tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75556642696482504732024-03-17T22:02:38.394-05:00Grit in the GearsI am the grit in the gears, the missing bolt, I am the poker of sticks into spokes.
I like to know how things work, but sometimes when I take them apart and rebuild them, I have a few pieces left over.
I am a man, so I tend to leave reading the instructions until after it goes wrong.
And like all men I have a comprehensive mental map of the world and never need to ask directions.
I never get lost, only sometimes I'm late, or end up in the wrong place entirely.
It's what we do.soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.comBlogger1240125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-47702635244062808482023-12-06T23:24:00.007-06:002023-12-06T23:24:56.308-06:00ScoffersI have no idea what prompted this. I just took a look in the mysterious past that was Grit in the Gears, It was a thing of another era. This was in the drafts folder. <div><br /></div><div>“I can see it now, but not then. Maybe I was the only one. Maybe it is<br />
my destiny to be a seer, to scry the fates, to see exclamation marks.<br />
I wonder what it means though? Is it a warning... are the end days<br />
here? is it time to start mocking? Hey, I'm already ahead on the<br />
mocking, I could take time out from it, say a month or so and still be<br />
ahead.<br />
Or scoffing. First of all, you must understand that in the last days<br />
scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires.<br />
The King James version: Knowing this first, that there shall come in<br />
the last days scoffers, walking after their own lusts.<br />
Scoffing, in English english is also slang for 'greedily eating'.<br />
Hence I can't take these scoffers seriously unless they be provided<br />
with ample sacks of iced cupcakes.</div>soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-51318037217362450982018-12-04T12:54:00.001-06:002023-12-06T23:20:40.697-06:00Thin Gnat Voices.<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">The Jolly Company</b><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Rupert Brooke</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">THE stars, a jolly company,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">I envied, straying late and lonely;</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">And cried upon their revelry:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">"O white companionship! You only</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">In love, in faith unbroken dwell,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Friends radiant and inseparable!"</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Light-heart and glad they seemed to me</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">And merry comrades (even so</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">God out of heaven may laugh to see</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">The happy crowds; and never know</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">That in his lone obscure distress</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Each walketh in a wilderness).</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">But I, remembering, pitied well</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">And loved them, who, with lonely light,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">In empty infinite spaces dwell,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Disconsolate. For, all the night,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">I heard the thin gnat-voices cry,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Star to faint star, across the sky.</span>soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-78330810306316130592018-04-18T22:14:00.003-05:002018-04-18T22:14:49.483-05:00Finding You<span>Finding You<br /><br />I love to find you in the night-time,<br />When your toes rest, child-like, upon my legs;<br />To be stirred by the warmth of your body -<br />Naked, smooth, slow-breathing, sleeping ...<br />The smell of your hair, your pillowed head<br />Sheltering under my arm.<br />So we cheat the waking, working hours.<br /><br />The green-glow figures of time<br />Play gooseberry in the dark,<br />Unmasking each newborn minute<br />In the silence of bird-sleeping hours.<br /><br />Time will not stand still for us<br />Nor life be more than earth;<br />Yet more ancient hearts than ours knew,<br />Like us, the intimate quiet of night.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Poet unknown.</span><br />
<span>From another time.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-24559703467315193892017-12-03T22:17:00.001-06:002017-12-03T22:17:54.869-06:00"When the Game is Over, the King and the Pawn go in the Same Box"Those were the first words spoken by Cortana. Who? Ah. No, not the Microsoft one, the one in Halo. <br />
What? <br />
Oh. Well, I was idly wondering why Microsoft chose that rather stupid name for their lumpy attempt to create a virtual 'Personal Assistant' to rival Apple's equally stupidly named 'Siri'.<br />
Google has one too, living in my phone, and it's somewhat more pedestrianly named 'Google now', I rarely use it in the sense in which it has been designed, because its voice recognition is less than stellar in performance, so it's usually easier to just type my queries. <br />
<br />
Cortana, then. Googling 'Cortana' pulls up some interesting stuff, which I might have scraps of in the back of my brain, and I was wondering why it seemed such a made up name and whether some product somewhere that I had encountered was called 'Curtana'.<br />
<br />
Before we go there, and you're welcome to leave if you're bored, my brain has always tended upon random diversions, I'd just like to say 'Siri' is quicker, easier, and less stupid-sounding to say than 'Cortana'. As would be 'Bozo', or 'Plonker'. <br />
<br />
Googling, yes, googling, not Binging. Who bings? Hands up bingers? Oh. I see there are three of you... And you all work for Microsoft? Oh. And you've been told very bad things will happen to you and everybody you love.... including Fluffy, if you're caught googling, ever?<br />
<br />
I see. It doesn't surprise me. Bing. Like google's needy sibling. Look, Microsloth, I neither want nor need tropical fish over coral reef pictures, when I'm chasing bits of information, I'm distracted enough already, without you showing me sunset over Ayers Rock.... Although its not permitted to call it Ayers Rock anymore, bit like Denali, isn't it. <br />
<br />
Cortana. Well there it was in the back of my brain. Curtana! Curtana is the sword used in all of Britain's coronations.<br />
