Bad Guys And Good Guys

Bad Guys:

I have a couple of articles up on my Opinions website about what I think of the pharmaceutical giants. They have their supporters, most often among the medical industry, who complain frequently about how tough it is to get a drug approved by jumping through the antiquated hoops the FDA has set up for them to submit to. Well, that still doesn’t explain what I see as one of the most egregious uses of television. In the last few years, there has been a disturbing trend on television, and some programming has nothing but these advertisements as sponsors.

I’m referring to the pharmaceutical industry’s practice of advertising their prescription-only wares as harmless panaceas, and urging the consumer to “ask your doctor about…” Marketing diretly to an ignorant audience in an effort to drum up demand for a drug that has questionable benefit is such a low, despicable practice that I can’t even think of a way to express my disgust. It isn’t enough that the preparations these companies market are not only useless and expensive, or often harmful or deadly. Now, these monstrous conglomerates want even more, and get it by pandering to the capitve audiences in front of the small screen.

This is a case of “don’t get me started,” so I’ll stop now, before I’m off on another nutrition rant(this being Sunday, and all), but, suffice it to say that these guys give a new dimension to the terms “evil” and “avaricious.”

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Good Guys:

If you have never had the pleasure of hearing Father George Rutler speak, you have missed a treat. As fiery and as exciting as Father John Corapi is, Father Rutler is soft-spoken, erudite, and gracious. He was also among the rescuers at Ground Zero on September 11, 2001, and the story of his actions there is little-known but moving and inspiring.

Why Alaska??

These days, when fall colors begin to fade and the snow creeps further down the sides of the mountains, it’s inevitable for one to become reflective on the choice to live here, especially when there are so many places so much less hostile.

Alaskans are a strange breed, and you can tell the real ones from the phonies if you listen to them talk for a while. They use strange words and terms, like “Sourdough,” “Cheechako,” “Outside,” “Breakup,” and “Termination Dust.” Once an Alaskan, always an Alaskan, I guess, but if you aren’t one in your heart, you’ll never become one, no matter how long you live up here.

Alaska is an interesting place. It’s grown a lot in the last twenty years or so, but people used to be few and far between, and they all knew each other, or at least had acquaintances in common. Fifty years ago, half the adults had private pilot’s licenses and owned their own planes, each one complete with floats and skis, as well as wheels. There is still a LOT of private air traffic. There are planes in the air all the time.

Thirty years ago, the men wore long underwear, plaid flannel shirts, wool trousers, and “breakup boots,” brown neoprene boots that come halfway up the shin. They are especially handy in the spring breakup (when the frost melts from the ground and leaves oceans of gray mud everywhere, especially in towns without paved streets). They are worn year around by lots of Sourdoughs, because, with felt insoles and a pair of wool socks, they are the warmest footwear available without paying a fortune. The women wore long underwear, plaid flannel shirts, wool trousers and breakup boots…

Native or White, Alaskans have an outlook that is quirkily different from the attitudes of any people anywhere else. They are pragmatic about weather that would paralyze even a moderately-large town in the South 48. Temperatures that reach minus 60 on a regular basis are taken in stride. Snow on the ground nine months of the year? Yep. Easily. Endless rain and/or wind, snowfalls that are seldom less than a foot deep, and huge, voracious insects add to the mix.

There was an old saying in Valdez: “When you’re in mud up to your knees and there’s dust in your eyes, it’s breakup.” In the cold, windy winters, it wasn’t uncommon to hear someone comment laconically, “Well, one good thing about this weather…it sure keeps the bugs down.”

Fairbanks is the place that people who have never been to Alaska are talking about when they describe a town where it’s dark all winter. If you have a tendency to Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), then Alaska in the winter is decidedly not for you. The short days and long, cold nights quickly bring out the worst in just about everybody, and divorces, murders, barroom brawls, and other mayhem are sharply increased around February and March. This is called the “Spring Breakup,” but it has nothing to do with thawing ground frost and everything to do with relationships and lack of sunlight.

