I'd like to give you a hundred dollars

I have been sleeping most of the day, which is its own pleasure.

I am hiding out from pain and fever, as well as relationships and frozen -- skinless -- boneless --soulless -- chicken breasts.

The television has been on all the while, alternating between lulling and inciting -- rocking the cradle, as it were ("as it were" being one of the weakest of apologies for weak apology... so to speak!).

Yes, yes, I know -- sorry.

Some of you have also probably been watching Tim Robbins' movie Cradle Will Rock this afternoon. It's sloppy fun, nervous intelligence, semi-marxist Marx Brothers zaniness but oh-not-really. And a cast of thousands!

Robbins tells the story of the efforts by Orson Wells, as director, and John Houseman, as producer, to stage the play The Cradle Will Rock, written by Marc Blitzstein, an allegorical treatment of sociopolitical tensions common to the 30s -- mostly, organized labor versus corporate greed and corruption as found in Steeltown, USA. Robbins succeeds in ways the play could not with this meta treatment -- sadly, though, he succeeds more precisely because today's audience could well care less. [Oops. Reminder to self: edit attitude.]

photo credit

He brings in Diego Rivera* and the famed mural for the lobby of the Rockefeller Center as successful foil and contrapunto. PBS Culture Shock tells the story this way:

By 1930, Mexican muralist Diego Rivera has gained international favor for his
lush and passionate murals... His outgoing personality puts
him at the center of a circle of left-wing painters and poets, and his talent attracts wealthy patrons, including Abby Aldrich Rockefeller. In 1932, she convinces her husband, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., to commission a Rivera mural for the lobby of the soon-to-be-completed Rockefeller Center in New York City...

Rivera proposes a 63-foot-long portrait of workers facing symbolic crossroads of industry, science, socialism, and capitalism. The painter believes that his friendship
with the Rockefeller family will allow him to insert an unapproved
representation of Soviet leader Vladimir Lenin into a section portraying a May
Day parade. The real decision-making power lies with the Center's building
managers, who abhor Rivera's propagandistic approach... [T]hey order Rivera to
remove the offending image. When Rivera refuses, offering to balance the work
with a portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the opposing side, the managers pay his
full fee, bar him from the site, and hide the mural behind a massive drape.
Despite negotiations to transfer the work to the Museum of Modern Art and
demonstrations by Rivera supporters, near midnight, on February 10th, 1934,
Rockefeller Center workmen, carrying axes, demolish the mural. Later, Rivera
recreates the frescoes in the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City, adding a
portrait of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., in a nightclub. Rivera never works in the
United States again...

Theresa Burns and Robbins co-authored Cradle Will Rock: The Movie and The Moment in which the political and artistic marriage of concerns is mapped out and amplified. E. L. Doctorow notes: "Like a good writer, Tim Robbins has found a story to hang a whole decade on..."

Wikipedia notes this about the original production of the play:

Originally set to open at the Maxine Elliott Theatre with elaborate sets and a
full orchestra, the production was shut down due to "budget cuts" within the
Federal Theatre Project—though it was widely believed that this was instead
because of its very favorable communist slant. The theatre was padlocked and
surrounded by armed servicemen, ostensibly to prevent anyone from stealing props or costumes, as all of this was considered U. S. Government property. They even impounded leading man Howard Da Silva's toupee.

On the spur of the moment, Welles, Houseman, and Blitzstein rented the much larger New Century Theatre and a piano, and planned for Blitzstein to sing/play/read the entire musical to the sold out house which had grown larger by inviting people off the street to attend for free. Blitzstein encouraged cast members to say their lines from the audience, to exercise their right of free speech.

Just after beginning the first number, Blitzstein was joined by Olive Stanton, the actor playing Moll, who joined in from the audience, since she (along with the rest of the cast) was forbidden by Actor's Equity to perform the piece "onstage". During
the rest of the performance, various actors joined in with Blitzstein and
performed the entire musical from the house. Actors sang across the theatre to
one another.

Many who attended the performance, including poet Archibald
MacLeish, thought it to be one of the most moving theatrical experiences of
their lives. Performances to this day rarely use elaborate sets or an orchestra,
instead preferring a spare set and single piano in homage to this event.

All of this to say... I wanted to find the script to the original play and couldn't seem to put my paws upon it, when I happened across this: The Federal Theatre Project Materials Collection, temporarily housed, and forever digitized, at George Mason University:

The Federal Theatre Project (FTP) was a division of the Works Progress
Administration (WPA), which was established to provide work for unemployed
citizens during the Great Depression (1929-39). The FTP began in August 1935 and flourished as the first and only federally-sponsored and subsidized theater
program in the United States until its closing in 1939. In order to advertise
FTP productions, the Federal Art Project (FAP), a section of the WPA, developed
a poster division. Using then-new silk-screening techniques, the FAP Poster
Division created the posters which graced theater lobbies from New York to San
Francisco and hundreds of other towns and cities in between. The FTP also
utilized professional set and costume designers, who, along with the FTP workers
who sewed the costumes and constructed the sets, added some dramatic realism to the productions.

In 1974 George Mason University professor Lorraine Brown discovered the Federal Theatre Project Collection in a Library of Congress storage depot and arranged for the collection to come to GMU on temporary loan.
The materials were placed in the care of GMU's Research Center for the Federal
Theatre Project headed by Dr. Brown. Among the many types of archival materials in the collection were original posters and set and costume designs for nearly
six-hundred FTP productions. These materials, though fragile after decades of
storage, still retained their vibrant colors. Beginning in August of 1981, as a
preservation measure, 35mm color slides were made from each of the posters and
set and costume designs in the collection. These slides are housed the
University Libraries' Special Collections & Archives department.

The Federal Theatre Project (FTP) Materials Collection contains nearly one thousand different 35mm slides taken from original posters, set designs, and costume designs. These images are of the original designs used on posters to advertise FTP plays in many different American cities from 1935 to 1939. Also included are playscripts for twenty-two productions. The images are indexed by title, author, subject, theater, place, date, and related names.

You guessed it. One of the 22 scripts? The Cradle Will Rock! And for those who love the tactile, the mystique and drama of textiles? A treasure trove.

Why all this jabber? Why this commentary for a play heralded as a heavy-handed leftist baby blessed with a sense of humor that's just out of reach of the... rabble? Why was I searching for the script at all -- given that it is generally acknowledged as being a tepid thing?

I wanted to find the lyrics to a ditty that began:

I'd like to give you a hundred dollars
But I've only got thirty-six!

