More To Worry About

This is the first youtube video I ever watched. It has held its own!

By the way, I guess I was wrong about the satellite...Oh well.

"I Will Post Something Meaningful to My Blog.. . I am Beautiful. . . "

WASHINGTON (AP) -- A 7,000-pound science satellite will fall from the sky this week, and NASA says a few pieces of metal could hit the Earth, although probably not in a populated area.
The space agency announced Tuesday that the Extreme Ultraviolet Explorer is falling at the rate of 15 miles a day from an orbit of about 124 miles and should make a final plunge to Earth between 10 p.m. EST Wednesday and 7 a.m. on Thursday.
http://media.www.thebatt.com/media/storage/paper657/news/2002/01/30/NewsInBrief/Satellite.Falling.Out.Of.Orbit-516808.shtml


I am absolutely convinced that this thing is going to fall on me. No. Really. I'm sure of it.

First of all, nota bene the phrase "but probably not in a populated area." PROBABLY NOT. And how do "They" (NASA PTB's) know this? This is a ploy, folks. Don't fall for it. Because it's going to fall on ME. And besides, how is an unpopulated area defined? The mid-Atlantic? The Gobi desert? One of our ever-popular Poles? Oh not Santa! Don't let it be Santa.

It won't. It'll be me. Why bother with my blog? To go out with a bang, and then a bigger bang?

No no, I mean when the satellite hits me!


~~~~Sigh~~~~


***********************************************

Editor's notes: We welcome now Professor Emeritus Mumford Knowitall Stilted, Ph.D. in Skeptical Psychology at the University of Ursula, to analyze Button's tongue-in-cheek post regarding her imminent demise by an untethered satellite: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that the common reader of Buttonhole's blog is most likely entertaining to him/herself thoughts along these lines: 'She'd better not talk that way or it WILL hit her!' But Buttonhole herself is adamant in her belief that this mode of thought is not only misguided, misinformed, and arrogant, but, above all, just positively imbecilic. Far be she to profess to a blanket disbelief in the power of the mindset in creating one's reality. Oh, she willingly concedes that possibility. Self-fulfilling prophesies and the like, notwithstanding, viz. the venerable Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self_fulfilling_prophecy

Furthermore, Button acquiesces that, in situations involving direct contact with others, our expectations of said others can elicit the manifestation of positive or negative traits, and that, should we maintain conviction regarding our own failures, we very often will subconsciously engender such failure to occur.

With what she CAN NOT concur, however, are belief systems with no possible grounding in logic. While Button subscribes to the distinct potentiality of the proverbial grey areas, she finds the fanfare over "affirmations" to be positively nauseating, to wit, the repetition to oneself of litanies of such ilk as "I am intelligent. I am beautiful. I am organized. I am thin. I have incredible strength." Button's quandary with this "bullshit treacle," as she has been known to opine regarding the matter, is that these "affirmations" mean nothing without the reality of actually BEING these things; furthermore, she fears that far too often these affirmations are delusion-inducing for the affirmer though the level of delusion varies on an individual basis, she grudgingly entertains. But Button is a strong advocate of reality. If one insists on declaring to a mirror every dawn's early light "I am organized," but leads instead a life atumble amidst disarray and chaos......well, Button feels this time before the mirror might be more wisely spent in effecting organization. In the same way, the thin mantra has little power against the Hardee's 1/2 Pound Grilled Sourdough Thickburger (1100 calories, 74 g fat). . ."

*****************************

At which point our Editor, recognizing that the common blog reader might be waxing mighty fine and tired of Professor Stilted's overpedantic verbosity, and with the Prof showing no sign of winding up his analysis any time in this lifetime, Editor advertises for a new analyst. After reviewing hundreds of applicants, Ed. decides to hire Missi Leftfoot, who comes highly recommended by her sorority sisters at Alpha Omigod Pi as being "one totally rockin partybitch." In attempts to unstuffen the subject, Missi is to interview Button regarding B's stance on skepticism. At Missi's behest, the two of them meet at a local sports bar around 4:00 on a recent Friday afternoon. Missi orders the dollar draft, and Button, having swung by Hardee's on the way, unwraps her Half-Pound Grilled Sourdough Thickburger. . .

Missi: So like totally what's up like I am SOOOO glad it's like Friday!!!

