tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44572844740026285382024-03-12T19:59:33.522-05:00Accidental LiteraturePhilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-89262572841194969812010-01-24T10:22:00.004-06:002010-01-24T10:27:54.862-06:00GRAYSON: "SAVE OUR DEMOCRACY"Congressman Alan Grayson is my hero!<br /><blockquote>“The Supreme Court in essence has ruled that corporations can buy elections. If that happens, democracy in America is over. We cannot put the law up for sale, and award government to the highest bidder.” Congressman Grayson said.<br /></blockquote>Grayson has proposed a series of 5 laws to counter the reactionary ruling by the Supreme Court.<br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">1) The Business Should Mind Its Own Business Act (H.R. 4431)</span>: Implements a 500% excise tax on corporate contributions to political committees, and on corporate expenditures on political advocacy campaigns.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2) The Public Company Responsibility Act (H.R. 4435)</span>: Prevents companies making political contributions and expenditures from trading their stock on national exchanges.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3) The End Political Kickbacks Act (H.R. 4434</span>): Prevents for-profit corporations that receive money from the government from making political contributions, and limits the amount that employees of those companies can contribute.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4) The Corporate Propaganda Sunshine Act (H.R. 4432)</span>: Requires publicly-traded companies to disclose in SEC filings money used for the purpose of influencing public opinion, rather than to promoting their products and services.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5) The Ending Corporate Collusion Act (H.R. 4433)</span>: Applies antitrust law to industry PACs.</blockquote><a href="http://grayson.house.gov/2010/01/grayson-save-our-democracy.shtml">GRAYSON: "SAVE OUR DEMOCRACY" | Congressman Alan Grayson, Representing the 8th District of Florida</a>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-28750313062340438442010-01-24T10:01:00.001-06:002010-01-24T10:01:27.272-06:00Illuminated GE floor tile - detail<div style="text-align: left; padding: 3px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/blurvis/4298736770/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2700/4298736770_5d97ecbfff.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" alt="" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/blurvis/4298736770/">Illuminated GE floor tile - detail</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/blurvis/">muttmutt</a>.</span></div><p>The GE Healthcare datacenter in Milwaukee has a very cool illuminated floor tile.</p>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-49841569063739354052009-02-18T07:21:00.016-06:002009-02-19T08:19:18.753-06:0025 Things about me from Facebook<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulA69snsePJWlzapqoDIA1lWDkCEb98LEiwKQSOOdyWlWkvy9Zt9iJ_ZXfkhKa3omy5OxizqebfOB-R94zzV0yvlrdd8M2YSBzSKCN7cS1DHPec_3KClKpX8MAe6MqnyaEfYe7J0lW_0/s1600-h/Picture+7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulA69snsePJWlzapqoDIA1lWDkCEb98LEiwKQSOOdyWlWkvy9Zt9iJ_ZXfkhKa3omy5OxizqebfOB-R94zzV0yvlrdd8M2YSBzSKCN7cS1DHPec_3KClKpX8MAe6MqnyaEfYe7J0lW_0/s400/Picture+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304131263396550258" border="0" /></a><br />I am <span style="font-weight: bold;">such</span> a sucker...<br /><ol><li>I <span style="font-weight: bold;">am</span> such a sucker.</li><li>Music is very important to me and I like most kinds. Even some country. I have to thank my Dad for my love of Johnny Cash but my friend Joe for my love of Rush.</li><li>I can remember obscure lines from obscure movies better than I can the birthdays of my nieces and nephews. It's sad...</li><li>I take Prozac (but I don't inhale)<br /></li><li>I am impatient in restaurants to the point of spousal irritation. Slow or indifferent service drives me batshit. As a former waiter, it is my right to be this way.</li><li>I once used the urinal next to Tom Jones in a dinner theater in Connecticut. He's short.</li><li>My best friend when I was 12 was the drummer for Soul Asylum. Now he and his wife run a little store in Ely, Minnesota way up north.<br /></li><li>I love Paris, New York, Chicago and Hyderabad. I adore India...<br /></li><li>I'm a Buddhist, and an atheist, and a freethinker.<br /></li><li>I secretly like my job, though you'll never hear me admit it</li><li>I've been known to write a poem or two</li><li>I miss my Dad (he died of pancreatic cancer in 1996)</li><li>I'm stridently non-superstitious but I still "knock on wood". Sue me.