Well, since A.D. 1236, anyway, in Henry the third's reign, when it was employed during the coronation of Eleanor of Provence. Not so fast though... The one currently used was forged, so far as I can tell, in 1661, though it claims to be forged from the steel of the original Curtana, that was Cortana, going back to the ages of chivalry. There were three swords forged from the same steel, all were extraordinarily good swords, themselves vested with power beyond their steel. The first of these was Joyeuse, the sword of Charlemagne, (which can be seen in the Louvre), said to incorporate the Spear of Destiny in its hilt, the second, Durendal, carried by Charlemagne's right-hand man, Rolande, -Rolande was an unstoppable swordsman, and his sword carried magical powers, great juju, because it was made of magical steel, and had in its hilt a tooth of Saint Peter, blood of Saint Basil, hair of Saint Denis, and a piece of the raiment of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was indestructible, and when Rolande was ambushed by Saracens, at the battle of Roncevalles, he tried to destroy his sacred sword by smashing it on the rocks of the mountain, but instead cut a great cleft, 300 feet deep in the ridge. But all was not lost, because he cunningly hid it beneath is gold-armoured body as he died, so the saracens wouldn't find it. <br />
Which brings us back to Cortana, because that was the third, carried by the hero, Ogier, the Dane, son of King Geoffroy of Denmark, who, defeated by Charlemagne, had to send his first-born as hostage, to live in Charlemagne's household as as a lowly page.<br />
Ogier, howeverscorned he had been, distinguished himself in battle, saving Charlemagne's life, and turning the tide so the Saracens were routed.<br />
<i>"The rest of the day and the next were spent in the rejoicings of the army. Turpin in a solemn service implored the favor of Heaven upon the youthful knights, and blessed the white armor which was prepared for them. Duke Namo presented them with golden spurs, Charles himself girded on their swords. But what was his astonishment when he examined that intended for Ogier! The loving Fairy, Morgana, had had the art to change it, and to substitute one of her own procuring, and when Charles drew it out of the scabbard, these words appeared written on the steel: “My name is Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.” Charles saw that a superior power watched over the destinies of Ogier; he vowed to love him as a father would, and Ogier promised him the devotion of a son."</i><br />
<br />
Allegedly, this sword, gifted by Charlemagne to Ogier (also known as Holger), had previously been the sword of Sir Tristan, Knight of the Round Table. )<br />
<br />
Anyway... soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-40749145561876134822014-12-17T13:03:00.001-06:002014-12-17T13:03:31.881-06:00A Question for Adullamite. Some time ago, <a href="http://adullamite.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Adullamite</a> posted a picture of an odd little red car he'd come across on his travels. I'm a car buff, so I usually am pretty good at identifying old cars. (Cars from the nineties onward I generally have no interest in). <br />This time I was stumped. But I think I may have found the answer, or would guess that if I could find the original pic.... But I've been unable to remember when it was or the post title....<br /><br />So, Adullamite, did it look at all like this?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGDAKhUXjUxJwrJLRMtvhmlehE68uZ21NdaJLIS_7TjJzCqUyxAEGSYVnY6ELDJbZOLM9PvBygSl2QpIO0k6XA66uYHgp5ZuxG90afez9_ilEDIADrRD9o7ekLRabTZBDFe_CHMUSQe5V/s1600/1503977_746079952151413_942094798507866529_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGDAKhUXjUxJwrJLRMtvhmlehE68uZ21NdaJLIS_7TjJzCqUyxAEGSYVnY6ELDJbZOLM9PvBygSl2QpIO0k6XA66uYHgp5ZuxG90afez9_ilEDIADrRD9o7ekLRabTZBDFe_CHMUSQe5V/s1600/1503977_746079952151413_942094798507866529_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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If so, it was a Lloyd... A Lloyd Alexander, built by Norddeutscher Lloyd, the shipping company...<br />
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As I can't find the post, it's possible it was nothing like these. If so.... Sigh. I thought I might have solved a mystery.soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-73168840906793392622014-11-26T19:55:00.000-06:002014-12-10T12:50:40.127-06:00Tea!
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/MGQASun9d8E" width="420"></iframe><br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-71143552345171578492014-11-10T21:39:00.000-06:002014-11-12T19:59:51.968-06:00In just a few hours it will be Veterans Day in the United States, <b>Armistice Day.</b><br />
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The 11th hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the time the guns were to fall silent, the end of the first world war. </div>
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Who, I wonder, was shooting on that morning, and why? what did they hope to achieve? A last kill before shooting season ends?</div>
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Anyway, it was over, it marked the end of "The War to End All Wars", at the end of which, humans kept on developing weapons and seeking wars in which to use them.</div>
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Nonetheless, we hold remembrances, we Brits wave our poppies, Americans their flags. Our neighbourhood is full of flags, very patriotic, these Americans. Veterans day is a holiday, and retired service personnel will wear their medals, badges, uniform caps with pride, strangers will thank them for serving. It's not all about the dead, the living are remembered here too. </div>
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The school does a yearly project, where each pupil is set to meet and interview a veteran of the forces, to photograph and make a poster featuring that person, on the back is the interview, dates served, nature of service etc. My step-son interviewed a man who's become a friend of mine , Troy is one of a group of friends who meet once a week over lunch. They all have stories. I thought I'd post here some pictures I took outside the school.</div>
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So many are represented, from the humblest rank to the dizzying heights of gold braid, veterans from pre WWII to the present day. Some of these kids have dads, uncles, brothers, mothers, sisters, aunts, in the military, in harm's way, serving, prepared to give their lives if need be. <br />
Whether or not I believe in the wars they are sent to fight, I have the greatest respect for them. The old guys I have lunch with on a thursday have so many stories, war cold and hot. And of tragedies too. </div>
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Tomorrow, they are saluted. But here, as in Britain, there's another reality, of the veterans who failed to reintegrate, the PTSD, the alcoholics, the guys who hold up cardboard signs "Ex soldier, Hungry, Homeless", and I, like the other drivers, check my door is locked, try not to meet the gaze... And drive on by.</div>
soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-19063931543261810152014-09-26T20:57:00.003-05:002014-09-26T20:57:56.950-05:00YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!YAYYYYYYYYYY! <br /><br />Big big big day, the gears of the U.S.government grind exceedingly slowly, but this day brought a bunch of official papers to our mailbox.<br /><br />I'm an alien, I'm a LEGAL alien...... Green Card!!!!!!!!!!! Yayyyyyyyyyy!<br />Of course, it's not without conditions... Carry this card at all times. (and don't lose it?) Well, like my social security card I'll laminate a copy and carry that, keeping the original in a safe place. <br />And it's only valid to 2016. Before then I have to become a citizen or aply to get restrictions lifted. No, I have no idea what that means, so don't ask.<br /><br />All should be well in the home of the brave and the land of the free. None of that: "Papieren, Bitte!" "Show your papers boy!" stuff. <br /><br />Seriously though, everybody's been quite welcoming. Well, a lot of people think I come from New England, that's those who don't think I'm Australian.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="480" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gdFLNvKy4OI" width="640"></iframe><br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-12223273134346646432014-08-28T11:45:00.002-05:002014-08-28T11:46:55.925-05:00Shoulder Surgery.Cutting chopping and dicing set for tomorrow, Friday 29th August. <br />
I'm so looking forward to it. The nurse told me not to expect to be able to sleep in a bed for some time... And told me the aftermath is notoriously painful. I replied that I have a good vocabulary of swear-words at the ready.<br />
I also have a lot of books. At least half a week's worth.<br />
After that Amazon gets my money or I watch all those rubbish movies I never got around to before.<br />
<br />
And I confess I've been wasting time on Facebook, it has its uses, but I hate to tell some of the people who pop up and try to friend me, that if we've not been in touch for years, I'm probably not going to want to see every little update....<br />
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Once, about twenty years ago I broke my left arm just below the shoulder. It was in a cast for a couple of months, set with a 90 degree elbow position. Never having bust a limb before, I glibly thought that the day the cast came off, life would resume as normal. What an idiot. The cast came off and I gazed at an arm so hairy I thought I was becoming a gorilla, and then... nothing. Elbow stayed at 90 degrees. Stuck there. Muscles disappeared tendons shrunk... No amount of force would straighten it out. And there was a bend where the bone was set. Took another two months before it was moderately normal again.<br />
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Now I'm going to have to learn to live left handed. It should keep me from boredom, but. Anyway, it's a minor problem compared to some, that others face. I'll try not to moan too much.<br />
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My blogreaders will barely notice the difference. I do mean to post stuff. just left handedly.<br />
Sinistrally. soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-56355893149111015232014-07-24T18:38:00.002-05:002014-07-25T14:27:04.827-05:00Humerus? Not so funny, really....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today, I had an interesting experience. Just before we moved from the old house, I had become aware of a shoulder injury, pain, ache, restriction of movement. so I treated it with ibuprofen, tried not to do the ouchy stuff, like lifting my arm high or rotating it outward, assuming whatever I'd done while shifting heavy boxes and furniture would heal on its own. 5+ months later, I'm forced to admit that it won't.</div>
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So I went to see a doctor, and was referred to a sports medicine clinic, where after examination and x-rays, I was told I have a displaced shoulder joint, caused by a rotator-cuff injury. </div>
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So today I was having an MRI scan, to show the exact nature and extent of the damage.</div>
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First (well, after a clipboard worth of forms and an eye-watering financial transaction), I was </div>
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positioned under an x-ray machine, while a doctor pumped my shoulder joint full of a gadolinium contrast fluid. There was some anaesthesia too, so the needle sliding into the shoulder joint capsule was not too bad, but it's wearing off now and I'd like to bite somebody.</div>
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But the MRI.... Magnetic Resonance Imaging... Essentially, you're shoved into a very small hole in a large doughnut. And surrounded by a humongously powerful magnetic field It's certainly powerful enough to suck steel furniture in...</div>
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You are carefully positioned, warned that it's noisy, given earplugs and industrial earmuffs, the operator leaves the room, and a noisy chaos begins. I was told that about ten percent of people are so claustrophobic they can't tolerate it. Well, I've been a plumber. I've gone through holes in floors, walls and ceilings, where there's no room to turn round or roll over. And I've weaseled myself into tight spaces under vehicles and in engine bays, where despite not being able to move much, I've been trying to weld, or undo a gearbox's bolts. </div>
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So, as the magnetic field oscillated my hydrogen atoms, for what seemed a long time, I was drowsing and comfortably musing about all manner of unimportant trivia.<br />
This procedure was quite untroubling, if you're ever referred for one, it's not something to be scared of.</div>
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The scan results will go straight to my doctor, and in a couple of days I should get an appointment to find out what's next. But, he's already told me, it'll probably mean surgery. </div>
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Sigh.</div>
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In the meantime, more ibuprofen and on with the painting of walls!</div>
soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-1474081285582018762014-07-23T23:18:00.002-05:002014-07-23T23:24:44.754-05:00The Sirens of Titan."The Sirens of Titan" was the title of a science fiction novel by Kurt Vonnegut, first published in 1959... so are the days of future past.<br /><h3 align="left">
<b><span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">Al Stewart</span></b></h3>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, serif;">I was drawn by the sirens of Titan<br />
Carried along by their call<br />
Seeking for a way to enlighten<br />
Searching for the sense of it all<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, serif;">Like a kiss on the wind I was thrown to the stars<br />
Captured and ordered in the army of Mars<br />
Marching to the sound of the drum in my head<br />
I followed the call<br />
Only to be Malachi Constant<br />
