Old license plates and spur-lunkering mates
It’s refreshing to get out and breathe some fresh air, when springtime in the
While the sage and grass is still low, seasonal rains dust sand off old stones and sometimes even ancient arrowhead points or chips.
Sunny afternoons immediately following these cyclic downpours are prime opportunities to see with piecing clarity a rainbow of beauty unearthed in the glistening desert stones.
The funny thing about his 1926 plate was that it seemed to have some orange tinges around surface edges. We thought it was too unusual a shade, for rust to turn to and then we went online to discover that they originally painted the plates orange that year.
Although 3V3TZ was thirty-one years ahead of me in our license plate race, the next spring thaw I made a partial comeback. As I was walking down
To Blind Mice
Thank you Jodi Zarkos, for writing about racism in sports. Racism and hidden personal prejudices are among our worst weapons of mass destruction. Moreover, for many reasons it is one of our most challenging subjects to address.
According to research from the
One of the longtime MLB rules states that an umpire should not make a call to ‘even things up’ from an earlier bad call. This regulation is one of the most ignored rules on the books and it sounds like the
In a second related story, last week the Idaho Statesman picked up an article about sportsmanship from
I’m not sure how the outcome of the game that you witnessed would have shifted had points been rewarded for sportsmanship. It sounds as though non-sportsmanlike actions were sourcing from several angles. However, I think that we can have faith that at least some of the participating sportspersons took a cue from the behavior they witnessed and chalked it up to the “do-not-dews.”
Many of us have personal prejudices imbedded deep within us, which we would prefer to deny. Now, a machine can scan your mind for unconscious racism:
I wonder if referee oversight committees will ever integrate a machine like this into future sporting justice initiatives. For starters, perhaps we should regulate the privilege to boo. That is, before we permit anyone to boo or yell two blind mice whenever they perceive a bad call, they should show that they have been in the challenging position of being a sports-referee, making split second decisions, while trying to remain honestly colorblind.
Lastly, one bit of racism right under our noses during these festive community sporting events is the dehumanizing us of mascot names, such as Salmon Savages and Blackfoot Indians.
Thank you again Jodi for your comments.
Evermore March Madness
This morning, 3V3T5 forwarded me this amazing trick-shot basketball video:
I must say that I, too, have not missed a shot this year and credit is due from inspiration sourced from this
Speaking of basketball, today’s Statesman has a great story called
'They say it starts with a prayer and ends with a fight'
To promote better sportsmanship, some of the immensely popular
Strange Solstice Subconscious Stewpot
Following are some notes I scribbled after experiencing a weird and wonderful dream last winter solstice. I purposely had placed writing instruments at the side of the bed, after experiencing even stranger dreams the previous winter solstice.
Interesting that we experienced a language barrier with the transportation company we worked with this week. On Friday, their dispatcher called to confirm a Monday, delivery. Not being the morning mongoose that I once was, compounded by a later daylight-savings sunrise shift, I had been lobbying for an receiving time. However, with the warehouse in close proximity to the bustling school playground, seven sounded better. The sparse traffic at the earlier time would give us more elbowroom, for backing the big rig up to the warehouse locker.
I requested that the dispatcher ask her driver to call me for better directions, so we could save him some trouble of winding his long truck around the unfamiliar town and its narrow intersections. Instead of meeting us at the store, he could pull straight up to our warehouse dock. Immediately, I sensed that this simple request had turned very complicated, due to lack of English comprehension on the part of the dispatcher. Actually, there was more to it than that; my intuition told me that the dispatcher was acutely aware of her driver’s lack of English skills. Which he later confirmed when I met him in person, then asked him some simple questions about traveling conditions, etc.
Commentary on this by Ran Prieur:
"There's a smart piece in the New Yorker this week, Twilight of the Books, about how reading and non-reading affect human consciousness. In ancient Greece, when reading was new, it was a kind of trance or possession -- people had trouble distinguishing between the reader and the text, the actor and the role. You can still see that today, when fans of TV shows treat the actors like their characters, or a cowardly president can be popular by swaggering like a "strong leader," or activists think protests and petitions can change anything.
One of the things we're going to have to do, before we get out of this ugly age of history, is to learn to awaken from the trance of the symbolic -- I don't mean we won't go there at all, but that we won't lose focus on what's symbolic and what's real. George Bush is more spiritually evolved than his opponents when he says the Constitution is "just a piece of paper." Laws and treaties and money and other pieces of paper begin as agreements between people, but when the people no longer agree, they become meaningless, and the advantage goes to the first person to notice the loss of meaning."
The Peace Symbol turned 50, while the clock struck 13
And pasting together clarity from other puzzling pieces:
Reading George Orwell’s April 4 diary struck a chord with me today, although of a dissimilar clock-tick than Jackie Jura's.