</li><li>I flirt shamelessly with waitresses. Really, any woman who brings me food.</li><li>I abhor violence but love violent movies, especially movies about WWII.</li><li>I am leading a <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gil_Scott_Heron">Gil Scott Heron</a> revival. The man knew what he was talking about.<br /></li><li>I love archaeology and the memories of doing field work. But I hate field work when I'm doing it.</li><li>I agree with Oscar Wilde when he said "It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." This is why I <span style="font-weight: bold;">would</span> have dinner with Genghis Khan but I <span style="font-weight: bold;">would not</span> have dinner with the Pope.<br /></li><li>Baseball, as a game and an artifact of history, is the closest thing to perfection-on-Earth, steroids or no steroids.</li><li><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I</span> know that Han Solo shot first. Suck on it, Lucas.<br /></li><li>Secretly wish I had a brother. I love my sisters to death, but I wish I knew what it was like to have a brother. I'll never know. And that makes me sad.</li><li>My biggest political fear is that Obama is not <span><span style="font-weight: bold;">liberal enough</span>!</span></li><li>I hate fishing and hunting. Wisconsin is clearly the <span style="font-weight: bold;">wrong</span><span> state for me.</span></li><li><span>I secretly believe that aliens walk among us.</span></li><li><span>I no longer strive to excel. I strive to endure.<br /></span></li></ol>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-79469501956253709672009-01-08T14:05:00.003-06:002009-01-08T14:11:25.580-06:00Carl Sandburg<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4e/Carl_Sandburg_NYWTS.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 316px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4e/Carl_Sandburg_NYWTS.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I've always loved the poems of Carl Sandburg. But I never really knew much about the man. So I had a meeting cancel on me this afternoon and I took a peek at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Sandburg">Wikipedia's entry for him</a> only to discover what an utterly fascinating man he was.<br /><blockquote>Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois to Swedish immigrants. At the age of thirteen he left school and began driving a milk wagon. He subsequently became a bricklayer and a farm laborer on the wheat plains of Kansas. After an interval spent at Lombard College in Galesburg, he became a hotel servant in Denver, then a coal-heaver in Omaha. He began his writing career as a journalist for the Chicago Daily News. Later he wrote poetry, history, biography, novels, children's literature, and film reviews. Sandburg also collected and edited books of ballads and folklore. He spent most of his life in the Midwest before moving to North Carolina.<br /><br />Sandburg fought in the Spanish-American War with the 6th Illinois Infantry, and participated in the invasion of Guánica, Puerto Rico on July 25, 1898. He attended West Point for just two weeks, for failing mathematics and a grammar exam. Sandburg returned to Galesburg and entered Lombard College, but left without a degree in 1903.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and joined the Social Democratic Party. Sandburg served as a secretary to Mayor Emil Seidel, mayor of Milwaukee from 1910 to 1912; Seidel was the first person to be elected mayor of a U.S. city on a socialist platform.</span><br /><br />Sandburg met Lilian Steichen at the Social Democratic Party office in 1907, and they married the next year. Lilian's brother was the photographer Edward Steichen. Sandburg with his wife, whom he called Paula, raised three daughters.<br /><br />Sandburg moved to Harbert, Michigan, and then suburban Chicago, Illinois. They lived in Evanston, Illinois before settling at 331 S. York Street in Elmhurst, Illinois from 1919 to 1930. Sandburg wrote three children's books in Elmhurst, Rootabaga Stories, in 1922, followed by Rootabaga Pigeons (1923), and Potato Face (1930). Sandburg also wrote Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years, a two volume biography in 1926, The American Songbag (1927), and a book of poems Good Morning, America (1928) in Elmhurst. The family moved to Michigan in 1930. The Sandburg's house at 331 S. York Street, Elmhurst was demolished and the site is now a parking lot.<br /><br />He moved to a Flat Rock, North Carolina estate, Connemara, in 1945 and lived there until his death in 1967.