*A moment of incongruence -- In the film, Rivera defends his use of the boggle-head Lenin while verbally tearing Mussolini to shreds ("I have a feeling Mussolini will need a place to hang before this is all over" -- or words to that effect). Yet, in 1933, the same year as the destruction of his Rockefeller mural, he paints a significant work featuring a boggle-headed Mussolini -- who has promised the artist the unending support of Italy. Okay, so maybe I will have to buy Robbins' book...

Ears to hear

Real life. It comes as a shock.

My aunt Nancy is 75 years old and looks marvelous -- she is trim, pretty, blond, well-dressed, tootling around in her Cadillac. Her brother, my father, also only drives Cadillacs.

He is best off left as "her brother," or "Barry," or even just he/him.

My grandfather called me "doll baby," and Nancy told me today, in between anecdotes about how he beat her until she bled, that I was his favorite. I knew him as a benign and loving blind man, a retired pharmacist, who was a world class gardener and animal expert. He taught me how to compost, how to know when zucchini is ripe, the best kinds of tomato for certain soils, the names, habits, and calls of regional birds, and the right design of birdhouse to make available. He paid me a penny for every Japanese beetle I trapped. He almost beat her to death one day when she refused to take a dose of Castor oil and hid under her parents' bed.

My stepmother, Margaret, is probably the person, after my grandfather, whom I would have characterized as most kind, gentle, caring, and just plain fun. I was lucky enough to live at home after the others had run off into their lives as students and wives, racquetball champions and Beowulf scholars, scraping by or thriving, depending on the day. I found myself telling Aunt Nancy about the afternoons of boating on the lake, especially that day when a storm blew in so quickly and we "capsized" -- hooting all the while (until it began to thunder and lightening).

Hmmm. You know what? I began a post a few days ago, and just left it undone... because the memories hurt -- the memories were so sweet to me, so dear. "Yadda yadda..." are you thinking? Well, get the hell out of my blog, then, you turdescent piece of crap in triplicate!

[Where is the good captain Haddock when you need him?]

Nancy was talking about how she knew she'd never speak, much less renew a relationship with,
either of her brothers. My mind, not exactly a steel trap, traveled to my stepmother Margaret and those halcyon days on the lake, the glory days of my life, I suppose.

She waited until I paused, then said -- in a voice that was studied, loud, clear: "Margaret is a weak woman."

Margaret, if you are out there and have stumbled upon my blog, know that I came to your defense -- well, not really. I was shocked and demanded an explanation. What I got was reasoning that -- sorry to say -- was impeccable. Since I am imagining you reading this, I'll just cut to the chase: "Think about it. What kind of woman would your father pick?"

She said that you were profoundly deaf now, and I am very sorry that is so. I hope that you still make spaghetti sauce in second position, that you still dance as you clean, that you've been back to France, that maybe you've taught a little.

I hope, dare I say it... Of course, I dare. I hope that life has been more than an art appreciation course. (Yes, I hope the same for myself.)

Are you a weak person?

Did you know that my grandfather beat his children to the point of bleeding?

Did you not hear the echos of abuse that strummed through all the lives around you? Did you not recognize the intransigence for what it was?

Am I making you the black sheep, the focal point, because it is easy to do?

Undoubtedly.

Anyway. She talked about "Uncle Otie" and his grist mill. About Harrison and "The Farm." About Reba and how, yes, I was there when she died. About her grandfather's jewelry store (your grandfather also had a jewelry store, yes?).

She worries that no one cares about "the history" of "The Family." Part of me wants to help her write the texts she struggles to compose; Part of me wants to let it all die, decompose, rot, stink, eat itself up. She is a brave woman in many ways -- she is really the antithesis of everything I was lead to believe growing up.

She seeks to stop the cycle of abuse, telling her sons and her grandchildren that they can always come to her, that they will always have a home, that there is nothing they could do to make her stop loving them. She realizes, though, that there is a good measure of work and insight necessary on the part of those to whom she makes these grand offers. Like I said, she is a brave and (what I neglected to mention) intelligent woman.

It hits me now -- she never mentioned my grandmother, her mother. It's true -- I don't even know what to say about her. Whispering, always whispering; Secrets, always secrets. "When I die, this will be yours..."

My "folks" (I'm sorry, I don't know how to designate them anymore) -- they tried to get me worked up, after her death, about how what should have been left to me was "taken" by Nancy. I didn't care then, and don't care now. It was all part of the anti-Nancy campaign of which I was not a part, anyway.

My last memory of her is so sad. I almost hurt her. We were leaving and were congregating near the front door to do the final hugs -- and I almost knocked her over. She looked scared and small. I felt like a clumsy dolt.

Actually, that is all I feel like these days, too. A clumsy dolt.

I am in loads of pain today -- I cleaned house like a maniac this morning and feel very rotten, physically. Emotionally, I am glad that Fred has gone back to the infusion Center to get my antibiotics and lab results, because I just want to cry for awhile.

For Nancy and her brothers, for my brothers, for my granddaddy who beat his children, for my Nana who saw her only worth as coming after death. For Margaret, who had a choice.

Nancy is the only person in my world who knows the pain about my oldest brother -- and the only person who could so knowingly exclaim, "But it is not his fault! He has nothing to apologize for!" -- when I relayed that the other Brother-Unit would have nothing to do with him -- oh never mind... the story is long. And tiresome. And she's right.

She came bearing gifts! A great food basket that Fred has already plundered. A lovely tureen from Jewel and Jimmy. The best thing? A drawing someone did to honor Jimmy after his death -- for all his work on behalf of the Audubon Society -- of cardinals.

Because when all of this stuff is weirding out my mind, I can think back to the animals -- everyone seemed to truly love the animals.

And vegetables.

Bless her bones for coming, bless her bones for speaking her truth.

Do I have ears to hear?

Which Dylan at 1:26 am (Tuesday) of the New Year?

Thinking still of my brother-units, and of the songs that have played in my head through all these many years of wanting, somehow, to make things absolutely okay. I'll Keep It With Mine has always been steadily there, in spite of Nico's cover ("akin to eating a sandwich after a funeral...").

Just kidding. She was brilliant.





I'll Keep It With Mine


You will search, babe,
At any cost.
But how long, babe,
Can you search for what's not lost?
Ev'rybody will help you,
Some people are very kind.
But if I can save you any time,
Come on, give it to me,
I'll keep it with mine.

I can't help it
If you might think I'm odd,
If I say I'm not loving you for what you are
But for what you're not.
Everybody will help you
Discover what you set out to find.
But if I can save you any time,
Come on, give it to me,
I'll keep it with mine.