I thought I came to this earth<br />
Living in the heart of the moment<br />
With the riches I gained at my birth<br />
But here in the yellow and blue of my days<br />
I wander the endless Mercurian caves<br />
Watching for the signs the Harmonians make<br />
The words on the walls</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Times, serif;"> I was drawn by the sirens of Titan<br />
And so I came in the end<br />
Under the shadow of Saturn<br />
With statues and birds for my friends<br />
Finding a home at the end of my days<br />
Looking around I've only to say<br />
I was the victim of a series of accidents<br />
As are we allI was drawn by the sirens of Titan (as are we all)<br />
As are we all<br />
I was drawn by the sirens of Titan (as are we all)<br />
As are we all...</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/1WMsftmKU6s?feature=player_detailpage" width="640"></iframe><br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-12327161542574655612014-07-16T12:12:00.001-05:002014-07-16T12:12:23.355-05:00Curses! Foiled again!via<a href="http://laughingsquid.com/" target="_blank"> Laughing Squid</a>...<br />
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("Curses! Foiled Again!" was a catchphrase for Muttley's sidekick, 'Rick Rastardly' Hehehehehe!)soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-78182869478891239752014-06-21T03:11:00.000-05:002014-06-21T03:11:40.296-05:00I Preferred The Older Minute. If you're not British, you'll probably be better advised not to bother reading this post. Just as I often don't get the references my american blogger friends make to things have been part of everyday life in the U.S., you probably will frown and think it's not funny at all.<br />
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On my sidebar, there's a link to Adullamite's blog. <a href="http://adullamite.blogspot.com/2014/06/the-slow-death-of-good-radio-show.html" target="_blank">Recently he was bemoaning the decay</a> of the BBC Radio panel-game, "Just a Minute".<br />
The idea is simple. A panel of four guests are challenged to speak for 'just a minute' on some diverse subject, without 'Hesitation, Repetition, or Deviation'. It's harder than you might think. Back in the days when I regularly listened, regulars panellists were Clement Freud, Derek Nimmo, Kenneth Williams.<br />
Current ones, Paul Merton, Julian Clary....<br />
I listen occasionally via the BBC's web app.<br />
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And I agree with Adullamite, I think the current crop of contributors are sadly lacking, and would be pulverised if they were to play against their predecessors. <br />
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Here's a little vintage British radio:<br />
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<br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-14955450001347650662014-06-15T18:27:00.001-05:002014-06-15T18:52:34.404-05:00Nifty!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every Saturday night, just north of Houston, Texas, there's a car gathering called '<a href="http://www.niftee50ees.com/" target="_blank">Niftee 50ees</a>', at the junction of Kuykendahl and Louetta.<br />
It's
open to any vehicle from before 1979, I think. Everything from an
Oldsmobile Curved Dash of 1902 to the great muscle cars of the
seventies, plus custom cruisers, hot-rods, chopped and channeled
sleds, trucks, vans... <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziuxAsQo922y0HUzG-Q2EuMbRHux2NBM2czWGLwPTNewM5Q_Yoj-WbLF17UQ6c3dwo-U1YdM02g5K6N2X2yBPmxtxwYbgVH56-AKXGB-TLZPpWW6VFXod5-htWVM-mdN2iqFMI2VHnUsp/s1600/DSCF4779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziuxAsQo922y0HUzG-Q2EuMbRHux2NBM2czWGLwPTNewM5Q_Yoj-WbLF17UQ6c3dwo-U1YdM02g5K6N2X2yBPmxtxwYbgVH56-AKXGB-TLZPpWW6VFXod5-htWVM-mdN2iqFMI2VHnUsp/s1600/DSCF4779.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="justify"><td class="tr-caption">Having an old, square, Land Rover, of course, I like to take part,
-though really the emphasis is on home-grown metal, there are a few
foreign imports.<br />
I open the bonnet....(hood, for my American readers), to show my non-chromed, non V8, non-hemi-headed, non 427 cubic inch, trivial 4 cylinder engine. I see it as a refreshing palate-cleanser, akin to a glass of cold home-made lemonade, for all those poor folk overdosed on detroit chromium.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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People think my Land Rover is a Jeep... No, these are Jeeps....</div>
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They raise money for charity, the local fire crew brings a truck for kids little and large to goggle at, the height of excitement for many a child is to be allowed to sound that big chromed bell.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_omv79-2fVLrAPxOChJswtO5mX9Np8E9nyNmVPUi6gxFGHyjltsoplo3XKGWwG5ob6Rh5orCRNEN0m_gLaopwTD4v4sgMnQOPAwbawi6oXyiajv0Oun4lX80OO46jVXHzUuaoUKguYH2/s1600/DSCF4937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_omv79-2fVLrAPxOChJswtO5mX9Np8E9nyNmVPUi6gxFGHyjltsoplo3XKGWwG5ob6Rh5orCRNEN0m_gLaopwTD4v4sgMnQOPAwbawi6oXyiajv0Oun4lX80OO46jVXHzUuaoUKguYH2/s1600/DSCF4937.JPG" height="276" width="400" /> </a></div>
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Entry for the public to browse: Free!</div>
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To show a vehicle? $10:00.</div>
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I'm not there every week, because because even a knucklehead like me would get bored. But the number and nature of cars there is ever varying.</div>
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Then there's 'Cars and Coffee', at Market Street in The Woodlands, every first Sunday of the month, from early o'clock to Eleven a.m.</div>
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I'm amazed at the number of people who own old cars here.</div>
<br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-51542894936173363712014-06-05T17:14:00.003-05:002014-06-05T17:14:45.710-05:00The Last Leviathan......<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dZYX05N9ufY?list=UUMivlqGhk7faAUO9ytGfCrQ" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
Siggy Stern, singing a beautiful song, by Andy Barnes, recorded and better known by the Dubliners, Siggy, to me, does a better job.<br />
<br />
Not a recording artist, she has uploaded a few songs to YouTube.<br />