<br /><br />Sandburg supported the civil rights movement, and contributed to the NAACP.</blockquote>Too cool! He lived in Milwaukee and was a Socialist! How awesome is that???Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-51878498115462060892008-12-06T21:21:00.005-06:002008-12-06T21:32:10.290-06:00StarsI remember putting stars on your ceiling<br />One afternoon. And we lay there in bed<br />That night looking at our very own cosmos<br />Twinkling in your dark bedroom<br /><br />Later, we went outside and<br />Lay on the grass<br />Our backs moist with spring dew<br />And we looked at the stars<br />The real stars<br />And held hands<br />And cried<br />Because you were leaving<br />To follow your dreams<br />So far away<br />That I could not follow<br /><br />You were my dream<br />But I wasn't yours<br />And because of that<br />I had to let go<br />It was as if<br />I never had you<br />In the first place<br /><br />In an instant you were gone<br />And I lay there on the wet grass<br />And watched your plane fly<br />Overhead<br /><br />And I cried and I laughed<br />And I wanted to be with you<br />But this could never be<br />As you followed your dreams<br />And left me behindPhilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-5268595340861845802008-12-06T19:34:00.001-06:002008-12-06T20:00:31.201-06:00Poetry Assignment: Tattoo<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tiger</span></span><br /><br />"Do you like it?"<br />"I guess."<br />"It's cool."<br />"Is it?"<br />"Yeah, it is."<br />"Why?"<br />"'Cause it's a tiger."<br />"It is?"<br />"Hell yes, it's a tiger."<br />"Ok, if you say so."<br />"What do you mean?"<br />"If you say it's a tiger<br />it's a tiger."<br />"Damn right it is."<br />"Whatever you say, Steph."<br />"Fuck you, Daphnie."<br />"Thanks, Steph."<br />"Aren't you getting one?"<br />"No, I don't think so."<br />"Chicken?"<br />"No, it's not for me."<br />"You're chicken."<br />"No, I'm not chicken."<br />"Yes you are. You are."<br />"I wasn't chicken when<br />we got our labias pierced."<br /><br />All the while the needle<br />Buzzed, the ink flowed,<br />And the artist wiped away<br />The blood. The tiger,<br />For that's what it was,<br />Emerged from her shoulder.<br />Like Michelangelo and<br />His blocks of marble<br />Carving away what shouldn't<br />Be there, the tattoo<br />Artist revealed what was<br />Already hiding just<br />Beneath her skin.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-50752144074146210212008-12-06T12:37:00.005-06:002008-12-06T20:01:09.246-06:00Poetry Assignment: Phone BookNot for the easily offended... You have been warned!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Room Service</span></span><br />for cb<br /><br />I strolled down the hallway<br />with Ed's wife Sara, her eyes<br />askance<br /><br />Together but not together<br />scatterings of early room<br />service litter the hallway<br />bits of old food cling<br />to chipped hotel china<br />my stomach rolled<br /><br />Into the room, silent<br />undressed under dim<br />fluorescent light<br />that cast a pallor over<br />Sara's pale skin<br /><br />Sara, her 110 pounds naked<br />bent in half before me<br />"Do it!"<br />I hit her ass with my hand,<br />hard. And again. And again.<br /><br />"Hit me!" she screamed<br />"Harder, you fuck!"<br />hands clench ankles,<br />her tight body bent double,<br />tits dangling from her<br />chest, swaying gently,<br />her bare ass flushed<br />with blows already<br />delivered.<br /><br />From the desk, I grab<br />a phone book in both hands<br />and wind up for another shot at<br />that perfect, round ass. The<br />sound of contact<br />paper on flesh<br />echos off the<br />dingy walls.<br /><br />Anonymous paintings by<br />anonymous painters<br />gaze down impassively<br />while we dance<br />our potent ritual.<br />"Fucking pussy! I said HARDER!".<br />Smile,<br />swing,<br />contact.<br />"Oh God, YES! YES!<br />Fuck YES!"<br /><br />Casting the paper weapon aside I<br />rammed my stiff cock into her as<br />far as it would go.<br /><br />I catch sight of the phone book<br />laying open on the floor<br />to the restaurant section.<br />it's pages a subtle, erotic V<br /><br />Moving rhythmically<br />in and out<br />in and out<br />in and out<br />the smell of our sex swirled<br />around us, cloying, intoxicating,<br />breathing harder<br />and harder<br />and harder<br /><br />"How about Chinese?"<br />She moans a vague agreement.<br />My body shudders as I come hard<br />inside her.<br /><br />"Kung Pao Chicken," she gasps.<br />"Spicy."Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-7274636179920732702008-12-04T08:49:00.005-06:002008-12-06T20:01:34.068-06:00Poetry Assignment: CathedralI had a lot of trouble with this one.