Alaskans thirty years ago could drink, and they did. Booze flowed copiously. Ever run up a tab at the local liquor store? It was easy to do in those days. Bars were “family bars,” so finding a babysitter was not a problem. Parents just took their sprouts along to the local watering hole. If the constabulary saw a drunk having trouble finding the way home, they’d follow him to make sure he got there all right. Banks cashed checks written in illegible barroom scrawls on “counter checks” knowing right where to go to find the person who wrote the check, because nobody was a stranger. Everybody knew everybody. They knew all the family secrets in every household. There were two cops in Valdez in 1970: one for day shift, one for night. The Chief was a kindly man, tall and dark, with beetling brows, and was known as “Lurch.” The other was a youngster whose name was, honestly, “Sam Hill,” as in, “What in the…?”

If a kid was small enough and the weather was bad enough on his way home from school, neighbors would either pick him up and give him a ride home or bring him in out of the cold, calling mom or dad to let them know where their offspring had gotten to in the storm. The only weather conditions that can close the schools in Alaska are all-out blizzards or wind, which regularly blow a steady 50 or 60 mph off and on throughout the winter, with gusts over 100 mph being commonplace. This condition is caused by Mother Nature abhoring a vacuum. Any large, powerful low-pressure area in the Gulf of Alaska will suck the air out of any high-pressure front in the Alaskan Interior, and Southcentral Alaska is right in the middle of the meteorological Venturi tube.

Everybody fishes, even little kids too small to bring in the fish by themselves. Nearly everybody has a boat. Salmon are the common prey, and there isn’t a person around who doesn’t have a freezer full of whole salmon, salmon fillets, salmon steaks, and smoked salmon. We used to say, “You can always tell when people are down on their luck, because they start eating stuff like salmon, halibut, or shrimp. This was because beef was (and still is) raised “Outside,” and has to be frozen and shipped in, making it extremely expensive. Most Alaskans are adept at making whole meals from canned and frozen foods. A few trucks make it up through Canada, but what they carry can be even more expensive than what comes in by barge. Meat isn’t the only perishable that suffers from this isolation. Nowadays, it isn’t hard to get good fresh produce that is actually ripe and tasty. But it wasn’t too long ago that we suffered through the summer with anemic tomatoes that had the texture and flavor of a raw potato, lettuce that was limp and brown, and cucumbers that defy description. And, forget fruit. Apples shriveled, peaches bounced when dropped, and the only frut that was palatable were oranges and pineapple. Milk in those days came from Outside, so it was frozen for the trip, and cost $4.50 in the big towns and as much as $6.50 in some of the smaller, more remote locations.

Yards are a little less manicured here than they are Outside, with stumps and brush being common obstacles. Most “lawns” are just places where the tall weeds don’t grow. Clover abounds, which is nice, but lawn grasses are hard to keep. Everybody usually tries to leave enough room in their yards to pile the snow that accumulates so abundantly each winter. Annual snowfalls of around 50 feet are common in Valdez and Whittier, and homeowners need plenty of room for the derivatives–berms and piles.

Why do we miss a place like Alaska? The Old-Timers have mostly died or moved away, and the Cheechakos (greenhorns, city folks, or newcomers) have taken over everywhere, with their big-city attitudes, their fondue pots, and their wine-tasting parties. It’s very sad for an old Sourdough to see. But the wilderness is still here, and the Alaskan spirit still lives, away from the cities and in the small towns and bush villages.

What calls us is that spirit; it’s the spirit of the bush pilots and ANS doctors, or the pluck of the women who live in the Bush and make do with nothing but what is on hand while the winters snow them in. Whatever it is, it still strums our minds, and it sings in our hearts like a Robert Service poem. Alaska may be harsh, but it’s home.