This song came to mind when I was viewing a post by 'Nag on the Lake' about a dutch painting, that in restoration was found to have originally featured a beached whale.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://nagonthelake.blogspot.com/2014/06/a-whale-of-tale.html" target="_blank">The Lost Whale</a>soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-73719983450263952632014-06-02T23:48:00.001-05:002014-06-02T23:58:43.363-05:00And It Has Little Handles That Fold Out For Pushing.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7wpctfkZbnlvDIL-s83gFIzNtj-NzJ55GJ6Hs7J3Ef9GKZT-gzvCRyW-V7xPQN83y6Rwcpc39nbQCWEAhkB1cf0OZ1ZMqZBoySUNzY-ZyDlp6WSRK4_BXFysiCJ26X9Kg45CKkfd7St2/s1600/DSCF4802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7wpctfkZbnlvDIL-s83gFIzNtj-NzJ55GJ6Hs7J3Ef9GKZT-gzvCRyW-V7xPQN83y6Rwcpc39nbQCWEAhkB1cf0OZ1ZMqZBoySUNzY-ZyDlp6WSRK4_BXFysiCJ26X9Kg45CKkfd7St2/s1600/DSCF4802.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-13487503760688267832014-06-02T23:41:00.002-05:002014-06-02T23:57:51.931-05:00Brazilian Furniture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8IgUVuEKMl19Uy0JizvwtbfxtIgPSRsfP2HDKD6mBxnZEOkqWna2e6XU12KuMbZ7jcwnr6JrP1krnWrw50pgopHGnHKR6iqrELbags9Bu17VNpCnbEihYc7Ac2hqShwTSc0TlTC37cGaO/s1600/DSCF4863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8IgUVuEKMl19Uy0JizvwtbfxtIgPSRsfP2HDKD6mBxnZEOkqWna2e6XU12KuMbZ7jcwnr6JrP1krnWrw50pgopHGnHKR6iqrELbags9Bu17VNpCnbEihYc7Ac2hqShwTSc0TlTC37cGaO/s1600/DSCF4863.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was going to buy, but then I realised that it would always be in need of waxing......</div>
soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-53466660552116363312014-05-23T13:41:00.002-05:002014-05-23T18:09:11.721-05:00The Curtain Rises. And Billows.The Scene: centre stage: darkness, a bedroom, a bed.<br />
<br />
3 a.m.<br />
Silence.<br />
A sleeping couple.<br />
<br />
Loud farts... Several. In quick succession. <br />
<br />
<i>Him: I can't believe you did that!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: What?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: You just shattered the silence with a barrage of bottom-burps!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: Wasn't me!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: Who then?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: Sam Houston did it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: Sam Houston was in our bedroom?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: Yes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: And he got here how?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: In his buggy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: So you're saying, Sam Houston, (<a href="https://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fho73" target="_blank">first president of the Republic of Texas</a>), who died in 1863, resurrected himself, and harnessed up his ghostly horses, drove in his buggy to our bedroom, where he let loose a trombone solo in the vicinity of your rear end, then got in the buggy, flicked the reins, and trotted off down the stairs and into the night?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Her: Yes. That's right.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Him: Oh.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>They go back to sleep.</i><br />
<i>Outside, ghostly hooves and creaking of harness fading to the distance.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In the morning he asks her about Sam's visit. She has no recollection. And no shame at trying to pass off her farts as those of a hero of the Texas revolution.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>From now on, mystery occurrences in this household, from trumps to empty ice cream cartons in the freezer, will be blamed on Sam Houston.</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8gncJOZJRm2TJA6nJKrTDFpuV6-wpOX1SElpP-hCvyFlvmKIA9ZbtqckTx30j7e73p6yWslaU9NXOIXsRY6kz6iRL5xe1hr7J0jqDOTdc44z8LYTVnHLsEAS0ftof7ft0Xb9oR69mnf-/s1600/Sam+Houston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8gncJOZJRm2TJA6nJKrTDFpuV6-wpOX1SElpP-hCvyFlvmKIA9ZbtqckTx30j7e73p6yWslaU9NXOIXsRY6kz6iRL5xe1hr7J0jqDOTdc44z8LYTVnHLsEAS0ftof7ft0Xb9oR69mnf-/s1600/Sam+Houston.jpg" height="229" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam Houston at the Battle of San Jacinto</td></tr>
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<br />
(When we first met, back in 2007, and she visited me in England, as we were carrying her compendious baggage into the house, somebody farted, and it wasn't me. She looked me in the eye, and with a straight face, said "did you hear that?" "I did, I heard a fart."<br />
"No", she said. "A bark. -it's the barking spiders."<br />
She persisted in trying to tell me the sounds I kept hearing were made by barking spiders, a subset of arachnid I had never previously encountered. And they had followed her, from, she thought, the airport in Atlanta, Georgia, perhaps stowing away in her baggage.)<br />
<br />
<br />
More from the bedroom: <a href="http://throughthegate09.blogspot.com/2014/05/the-morning-after-on-tempur-pedic.html" target="_blank">The Morning After</a>.<br />
<br />soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-57572463570820349922014-05-09T23:47:00.003-05:002014-05-09T23:47:52.025-05:00If This Blog was a Delivery Company...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/94502406" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <a href="http://vimeo.com/94502406">JohnnyExpress</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/aiw">AlfredImageworks</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-74156856566243306062014-05-08T23:27:00.000-05:002014-05-08T23:28:19.859-05:00Shock News!: Grit in the Gears Written by Robot!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZolNdJkkqMi0-tOBAhzMnlxyjj0kbXmi1q2cDTmobIBxTc3jCxMsL8GMZB3jVaNlxW7TCtOfIQMrTzE_J9KWOpNgNcG3PlCJ9fAtT8GEsvbWXLYzjJDCcgDxtN_xrgsXpvZRaFfFxo_bR/s1600/3979a19e25d23e3d3c8695133196b110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZolNdJkkqMi0-tOBAhzMnlxyjj0kbXmi1q2cDTmobIBxTc3jCxMsL8GMZB3jVaNlxW7TCtOfIQMrTzE_J9KWOpNgNcG3PlCJ9fAtT8GEsvbWXLYzjJDCcgDxtN_xrgsXpvZRaFfFxo_bR/s1600/3979a19e25d23e3d3c8695133196b110.jpg" height="640" width="443" /></a></div>
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Picture found by Red Dirt Girl on Pinterest, this is an assemblage by <a href="http://weezbo.com/funny-robots-in-brian-marshalls-adopt-a-bot-project.html" target="_blank">Brian Marshall</a>.<br />
<br />
As is this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRE6jbHOOnSdEQqBVHxWnNhrVVTsIvP3tN9P2ov8f7ZgsYyshAM9JPnOuU2UC0dWjyEFaeRUZpbTctRPZbKU-r-SuOcHaUlnVVdh6zFflWemJK3tHPnLhNwTqyk6868Ci-5ygsXbYY16F/s1600/1361004888_35-640x713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRRE6jbHOOnSdEQqBVHxWnNhrVVTsIvP3tN9P2ov8f7ZgsYyshAM9JPnOuU2UC0dWjyEFaeRUZpbTctRPZbKU-r-SuOcHaUlnVVdh6zFflWemJK3tHPnLhNwTqyk6868Ci-5ygsXbYY16F/s1600/1361004888_35-640x713.jpg" height="320" width="287" /></a></div>
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<br />
The author of this blog sometimes feels like he's a machine, and right now he's got a cramp in his left side rib actuators. He identifies with these fellows.<br />