Button: umff. {nodding, mouth full}

Missi: So. . . I guess I'm thinking that I'm guessing like maybe we should start with um. . .
::::Missi's cell blasts out Soulja Boy "Crank That" ringtone::::
Missi: Girl, you like TOTALLY did NOT say that to him omigod. Yeah Keri just texted me and they're like alREAdy totally wasted. Yeah, she was like all totally up in his face and . . . damn my mom's beepin in lemme letcha go. okay. bye.
::::::Mom? What's up? YES, mom. RIGHT, mom. uh huh, yeah.{eye roll} Yeah, I'll be at the library probably till late tonight and I can't turn my phone on, I'll call you tomorrow. Yes. YES. All. Right, MOTHER.::::

Missi: Okay like where were we I mean my life is TOTALLY crazy right now and. Okay, so, like what did you want to say?

Button: . . . .

Missi: Well, I mean, I kinda thought you had like some STORY or something you......
OMIGOD is that JASON!!!?!?!?!
{{piercing screech}}, and Missi runs with open arms toward the alleged Jason. . . at which point Button slips quietly out the side door and walks to her car . . . but not without casting several nervous glances toward the sky.....

Class Notables

I've been looking for something to get my classes' attention that will let them know exactly the sort of force they're dealing with in having me as their teach, and I think I've hit upon a solution. I mean, I've never had a teacher come to class with her own publicist and paparazzi; that would pique my interest, I'm pretty sure. At least for a week or two.

http://celeb4aday.com/Choose%20Event.html

★Your very own Celeb-4-A-Day Personal Publicist will escort you into your event [or, in my case, an 8 am comp class] fielding questions from your Personal Paparazzi, making sure you look and sound your best. “No Comment!”

★Your very own Celeb-4-A-Day Bodyguard. Every celeb needs one - now you’ve got one too!

★ 2 hours of The Personal Paparazzi Treatment including asking questions, vying for coverage, shouting your name and everything else you’ve seen on T.V. and want to experience for yourself!

I took a picture of my 10 am class yesterday. I told them to look lively and wave for the camera. How'd they do?

Spiegel im Spiegel

a beautiful piece by Arvo Part

The silence before dusk is the only redemption I know....

Thought Choo-Choo

Today I watched the incredibly beautiful documentary Heima, showcasing a series of concerts by the band Sigur Ros in their native Iceland. If you aren't familiar with the music of Sigur Ros, I highly recommend that you lend it an ear. The film is inseparable from the music, but it's truly one of the most visually stunning films I've seen. If you aren't touched by either the film or the music, I'll declare that there is something seriously wrong with you.

Determined to see this band live, I do one of my regular checks on their website "eighteen seconds before sunrise," and then I ran across a terrible interview with the band on NPR. This is just excruciating!! I mean, the questions aren't that bad; I don't blame the interviewer when he's obviously understandably frustrated. Why did the band agree to do the interview if they were going to act this way? I hate when people don't have basic manners.

http://www.npr.org/blogs/bryantpark/2007/10/when_good_interviews_go_bad.html

But the music is great nonetheless, and perhaps it alone should stand.

My first reaction to finding something beautiful is to share it--hence my post. In looking for the icon above, I decided to post some of the band's music. My favorite is Njosnavelin." In my search for it, I found the ending to Vanilla Sky, one of my favorite movie endings ever, during which an excerpt of the song is played (below).

I noticed in the comments under the NPR interview that someone mentions Ted Snyder interviewing Johnny Rotten, and I HAD to post THAT train wreck in its entirety (below as well).

"The king is gone but he's not forgotten

This is the story of a Johnny Rotten. . . "

The ending of Vanilla Sky with Sigur Ros's "Njosnavelin" (The Nothing Song/Untitled #4)

In Step with John Lydon

John Lydon on the Tom Snyder Show 1980 - Part 2

Kewl Pix du Jour

Chloe the Wonder Dog Rides the Empyrean into the Great White Nothing

Eye-Paw Coordination



Cubby Cuddles Contemplates his Karma

(thanks to Amber R., pet photographer, who can rock some cat/dog/self shots)

Peace Out, Bro!

Here's evidence that I've been pretty much a peace-lovin' saint from way back:

......unless you try to fuck with me, of course.