P.S. Check out our cute Governor…

Updates

The street out front is all decked out in Autumn Glory. Today is especially beautiful–not a cloud in the sky. The yellow leaves against that brilliant blue make for a gorgeous display (and, me without my camera…). The lowered sun is shining into the house and brightening things up inside. Just one more reason to be living where I am. In Valdez, for instance, we lived in the shadow of a mountain. In the summer, this wasn’t much of a problem, because the sun was so high in the sky. But it meant that in winter, we were in perpetual shade, no matter what kind of weather we had. Here, the mountains are far enough away not to create any shade where I am. I’m really a fan of sunshine, after living in Juneau (RAIN!!) and Valdez (more rain) for so long.

Some funny stuff regarding the sourdough. Starter, that is. The husband of a friend mentioned that he had also been dabbling with building a yeastless sourdough strain, and was not having any success. So I gave him about a half a cup to get him started. Lo, and behold, the next day, he calls up, and says in a distraught tone, “What’s the matter with the starter? I want it to be SOUR! I fed it, like you said, and then I made bread today, and it was okay, but it wasn’t SOUR.” (Incidentally, this guy is a scientist.) So I explained that he needed to let it work and grow for a while, and that the longer it worked, the stronger it would become. Men.

Of course, I’m not free and clear, either. I gave #3 son a start of about a cup, then put my 1-quart cottage cheese container back into the fridge. This was several days ago. Yesterday, I opened the refrigerator, and saw the container lying on its side in the back of the fridge. (Thank goodness the lid sealed tightly!) When I opened it and saw that it was my starter, I felt badly that I’d ignored it for the last couple of days. (The books always tell you that refrigerating the starter will slow down the activity. Well, NOT BY VERY MUCH!) It was bubbly and tangy, and going great guns. So I stirred it down, fed it, and stuck it back into the fridge. This morning I opened the door, and there it was, with the lid lying next to it on the shelf. :oD Good stuff, Maynard.

My first batch of bread took nearly 3 days to make. It turned out good, but the recipe is too refined and fancy, and the taste is nothing like traditional sourdough. So I’ll be looking for a different recipe for the next batch.

A Couple of Thinks

I was thinking this morning about my four-year-old grandson. Now, this is a kid with a mercurial temperament. One minute he’s all sunshine, the next he’s in a black, thumb-sucking funk. Fortunately for the rest of us, the sunshine so far has outweighed the rain, and he is most often enthusiastic and easy to please. Last night must have been especially good for him. We got to my house after church to drop me off, and they all came in for a few minutes. Daniel, who keeps a set of “Thomas the Train” Lego blocks at my house, was all excited about getting them out and playing with them. He was told, “No, don’t get them out, because we aren’t staying.” So, what does Daniel do? Does he slump off to the corner with his lip hanging and his shoulders bent? Nope. He goes to the book box and gets all excited about his books. “Look, Grammie! Here’s that book I was thinking about!” Sigh… It must be great to be a little kid. It sure is great to be a Grammie.

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This little movie is ten minutes long, but it is ten minutes very well spent. This young man has made other YouTube videos, and they are all noteworthy, but this one is exceptionally good. Give it a look…

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It’s cabbage seaon. That means one thing for me. I’m going to make some homemade sauerkraut.

I have a little love affair going with the “natural ferments” as they are called. These are the simple bacterial reactions necessary in a lot of primitive (meaning, “old-fashioned”) food storage and preparation processes. Cabbage will pickle itself over a period of several weeks if it is prepared correctly. There is no comparison between the homemade food and the stuff on the shelf in the store, especially in terms of nutrition and flavor. (The best cookbook for these recipes)

But sauerkraut isn’t the only good food that ferments itself. My tenderest feelings are reserved for my kefir grains. (I call them my “babies.”) Kefir is sort of like a mild-flavored “buttermilk” or yogurt. It is delicate and lovely to eat/drink. Stir it with a plastic spoon and drink it, or eat it like yogurt by the spoonful. Each batch is made from what are called “grains,” but are really colonies of specialized bacteria. They form a solid clump, and I’ve seen them the size of handballs. They are white, and look like cauliflower. Absolutely divine. I had two strains when I lived in Minnesota, named for the individuals who gave them to me. One was from Australia, and came from Dominic, the Kefir guy; the other from a generous lady in South Carolina named Deborah. Deborah and Dominic provided me with delicious gallons of delectable “yogurt.” Deborah is still with me (in a much-reduced form, since I had to dry the grains to transport them for the move), and has been reactivated. The product is still delectable, especially when made with half and half. No “fat-free” dairy in this house!