The train leaves
At half past ten,
But it'll be back tomorrow,
Same time again.
The conductor he's weary,
He's still stuck on the line.
But if I can save you any time,
Come on, give it to me,
I'll keep it with mine.

Copyright ©1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music

I cry like this

I am feeling blue. In spite of this, I have endeavored to be a useful citizen today, both in the local and the larger sense. And so I hope to reach the end of day in peace.



As if good citizenry informed the process!



Tomorrow marks day 25 of vancomycin. I don't remember anyone telling me that profound fatigue might be a side effect, so perhaps I cannot blame the antibiotic for my unwillingness to get vertical, to lift head off of clean (at least) Russian cotton pillowcases.



I love the pillowcases and the sheets -- where I bought them, I don't know. Maybe Overstock.com. Years ago. When I could justify an over 1000 thread count. It matters -- don't let anyone dissuade you.



When I am febrile, my head suffers, quite literally. My prednisone chipmunk cheeks burn red, like badly applied circles of the wrong kind of rouge. Sweat runs through my hair. Things spin. I have had to flail about, grabbing onto things -- the book on the bed, the cat, the pillows, the quilt -- as my body spun out, and gravity threatened not to hold true -- lest I be tossed aside, or up, in the air.



Cool cotton, soft; It matters. It calms. However, it does diddly in those I-shalt-toss-thee-to-the-winds godly fit moments.



It was one of those days where you don't even dream of asking for help. If help were to show up on the doorstep, I'd not even know what to do. Offer a beverage, I suppose. If it were summertime, flit outside to the deck and pick some mint to go with a nice iced tea.



Except that we have no ice. A real oddity, that. None of us appreciate the rapid cool.



The cats seemed to rediscover me today. Maybe as I degenerated, they took pity. Maybe I became more of an animal. Maybe they could play me like a fiddle in hopes of getting extra food.



Okay, so I gave Sammy a bit of my lunch. And offered some to Dobby, though he declined. Marmy doesn't play the Food Game. She just loves you or not. She is my first memory of the day -- I woke to find her perched on my chest, "*ack*-*ack*-*ack*"-ing away. She does not meow. She *acks* and seems to love best the people who will *ack* right back at her. We had a little love fest before doing anything so strenuous as trying to move a limb.


Dobby is changing. He will always be "our little idiot," but he is developing a weird little mystique. He stares. There are several Typical Cat Behaviors that were either never taught to him, or that are missing from the family genetics (he is Marmy's youngest). Like the staring thing. Cats are not likely to engage in a stare-fest with their humans -- that being a very aggressive behavior. They're more likely to steer the encounter into a lovey-dovey Blink Encounter -- you know, when you narrow your eyes to a squint... That's affection or, at least, non-aggression.

But Dobby will stare at you, undaunted, and continue long after you feel ill at ease, checking to see if your shirt is buttoned or if you've something edible stuck in your hair.

Anyway. I am pretty weak and definitely tired beyond belief. The shoulder pain seems to have plateaued at "awful, but not unbearable." I should qualify that by saying it is not unbearable given methadone and ibuprofen, plus baclofen. And I will confess to you that I took a dilaudid.

God, I sound pitiful. Disgusting, even.

But I am not. So up yours, you!

Tomorrow is infectious disease day, part one. Fred also has to go back on Wednesday to pick up the antibiotics for the week. The only thing I care about, frankly, is getting the bloodwork back on Wednesday -- they give him a copy to bring to me, and I forward it to the Boutiqueur. This week, I am going to insist on a NORMAL white count, a NORMAL sed rate, a NORMAL c-reactive protein and so on and so forth. No fever -- and a NORMAL blood pressure. Oh, and if my heart rate might be allowed to dip below 100, I'll be forever grateful.

But it ain't gonna happen. Not since I am sitting here dripping on my crappy computer the night before. Not since the pain is significant and even growing on the right side. Not since... oh, fill in the damned old boring blank.

My aunt is coming by on Wednesday afternoon.

This is an Event.

She is my father's sister. Older or younger, I don't even know. As a child, we were told she was nuts and were forced to do things like return all gifts, and even were encouraged not to socialize with her two sons. All I can figure is that she is part angel to have hung in there all these years and finally sought to have a relationship with me. Who does that but an angel?

They are old, you know. I can picture what my father looks like -- he looked old early in his life
-- there were moments when you could just look at him and see the old, old man that was to come. The ancient man that was just biding time until he could take over. Skinny. Bald. Trying too hard at everything. A lucky son of a bitch. I've not seen him since I don't know when. 1989?

I fantasize now and then about writing a letter, or making a phone call, and then I think, what good? What good?

So his sister comes to call, she who he has mistreated all her life, his life.

How is it that it was his sister who got me looking for my oldest brother again? Out of the blue, she called and left a message. Before she died, she said, she wanted to do this one thing. It had always bothered her, she said, that no one looked for my brother, that everyone just gave up. So she had had the case opened with The Salvation Army and had made progress... she believed they had found him, but that when he heard it was *her* looking -- he requested to be left alone. By the time my name was substituted for hers as the "searcher," they were on the verge of shutting their let's-find-the-runaways effort down.

Who does something like that but an angel?

I know she wants to talk about my father. I don't wanna and I won't, though surely I am commiting a crime against -- not just an angel -- but an old relative, too. She's likely to smother me in old relative skin folds.

What I want to understand? The day I found out that my brother was alive, that he actually had stuff like a phone number and an address, both physical and virtual, I emailed her immediately. She took a clear stance, a strange stance, one of "enjoy each other, dears... but I don't want to be involved." Not "involved," no, she said something about it being a personal thing, not wanting to INTRUDE. Yes, that's it. It was "intrude," not "involved." BIG WHOOP! Same difference, no?

And there is a line that the brother-unit delivers with regularity... in fact, let me source its first appearance. [There will be a delay in composition as I go to search emails.] Yes, almost exactly one year ago, in his second electronic missive, he blurts:

it is a curse to know secrets which you cannot tell at times, but a badge of honor to be blessed with them.

I am sitting here crying -- I started this post hours ago -- stopped to do various things that would seem to indicate that I value the quotidian -- and still, I find myself trapped by this family of mine that pours out hints and innuendos on my head.

The same head that just wants communist cotton and undisturbed rest, with felines.

What is the secret? Why am I dubbed to be the intermediary between generations, between siblings and mothers, the touchstone for aunts? None of these people do I know. Will they come to my funeral? What will they say to one another? "Hello, I knew you when..."?