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Cathedral</span><br /><br />The young monk stands in the nave<br />Staring up towards the ceiling so far far away<br />A flicker of gold and images of saints<br />Gaze down, indifferent, upon him<br />The perfumed air of the cathedral<br />Rich and layered with the centuries<br />A simple brown robe cloaks his thin frame<br />Plain and unadorned, stark contrast<br />To the ornate building where he stands.<br />Casting gaze downward, past the<br />Multi-hued rose high on the wall<br />to the high altar and the crucifix of gold.<br />Moving silently aside, he crosses himself<br />And kneels to pray. Quietly murmuring<br />His meditations cracked open by a<br />Shrill, harsh outburst from behind.<br />"Oh honey, look, he's prayin'! Take a picture!"<br />"You betcha', babe, that's a keeper!"<br />The young monk closes his eyes and<br />Prays for patience to endure what he's<br />Come to detest. God Damn Tourists.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-72380955205437999452008-12-04T07:04:00.003-06:002008-12-04T07:13:15.880-06:00Ten Random iPod TracksFollowing on from BaronessHeather's iPod <a href="http://heather-harris.blogspot.com/2008/12/different-assignment.html">randomness assignment</a>, here are my 10 random iPod tracks. Be aware that I have a 60GB iPod which is almost full so there's a lot of stuff to pick from...<br /><ol><li>Leri Son Salita tutta sola in segreto alla Missione - Madame Butterfly</li><li>Orion - Stormwatch - Jethro Tull</li><li>Cantata "Christum wir sollen loben schon" BWV 121 - Bach Christmas Cantata - English Baroque Orchestra</li><li>Queen of Las Vegas - Nude on the Moon - The B52s</li><li>Enigma Variations - VI - Elgar: The Enigma Variations</li><li>Waiting in Vain - Songs of Freedom - Bob Marley</li><li>Relax - Tuxicity - Richard Cheese</li><li>Waiting for a Girl like You - Four - Foreigner</li><li>Chain Lightning - Citizen Steely Dan - Steely Dan</li><li>Boogie Blues - old 78 record - Gene Krupa & His Orchestra</li></ol>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-15550401661178814572008-12-03T10:57:00.006-06:002008-12-06T20:01:56.555-06:00Poetry Assignment: Salsa<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Untitled</span></span><br /><br />They danced in the snow<br />Coats cast aside<br />Mummy wraps<br />Nearly naked in<br />Mother's disapproval<br />A violent steamy salsa<br />Spinning and twirling<br />Amidst the falling flakes<br />Fast turning to steam<br />At skin's desperate contact<br />So hot, hot beyond measure<br />A passion intertwined<br />Snow and heat<br />Music spilling<br />From an open car<br />Beat and rhythm<br />Their eyes locked<br />In the heat of the dance<br />Cacophonous laughter<br />Echos in the street<br />When finally, finally, finally<br />They find each otherPhilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-31277012105243193442008-12-03T07:25:00.012-06:002008-12-06T20:02:19.636-06:00Poetry Assignment: Baseball<span style="font-size:130%;"><span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://accidental-lit.blogspot.com/2008/11/another-year.html">Here</a> is a link to another baseball poem which I kind of like better than this one, but since it's from before, I couldn't use it again...<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Winter Park</span></span><br /><br />The empty cathedral stands silent<br />But for the whispers of the stands<br />Where sun worshipers roast like brats<br />In the hazy, hot summer sun.<br />But that day is not today, not today.<br /><br />Now the ground is cold, so cold.<br />From beneath a cracked bench<br />Tucked way back in the dugout<br />A baseball peeks out, a shy small<br />Mouse on a frosty winter's day.<br /><br />Forlorn but not quite forgotten little ball<br />Recalls the days of the sun and the grass<br />The swing of the bat, the joy of the sound<br />As contact is made. The roar of the crowd,<br />Silenced for now, but old ball knows it will be back.<br /><br />The wind whistles through empty flagpoles,<br />Their banners long ago removed.<br />Rope and cable tap out a rhythm without rhythm.<br />The bleachers below slumber soundly beneath<br />Snow and ice, waiting, dreaming of sunshine days.<br /><br />The sun hangs so low at mid-day<br />Shadows stretch deep into the outfield.<br />A snow thick and lustrous carpets<br />The field where birds peck and poke,<br />Wandering in search of old popcorn.<br /><br />One day, one day the field will awaken<br />The sun will rise higher and brighter than now<br />The bleachers will fill with the sun seeking<br />Throng. But today, on this cold day<br />The park slumbers, waiting for then.