Un-grit my gears, gimme oil!soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-67290389883012636262014-05-03T15:04:00.000-05:002014-05-03T15:09:46.920-05:00"Nothing is More Dangerous to Men Than a Sudden Change of Fortune". -Marcus Fabius Quintilianus (Quintilian). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueUfyIWVq2GBhk0b74mJEtdEuBaJFJe7sLrVUVuqRxZ0Ben6bhvr04j9JrsKx_LDWNUVvSyoIZ2_sjXlpolVaflfY1VChJ5DTwDawPHbac7qQym6sn_2XXUPHU7Q9jlcvUdiOp2fFsGDM/s1600/012472-10ffa314-d0c8-11e3-8e96-6a6704b39a47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueUfyIWVq2GBhk0b74mJEtdEuBaJFJe7sLrVUVuqRxZ0Ben6bhvr04j9JrsKx_LDWNUVvSyoIZ2_sjXlpolVaflfY1VChJ5DTwDawPHbac7qQym6sn_2XXUPHU7Q9jlcvUdiOp2fFsGDM/s1600/012472-10ffa314-d0c8-11e3-8e96-6a6704b39a47.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fortune Cookies</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-FhM7PQgt3jideeVPd2VzjD9EuRf7ddbvifnMlAF6hfk6_vbQ0FZz0EZemh6qxDKBEbEaCtrzCCZMtfZKTL5SZThWka0wdo_tQduwOt-31RohLMDW475p1aRIyrr-uqt02HcKD6Q4dUt/s1600/Mixer-thumb-560x376.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-FhM7PQgt3jideeVPd2VzjD9EuRf7ddbvifnMlAF6hfk6_vbQ0FZz0EZemh6qxDKBEbEaCtrzCCZMtfZKTL5SZThWka0wdo_tQduwOt-31RohLMDW475p1aRIyrr-uqt02HcKD6Q4dUt/s1600/Mixer-thumb-560x376.jpeg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Bakery Dough Mixer</td></tr>
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I have never put my faith in Horoscopes. I don't believe the relative position of the stars in the sky, as viewed at and from the place of my birth, can realistically be said to predict my character, nor my fate.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I hold no truck with the Tarot, nor Gypsy Rose Lee, nor the lines on one's hand, nor the disposition of tea dregs, nor the entrails of a chicken as guides to the future.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>And especially I don't believe in Fortune Cookies. </b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Not after this, anyway: A worker at the Wonton Company's factory in Houston, Texas, was recently found
deceased, in the dough mixer used to make Fortune Cookie dough. Foul play
not suspected,<i><b> "Death by Misfortune"?</b></i><br />
<br />
<i>"The Wonton Food company operates facilities in New York, Texas and
Tennessee, where it manufactures food products including noodles and
wonton wrappers, and is one of the leading fortune cookie makers in the
country, making around four million cookies a day in its New York
headquarters and a smaller number in its Houston factory."<b> </b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
If only there was some way a fortune-cookie maker could predict the future?<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/pEJvvp1oxsk" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
(It was NOT this machine, but probably something very similar.)<br />
<br />
<i>p.s...... I learned this not by local news, despite being fairly close to Houston, but Via "<a href="http://Foul play not suspected after worker found dead in dough machine at fortune cookie factory " target="_blank">Nothing to do With Arbroath</a>", a blog which has been a regular read for me for years, I recommend it, and if you don't know where Arbroath is, then don't worry, because the blog is NOTHING to do with Arbroath.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>pps: I'm aware that the event is, in fact, a terrible tragedy. But I can't resist making quips about the situation. "He was a crazy mixed-up kid....." </i><br />
<br />
I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-43828142287861451372014-04-14T22:06:00.002-05:002014-04-14T22:07:59.608-05:00And SoHere in the U.S., it's tax-filing time. I'm blissfully ignorant, of course, as to the fineries, as she who is awesome did it all.<br />
I remain in the endless limbo of being a legal alien. I was given the right to enter the United States, in order to marry a U.S. citizen, within 90 days of my arrival, or leave again.<br />
We married ten days after my feet touched the ground, at which point, or within the ninety days, the holder of a K-1 visa then must file for 'Adjustment of Status'.<br />
In the period in which the adjustment is being processed, I have no automatic right of residence, no legal status, I can't vote, nor can I claim upon any of the rights of a citizen.<br />
If I were to exit the U.S., for a holiday or any other reason, I would be refused re-entry. I couldn't enter on a tourist visa, nor a business visa....<br />
I could get a 'letter of advanced parole', which in theory would persuade the guy on the desk to let me in, but it's not a guarantee.<br />
Meanwhile, six months after I arrived, I'm not strictly speaking, a resident, nor am I a non-resident. I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/d27gTrPPAyk" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
I'm not allowed to work, nor to earn money.<br />
I have a Social Security number, but that's merely because all manner of activities, such as accessing my money in the bank, require it.<br />
But it confers no security, social or otherwise. Should anything happen to me, then my wife is fully responsible. The Social Security administration would simply yawn, and look away.<br />
<br />
Uncle Sam has the gall to demand taxes from me.<br />
<br />
I earned $1.14 cents, on my bank balances, and I have just been taxed 29 cents on my earnings.<br />
<br />
This is not my first, only, or greatest payment to the United States Government, we've paid up large lumps every time another form has to be filled in, but this is my first contribution in income tax.<br />
<br />
The next time I see any sort of federal employee in uniform, I'll look closely at one of their buttons, and muse to myself. "I might have bought that very button for the United States Of America!"<br />
<br />
Or the flag being hoisted over the capitol..... No. Not the whole toggle, but maybe a little of the varnish on the toggle on the up-haul rope, maybe I bought that.<br />
<br />
Cue National Anthem.soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-20274419441857000212014-04-04T12:50:00.000-05:002014-04-05T09:37:30.449-05:00The World is Still Askew<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
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But we're making progress.<br />
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Almost a month since moving day, and a lot's been happening, furniture moves and moves again, walls are patchworks of tester paints.</div>
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Our local big D.I.Y. shed's profits are up, from all our visits.The latest purchases I made there were not inconsiderable. In the world about us, it seems grass-cutting and gardening are inevitably the province of teams of mexicans.</div>
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I did not, as a kid, automatically get pocket money. My basic cash income from my parents was................ nothing, there were chores to be done, and, should I complete them all without having to be nagged, coerced, threatened or whipped, then my palm might be crossed with a tiny spot of silver.</div>
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Or brass. In Yorkshire, we say "Where there's muck, there's brass", which is all about the concept that people don't want to do their own dirty work, they'll pay others, less fastidious, or more desperate, to do it.</div>