There ought to be a statute of limitations.

I have a rash -- several, actually. And a host of lotions and ointments from which to choose. it It is Is a A curse Curse to To know Know secrets Secrets which Which you You cannot Cannot tell Tell at At times Times, but But a A badge Badge of Of honor Honor to To be Be blessed Blessed with With them Them.

I am feeling blue.

In one of his first letters, the eldest brother was feeling blue, too. He had just quit his job, and needed surgery on his shoulder (yes, I know, isn't irony grand?):

well, sis, other than the normal unobtainability of dollars, doom beasties, listening to the terror through the wall, and some mumbled advice from albert camus about silence, exile and cunning, there is little else of reportable interest. round up the usual platitudes. it's another day in paradise.

His subject line?

All mimsy were the borogroves.

Shoot. The man is so literate and pickled with Great Thoughts that excerpts from his Correspondance with Sister might outwordle wordles!

Everything. I mean EVERYTHING, seems to have settled on the darling boy tonight. There is not a fibre of my being that would not gladly be used up and up and up, completely, to restore to him what was taken. That would never have had him go to sleep alone, cold, and hungry. There is nothing I would not do.

In my all out effort to save the past!

He wrote to me, this:

i am having trouble finding words.
thank you for making it through where i got lost.
thank you for trying to find me in the fog.

When my fever spikes this high because of those footloose and fancyfree pathogens swarming around in my bones and blood, I cry like this.

Wordle Challenges #2 & #3 -- The Answers

Time expired Saturday at midnight without there being any responses to Wordle Challenges 2 and 3. Too hard? Too vague? Out-and-out boring? Not clear? Hmmm? I was planning to just move on, leaving the debris of wordles to dog my heels, but Fred and La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore are clamoring for more. Fred wants to wordle the first paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities; The Castafiore demands Tintin au pays des Soviets.

Oy!

The Felines say it is a matter of offering sufficient reward and instantaneous fame. Also, they purr, more better kibble.

Wordle Challenge #2? From God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater or Pearls Before Swine by Kurt Vonnegut:

Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.'

Wordle Challenge #3? From Zazie dans le métro by Raymond Queneau:

Il faut bien vivre, n'est-ce-pas? Et de quoi vit-on? Je vous le demande. De l'air du temps bien sûr - du moins en partie, dirai-je, et l'on en meurt aussi - mais plus capitalement de cette substantifique moelle qu'est le fric. Ce produit mellifluent, sapide et polygène s'évapore avec la plus grande facilité cependant qu'il ne s'acquiert qu'à la sueur de son front, du moins chez les exploités de ce monde, dont je suis.

The Fredster's suggestion won't leave me alone, but those words are best presented straight up, neat -- unwordled. They surely do resonate.

A Tale of Two Cities
ChapterI: The Period

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Wordle Challenge #2 (now with HINTS!) Deadline = Sat. midnight

Come now, friends! I have re-evaluated the status of this Wordle Challenge and find that it is, indeed, an easy one. It is now even easier, hints having been added.

Ms. Fresca was kind enough to leave it unsolved but is probably second-guessing that choice now, and chomping at the bit to get at the lucrative prize offerings. I'll keep this open until the end of the week -- at which time, Fresca can cash in.

Wordle Challenge #2, Easy Level: Identify the novel from which comes the following wordled text --



HINTS: Published in the mid 60s, the alternative title of this work is Pearls Before Swine.

Good luck!

Wordle Challenge #3 (Now with Hints!) Deadline = Sat. midnight

Wordle Challenge #3 is perhaps too difficult, though likely not for those immersed in the murky waters of French tradition.

*snark*

Still, I think that if you had an intro to French lit at university, this is easily within your reach. Here are two hints: Louis Malle directed the movie version; The book's first word is a neologism that is a phonetic transcription of that existential question -- D'où qu'il pue donc tant?

As usual, identify the author and his/her work. But for real bragging rights, tell us to what/whom the citation refers (that is: oatmeal? doggy doo? Spiro Agnew?).

Good luck! As with Wordle Challenge #2, this one will be withdrawn if not solved by Saturday, midnight.

We don't need no stinkin' humanitarians

I am a fan of Thomson Reuters Foundation AlertNet -- "Alerting humanitarians to emergencies." That last part makes me feel strange, very strange, as almost all of what they report seems to me to be hard news, meant to be read by hard people, not namby-pamby* humanitarians. I go elsewhere for my gardening tips, Tom Cruise insanities, and Genuine Ginsu Knives pricing updates. I ain't no freakin' humanitarian**! (Profound apologies to the "stinking badges" of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre)

Or maybe I am. Aren't we all?

Apparently not.

ICRC says Israel broke international law in Gaza
08 Jan 2009 14:57:48 GMT
Source: Reuters
(Adds remarks by senior ICRC official)

By Stephanie Nebehay

GENEVA, Jan 8 (Reuters) - Relief workers found four starving children sitting next to their dead mothers and other corpses in a house in a part of Gaza City bombed by Israeli forces, the International Committee of the Red Cross said on Thursday.

The ICRC accused Israel of delaying ambulance access to the hit area and demanded it grant safe access for Palestinian Red Crescent ambulances to return to evacuate more wounded.

"This is a shocking incident," said Pierre Wettach, ICRC chief for Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories.

"The Israeli military must have been aware of the situation but did not assist the wounded. Neither did they make it possible for us or the Palestinian Red Crescent to assist the wounded," he said.

In unusually strong terms, the neutral agency said it believed Israel had breached international humanitarian law in the incident.

In a written response, the Israeli army said it works in coordination with international aid bodies assist civilians and that it "in no way intentionally targets civilians".

The Israeli offensive launched in the Hamas-controlled Gaza Strip on Dec. 27 to end rocket attacks by Islamic militants has drawn increasing international criticism over mounting civilian casualties.

Palestinian Red Crescent ambulances and ICRC officials managed to reach several houses in the Zeitoun area of Gaza City on Wednesday after seeking access from Israeli military forces since last weekend, the ICRC statement said.

The rescue team "found four small children next to their dead mothers in one of the houses", the ICRC said.

"They were too weak to stand up on their own. One man was also found alive, too weak to stand up. In all there were at least 12 corpses lying on mattresses," it said.

In another house, the team found 15 survivors of Israeli shelling including several wounded, it said. Israeli soldiers posted some 80 meters (yards) away ordered the rescue team to leave the area which they refused to do, it said.