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-61886752414320848372008-12-02T07:01:00.004-06:002008-12-06T20:02:42.477-06:00Poetry Assignment: Sleep<span style="font-style: italic;">Today's poetry assignment was sleep. When I think sleep, I think dreams....</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Sleep</span><br /><br />Awakend from a fitful sleep<br />A dream on the edge of memory<br />Three dryads recalled<br />And a remembrance of<br />Strange happenings felt.<br /><br />Lying in bed wondering<br />What had happened<br />In a place so near to hand<br />Yet so very far away<br /><br />Closing my eyes and<br />Seeing their faces<br />Fleeting as the memory<br />Of a memory of a myth.<br /><br />Moments stretch to years<br />Dreams unbidden yet<br />Longingly desired<br />Three dryads danced<br />Just for me, just for me.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-52061899713630705472008-11-30T19:48:00.004-06:002008-12-06T20:03:26.199-06:00Poetry Assignment: Gasoline<span style="font-style: italic;">This one doesn't have a title yet (it might never). I approached the assignment of gasoline in a rather literal sense, using the car as a metaphor, in the traditional American fashion, of freedom. This one is a Road Poem of a sort.</span><br /><br />Dusty road stretches to infinity<br />Route 66 blacktop, cracked and<br />Faded yellow lines vanish<br />In the distance, ahead and behind.<br />A blinding blue sky above<br />So sharp, like a straight razor,<br />It cuts eyes behind dark lenses.<br />Pavement below, rubber and road meet<br />Does the car move along the road,<br />Or the road beneath the car?<br />Does it matter? The rush is the same.<br />Wind whipped hair flying,<br />Laughter and freedom merge into<br />Ragtop dreams of speed.<br />Flying without fear,<br />Burning distilled dinosaur juice<br />Along a deserted trail, straight.<br />Last stop, gas and water,<br />Next stop? Beyond the edge of view<br />Somewhere in the distance, a place<br />Known but unseen, waiting for them<br />To arrive, below the horizon,<br />always just beyond the limit.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-5804171037560902042008-11-29T19:44:00.004-06:002008-12-06T20:03:57.484-06:00Poetry Assignment: Ice<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ice</span></span><br /><br />He lay in deep contemplation of<br />The inky black dome overhead,<br />The pinprick stars, like holes<br />In a vast canopy devoid of warmth<br />He could feel his fingers and toes<br />For the last time as they froze<br />In the deep, Pleistocene cold.<br />His dog, black as the sky above<br />Crouched beside him on the snow<br />The gently tapping tail against him<br />As they lay together atop the vast<br />Frozen lake sprawling around him,<br />Receeding in the snowy, blue distance a<br />Treeline, so very, very far away.<br />He had surrendered some time before,<br />Indeterminate time, stolen by the cold<br />Any sense of progression and movement<br />Still as if the world itself had frozen.<br />He gazed to the infinitely receding sky<br />Contemplated the bitter distances<br />To the lake edge, the twinkling of cabin<br />Lights on the far shore he would not reach.<br />His only regret in this infinite<br />Struggle was that his dog would<br />Die here with him on this ice.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-40884602375580136582008-11-25T11:28:00.001-06:002008-11-25T11:29:43.389-06:00NaNoWriMo WINNER!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcS6Dr8shAt-lorg6RKDlJqcT_8MfJj_LnwocelkEHRY2B15Zm-VEfFAhXHQHsS_WM0c_bsH0pHc8WIW1HF2r1TkknSJhzwNNCf8h_t0GE-e2GEr0-XfbiRCVEksybVjTmen5DA9I828/s1600-h/NaNoWriMo_you_won.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcS6Dr8shAt-lorg6RKDlJqcT_8MfJj_LnwocelkEHRY2B15Zm-VEfFAhXHQHsS_WM0c_bsH0pHc8WIW1HF2r1TkknSJhzwNNCf8h_t0GE-e2GEr0-XfbiRCVEksybVjTmen5DA9I828/s400/NaNoWriMo_you_won.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272648448687422946" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Woo hoo!<br /></span></div>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-35999542984942416752008-11-23T21:42:00.002-06:002008-11-23T21:43:45.610-06:00Picture Cleanup<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElY2HFVizPYcBpFyI8spukkVuq1Wq1p1VjzCZKJyllcA8x8ZGOjbL0XjKvwTq9b2X5xvNdO8wE58RDcsi47meI2kFY7Zn3V-cGUiN6cGlH8M0wOSCNQ9p7-SFU2JydsRTu-7h0lwF08Q/s1600-h/tugofwar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiElY2HFVizPYcBpFyI8spukkVuq1Wq1p1VjzCZKJyllcA8x8ZGOjbL0XjKvwTq9b2X5xvNdO8wE58RDcsi47meI2kFY7Zn3V-cGUiN6cGlH8M0wOSCNQ9p7-SFU2JydsRTu-7h0lwF08Q/s400/tugofwar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272064571234481282" border="0" /></a>Another picture I really like. Been working to clean it up.