The Peace Symbol turned 50 on 4/4, which means that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., was assassinated on the tenth anniversary of the peace symbol unveiling. This also means that George Orwell prophesized Winston to scrawl ‘Down with Big Brother’ on the 26 anniversary of the Peace Symbol and 26+24 (Nath’s current age) again equals 50.
Paraphrasing the Washington Post article:
The Peace Symbol “A hieroglyphic that has never been trademarked so that everybody can share a piece of the peace.”
Wanting to spread peace around as best I could, last year, I submitted the following suggestion to the manufacturers of Aerobie flying discs with the following letter:
Hello aerobie administrators and facilitators,
Have you ever considered a design such as this? A peace symbol filling in interior space of the aerobie? I think that it would go over well this summer. Imagine great peace aerobies orbiting around the National Mall this Fourth of July or at various war protests throughout the civilized world? Or a special limited edition at the ready in the event a war actually ended? I would take my newfangled “peace missive” aerobie to whatever great diplomats are responsible for ending the war and have them autograph it in permanent ink.
I have always been a big fan of this marvelous toy and even met Mr. Adler at an event back in the mid-80’s that was recorded on CBS’s Charles Osgood files. This was during Presidents Day weekend and the worlds Champion at the time Scott Zimmerman dressed up as a patriot and attempted to toss some aerobies across the
I also recall at this event that the inventor, Mr. Adler instructed fans as to the proper pronunciation of “Aerobie” (AIR-oh-bee). This often came in handy later when disagreements broke out as to the proper pronunciation - I could always say I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.
Shortly thereafter, I received the following response from Alan Adler, Aerobie’s inventor and developer:
To: Jim Banholzer
Thanks for the suggestion. I'm definitely a dove myself.
Although I confess to being more hawkish when young. But
I'm older and wiser now. As they say, "Youth is wasted on
Considering the high cost of plastic molds, I hope you'll
understand if we don't make the peace-symbol Aerobie. But
I certainly like the idea, and shant easily forget it.
We had a lot of fun that weekend in DC. I still see Scott
Zimmerman occasionally. He lives in
Here also is a peaceful palindrome for today:
‘Draw no evils deeds live onward’
Light Olympic Torch
Wednesday morning, while driving north, as my furniture-moving colleague began to read aloud Dick Dorworth’s Tibet –the conscience of the world column, I couldn’t help but to glance over at the paper, when he started reading about the elaborate plan for the Olympic Torch relay up
Then when he got to the part, where Mr. Dorworth mentioned the 1936 Olympic torch flame, I had to pull the big rig over to the side of the road to finish reading the article and became immediately overwhelmed by a compulsion bring this brief story to light:
After hearing about this unearthing, a
Above are photos of the 1936 Olympic Torch, right before they soft-wrapped and crated it for transport from
Recently, 3V3T5 mentioned that when we lived in Virginia, a man sort of chased him down and said, “I wanted that tag!” He had the 3V3T5 license plate on his Honda, so you always knew it was he following you in the rear view mirror. The man who stopped him had settled for the mere 3V3T2. Which reminds me, the other day S said that he still hasn't watched the famous Frisbee-disc film The Tao of 3V3T5. I think I should bring the movie over to his house to watch it with him sometime soon. Maybe, while there I can snake out an even more obscure explanation about riddling license plates to Real Job in MHz.
I forgot to end the earlier story by adding that when I told the local woman, Sue Noel that EVET5 did not wave at the queen, she expressed a sense of shock and outrage and said, “HE DIDN’T WAVE BACK?”
Suddenly, I felt it best to adjust the tale diplomatically and said, “Well maybe he waved a little bit, then.”
Seventeen years ago, the Queen of England paid a visit to our Nation’s Capital during a festive weekend.
Part of her tour was slated to take her down to George Washington’s historical home at
Knowing that my good friend 3V3T5 lived on the Queen’s course, I called that afternoon to remind him that Her Majesty would be passing his way.
As the evening wore on, he kind of forgot, but then, while he was fueling up his little Honda, he saw a procession of armored vehicles and remembered what I had told him.
As the Queen waved by Crown Gas Station in her ceremonious fashion, 3V3T5 purposely stuffed his hands in his pockets to show intensive intent to rebuff any Elizabethan waves.
In later years, I unspun this Queen’s tale to a woman here in
This woman, Sue Noel, is one of the Queen’s biggest fans and has kept a sincere correspondence with her majesty for over fifty years. She even has an elaborate black embroidered letter in return from
Although, I have passed this on to friendly
Capturing Photons with Huck Finn’s Slingshot
Now there is even a lawsuit over this, the intent of which is to keep Earth and perhaps our universe from being sucked into a giant black hole!