The ICRC said it had been informed that there were more wounded sheltering in other destroyed houses in the area.

"The ICRC believes that in this instance the Israeli military failed to meet its obligation under international humanitarian law to care for and evacuated the wounded. It considers the delay in allowing rescue services access unacceptable," it said.

In all, it evacuated 18 wounded and 12 others who were exhausted, including the children, by donkey cart. This was because large earth walls erected by the Israeli army had made it impossible to bring ambulances into the immediate area.

Under the 1949 Geneva Conventions, warring parties are obliged to do everything possible to search for, collect and evacuate the wounded and sick without delay, it said.

Dominik Stillhart, ICRC deputy director of operations, declined to say explicitly whether the Israeli inaction constituted a war crime.

"Clearly, it is (for) the International Criminal Court -- not for the ICRC -- to say whether this is or is not a war crime," he said, referring to the Hague tribunal.

Ambulances must be given "round-the-clock" access to the wounded throughout Gaza, Stillhart told a news briefing. "We cannot wait for the next suspension of hostilities for the wounded to be evacuated and brought to hospital."

The Israeli army said any serious allegations would need to be investigated properly after a formal complaint was received, "within the constraints of the military operation taking place". (Additional reporting by Adam Entous in Jerusalem) (Reporting by Stephanie Nebehay; Editing by Jonathan Lynn)

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*We are being very literary when we call someone a namby-pamby, a word derived from the name of Ambrose Philips, a little-known 18th-century poet whose verse incurred the sharp ridicule of his contemporaries Alexander Pope and Henry Carey. Their ridicule, inspired by political differences and literary rivalry, had little to do with the quality of Philips's poetry. In poking fun at some children's verse written by Philips, Carey used the nickname Namby Pamby: “So the Nurses get by Heart Namby Pamby's Little Rhimes.” Pope then used the name in the 1733 edition of his satirical epic The Dunciad. The first part of Carey's coinage came from Amby, or Ambrose. Pamby repeated the sound and form but added the initial of Philips's name. Such a process of repetition is called reduplication. After being popularized by Pope, namby-pamby went on to be used generally for people or things that are insipid, sentimental, or weak.

**The original quotation comes from the 1948 film The Treasure of the Sierra Madre with Humphrey Bogart. In one of the scenes in the movie a Mexican bandit leader (Gold Hat played by Alfonso Bedoya) is trying to convince Fred C Dobbs (played by Bogart) and company that they are the Federales.

Dobbs: 'If you're the police where are your badges?'
Gold Hat: 'Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges! I don't have to show you any stinkin' badges!'[1]

This in turn was adapted from B Traven's 1927 novel upon which the movie was based:

"All right," Curtain shouted back. "If you are the police, where are your badges? Let's see them."
"Badges, to god-damned hell with badges! We have no badges. In fact, we don't need badges. I don't have to show you any stinking badges, you god-damned cabrón and ching' tu madre! Come out from that shit-hole of yours. I have to speak to you."

Footnotes
1 Popularly misquoted as "Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!", most likely from Blazing Saddles in which the line was so worded.

[Retired Educator here. I am infamous for my inability to quote quotes and pronounce proverbs, and, above all, to absolutely slay idiomatic expressions, especially in translation.]

Of Bookies and Grader Boobs

My eldest brother and I were lost to one another for almost 40 years. I had concluded that he was dead and stopped searching for him in mid-2007.

Just before Thanksgiving that year, I decided to get back in touch with my Mother and her preferred litter of kids. Rather than struggling to connect with my half-sister and half-brother -- with whom I had probably spent a total of two weeks -- I planned to get gifts for my nieces and nephews, and through the great goodness and graces of children, insert myself into the clan as Super-Tante.

This necessitated finding stuff out about the four kids in question -- like, umm, their names and ages, likes, dislikes, needs, and wants. It was working out well, since the emails and phone calls back and forth were not as clumsy and nervous as they'd have been otherwise. Give the adults an agenda -- don't offer up too much unattached information, too much free air, space, time.

And then there was the day I thought I would never again be able to catch my breath.

My half-sister is a lovely woman, and quite possibly the most outgoing person of my acquaintance. Tossed into the seven or so sentences making up her note to me was "Oh, I have [your eldest brother's] snail mail and email address if you want them..."

I couldn't breathe.

I touched the computer screen as if it were the face of my most beloved.

Then I grew cold, could not get warm. I wanted to cry, and couldn't.

She is lovely and animated -- but she can also be a little "off" sometimes. I know her better now, know her extreme goodness and the wildness of her heart. She simply did not know, did not understand. Her family never lost its nucleus.

It probably won't occur to you -- but what gave me back my breath, what warmed me, was a burning thought: But Mother... surely you would not have done this to me?

Oh, if you could see the smirk on my face. Mother is a snake in the grass, capable of more meanness than I can even imagine. But she is old now, and sad, and as she wrote to me: "I can no longer do penance over and over..."

Which was news to me, of course, having never heard her even come close to saying she was sorry for anything. But she is old now, and sad. I must make that my mantra, and understand it as true. The man for whom she left me and my brothers -- oh, and the original Father-Unit -- was, it must be said, a remarkable, wonderful person. I have said, ever since I matured enough to understand all that happened, and is still happening, that were my fondest wish to come true, my parents would be constituted from the step-parents who blessed us with their love, caring, and guidance. But Mother is old now, her Wonder Husband dead, and she is sad.

I wrote my... sister (it does not roll off the tongue, nor type easily) back within the half-hour. I was inchoate, insensate. In that selfsame interval, she apparently shared with the Mother-Unit what she had done and been rudely chastised. She was trapped in "I-didn't-know-it-was-a-secret" Land.

There was now no denying me and I demanded, using language that was direct and clear, what we came to call his "contact information."

He ran away from "home" at the age of 15 -- definitively, that is. He ran many times. The last time, we surmised that he went to San Francisco. Not long afterward, we moved from California to the Philippine Islands. My father told us that he was fine, was staying with our grandparents, and would join us in three months -- when, in truth, he had not looked for his son, had no real notion where he was, and did not care. Did Dad really think that my remaining brother and I would forget about him in three months -- he who was dear to us?

I took the contact information and copied it everywhere. Every type of address book I own. On the refrigerator. In my checkbook. The Emergency Card no one ever looks at that comes with wallets. In the computer, on the Palm.

Calling him seemed wrong. I wanted him to have the chance to not respond, to refuse. In all these years, he could easily have found me, us. Somehow, though, I knew what he must have thought. My brother Grader Boob (he's an English prof) and I were surely part of that family that abandoned him...