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-45163164527757951302008-11-23T19:12:00.003-06:002008-11-23T20:41:27.846-06:00Nikon School<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.nikonschool.com/index.html"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfyQqCdYyLSoksDgPYY7ukLiF45u4peZOcskupjUEMirrI0mm9gNg3LYygNhiZ-s-t1eeiBbrW5ysPT1fWE8V1Vmc9aASU9gXldAaE2h4SRn1dbRqNlDjFGQb3FPh0e7UwDFhMGW3Wz4/s320/nikonschoolmainCROP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272027512466943346" border="0" /></a>Wow, what an experience! <a href="http://www.nikonschool.com/index.html">Nikon School</a> is back in business, that's for sure. The course was taught by two professional photographers, <a href="http://www.billdurrence.com/">Bill Durrence</a> and <a href="http://www.reedhoffmann.com/">Reed Hoffman</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 1</span></span><br />The first day was packed. There were 300+ people int he auditorium. But the screen was big and the audio system well setup so it really wasn't a problem. My biggest complaint was the chairs. The hotel chairs put my butt to sleep after about an hour. They were awful. But you gotta suck it up if you want to get the knowledge, right? So the first half of the day was mostly on photographic theory and the interrelationship between ISO, f-stop and shutter speed. They did a fantastic job explaining how "stops" work and what the relationship is between these three critical forces in determining how exposure is handled.<br /><br />The afternoon session covered some basic aspects of the Nikon software and how it works together. They talked a bit about color management but it was pretty basic.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 2</span></span><br />The second day was the meat of the program. We started off talking about light and how light can be manipulated to enhance your photographs in a variety of ways. We learned how to use multiple flashes to turn an awful picture into an artistic one.<br /><br />We learned about color management and how important it is to calibrate your screen when working with digital images. Then the rest of the day we worked with the <a href="http://www.nikonusa.com/Find-Your-Nikon/Product/Imaging-Software/25385/Capture-NX-2.html">Nikon Capture NX</a> software (download a 60 day demo <a href="http://support.nikontech.com/cgi-bin/nikonusa.cfg/php/enduser/std_adp.php?p_faqid=61">here</a>). I learned a ton about how to do image manipulation to enhance and bring out the parts of the photography you want to enhance and how to tone down areas that need it. I learned about how to construct a good workflow for photo management and how to throw away pix you aren't going to use.<br /><br />The class was totally worth the cost. It will definitely make me a better photographer. Anyone interested in learning Digital SLR technology or how to enhance and improve your digital photos will benefit from this class.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-27141190831261470112008-11-22T17:21:00.000-06:002008-11-22T17:23:04.430-06:00Cleaning up old pix<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2bjgMiV2qGRv1plpG0D2ILx2LRfa8N2S2KJENQ4V_K280RhEMZfHdUhthMl6U1mnqtz733eK0pHyOz2PVrfQbRNCSVuJheg8iYH-2-Ar9h1Ako-svJoXrWJEmeZ9hW3L9MnD7ZHkxO0/s1600-h/Railroad+Sex.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2bjgMiV2qGRv1plpG0D2ILx2LRfa8N2S2KJENQ4V_K280RhEMZfHdUhthMl6U1mnqtz733eK0pHyOz2PVrfQbRNCSVuJheg8iYH-2-Ar9h1Ako-svJoXrWJEmeZ9hW3L9MnD7ZHkxO0/s400/Railroad+Sex.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271626295293203506" border="0" /></a><br />I always liked this one.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-90435823228191493602008-11-22T12:56:00.001-06:002008-11-22T12:57:51.902-06:00Rescued HaikuHere's a bunch of Haiku I originally posted on my sister site, Accidental Incidents. They deserve a home here.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My Autobiography</span><br /><br />The arrogance of knowing<br />Beams from every pore -<br />A fool!<br /><br />I am not wise enough<br />To write haiku,<br />The pen fails<br /><br />Tender autumn journey<br />A child nestled close;<br />Footsteps crunching<br /><br />Mud caked sandals snuggle<br />on clean wooden steps,<br />A rain shower!