(I think it's the bowl-cut. That would set anyone's nerves on edge. You can see the resentment in the pierce of the eyes....)

Adventures in Freshman English; or, Nobody Knows de Trouble I Seen

This semester began like every other before it. Inexplicably, against all odds, I went in with my hope full of feathers, but what a silly old bird that is. Nonetheless, I imagined classes filled with eager students vying with one another for the floor to discuss the fascinating topics I'd chosen. They would all listen. And follow directions. And write essays of such beauty and clarity that I would have to take a few moments to pull myself together after reading them to wipe my eyes and take a deep breath, so touched would I be by the insight and wisdom belying their youth.

Well, maybe next semester.

I assigned the topic for the first paper last week, a fairly straightforward assignment---Decide where you stand on U.S. military presence in Iraq: whether in favor of an immediate total pull-out or in favor of staying until Iraq melts and drips into the sea, or in favor of some point in between the extremes. Once your stance is decided, find a photo somehow associated with the war in Iraq that represents/symbolizes your feelings---. I've required that they send me their thesis statement along with the photo they want to use so that I can head off any trouble at the pass, podnah.

Well, the first thesis that came in went a little something like this: "In order to understand this war, you have to understand the histories of the countries who are at war."

Well! The history of the United States. . . AND of Iraq. That should fit nicely into the 1000-1500 word framework we've set up, won't it.

But in a paper like this, we'll need to pay careful attention to smooth transitions between ideas. I've devised a few pedagogical suggestions:

"Many years ago, when civilization was born in what has become known as the Fertile Crescent, between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. . . "

"Then, of course, after the colonists established Jamestown in the New World. . . "

"Meanwhile, back at the Baghdad ranch, the religion of Mohammad established a foothold. . . "

"But the U.S. didn't enter World War I until several years after Gavrilo Princip assassinated the Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. . . "

"However, six weeks after the U.S. invaded Iraq, President Bush flew in on a plane and landed on the USS Abraham Lincoln to declare 'Mission Accomplished'. . . "

But what about the photo to accompany this history, you say? Ah, yes.

My response was to remind the student that I'd said to choose a photo, that this was a painting

"HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS ISN'T A REAL PHOTO???" he wants to know.

Uh........Well. Wow.

***

Surely there'll be an extra reward in the afterlife for all of this, right? Just a little sumpin-sumpin? Since the paycheck could hardly be considered compensation.

I'm sure next semester'll be better!

For My Father

In a rather rare departure from my norm, I place a personal post on the plate. This is about my father, who died of cancer on March 12, 2006, at 6 in the morning, a Sunday. I post here the eulogy that I delivered at his funeral three days later, and I explain therein why I decided to do so. In the nearly two years since he's been gone, I've realized how huge a person's presence can become in his absence--how much he buffered me from my mother's craziness in his last years --that lunacy unchecked, now, out of control, determined to, apparently, go down in a blazing exclamation of meanness--and how deep were some of his sacrifices.

I've chosen an enormously difficult task for myself, to eulogize my father, but I choose to do so because I don't want anyone to speak of his life who didn't know and love him. So here I am: I, who knew him, and loved him. Since I can speak for no one but myself, my memories and experiences must necessarily be my own. I hope that they will serve as a base by which you too can remember and honor my father.

I want to begin with a sonnet, Holy Sonnet 10, by the 17th century minister and metaphysical poet John Donne, in which he speaks directly to Death, telling Death, despite its reputation for being so fearful and permanent, that Death is really just a temporary state, a short sleep, before we wake into eternity:

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow

And soon our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men

And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

I loved David Willis as my father, but I also loved him very much as a human being, and, you know, the two are not always necessarily the same. I feel that having him as a father was a wonderful gift to me. In the way that many fathers do with their little girls, he would hold me up as I stood on the top of his feet, and we would walk around together with big, awkward galumping steps. When he mowed the lawn, I was behind him, helping out, with my toy bubble mower. I'd step in the impression his shoes made in the freshly mown grass in the same way I fit my small foot into his footsteps at the beach.

I could not have had better footsteps in which to follow.