Now there is a great cause for shore, if I ever saw one. Perhaps even bigger than Al Gore’s warm head. Then again, who knows for sure? Perhaps a spiraling vortex ride will be refreshingly super-fun!
Lately I have been reading Graham Hancock’s book Fingerprints of the Gods. Mr. Hancock also is the author of a great anthropological tome called Supernatural, which I also found to be thoroughly intriguing. He interprets a wide variety of evidence to document how some ancient technologies surpass anything we have now – or at least anything available to the public. The books starts out with some captivating evidence about how some ancient maps of antiquity, match the ground surface of
Mr. Hancock goes on to speculate in an interesting fashion about the true age of the Egyptian Pyramids along with how they were utilized in mysterious methods, to match potential aspects of our at-the-ready Hadron Collider.
By the same token, here is an interesting extract from a NY Times Book Review, regarding recently passed science fiction author, Arthur C. Clarke:
"For all his acclaimed forecasting ability, though, it is unclear whether Mr. Clarke knew precisely what he saw in that future. There is something cold in his vision, particularly when he imagines the evolutionary transformation of humanity. He leaves behind all the things that we recognize and know, and he doesn’t provide much guidance for how to live within the world we recognize and know. In that sense, his work has little to do with religion.
But overall religion is unavoidable. Mr. Clarke famously — and accurately — said that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
Angel Serves Drinks
Angel serves drinks; she’s in a wonderful place,
But her concerns run high when the clowns come to face
In late evening she waits on a man with dark scar,
She takes it all in; her intellect’s not thin,
She wonders if the cacophony holds some wisdom within,
Loud customers with rich wallets, but spirit as squalor,
Is her brighter smile really worth another unclean dollar?
That’s why they’re here, to delight drown’d in beer,
No matter how small, she understands every tear,
Absorbing this experience, will be for the best,
Late evening she returns to her beautified nest,
Her name fits her well; as she looks down from above,
Gently serving wine from an ancient carafe,
She prepares nurturing instruments to write this all down,
She starts by wondering about this intellectual clown
Sunday afternoon, I was traveling down the peaceful ribbon of highway, returning from a festive breakfast with friends at Ketchum’s Kneadery, when suddenly I spied a super-long moving van, parked on the wrong side of the road. “Gee, I wonder what kind of operation is happening there,” I said to myself.
My first instinct was to stop off to see if they might need any help, since as of late, I had been having some lean workdays, in this land of feast or famine. However, since I had vast plans to cleanse my house in preparation for Angel’s climbing down to help me with my new spring – to – godliness - credo, I did not follow first instinct.
I had barely switched on the ceremonious cleansing music, when Wiley called to invite me to get in on a chance for the moving and shaking action, precisely where the curious van was. In medium haste, I appeared, parking the reliable Tacoma, in a secret pullout, adjacent to the canal way, near Buttercup. From there, I moseyed over to introduce myself to my new work teammates, Jim & Bob –a couple of hardy looking fellows, hoisting large washers and dryers out of their big rig.
As they pointed out the remaining possessions, we sized up that it would be 3 to 4 hours -at most. We borrowed Wiley’s rig to portage the household goods on the muddy driveway between the behemoth van and the mid-valley house. It was slow going, but I found the pace acceptable. Turns out the Jim & Bob hail from a
Two months ago, their
Mid-way through our move, I made the usual crack about juggling pianos, to which they fessed up about having a grand one aboard. - A $40,000 baby, which we hoisted onto a dilapidated hundred-dollar trailer for transport. With four alert spotters, crouched for any irregularity, we gently cantered the piano over ‘warshboards’ to the grand house. As we tilted the swayback trailer down, we suddenly realized that it wanted to buck off the hitch, but we were able to slide the piano gingerly down onto its riding board, like a Sunday miracle.
After we shuffled the piano about to help it discover its new harmonic spot, we keyed in on some lively conversations with the returning homeowners. The dry canal though their backyard sage would soon be filled as a lifeline for the
We allied without any ‘oops’ to pull some larger pieces over the indoor railing, then returned for our last load. There I found that the hitch-pin had come off the trailer, so we really were lucky that nothing had gone amiss, to make the piano shoot up off its grand board. Twilight soon approached and I realized that my vast plan of cleansing my house would have to wait, as this energetic move had consumed the full afternoon.
I stumbled home with sore muscles, but paradoxically was too stimulated from the move, to be able to drift off to an easy sleep. When Angel arrived the next morning to assist me in my own ceremonious cleansing project, I was thankful that she did not fly right off again, skittish from seeing the obvious frazzledness manifest, in my disheveled appearance from having forced my body into too much short-notice overdrive.