<br /><br />Buds on a branch<br />Nestled possibility;<br />Snowflakes gently fall<br /><br />Grieving husband bows<br />No more his wife wants him –<br />Tearful lotus blossom<br /><br />I slept peacefully<br />Once again<br />Beneath old willow tree<br /><br />Spring moonlight<br />Shines on frosted clover –<br />Morning gently breaks<br /><br />Scratch, scratch, scratch<br />The poet’s pen on paper<br />Makes me poor!<br /><br />A thousand lanterns float<br />Gentle breeze moves<br />Floating blossoms east<br /><br />Forever is a long time<br />To feel one way<br />Without another<br /><br />Noisy mountain brook<br />Cuts a rocky gap –<br />Carp make small circles<br /><br />Cold moonlit field<br />Winter wheat sprouts –<br />A rabbit!<br /><br />Nut-brown leaves tumble<br />into an icy stream,<br />My face distorted.<br /><br />Alone in the moonlight<br />A small dove lands<br />Snow falls on pines<br /><br />Along the snowy bank<br />Children's footprints;<br />Cold grey clouds<br /><br />Stony path decends<br />To oaken door, barred<br />Warm fire within<br /><br />Two boys sled<br />By the river bank<br />Mother turns away<br /><br />Cherry blossoms fall<br />From the woody branch.<br />A child runs to hide<br /><br />Fog hugs the pines<br />Gentle rain falls<br />A small boy walks alone<br /><br />Cherry blossoms fall<br />To nestle in the soft grass -<br />Another year to wait.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">[The next three were written in the Milwaukee Museum of Art. For 10 points, see if you can guess which artist is described in the 2nd one.]</span><br /><br />The gallery beckons<br />Level upon level of art -<br />What's THAT supposed to be?<br /><br />Green, Red, Blue<br />Panels of color -<br />A ripe answer to koan's Mu!<br /><br />Karma is a force<br />That has no force<br />Beyond what we feel.<br /><br />Snow softly blankets<br />Brown grass and weeds -<br />A jonquil!<br /><br />As she drifts through my mind<br />My zazen concentration ends -<br />A delightful breakdown.<br /><br />A gentle inspiration<br />In a shy, quiet smile -<br />Unexpected surprise!<br /><br />Cloudy, snowy day<br />The cold grips my heart -<br />Then I remember her and warm up.<br /><br />Without realizing it,<br />She has captured my spirit<br />In a little rabbit snare!<br /><br />Threads of karma collide<br />And weave a new pattern -<br />Life is quieter now.<br /><br />The wheel of karma spins<br />My life goes round and round -<br />Spin again!<br /><br />A ragged cat sleeps<br />In slits of summer sun -<br />He looks bored.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-53970410083925048882008-11-22T08:30:00.004-06:002008-11-22T08:40:02.942-06:00Toward?Quick thought. Any book title that starts with the word <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Toward"</span> will never, ever reach the intended destination because the author is much more interested in the journey through his or her own mind than in the ultimate answer to the question. For example:<br /><ul><li>Toward a Meaningful Life</li><li>Toward an Architecture</li><li>Toward a Psychology of Awakening</li><li>Toward a New Psychology of Women</li><li>Toward a New Film Aesthetics<br /></li></ul>Need I go on? None of these books will ever end up arriving at the station. They'll get two-thirds of the way there and declare victory. So you'll have a mostly meaningful life, but not totally. Or a partial awakening, or maybe some rehashed old Film Aesthetics in a shiny new theoretical case. You get the point.<br /><br />So beware. If you're looking for answers, try another book. But if you're looking to be taken for a ride through an author's thought processes with no hope of an answer, by all means, hop aboard the "Toward" express.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-59929316532828974652008-11-22T08:09:00.006-06:002008-11-22T08:24:31.161-06:00On Orgasms and AuthorsYou know when you haven't had sex in awhile and after a time, you stop thinking about it because it hurts too much to think about and even masturbation becomes a dull routine? And then when you finally get to have sex again, it's like rabbits on crystal meth? You know the drill (pun intended). It isn't so much a "quickie" as it is an "immediate-ie." But then you're able to brush back the cobwebs a bit and say, "OH YEAH!!! Now I remember why we do that!" And the next time isn't so urgent. There can be more care, more touching, more... foreplay.<br /><br />I find writing is the same. My NaNoWriMo experience was definitely one of "immediate-ie" speed. I was through 53,000 words in just over two weeks. People asked me how I managed to do that. I honestly don't know. Once I was in the groove, the words just came. It was the fastest I've ever written anything which tells me I was "pent up."