And as a child, literally follow him I did, all over the yard, right behind him as he tinkered with this and that, battering him with questions. And I'm especially thankful that I asked him so many questions. I asked the typical ones, of course: how does TV work? Why is the sky blue? What's the very last number? But I also asked him about himself: I begged for stories about his childhood, about growing up, about his time as a Marine. Though he was not a man of excessive talk, he took my questions in stride. As a result, I know his favorite color, his least favorite color, his favorite food, his favorite song, his next to favorite song, his favorite song after THAT, oh I never had a shortage of questions. I asked once "What did it feel like to hide in a ditch while Korean soldiers marched by, just inches away and know they'd shoot you if they saw you?" His answer was typically succinct: "Scary." I knew the name of his best friend in high school, the name of his girlfriend in first grade, his first job, his earliest memory.


One of my dad's earliest memories, he told me, was of a recurring dream. It wasn't peopled with the familiar faces of family and friends as most dreams are, and it didn't center around any event. Instead the dream consisted of impressions. He said it was if his mind were gliding along smoothly as if on glass, then suddenly the going would become bumpy, as if moving forward over a rough substance, then back to smooth, then once again rough. This dream, it seems, could serve as a metaphor for his life, for all our lives, indeed, for Life itself. I don't know anyone who handled both the rough and the smooth, the good and the bad, the sweetness and the sorrow of life, with as much grace and acceptance as did my father. He was who he was, and I could count on that. He didn't shift moods or EVER leave me wondering where I stood with him. He loved me, and he told me so. And most importantly, he never made me wonder, never showed a gap between his words and his actions.

The greatest gift my father gave me personally is the greatest anyone can give to another human being: the gift of unconditional love. Such a bestowal implies that the recipient is thought worthy of such love, and I hope that I was. His love came with no exceptions, no clauses, no circumstantial cancellations. Unconditional love may be oft-promised or declared. but its true existence, laboring under the trial of the whips and scorns of time, I think, is very very rare, and I'm grateful to have known it in my life.
Of course, he always wanted me to do my best, but if I fell short, he accepted me for who I was, always. He loved without demanding love back, and for that I loved him all the more. He was moral without judgment, sure of himself without arrogance, intelligent without pretension, generous without boasting, and he advised without preaching. As a child, whenever I cried, he'd come around, allow me a few minutes of tears, then quickly divert my attention to something more fun: a game, a funny story, a silly quip. He taught me to distrust appearances, that things are not always as they seem, but more importantly, he taught me that, often, things aren't usually as bad as they seem.

As anyone who knew him could attest, my dad was incredibly funny, not in a slapstick, loud, whack-you-on-the-back-with-a-corny-joke-kind of way, but with a dry, wry humor, side comments delivered with a sly, crooked smile. He could turn a typical incident into a hilarious event. I never tired of hearing the story about the now-infamous wheel that came off his dad's car while traveling downhill, the wheel spinning past the car and down a hill into a creek before the car ground to a halt. When his dad finished changing the tire, he tossed the jack through a rolled-up window, then spanked my dad's sister for rolling up the window. And did you hear the one about tying the paper bags on the cat's feet? He found so much humor in daily life, was such a keen observer of human nature, always on the quiet lookout for the ridiculous and the absurd. And he laughed at himself as often as he laughed at us, but never with unkindness. For instance, when my brother Jim would come though the den on his way out for a date or special occasion, daddy would shake his head and say of Jim's cologne: "I don't know what he's wearing but there's no more of it," or "Don't anybody light a match!"

He gave the BEST presents, mostly because he remembered what it was like to be a kid. For Christmas one year he built me a portable playhouse that folded and unfolded by hinges, working on it in fits and starts when I went roller skating on Saturday afternoons. He was a very talented craftsman; he wouldn't just build a regular bookcase. He'd build one with sliding shelves, or one with four usable sides that spun on a pivot base. He sculpted small figures out of wood, and designed and made beautiful knives with elaborately carved handles of teak polished to a shine, with inlaid bone or horn. I remember him always busy: working around the yard, repairing, painting, crafting; one summer during his vacation from work he put a new roof on the house-by himself-to see if he could. It turns out that he could, though he didn't feel the need to prove it twice, he said.

He apparently was quite a good dancer in his prime; I remember him and my mother dancing in the living room, "cutting a rug," as they called it, to tunes like "Enjoy Yourself" and Glenn Miller. During the 80's he taught himself Michael Jackson's moon walk, which was quite a sight to behold. He sang silly songs to me, like "I'm My Own Grandpa" and the one about the little fishies who "fam and fam all over the dam." He sang me to sleep with "You are My Sunshine" and "Down in the Valley." We had a good night ritual which involved his riding me on his back to bed until my feet were literally dragging the ground.