Last, but far from being least, is the lowly reason for the name of this blog. Sourdough is a natural ferment of flour and water. It is formed from the “wild” yeast spores present in the air, and is very simple to start. Flour and water, maybe a little dab of sugar to help things along. In 24 to 48 hours, you will have a yeasty, “clean/sour” smelling little gob of bubbling goodness. It is used in place of yeast for raising bread doughs, and imparts a delicious tang to any products made with it. Here is a link to a page that will help you get started. Sourdough recipes abound on the net.

During the Gold Rush (and much before that, too, I’m sure), hopeful prospectors streamed West and North, burdened with all that they could carry to keep them alive while they searched for the elusive gold. A bag of flour was often a large part of this burden, but utensils and tools for eating had to give up space to the tools for prospecting. Groceries, obviously, could not just be purchased along the trail. The obvious alternative was for the prospectors to make their own yeast, which was simple and practical. The prospector stored his starter directly on top of the flour in the sack. When it was time to rest, the prospector simply took down his sack of flour and opened it, and, by adding water an ounce or so at a time, he could build a loaf of dough on a sanitary surface, and bake it over the campfire (“dutch ovens” were irreplaceable items on these treks). A small gob of starter was put back on top of the flour, and the pack was shouldered again for the next leg of the brutal journey. (See anything about the Chilkoot Trail)

So, I’ve been building “natural ferments” for the last week or two, and I have to say that it’s been a real delight. I even have some vinegar “mother,” and some kombucha “mushroom,” (another solid colony of bacteria that is useful and beneficial). I used both of these methods while I lived in Minnesota, and got excellent results from both. So, now, once again, I have the means to make the things that our grandparents ate and thrived on.

It just seems kind of appropriate to be bringing these colonies to Alaska, and to have the “Real McCoy” to back up the title of this little blog.

Squirming In The Pew

If you enjoy hearing powerful preaching, you need to listen to Father John Corapi, SOLT.

If you don’t enjoy powerful preaching, maybed you really NEED to listen to Fr. Corapi. He has the credibility of experience, and I won’t go into his story here, except to say, that if anybody has a right to preach powerfully, it’s Father. He is the walking definition of “been there, done that.”

But I’m not writing about Fr. Corapi and his preaching today, as much as I am talking about the need to hear what good preachers have to tell us. If there was ever a generation of “seared consciences,” this generation it it. We are hedonistic, we are unbelieving, and we are selfish. Granted, America as a whole is the most generous nation on earth. We help more, oftener, and with greater sacrifice than any other country. But I’m not writing about generosity, either (although, that one is simmering in the back of my mind, so be warned.)

In the good old days, a priest or preacher who didn’t preach Hellfire, damnation, and brimstone from the pulpit was written off as a weakling or someone who really didn’t know his business. People stopped listening, then they started going to churches where they could receive the kind of preaching they knew they needed. (In those days, people had been taught about sinfulness, about redemption, and about their responsibilities when it came to their salvation. They knew what they needed to hear.)

These priests and preachers understood from the get-go that their job was nothing less than to show their parishoners how to avoid the fires of Hell. They knew the dangers of a sinful life, and they knew how to avoid it, and they knew the consequences of a lazy, lackadasical Christian “walk.” It was for these reasons that most priests and pastoral preachers of years ago signed on to do the jobs they chose. They knew it wouldn’t be easy, but they also knew what the consequences would be should they fail.