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So in Texas. Mexicans do the dirty work. In England, I cut neighbours' lawns, trimmed hedges, raked leaves, tilled the earth, washed cars..... Until, of course, I reached the grown-up world. Actually, it never stopped. It still hasn't. So today I have been cutting grass. Weeding weeds. Call me José.</div>
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Back in my youth, we had old Atco mowers, powered by single cylinder Villiers engines. Magneto ignition, kick-start (well, they were small motorbike engines, so kickstarts were the thing....) And usually, especially at the beginning of spring, they would not start. I would get mad and frustrated, juggling the controls, choke, mixture, slow running screw...</div>
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My dad would say, if it won't start, there's a reason. Find it. </div>
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So began my introduction to mechanics. I would do my diagnostics, was there fuel to the carburettor? was it primed? Was there a spark at the plug top?</div>
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if yes, then was a jet in the carburettor blocked? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqykJU0EydlUpje7mZZROuBfL0QQ3WiGhxvq-b7t9IuoukEtfv-_mqkS2UMnnCiUeccX5JOyORSzZ2MQtCgIvTioA-R2dYXRsUjuqb9-5CUyP9KJckTYNRT7SwvLohLI4a69dB6ok5Az-M/s1600/50atco3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqykJU0EydlUpje7mZZROuBfL0QQ3WiGhxvq-b7t9IuoukEtfv-_mqkS2UMnnCiUeccX5JOyORSzZ2MQtCgIvTioA-R2dYXRsUjuqb9-5CUyP9KJckTYNRT7SwvLohLI4a69dB6ok5Az-M/s1600/50atco3.jpg" height="320" width="265" /></a></div>
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I learned to lay out an old newspaper, and then to strip, clean, and rebuild the carburettor, later, to strip and rebuild the whole machine. I learned that poor tools and ill-fitting spanners (wrenches) mean bloody knuckles, pain, rounded off nuts and more grief. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lever-operated dog-clutch, and look, it's got a fancy-pants rubber shock absorber in the drive-line. Positively space-age thinking. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhbF-o6erKgBka966A7_1lfxSPVgVWfOLYfzDTzIzdtlJ8BxgAYDt85RcM7wRbU6xhJ-my2mnaO7xqkxSIofA9nfGaSoFBk8CnRJE65H7hFoaYh6Tuzx5gE5mqOyztqcaYiBK6_mcnZyD/s1600/P1020063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjhbF-o6erKgBka966A7_1lfxSPVgVWfOLYfzDTzIzdtlJ8BxgAYDt85RcM7wRbU6xhJ-my2mnaO7xqkxSIofA9nfGaSoFBk8CnRJE65H7hFoaYh6Tuzx5gE5mqOyztqcaYiBK6_mcnZyD/s1600/P1020063.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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This one's more modern than ours... Look! a plastic (nylon) chain-tensioner. New-fangled nonsense!)</div>
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My early teens taught me a whole lot about figuring out how things work without the aid of a manual, and that when something doesn't work, there's a reason. It's not fate, it's not that it's being stubborn, there's something that can be found and fixed. </div>
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Valuable insights.....</div>
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So, back to the present. I bought the new lawnmower, the store offered me a 'home assembly service' Ha! the handle was folded and about six bolts had to be inserted in various places, the engine had to be filled with oil to the correct level, then the fuel tank filled... child's play. </div>
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A couple of slow priming pulls on the starter with the throttle closed, to prime it, then, "okay lawnmower, go with throttle up"! BRRRRRRRRRR!</div>
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Oh I love it, instant start. Auto choke. Fantastic!</div>
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Y'know, it does its thing well enough, but I'm a bit nostalgic for the old atco, and the pleasure of looking on a fresh-striped lawn, the satisfaction of a job well done, the smell of fresh cut grass and hot oil. mmmmmm</div>
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Of course, to get this effect, you have to use the grass-bucket. Which, on our lawn meant that the lawnmower was accompanied by the wheelbarrow, and the clippings had to be regularly wheeled off to the compost heap, rolled up it on a plank, then tipped. Over the course of a summer, it became the compost mountain. And last-year's heap was to barrowed to the various flower and vegetable beds to be top-dressed in. </div>
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Now, rotary mulching mowers just thrash it all to bits and drop it back. So much easier. Mind-bogglingly so.</div>
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Another garden-related purchase, the strimmer, which gets its name from 'string' and 'trimmer'. Although in the U.S. it's known as a weed-whacker. </div>
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Back in the old days etc... Oh my god, off he goes again.... Well, not so far back, the company I worked for had several, old Husqvarna and Flymo, and Stihl ones. </div>
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They died because various people, most lately, our old labourer, Pete, were not very good at remembering that two-stroke engines need a fifty-to-one mix of fuel/oil to run. Just petrol (gasoline) will kill them, because the bearings are lubricated by the 1/50th oil in the fuel.</div>
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And that's why two-stroke (two-cycle) motors trail a cloud of stinky blue smoke. (which I quite like the smell of, it's nostalgic). They're also far noisier, but I won't go into the whole 2-stroke valve arrangement. </div>
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So we got a newer Stihl, had a heap of those engines. The new ones are lean, clean burners, electronic ignition etc. Older ones can be a pig to start. Usually it's oiled plugs that are the culprit, and of course, over-oiled fuel can be a problem if the muppet who's supposed to use them tips half a bottle where a thimbleful should be, resulting in me having to strip and clean and adjust... And my nemesis, the nasty old pull-cord starter. </div>
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There's a knack. And a required amount of vigour. Pulling it that bit too slow will NEVER start it. Oh I hated the Stihl-Saw, with its stone/concrete-cutter disc. Set trigger to start and lock, press decompressor button, pump primer twice, set choke to full. Pull! Repeat Repeat Repeat....</div>
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So I bought a 4-stroke trimmer. No fuel mixing, no blue cloud. It has a pull-cord. I don't use the pull-cord. I have a little red cylinder thing. Lithium batteried. Press it into the motorhead, click the trigger, BROOOM! - electric start!</div>
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Brave new world, eh?</div>