I emailed him, trying not to fall into all the tangles.

And so began one of the greatest conversations of my life. Some days, most days, when I am in pain, fatigued, depressed -- and cannot see beyond these small adjectives -- I think of him, write him, and am reintroduced to joy.

He is a bookie in Vegas. He is a poet and wondrous writer. He paints houses in Tahoe. He is a photographer and naturalist, leading clients into the wonders of the Grand Canyon during the half-year he works as a guide. He became a naturalist, I believe, due to all he learned during the years he was homeless and lived in concert with trash cans and nature. He was shot once and almost died. He has a daughter but is out of touch. Her mother made porn films and now lives in Thailand. He is kind, witty, and always battling against his reserves of depression and fear. I love him so.

I have taken to surreptitiously posting his photography here ("Surreptitiously"? Ha!) whenever I need it. It has become a need.

I detest the telephone and have never enjoyed long chats -- except with people I know very well and with whom I share a history of sufficient detail to fill a phone conversation. So we have spoken only once and that shames me. Maybe today? Maybe tomorrow?

For some reason, he is on my mind today and I find myself wondering if there is anything at all that I will ever be able to do for him, give him.

Grader Boob decided long ago that he did not want to be a part of any of these pseudo-families, that were his brother ever to surface, alive, he did not want to participate, thank you very much. Nor does he speak to the Mother-Unit. He visits yearly with Dad and his wife. I like to think that we are very close but may be deluding myself.

Since rediscovering my older brother, Mother has fallen and broken a hip, had some serious heart problems, and apparently is desperately trying to waste away. She won't go that way, though. No. Not her.

Yesterday, the bookie poet posted the following quote from H.D. Thoreau's journal on one of his blogs:

January 6, 1857/

A man asked me the other night whether such and such persons were not as happy as anybody, being conscious, as I perceived, of such unhappiness himself and not aspiring to much more than an animal content.


“Why!” said I, speaking to his condition, “the stones are happy. Concord River is happy, and I am happy too. When I took up a fragment of a walnut-shell this morning, I saw by its very grain and composition, the form and color, etc., that it was made for happiness. The most brutish and inanimate objects that are made suggest an everlasting and thorough satisfaction; they are the homes of content. Wood, earth, mould, etc., exist for joy. Do you think that Concord River would have continued to flow these millions of years by Clamshell Hill and round Hunt’s Island, if it had not been happy,-—if it had been miserable in its channel, tired of existence, and cursing its maker and the hour that it sprang?”

This was the photo he chose as illustration to this entry, "The Stones are Happy."

The Chair

I am doing housekeeping duties -- things that are easily taken on, checked off: piles of emails, teetering, and about to fall over; quickie phone calls to make, cancel, and reschedule appointments; actual dinner plans (those veggies will NOT go bad in the crisper, not on my watch!); a shower with my dear Hibiclens (must. kill. MRSA.); a couple loads of wash; pharmacy refills; and a well-timed, perfectly executed attack on the feline contingents' fur (Why won't they just *chill* already, and let me vacuum them? Touchy, touchy.).


The poor darling Fred. As there is so much, these particular days, that I cannot actually do, my many annoying lists of choses à faire are delivered with the Royal "We." As in: It would be great if we could get the kitchen windows washed before they actually become opaque. Or -- Tante Nancy is visiting next week... maybe we can sweep the leaves off the deck before she arrives? Poor guy.


If yesterday was Tuesday, it must have been Infectious Disease visit day! My favorite PA was back from her extended vacation. (We call her Susan because that is her name.) Actually, I believe she was not entirely back -- it was a rather vague encounter. I never know what to do when I know something that the medico ought to know -- should I speak up, drop a hint, or remain silent? She was totally horrified that "no labs have been done," which was, of course, a ridiculous thing to think. Every Wednesday when we go back to the office to pick up the medicine balls of antibiotics for the coming week, we also get a copy of our labs, from which I forward abnormal results to Dr. Boutiqueur. I gave Susan her 15 minutes to run around consulting her colleagues, then pretended surprise when she rushed over and pointed out the "critical values" from last week. One of the nurses smiled at me from over her shoulder. So Susan saved the day and simultaneously sort of slid back into the rhythm of things. Right on cue, she was spouting the party line: high WBC, high sed rate, way high CRP, etcetera -- That advice I gave you? About relaxing and putting further surgery out of your mind? Well, the need for another shoulder operation may arise more quickly than I'd anticipated...


They love Fred in the Infusion Center. He cracks me up! We get to the waiting room and he practically salivates with pleasure, with anticipation. When the nurse comes to take me back to an exam room, he always says: "Why don't I go back and wait for you in the Infusion Center?" Eager as a puppy.


See... it is all about The Chair.

To be specific (and we should all be specific) Champion Healthcare Seating Products designed the recliner of his dreams, the 59 Series Relax Recliner, in stunning Ice Mint. There are 6 of them in the Infusion Room. He always picks the one to the left -- as you go in -- next to the window.

When I am done with the exam and consult part of the visit, I head for the Infusion Room, chuckling already. Every time, there is Fred, head back, feet up in the air, paperback novel on his lap, snoring to beat the proverbial band. At that, I cannot help myself, and bust my proverbial gut in outright laughter. The nurses all put their indexes to pursed lips, practically glaring at me, the unappreciative woman who has obviously abused her good natured, ever helpful life partner -- this poor, worn out man!

This poor, worn out man is going to be seriously depressed and deprived when my 6 weeks of i.v. treatment are over. Me? I haven't had the pleasure of conking out in the 59 Series Relax Recliner in Ice Mint. I wheel around, knocking bedside trays into bizarre configurations, running over toes.

Periodically, he half-wakes, stretches like the aforementioned puppy (with a little pot belly in this iteration) and graces us all with the sweetest smile before falling asleep again. Meanwhile, I am usually getting stuck, since my PICC line loves to be flushed but hates to give up any blood. He always misses the 15 minutes during which my right arm is extended and rotated in an ungodly position so that the dressing can be changed. He wonders aloud sometimes what could possibly have caused the pain that I bitch about on the ride home. I tell myself that next Tuesday, I will fill a bowl with warm water and minister to the tips of his fingers as he sleeps.

That being a "medical" chair and all, it cleans up easily.

Ar!

I Blame Herzl

Do the right wing bigots really think that leftist assholes, such as myself, cannot distinguish between Hamas and the deserving -- overarching -- Question of Palestine? I wouldn't deign to waste time proposing an inanity such as Israel not having the right to self-determination, or to exist. Israel is the king of de facto everything, particularly of annexation, so what would be the point?