Today’s preaching, in most cases, is the absolute most insipid, wishy-washy, feel-good, warm-fuzzy attention seeking ever. I have experienced semons from both ends of the spectrum, and I have to say, that somehow, we managed to find ourselves in places blessed by the powerful preaching of our pastors. This is a gift. But the number of bad preachers, weak and wishy-washy preaching, and feel-good Sunday topics are rife. (This doesn’t even include the bad, bad preachers, who lead their flocks into error themselves. But this is grist for a future post.)

Somehow, the last forty years or so have spawned a bunch of preachers who are afraid to make people upset, to step on toes, or say something that might “offend” someone. Well, obviously, isn’t “upsetting” what real preaching is all about? The old saying of “You’re not here to comfort the afflicted; but to afflict the comfortable” holds true. A preacher’s job is to try to open the eyes of his flock to the knowledge and realization that what they see around them is NOT what they are going to get in the afterlife.

Most modern preachers are afraid to lose the good opinion of their flocks, so they refrain from preaching about the “bad” or “scary” parts of our pilgrimage through mortal life on earth. They pussyfoot around “Hell,” they avoid “abortion” altogether, and never refer to “sin,” especially if it is the personal sin of the congregants in front of them.

Apparently, they think their flocks will just mosey into Heaven without their help, upright and coasting smoothly. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. It’s obvious, in these cases, that preachers and priests have lost sight of the real reasons for their ordination. Priests and pastors have a moral obligation to do all they can do to get their congregants into Heaven, not to keep from upsetting the wealthy patrons who donate but don’t participate. Political correctness in ecclesiastical matters is a sure sign that a preacher or priest is leading his flock astray, however slightly.

What? Have I missed something? You say a person doesn’t need to go to church to get to Heaven? Perhaps. But it would be interesting to find out just where this information came from, and how true it is. Maybe we need to give that a little more thought, too. I hear this frequently from friends who tell me that they can worship God in their own way, and don’t need some preacher/priest telling them they are sinful, or doing it all wrong. The truth of the matter is that we DO need priests and pastors to tell us we are headed in the wrong direction, and to point us in the right direction, and show us how to get to Heaven. We need GOOD priests and pastors, who know how to go about pointing our faces to Heaven and keeping us on the Narrow Way.

Jesus didn’t come to earth to show us how to be sweet and loving to puppies and little girls and boys. He came to show us that Heaven is worth suffering, dying, and avoiding sin to obtain. He came to show us the Way to get to Heaven. The least we can do is to actively look for priests and pastors who are willing to do what Jesus did, to the best of their abilities. Priests and missionaries have been martyred by the thousands all through the centuries of Christendom. Dying for our faith isn’t as frequent an end as it used to be, and we really have no way in America to understand all that might involve, but the martyrs’ lives are there as signposts, to show us that the way to Heaven can often be strewn with the corpses of those who went before us, to show us we were on the right track, and to prove to us that it is worth the battle.

Powerful preachers are sent by God to bring as many of us as will go into the Kingdom. Sometimes, Fr. Corapi’s preaching makes me squirm. But, it’s a good kind of squirm, and I know that I have just had another lesson in map-reading and orienteering, and I am slowly but surely finding the Narrow Way that leads to salvation.

Little Old Ladies

I love little old ladies. Being one myself, of course, I already know stuff about them that most people don’t think about. I especially love feisty little old ladies. It’s not the same thing as being crusty or crabby. “Feisty” to me means the ability to keep doing the important things long after everybody else thinks you should have day-care.

Little old ladies are cool, though. They know lots of stuff most younger folks never had a chance to learn. That’s why grammies need to have time with their grandkids: to help teach them the REAL manners that should be taugh in schools and families, but seldom are.

Little old ladies don’t get much of a social life unless they quilt, tat, or tattle. But that’s ok. Keeping up with the youngsters can be exhausting.