Not until I became a parent myself did I realize how very amazing it was that he never, in my memory, told me he was too busy or too tired to play...oh, any number of requests I had: Monopoly, Old Maid, Chinese checkers, pick-up sticks, hide and seek, riding around the yard in the wheelbarrow. He'd eventually say, "Ah, that's enough now," but he never denied me a game or two. Aren't all parents too busy sometimes? He wasn't. I had a favorite book that I liked having read over and over: The Little Engine That Could. Once, after the fourth or fifth time through, he finally declared, "That little engine done did!" How wonderful it was to watch him play with the light of his life, his granddaughter Amber, playing hide-and-seek and scooting her around in a box, my seeing his legacy passing to my own precious child.

We went to Muscle Shoals football games together until I graduated. When the fair came to town, we'd go together. Later, as a teen, when I started going with friends from school, I'd feel a little guilty over leaving daddy out of the fair fun, not realizing that he probably was NOT all that distraught to be missing a spin on the Tilt-a-Whirl. I'd say, "I'll go with you another night!" "No no," he'd assure me. "I'm fine..I'm still spinning from last year's rides."

He loved crime shows, number games, crossword puzzles, catfish, bread---he was nuts for any kind of bread and would not eat a meal, period, without bread. He was sent to the store as a child for a loaf of bread and ate the whole thing on the way home. It was worth the spanking he got, he said. He liked his steaks well-done...no, I mean charred black, beyond recognition. He loved football, Auburn football, especially-I've seen him watching a game on TV with the sound turned down and alternately listening to two other games on two separate radios-at the same time.

He liked to "figure." He'd sit and write write write, filling up notebooks with the names of teams written at the tops of pages, underneath the pages full of numbers and symbols. I'd ask, "Daddy, what are you doing?" "Figgerin," he'd say. "Figgerin what?" "Oh, just some of my football stuff." He had an amazingly accurate, elaborate system worked out for picking the season's winning teams. As far as I know, he didn't place bets though he might've amassed a small fortune if he'd funneled those talents.

My dad was gentle and generous, patient and honest-He was always kind--and I will miss him more than any of these words can say. If he was not perfect, he always, always meant well.

My dad didn't read a lot of poetry, but I know of poets whose ides he would have liked. Emily Dickinson is such a poet. I want to share one of her poems, one in which she uses sleep as symbolic of the wait for judgment:

Ample make this bed
Make this bed with awe
In it wait till morning break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight
Be its pillow round
Let no sunrise's yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.

How difficult it is to bid this man farewell. He was the best daddy I could ever want. I end with the words of William Shakespeare, with Horatio's beautiful parting words to Hamlet:

Now cracks a noble heart.Goodnight, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

A Study in Non-Sequiturs

1. Dinner at the Grit with Jen, Ron, and Rachel. The squash casserole sucked.

2. "Because children grow up, we think a child's purpose is to grow up. But a child's purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn't disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into each moment. We don't value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life's bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it's been sung? The dance when it's been danced? It's only we humans who want to own the future, too."

--tom stoppard

3. Number of American soldiers killed in Iraq:

three thousand nine hundred thirty

4. A goldfish has a memory span of 3 seconds.

A Thong in My Heart

One of my admittedly more perverse yet nonetheless more enjoyable hobbies involves surreptiously photographing visible panties, in particular thongs. I'll be straight with you, ladies and, depending on your penchant for feminine undergarments, gentlemen: If you're showing me your drawers, your crack, or all three like the trailer trash you were born to be, and I have my camera with me, that ass is mine.

I have in my collection of images a total of, I believe, seven thong straps disengaged from their rightful hiding spots on gal's butts, slung like anchors out of pants, creeping like snakes run amok, uncompliant, unattractive.

But I'm just posting teasers for now, toying with my public, eking out that feverish anticipation before providing that cathartic crescendo release. Also, there's the fact that some images have yet to be excavated from the bowels of an old defunct hard-drive (my trophy shot, for instance: gold lame thong strap gleaming with shame, badly horribly askew, straining with frightening torque across the fat ass of a clueless ho, Piedmont park, Atlanta: perfect light and a great close-up provide for a historic moment in thong-watching); other images need to be scanned.

