint as to how to know which lanes go "upper" and which go "lower."<br />
* When someone needs to take a specific numbered street exit from IH-35, we do not tell them which lane to be in, we say to "use the upper (or lower) deck" -- depending upon which street. We know what it means, but you won't.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">* Because it makes perfect sense to visitors, we sometimes refer to the non-existent "19th Street." There never has been a 19th Street and there never will be. No signs make mention of it-- but we do.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">* There are <b><i><u>no</u></i></b> east-west freeways in Austin, so to go east or west you will use one of the five (5!) north-south freeways. Because everyone is either going north, east, south or west, the north-south freeways are always packed; and so it is that we always complain that we need more north-south freeways. Got it?<br />
* There are exactly two (2) major thoroughfares in Austin upon which the lights are timed to facilitate the flow of traffic. On all other roads, the traffic lights are timed to <i><b>impede </b></i>the flow of traffic. Only about three dozen townees know the two good streets, and we are sworn to secrecy.<br />
* Remember, if you are on anything in Austin with the word "Loop" in it, and miss your exist, you will NOT return to it-- instead, you will end up in either Mexico or Oklahoma.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">* All directions given to tourists may be intended to direct you to Oklahoma or Mexico.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[801].[1][2][1]{comment10151235473374806_23852027}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[0]">* Yeah, sure, 6th Street is THE hot spot-- and ALL the great local bands play there. Do not even think of going anywhere else as 80,000 drunk college kids can't be wrong. The townees only avoid it because we want to make sure the tourists can enjoy an authentic Austin experience during their brief time with us.</span></span></span><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>This roller coaster ride we've been on's nearly at an end,<br />I bought my ticket with me tears and that's all I'm gonna spend...<br /><br />The morning Sun was shining like a red rubber cube.</i></blockquote>
cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-125648389835548147.post-78725766646085800732012-11-10T12:27:00.000-06:002012-11-10T12:27:26.117-06:00I have pretty much ruled-out that cat explanation. This leaves....I live an odd and occasionally mystical life. I do not attempt to apply mystical meaning to the prosaic, but neither do I attempt to force a mundane explanation onto the unusual.<br />
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<br />cregilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10898237675364895954noreply@blogger.com0