Most old ladies get carts when they go shopping at Wal Mart. That’s because even if they only need dental floss and pencils, they wind up needing something to lean on as they stroll the endless aisles of everything under the sun. Beats a cane, and nobody knows they are really creaking along.

Most old ladies can only nod their heads and smile when they see smooching and hugging. Think they are laughing? Not on your life. They are remembering. It’s hard for young people to realize that old ladies weren’t always old, gray, wrinkled, and creaky.

i’m going to be sixty-five on my next birthday, in February. In some ways, I’m astonished that I have reached that age. I should be frail and stooped, and wear crepe dresses in old-fashioned prints and styles, and those old black oxfords with the 2″ block heels we used to see on old ladies everywhere, that they wore with the opaque tan stockings.

On the other hand, I’m surprised at how fast one’s body does begin to fall apart after a certain age. Aches and pains? They are the consequences of a rough-and-tumble young life full of falls, strains, and sprains, and be assured that if you hurt it when you were young, it will hurt you back when you are old.

My oldest child will be 46 this month. That makes me feel old, no matter how I look. But what makes me feel older is the fact that my youngest is going to be 34 in just two months.

Inside, I still feel like I’m about fify years old. Maybe younger, when I curl up to watch a good movie or read a thrilling book. Don’t let the outside fool you…inside, little old ladies have still got what it takes. There’s an old saying: “There may be snow on the roof, but there’s still fire in the furnace.” Just because we are old doesn’t mean our hearts aren’t still warm and loving, our minds have not stopped being sharp and active, and our prayers are even more effective than ever.

If you have something you need done, ask a little old lady. She might not be able to do it for you, but her wisdom should help you know how to go about doing it.

Most little old ladies my age know how to do a lot of things. In the kitchen, I can make jerky or pemmican, render lard, make soap, sauerkraut, and sourdough starter. I can sew, garden, and teach, and so can most other little old ladies I know. Just call the little old ladies you know “walking encyclopedias.” They’ll LOVE it!

Where NOT To Retire

In view of the last post, and considering the fact that a lot of you must wonder why I live here if the weather is so bad, I found this little gem to help remind me that sometimes, sunshine and warm (??) temps may not necessarily be such a good thing.

Termination Dusted. Again.

Well, here it is, long before anybody here was really ready. We even still have tourists running around here and there.

But we woke up yesterday morning and saw Termination Dust a solid 1/3 of the way down the mountains. More than a dusting. Much more. It’s not enough that the trees are turning yellow at an alarming rate, and the yards are already full of fallen leaves. The temperature this morning was in the 30’s. I had a reading of 37 here, and my son had 32 at his house.

It’s easy to feel a little apprehensive about this time of year. One can’t help wondering if their heating systems will make it through the coldest part of the winter (usually in February) or worrying about water freezing. It’s no wonder so many homes here have woodstoves. Fortunately, we live in a huge, thick forest, and there are still so many deadfalls that most of us don’t even have to cut down any trees. All trees from construction projects get reused for heat.

Stocking up on warm clothing for kids and finding just the right pair of wooly socks is a pleasant way to go about preparing. Pretty soon, my “walk-out freezer” will be in operation, and my “cooler” will be on the porch. Handy!

Today is beautiful: A crystal blue sky, and trees in gorgeous fall yellow. Fall has its moments.

Meme-Blogging

Every once in a while, one or the other of the blogs I visit comes up with a “meme” and invites their readers to participate and pass it on. This one looked like a lot of fun, and when I saw it I actually laughed out loud, since my middle name is “Elizabeth.” Wouldn’t you just know it? Somebody is always looking for more work for me to do.

But, here goes:

Rules-Players, you must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have. When you are tagged, you need to write your own blog post containing your own middle name game facts.

E Extraverted. My golly! This word was invented for me when I was younger. Probably not so much nowadays, but I really do love to be in a group. I love discussions, get-togethers, and all kinds of gatherings.