The photo below was actually the most exciting sighting of all (and let me clarify "exciting" here not to indicate my own lustful arousal but the sort of excitement and glee that one is afforded by the sight of a faux pas so glorious in its kitsch, so robust in its absolute tastelessness, that one seems nearly to buzz with joy at the finding). Alas, the lass below was clipclopping at such a hurried pace toward the intersection of Hollywood and Vine that I was forced into a sort of awkward loping-run while maintaining camera stability for a clear shot while also trying to appear to be photographing SOMETHING besides this woman's ass; I just wasn't able to get a clear shot. The shadow obscures-- but take my word: 'twas a textbook illustration of thong violation.


The next, taken on the isle of Capri, is a better shot but is unfortunately not a thong; unable, nonetheless, to resist the opportunity, I zoomed in on this ass like nobody's bidness.



That's all for now, kids!!!
Stay tuned for updates of "More Thongs" and "Still More Thongs" followed by a special DIY clip: "Butt-Flossings: The Do's and oh-god-please Don't's"

Snowaiting

9:45 am
Apparently it's supposed to snow today. A lot. We'll see. Stay tuned.

Noon plus twenty
Lots of cold rain, maybe a teeny bit of snow mixed in. Updates pending.

5 past 5
Pffft. This snow business is a CROCK!

Quarter of 8
If they're going to advertise snow, it needs to snow, dammit. I demand a refund on this day.

Shortly after 10:30 pm
Okay, I get it. Snow is a no show. That's fine. I'll be all right.

Why not a snowman poem nonetheless?

Take it away, Wally.

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow.

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers snagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there, and the nothing that is.

--Wallace Stevens

Church-State Semi-Rant

I'm growing increasingly sick, as well as tired, of the manner in which some so-called Christians insist on equating the matters of church and state. Worse, they almost invariably use the "founding fathers" as their backing, labeling those who do not espouse a theocracy to be "unpatriotic" and "unChristian," accused of opposing the moral basis on which this country was settled.

How difficult can it be for these "church/state" proponents to provide evidence for that which they are so sure, that our early leaders intended for the government to be inextricably bound to Christianity?

Well, very difficult, as it happens. But don't take my word for it........

For one, there's Thomas Jefferson's letter to the Danbury Baptist Association, 1802:

"Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man & his god, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, thus building a wall of separation between church and state. Congress thus inhibited from acts respecting religion, and the Executive authorised only to execute their acts, I have refrained from presenting even occasional performances of devotion presented indeed legally where an Executive is the legal head of a national church, but subject here, as religious exercises only to the voluntary regulations and discipline of each respective sect.] Adhering to this expression of the supreme will of the nation in behalf of the rights of conscience, I shall see with sincere satisfaction the progress of those sentiments which tend to restore to man all his natural rights, convinced he has no natural right in opposition to his social duties."

And Thomas Paine, from The Age of Reason:

"I do not believe in the creed professed by the Jewish Church, by the Roman Church, by the Greek Church, by the Turkish Church, by the Protestant Church, nor by any church that I know of. My own mind is my own church."

James Madison in 1819:

"The civil Government, though bereft of everything like an associated hierarchy, possesses the requisite stability, and performs its functions with complete success, whilst the number, the industry, and the morality of the priesthood, and the devotion of the people, have been manifestly increased by the total separation of the church from the State."

more infinite wisdom from Madison in Memorial and Remonstrance:

"Who does not see that the same authority which can establish Christianity, in exclusion of all other Religions, may establish with the same ease any particular sect of Christians, in exclusion of all other Sects? that the same authority which can force a citizen to contribute three pence only of his property for the support of any one establishment, may force him to conform to any other establishment in all cases whatsoever?"

----Seeing the short-sightedness of those who seek to curtail the freedoms of others in order to advance their selfish causes always amazes me, for don't they see that the very freedom that they seek to limit is the SAME freedom that allows them to speak their own minds?? I suppose some circumvent this conundrum by convincing themselves they are God's chosen crew.----

George Washington, in 1789:

"I am persuaded, you will permit me to observe that the path of true piety is so plain as to require but little political direction. To this consideration we ought to ascribe the absence of any regulation, respecting religion, from the Magna-Charta [Constitution] of our country."