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Yesterday, I was talking to someone who was telling me about a discussion with a young teenager. And on how when he was younger, cell-phones were just little things that made calls, they weren't smart. </div>
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And the poor kid was asking how people found their way around. Because obviously, a dumb phone...... "So how did they get...." "They used maps"...... "But...... how? I mean, how would you USE google maps if you couldn't get them on your phone?".</div>
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The kid had no concept of paper maps. Or maps in your head.</div>
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We take our tech stuff so much for granted. </div>
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I carry a computer, compass, camera, library, juke-box, memory, notebook, global navigator, in my pocket. And most of the time I forget to be amazed by it.</div>
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Ten years ago, it was unthinkable.</div>
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Really. Twenty years ago? Oh my.</div>
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<a href="http://gritinthegears.blogspot.com/2010/01/flying-car-anybody.html" target="_blank">So where's my flying car, dammit?</a></div>
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<a href="http://gritinthegears.blogspot.com/2010/01/flying-cars.html" target="_blank">Enough for now</a>. I have to grease some sprockets.</div>
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soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-61094243461253116662014-03-20T20:54:00.002-05:002014-03-20T20:58:21.009-05:00Move Day -1<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">
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soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7555664269648250473.post-70353500461902796022014-03-20T17:35:00.002-05:002014-03-20T17:35:36.139-05:00Picasa/Blogger is not working and that's my excuse for not posting...I use google's awesome photo organiser, Picasa. It's free, it's easy to use to store/organise/edit/print/email/blog/etc.<br />
There are plenty of other similar things out there, but Picasa is generally so good that I can't be bothered to check out the others. <br />
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Often, when I start a blog post, i pick up the images I need in Picasa, hit the 'Blog This' button at the bottom, and post them to a draft in Blogger's editing console, then I do the text within blogger. It's quick and simple and I'm used to it.<br />
Recently, that's not been working, hitting 'Blog This' just gets me an error code. The nub of that error is:<br />
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<b>rss</b>: Required field must not be blank<br />
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Simple enough? No. Because there's no rss field that you can fill in. So of course, I do what picasa asks, delete cache and cookies, sweep out all the accumulated crap from my browser, and the problem's still there. I look up Picasa Help, no help. Forums, no help. This is Google, so there's no easy way to report a problem or contact support people. Then, after an age of googling, I find this<br />
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<i><a dir="ltr" href="https://sites.google.com/site/picasaresources/Home">Picasa Resources:</a> > <a dir="ltr" href="https://sites.google.com/site/picasaresources/Home/Picasa-FAQ">Picasa FAQ</a> > <a dir="ltr" href="https://sites.google.com/site/picasaresources/Home/Picasa-FAQ/picasa">Picasa</a> > <a dir="ltr" href="https://sites.google.com/site/picasaresources/Home/Picasa-FAQ/picasa/troubleshooting">Troubleshooting</a> >
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<i><span dir="ltr" id="sites-page-title">How to Fix Blog This Function</span></i>
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<i><span style="color: red;">Note:
The Blog function in Picasa can only be fixed by an Update to Picasa.
Until Picasa is updated, this page suggests one Workaround:</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i>The <u>Blog This</u> Button and the Create menu -> <u>Publish To Blogger...</u> function both use the Picasa button function to call transport service to the Blogger.</i></div>
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<i>The
underlying transport to the services was changed from http to https and
the URL in Picasa was hardcoded as http in the custom button files.</i></div>
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<i>This will be fixed in the next Patch release.</i></div>
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Helpful, ha? </div>
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No clue as to when. And why couldn't they say on the error page "It doesn't work because we broke the 'Blog This' button"?</div>
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Even better, seeing as in order to be uploading by Picasa to Blogger, users must have a google/gmail account, wouldn't it have been really handy if there was some magic way to contact users to tell them that a key part of the interface between two popular Google platforms had been deliberately disabled, and there was a reason it no longer worked?</div>
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I wonder if google has heard of email? Oh... Of course, it sends me crapmail already...</div>
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I was an early adopter of Google, back when it was a newcomer to the search-engine world.</div>
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I've loved some of the things google has done, but sometimes, just some times, I loathe it. This is one of them. </div>
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This is what reminds me that when we put our trust in companies that host our content on the web, our content is hostage to their whim.<br />
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Update: I took some more time browsing for answers. "Update Picasa"? So I go to the Picasa update checker "You already have the most recent version" Well of course I do, because I ticked the "enable auto-updates" option. But being a belt and braces sort of bloke, I decide to go to the Picasa download site and reinstall it.<br />
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Magic. It works. Why? I don't know. Do I take back my grumbling?<br />
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NO I DO NOT DAMMIT!<br />
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If a developers deliberately screws up a feature, then the users should be informed, not left to waste their time trying to mend the unmendable.<br />
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GNAHHHH!</div>
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soubriquethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01151288534629885195noreply@blogger.com1