L. Loony. My “sense of humor” is so far off base it’s in the next ballpark. “Quirky” is a nice way to put it.

I. Introspective. How can you be introspective and extraverted, at the same time? Just ask me. I have what might be considered a rather “intense inner life.” I spend a lot of time in thought and prayer, so I can see how it fits. The two words aren’t really related, anyway.

Z. See what I mean? Another one for the “goofy” column, since I am also a zany individual. Let’s see: quirky, zany… I guess this could mean I’m crazy.

A. Altruistic. I am deeply interested in the lives of others, especially my friends and family, and I’m very good at giving assistance when it is needed. (Of course, like advice, I’m also good at giving it when it’s not needed, too.)

B. Better than nothing. LOL! (Well, YOU try to come up with something for “B.”)

E. Energetic. I walk pretty fast for a creaky old lady, and am usually busy around the house. Lots of short jaunts seem to suit me much better than one long journey.

T. Thoughful. I am a product of the Golden Years of public education, and one of the things I was taught was how to THINK. Spending time in real thought is not laziness, daydreaming, or any other form of “time-wasting” that the modern educrats seem to think is not good for young people.

H. Helpful. Oh, boy, don’t little old ladies love to be helpful??

anyway, there’s my middle name. For you people whose middle names are something like “Ann,” “Troy,” or “Jo,” I can only say, “You have my deepest sympathy. How much can we learn about you in two or three letters?”

Another meme that turned up in the same blog (Thanks, She…) is more mundane, and is just a series of questions to be answered. As a rule, I skip these, but because I found this one on She’s page, I’ll give it a go.

This meme consists of ten questions to be answered.

1. If you could have super powers what would they be and what would you do with them? (Please feel free to be selfish, you do not have to save the world!)

Invisbility. How many times have I said to myself, “Boy, I’d sure like to be a mouse in the corner when THAT goes down!”

2. Were you to find your self stranded on an island with a CD player…it could happen…what would your top 10 blogger island discs be? Wow. I haven’t thought about this in a long time. 1. Great White “Hooked.” 2. Anything by Led Zeppelin. 3. Anything by Waylon Jennings, 4. George Jones, 5. Merle Haggard, or 6.Tom T. Hall. 7. Amore by Luciano Pavarotti 8. Mozart Horn Concertos 9. Rossini Overtures, and 10. Osipov State Balalaika Orchestra.

3. If you were a smell what would it be? Easy one. Fresh-baked bread.

4. What bird would you most like to be? Buster the Wonder-Bird. My pet African Grey parrot. What a life. He’s the happiest pal a person could ever have. I’ve had him since he was a chick, over 14 years. He will outlive me by many years, so my daughter is eagerly awaiting the day I call her and tell her to come and get my youngest child.

5. If you were a bird, whose head would you poo on? She’s suggestion of OJ Simpleton here is a good choice. I’ll stick with that.

6. Are there any foods that your body craves? A large, juicy steak, cooked rare, served with a baked potato with sour cream, butter, and chives. A nice glass of Yellow Tail Merlot to wash it down.

7. What’s your favourite time of year? Summer, without a doubt. After all these years in Alaska, the warmth of the summer sun is so precious. Even though we have more sunshine here than we ever did in Valdez, it still managed to be a rather dreary summer, so I feel deprived, and fall is here already.

8. What’s your favourite time of day? All of it, but I guess early morning would be at the top of the list.

9. If a rest is as good as a change which would you choose? A CHANGE. I spend so much time at home “resting,” that it would be good just to get out and have a litle change once in a while.

10. If you could have a dinner party and invite any 5 people from the past or present who would they be? (Living or deceased.) My wonderful husband, who has been dead for four years. I really miss his companionship and his sense of humor. My sweet parents, who put up with an awful lot from me when I was growing up. A dear friend in New York, whom I know only through the internet, but who has become a special friend and confidant. My former mother-in-law, who died just about the time Joe and I married. I never got to know her, but I think I would have loved her deeply.