John Adams, in 1787:

"...Thirteen governments [of the original states] thus founded on the natural authority of the people alone, without a pretence of miracle or mystery, and which are destined to spread over the northern part of that whole quarter of the globe, are a great point gained in favor of the rights of mankind."

Party Planner: Your Contact Person

Best video I've seen all week!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcOXf-U1ZRA

What To Do When....... : A Survival Guide for Dinner at the Warhol's

Friends. Imagine that you have, through no fault of your own, come into possession of 320 gallons of the most putrid green paint available in our solar system. What will you do?

Please. Not this.

Here we have a little photo essay showing the route one family took with paint. I hope this can serve as an effective deterrent and that you don't find yourself knee-deep in what surely must be a fine state of regret for these folks. Surely.

What were they thinking? Consider the old station wagon, rusty as a tin can in a pond, just wasting away in the yard, full of squirrels and memories. It needed a face-lift, oh there's no arguing that point. But I posit, and stand firm, that painting it this particular shade of green was ill-advised.


If not downright mentally ill...

Because SOMEBODY liked that color so much that they decided to paint the canoe the same. And the car. And the doors to the shack. And the chimney. And the refrigerator sitting on the front porch. And the gutters. And even the windows of the car, leaving a little "space-ship" peephole. And the......is that a periscope?.....emerging beside the drive.

I want to give credit where credit is due, though. I applaud leaving that red ribbon on the trunk, such a festive touch, its original red. And, thus far, the stars and stripes appear to be left intact.

WHAT I WOULD GIVE to gain entrance to the inside of this residence!!!!!

Miss Sarajevo

I should be in bed; I've a class in a few hours. But if one is up, one could do worse than Bono for company.

"The prayer is that we do not become a monster in order to defeat a monster."

Who

No one lives his life.

Disguised since childhood,

haphazardly assembled

from voices and fears and little pleasures,

we come of age as masks.

Our true face never speaks.

Somewhere there must be storehouses

where all these lies are laid away

like suits of armor or old carriages

or clothes hanging limply on the walls.

Maybe all paths lead there,

to the repository of unlived things.

Rilke, Book of Hours, II.11

I'm out and about with a camera today. I see things. I take pictures. What about this?

Who better to round up vermin in your crib than the Roman god of wine, fertility and revelry? I challenge you to come up with a more festive extermination.

Okay, so there's a little residential section of town where folks of Latino backgrounds have congregated. Apparently, one landlord/owner has decided to "relate" to his lessees via a series of poorly-drawn pictures on particle board signs. I find this absolutely jaw-dropping:

Ah, senorita! We have caliente apartment to rent!

What is this? Perhaps Baccus could take care of this problem?

A CHIHUAHUA? ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME??????

On the way home, I found this trestle to be particularly beautiful in the late foggy dusk.

Then when I got home, I checked email and found I'd been kindly linked to this gem:

Uh, yes, that IS a wedding cake made to look like the bride, you are correct...

Yes

"I have been watching you; you were there, unconcerned perhaps, but with the strange distraught air of someone forever expecting a great misfortune, in sunlight, in a beautiful garden."

Maurice Maeterlinck Pelleas and Melisande

Little Known Fact About Me: #1

[Yes, today is Jan 5. I saved one video on the 3rd while I looked for the other snippet. But IF ---I've found--I change the date, the vids will disappear.]

Few people know what a security risk I can be, so I just want to come clean about myself for the new year. The truth is, I have committed several infractions in the past involving still or video cameras, infractions that have caused me to be questioned or reprimanded by authorities. I offer examples for your warning and possible enjoyment.
Try these at your own risk.