Israel is, de facto.
May Palestine eventually be, de jure.

I blame those peacenik Ottomans, those opium-toking he-went-that-a-way Turks. And the oh-so-benign-not-to-mention-secret Sykes-Picot incestuous annexations. I blame the Lame League.

I would link up with some of these right wing bigotted commentaries, but then I would have to pretend to want to debate (typical leftwing amour propre -- still better than their queer robes of purple armor).

Beware such winning and unconsidered repartee!

But really... did it not at least make you pause when a whole swiftboat class of answers presented itself in the form of one ever-manic Cynthia McKinney, Pippi Longstocking of the Closed Military Zone on the High Seas. We all start whistling and slipsliding backward at her sight, at her sound. I confess to a moment of admiration. She was actually doing something and it was consistent with her long-professed beliefs.

I gotta stop smoking that wacky tobacky. Anyway, the Israelis accidently rammed Cynthia's boat. A de facto ramming, if you will. She was, is, and always will be, an idiot -- but I've a soft spot for her now -- out there on the water, sans doute pissing herself and dissing the Jews, so reliably stupid. She comes by her anti-semitism honestly.

These are tragic times. Those of us not being bombed or doing the bombing, let's not subvert the causes of deserving peoples because we lack the mental agility to dissect the issues, that is, if we even understand them. I sure don't. I am swayed by the passions of individual Israelis and Palestinians and want to planify discrepancy. I belong in a home for the feeble-mindedly optimistic. It should be my job to wash and dress the dead, then bury them -- in accordance to the prevailing customs. Winds. Incoming missiles. Available space, and clergy.

Obviously, competing intransigeance is a waste of the world's time -- backing one or the other purely smacks.

We all know the answer lies in the two-state solution -- in which Hamas can play no role. So am I to support the occupation of Gaza in the hopes that when the bullets cease, Hamas will {*poof*} be gone?

It begs the huge question -- if not Hamas, then who else will see to the trapped 1.5 million Gazans? It has only been a few years since Israeli settlers and soldiers were withdrawn from Gaza -- is it Permanent Occupation Time again?

To claim that there is the least hope for Mahmoud Abbas in Gaza is ridiculous. The desperation of the Gazans does not resonate in his breast; Fatah would never ever be welcome if swept into power there in the wake of the Israeli war machines. One thinks of Pétain and of Gaza as the new Vichy...

More likely? Ghettos. The rising apolitical desperation of the trapped and hungry defeated Palestinians will be legitimized as an easy rallying cry for militant Islamist terrorists. Only a pawn in their game, indeed.

When the League of Nations had the brilliant idea to divide Palestine, and to screw the Palestinians by means of that ever-buggering British Rule -- the Mandatory Power that was to be provisory, transitory, and every other meaningful -ory -- the world chose not to take notice.

When we deigned to glance around, we saw Arafat in fatigues and sporting a weapon before the United Nations. It was all rather confusing.

And so we have see-sawed back and forth through the decades. The one thing that I have learned in my in-depth, spirited studies of world conflicts? There has to be someone to blame.

I blame Theodor Herzl for not having settled on Brazil.

painting by Erez Vaxman

The Hoots are not a Gaggle but I might be a Jildo!

One day I will understand how it is that the Fredster and I resolve conflict. Right now, all I know for sure is that laughter's role is key -- almost the Personification of Laughter, a third person in the relationship.

Not exactly Mr. Chuckles.

Sometimes Delayed Mirth will show up, more often Unexplained Giggles.

The Hoots are the best -- actually a group of Hoots that I wanted to call a Gaggle, but upon checking, feel that the term is already sufficiently coopted:


A gaggle is a term of venery for a flock of geese that isn't in flight; in flight, the group can be called a skein.

In military slang, a gaggle is an unorganized group doing nothing. In aviation, it is a large, loosely organized tactical formation of aircraft.

In colloquial Western Canadian English, a gaggle is an adjective describing a largely disorganized group of Jildos (another colloquial adjective describing a woman that tends to be annoying and lacking in her own individual opinions) putting forth discontent among all related fellows.

In the field of systems biology, The Gaggle is an open source software framework for exchanging data between independently developed software tools and databases to enable interactive exploration of data.

Okay, so The Hoots are not a Gaggle but I might be a Jildo!

What is requiring so much hilarity? What else, but the possibility of more surgery? Yes, the Infectious Disease crowd -- and *that* could easily be a gaggle of Jildos, head honcho excluded -- opines that the right shoulder spacer is infected; Indeed, it is now deemed to be nothing if not a germ magnet. Ergo, take the sucker out! Cut this woman to shreds! And then probably do it again!

My white count is still up. The C-reactive protein -- to which people seem very attentive -- is way high and has more than doubled in a week's time. Sed rate is up (but it almost always is up). RDWs are elevated. The hemoglobin and such? They've decided to go the opposite route and are in decline... not enough to mean anything, I don't think.

And, okay, if you insist on taking my temperature, I am likely to have a fever in the afternoon and evening. Yes, it is my evening wear. Glassy eyes, gleaming not unlike a hyena's orbs in darkness, nicely offset by my glittery, sallow skin. (Ewwww! "glittery, sallow skin"? Ewwww!)

Actually, I am pretty sallow. And pale at the same time. My hair? Oh, God. Sad to say, I haven't had the energy to demand a ride to get it cut. Usually, before a surgery, that is the last thing that I do in preparation in an all out battle against Bed Head. It didn't happen this time and now I cannot even raise my hands to my hair without burying my chin in my chest first.

Today's challenge? A shower. The first since December 15. I got my staples out on Wednesday and was told to wait a day or two -- one of the staples ended up wanting to be a permanent piercing and that area is raw. I will need the Fredster to Saran Wrap the PICC line first. Also, this cold Manor is going to have to warm up a bit -- we will go hew some yew trees to feed the fiery furnace before I hop into the shower stall.

I am not sure what the PICC line symbolizes to him. It means something and I am definitely out of the semiotic loop. The last go 'round with one of these thangs, he quit two days into it. Dare I say "in a fit of pique"? Hell yes, I dare say it: A bloody fit of bloody pique.

So this time, I spoke with him, using my inside voice, first. He was shocked that I would even think it possible for him to bail on such a task. Okie-dokie, then!