There. Generally, these meme-blogs have admonitions to “tag” other bloggers. Not me. I do, however, extend an invitation to all of you to add your answers in the reply section. Enjoy!

Seeing And Hearing

(Or, Sometimes, What You See And Hear Isn’t Really What You See And Hear)

Anybody with a working eye in their head and a nose that actually captures odors has got to know that the so-called “Bin Laden video” is an affront to the senses. Stinks to high heaven, and even a blind man can see it’s a fake. It’s nothing more than a piece of very bad cut-and-paste manipulation from the get-go; and I believe that OBL was NOWHERE around when it was made. (I’m one of those people who thinks Tora Bora accomplished the desired results. If the bomb didn’t get him, his kidneys must have surely finished him off by now.)

1. The Magical Color-changing Beard. Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe there is no known way to make hair regain pigment under most normal circumstances. And we do know that OBL was extremely ill with kidney disease, and on dialysis. This is a terminal condition. I’m not sure of how long an individual in need of dialysis usually lives, but six years (the length of the war, so far, give or take a little) under the kinds of conditions that fugitives must endure, especially in the benighted “’stans” doesn’t leave room for much optimism regarding the old duffer’s health and heartiness.

2. Please Stand By For Technical Difficulties. I wonder how many times the “editor” of that video cut-and-pasted. The bulk of it shows a static image with a voice-over, then a switch back to actual motion toward the end. During the length of that static voiceover, the goofy, jingoistic, disjointed, dictated-by-Hugo-”Oogito”-Chavez, meandering Marxist/Trotskyite diatribe goes on for interminable minutes, intoned rather than spoken, tonelessly unemotional. Somebody reading a hack-job script over a picture of their hero. My vote goes to the true “American” TRAITOR (declared so by law) Adam something-or-other.

3. Right In The Nick Of Time. Was it my imagination, or did Adam think he was going to undermine our resolve by timing the release of his home video to coincide with the commemoration of September 11? Rush Limbaugh has a term for that, and it is always pertinent: Symbolism over substance. It’s why the Democrats always LOOK and sound like they are doing something constructive, but they never DO anything constructive. (more below…)

At any rate, my take on the video is this: Fake but accurate. Accurate, in that it really is OBL in the pictures. Old pictures. More than six years old. Fake everywhere else. Ignore the rantings of a dopey, disgruntled Leftist trying to make a name for himself. But the Democrats ate it up like it was good! HAHAHAHA! Gullible AND stupid!

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Did anybody notice something strange about the so-called “hearings” in Congress last week? Well, I guess it wasn’t really “strange,” since those “watchdogs” were just doing the same thing they always do: Bloviate.

Aside from the vileness of their filthy attacks on a MUCH better human being, all their remarks had a particular style. Every word out of the mouths of those slithering, slimy demons from Hell (if you get me started, I’ll never get finished with this post) performed (literally) as if he/she/it was in one their endless “televised debates,” and sliced off one soundbite after another. And, this doesn’t even begin to include the vile and slanderous ad taken out by the pencil-dicks at moveon.org.

Good grief. I have seen circle-jerks before, but this one takes the cake. They were mouthing their pomposities and pretentious blatherings for their own consumption. (“There! That sounded so good. Just alliterative enough to be catchy. I’m really getting good at this!”) Every time one of them looked up from his/her/its notes, it was a figurative pat on their own backs.

These people are so tiresome in their conceit and arrogance. Only terminally-stupid people would continually believe that the rest of the country believes the same things as themselves. Unfortunately, they manage to keep getting re-elected, so I guess the electorate likes to hear this kind of trumped-up autoeroticism. It’s going to be interesting to see how well the “alternative media” gets the truth out. But, otherwise, they are simply sickening.

General Petraeus was awesome. He was kind, polite, and respectful throughout their whole stupid charade. Thank God for leaders like him.

It looked and sounded just like that stupid Wellstone Hootenanny a few years ago, or an evil, foul-tempered Roast. Bor-r-ing…