1. Several years ago, sometime in the mid-1990's, I had an idea to take some artsy-type photos in an Athens cemetery that has a lot of very old graves and monuments, so armed with my camera and child, I drove over one grey winter day. I wasn't photographing names on tombstones, just some general monuments and scenery by the river. Absolutely nothing disrespectful. After a few snaps (one of which is shown below, chosen because it shows nothing that might get me sued), I was approached (or perhaps "descended upon" might be more accurate) by the caretaker, who came yelling "HEY HEY! STOP THAT! STOP NOW!!!" and running toward me across graves. When he got closer, he, shaking with a wild look in his eye, told me that he was in charge of the grounds and that photos were NOT allowed inside the cemetery. I said I was sorry, that I would stop, but asked how I was supposed to know as I saw no sign, to which he replied that he didn't HAVE to post a sign (which didn't really answer my question, did it?). Then he demanded the film out of my camera! I was in no way going to hand over my film to some rude and, I suspected, somewhat mentally ill stranger. It was as if I'd stumbled into some third world interrogation time/space warp. The degree to which he took me and my camera so personally was a bit disturbing. When I refused to hand over my film, he threatened to call the police. I said fine. I was more curious than afraid regarding what I'd done wrong. When the police arrived, they took me aside and explained that the caretaker really got upset when people took pictures (ya think??), and they suggested that I not take any more. Apparently I'm not alone in my complaints about the place:

http://www.athensworld.com/2006/07/oconee-hill-cemetery.html
















On the other hand, here's someone with substantially better luck.....

http://www.geocities.com/aimeepopp/cems/oconeehill.html


2. The next incident takes place in November 2001 at the site of the World Trade Center collapse. I have my videocamera but I don't hear the guy who tells me "can't take no pictures down here" (you can barely hear him on the tape). When he taps me on the shoulder and does a cutting motion across his throat, I take that as a sign that I should end the tape.



3. Next I'm in the Newark airport in 2005 and I see this fabulous rainbow out the window. My videocamera is easier to access in my luggage than the digital, so I get it out for a quick picture. Security is on me like stink on shit. This exchange is easier to understand. She's telling me I'm not allowed to tape inside the airport. I reply in this dumb pouty little girl voice "awww, I was just taping the RAINBOW!" The security guard sounds sympathetic to my plight and tells me to finish with the rainbow, but I love how the tape ends: "go ahead wichu rainbow but then take it away cuz if they catch you........."





4. One of the most bizarre occurred while Christmas shopping with Amber a few weeks ago. We were in Express at the counter, I'm getting Means to Pay from my purse and see my camera, take it out, and snap her pic. If you look carefully to the right of her head, you'll see a guy behind the counter. Somewhat high strung, it seems, he shifts into hysterical mode after I take the picture, asking the other cashier, "Like OMIGOD.....did you SEE that FLASH?? WHAT was that FLASH???" Then to the store at large, in a louder voice, "DID ANYONE THEE THAT FLASH??? I said, "yeah, I took a picture." "Omigod," he said. "WHY? What was the picture OF???" I said, "My daughter!" He said, "You CANNOT take photos in Express!"
"What, is this some sort of Homeland Security breach or something?"
"Thith ith NOT funny!" he said.

Oh.......kay.

20 degrees in Georgia--why????

I'm not a great appreciator of extreme temperatures, let me tell you. I have certain rules for weather despite the weather's continual refusal to obey. For instance, I insist that the weather stay in the background and not grip me by the throat with a punishingly hard shake. The weather should be a nice canvas for one's ongoings and not activity in itself. The weather should not make one suffer. So when temperatures edge into the 30's, I become a bit concerned. When the forecast announces a low of 20 with possible windchill factors dipping into the single digits, I become downright incensed.

Typically, I'm always longing for what's farthest from my grasp: in that sense, my favorite season is always the one opposite the one I'm in presently.

Here's a poem that speaks to tonight's wind and frigidity:

Wanting Them Back

by Cathy Smith Bowers

In September we grew sick

of the cicada's impenitent whine,

the beetle's clicking,

raw thorax and bumble of harvestfly.

Even the hummingbirds

buzzing like neon thumbs

around the bulbs of sweetened water

we had hung from the gutter ledge.

Good riddance, we said

when they left for Mexico.

Now, as early as December

we are tired of talking to ourselves,

of the body's noisy machinations,

the blood knocking,

like a tribe of pygmies beating sticks.

One morning we find ourselves at the window,

staring up at sky's vacant lot,

wanting them back.

Like childhoods we wept to grow out of.

Like the man who looked on

as the boy he had carved from pine

turned suddenly flesh,

his painted-on hair bristling to life

as he leapt to the floor running,

astonished at the ruckus in his chest

at the strange old man at his back

who kept crying, Be wood! Be wood!

Scenes from the yard in warmer times