And suddenly he is deciding that the dose that was due at 11 am would be perfectly fine if given at 4 pm. What does it matter? And then... the next dose -- it is an every 12-hour schedule -- will be at the completely arbitrary time of 1 am. Everything has become a battle.

Is it possible that he can consider the failure of the cultures to grow out an offending organism to be some sort of personal failure on my part? The continuing pain and trouble doing almost everything? He is just plain sick of it. *That* I understand, sharing the sentiment. I am trying not to ask for too much. In fact, today, all that I am asking of him is the care of the PICC line (including the shower wrap). The only thing I have been able to eat is peanut butter sandwiches (I cannot get the strawberry preserves top off the jar) and microwave popcorn. This is supplemented by raw broc and cauliflower -- which I love. It just is not exactly... cuisine.

Something has happened and I missed it. Even The Hoots are not hanging around the edges -- and as a very bad writer friend of mine would say: there is no limning going on.

How very much I miss our fellowship when I feel its absence.

chris leben murder

Deconstructing the possibilities of how and why someone googles their way to this facetiously fecund fiction that is elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle is sometimes alarming, sometimes a sad commentary.

Two people arrived yesterday after searching for "chris leben murder."

I have to confess to swallowing that possibilty hook, line, sinker.

It was completely within the realm of possibility that Chris Leben might have murdered someone -- and outside the octagon, too.

Action, reaction, over-reaction: There I was, googling away on Chris Leben and homicide.

This is what I found.

First of all, I have added an expression to my repertoire! Apparently, in MMA commentary, winning "by murder" is not a bad way to win, and usually does not involve leaving anything in the hands of the judges. In fact, the image that sticks in my visual cortex is a rude ground and pound, with lots of "short elbows" and "hammer fists" (I will never be able to get rid of the sound of Matt Serra when he was cornering fighters on TUF -- elbows/hammerfists, "you can do it all day long..." and "we're breathing, we're breathing...")

Outside of winning an MMA match by means of murder, the only recent allusions to the imposition of death comes from the sad news that Justin Levens has apparently murdered his wife and then killed himself.

(Levens -- Leben -- imagine hearing it on the radio or bleeping from a television... imagine kind of expecting to hear something along these lines... about LEBEN. You might end up on a weird blog trying to find a reliable police report midst a bunch of virtual kitsch.)

So... it is a matter of Levens. It is a matter of his wife, Sarah McLean-Levens, presumably killed by her husband's hands.

Allegedly, presumably, probably. And the immediate impulse is to hypothesize 'roid rage. He was known to have a problem with prescription pain killers, which were apparently found in large quantities at the scene and at their home. That would certainly resonate with crazed behavior -- but the search for anabolic steroids is on.

I am glad it wasn't Chris Leben and sorry that it had to be anyone. The fact, though, that anonymous people, unknown to one another, had no trouble imagining it to be Chris Leben? Well, he may want to consider why that is, and what he can do to squash any further unfortunate Google search terms.

Rematch

Mir beat Nogueira -- Herb Dean stopped the match in the second round. I cannot believe that the whole UFC event slipped my mind!

To unify the heavyweight belt? Mir must take... Brock Lesnar. That has to feel discouraging, and familiar, all at the same time. I've no room to criticize Mir -- but even with this outstanding but, frankly, unexpected result, he needs to talk less, train more. Lesnar is not the same fighter that he submitted with that lethal and lovely leg lock early on in 2008 -- Oh! What a beautiful submission that was! "Word" is that Lesnar is training BJJ like a mad man. His last fight was strange to me -- he looked obviously capable of submitting or punching out, but instead allowed the ref to stand them up and restart. Boring but perhaps a propaganda vehicle? [correction -- not the Couture fight -- the one prior... about which I am pulling a blank. I ache for Randy... yes, it's true, I have a Veritable Thang for Captain America.]

HEATH HERRING. Voilà. He deserves beaucoup credit -- though I still contend that Lesnar was schooling us all.

I love the comments at ufc.com. Kiddeath82 writes: "SO i know brock has a good very good work ethic i mean from what i researched he doesnt even care about money he draives a little beat up car now thats a real fighter. BUt mir has the philisophical advantagde since both his parents are black belts."

Brock drives a beat-up car. Mir's parents are blackbelts. Why, it is the heady stuff of UFC commentary! Both of my parents drive Cadillacs and drink single malt scotch. Take that!

The rest of the results from Saturday night make me sad -- Forrest Griffin lost his title to Rashad Evans, the new Light Heavyweight champ at 205. Actually, it is hard to be sad about it, as there is much satisfaction in watching Evans steamroll his way through the UFC after being written off in such a rude fashion by Matt the Chin Hughes, and by Dana White, too.

But Forrest will forever be "our boy" here at Marlinspike Hall. I suppose many feel that way, having followed him since the TUF 1 Dream Fight with Stephan Bonnar. Oh... what is the hilarious moniker that Bonnar is using? Hmm. I have really not been paying attention -- in his Wikipedia entry, it is noted that following that TUF 1 fight, he was suspended for illegal steroid use. Damn it. Anyway -- he is being called "the American Psycho," and fairly leers at the camera when announced.

Wanderlei Silva must feel slightly schizoid. Congratulations to Quentin Rampage Jackson.

Cheick Kongo beat Mostapha al Turk.

Matt Hamill won. I don't like him... and am prepared to take abuse for it.

photo credit

Wretched Excess: Peter Kraus

As I sit bleary-eyed in front of the babbling T.V. -- some of the more outrageous news sinks into my brain. Here is the Daily Kos version of the story, as filtered by nyceve, and presented to you below:












Former Merrill Lynch executive pays 37 million for NYC apartment (with taxpayer money)
by nyceve
Tue Dec 30, 2008 at 07:54:24 AM PST

This is a little off the beaten track for me, but it is a very real example of how taxpayer money is being wasted on bailouts for failed executives.

It's particularly important to publicize this sort of wretched excess, known as the privatization of profits and socialization of loss, as we approach the opening of the 111th Congress and the battle for affordable and guaranteed healthcare for all Americans goes into high gear.

As sure as night follows day, we will hear many say, the United States can't afford to provide healthcare to all our citizens. When this deceit gets going, please remember that a huge amount of taxpayer money is raining on people like Peter Kraus--no questions asked.

This is 720 Park Avenue in New York City. It's one of the most expensive buildings in Manhattan. Peter Kraus and his wife Jill, just paid $37 million for an apartment in this building. This year, Peter Kraus received a payout of $25 million dollars for working at Merrill Lynch for just three months.

photo credits:
720 Park Avenue, Merrill Lynch Logo