<br /><br />All these words may turn out to be the wrong words, I'm editing now and there's a lot of red ink, but at least they're out there now and not rattling around in my skull like... skull rattling things (yeah, so sue me!). I won't carry the sex analogy too much further, but I have to say that NaNoWriMo was a literary and creative orgasm for me (a big one!). All that pent up creativity that I was recycling into snark at my office in the form of snide offhand remarks and disdainful irritation at my colleagues has transformed itself into something much more constructive. And now that the dam has burst (so to speak), I find myself seeking creative outlets like a writing nymphomaniac (Ok, now you've gone too far!).<br /><br />The juices are flowing, the ideas are twiddling around in my head, mixing and churning and I think I can get some of them out, on "paper" and maybe produce something worth reading one day. Or maybe not. But I'm still going to do it if for nobody else but me.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-13413461268504944072008-11-22T07:03:00.011-06:002008-11-22T07:48:12.939-06:00Another yearA tear stained jacket drapes his shoulders<br />Dark blue on light blue, rivulets run down.<br />A pattern of sorrow etched in satin<br />Friends look away from each other<br />Their eyes will not meet for fear of weeping<br />In disbelief they wander lost<br />Joy to Disbelief<br />Disbelief to Desperation<br />Desperation to Despair<br />Despair to... Nothing. Hollow. Gutted.<br />Another year gone another year<br />With nothing. Another barren<br />Empty, pointless year gone.<br /><br />Nothing to show for all the pain, the agony<br />The struggle. Only then to suffer the<br />Agonizing bitter taste of defeat beyond measure.<br /><br />The ivy covered wall stands mute<br />The building is quiet again, asleep<br />For the long, cold winter.<br /><br />Sun and Moon gaze down upon grass and dirt<br />A place of such epic tragedy, Ilium's sands<br />Were not so bloody as these fragile blades.<br />Ground trodden by warriors of passion equal to the<br />Heroes of old; Achilles, Hector, Paris, Odysseus<br />Smiling to themselves that a people of such<br />Lofty aspirations, a century old, such soaring ambition<br />Would fall so quickly into a black lustrous oblivion.<br /><br />A people in shock, dimly alive stare ahead without sight<br />Gazes do not cross, lover's eyes estranged from passion<br />A flame extinguised.<br /><br />The silent frozen street's muted colors mix with rancid odors<br />Wafting from iron grates like prison bars embedded in <br />The filthy asphalt holding at bay phantoms unseen.<br />City dwellers slouch through the day as if sleeping or dead<br />Another year gone with nothing to show. Another year.<br /><br />"Fucking Cubs."<br />"Just wait 'till next year!"<br /><br /><br /><br />Pulled this one together at breakfast in the hotel this morning. I had the basic framework in my head by the time I finished eating. I added the Ilium stuff later since it seemed a good analogy. Modern sports are our "war" and when I think war, I think Ancient Greece. What's wrong with me?<br /><br />The inspiration came from a guy I saw at breakfast. He was decked out in Cubs regalia (hat, t-shirt, satin jacket, all with some Cubs logo) and he was the saddest looking guy I've seen in a long time. I don't know whether he's still pining for the lost Cubbies, but it put me back in the mind of watching the playoffs again and what Amy and I went through watching the Breweres. He was sitting there in his Cubs stuff, it made me wonder what it would have been like to be a Cubs fan and to have made it through the whole season with the best record in baseball, then to drop 4 straight to the Dodgers. Not even win a<span style="font-weight: bold;"> GAME!</span><br /><br />Even my little Brewers managed to take a game from the World Champion Philies this year. That's enough to hang your hat on during the off season, something to keep the fires banked and the coals warm until spring training. But to have had such a season as the Cubbies had and then to fall apart when it mattered, that would, in a word, <span style="font-weight: bold;">suck</span>. But Chicago, for all it's "huskiness" and "big shoulders," is an optimistic place and the streets will warm up and the Cubs will return in the spring and will again do battle with Hector, Achilles and all the others vying for that World Series Championship Ring.<br /><br />Here's a excerpt from <span style="font-style: italic;">Chicago</span> by Carl Sandburg which sums up the city quite well. You can find the entire volume of <a href="http://poetry.eserver.org/chicago-poems.txt"><span style="font-style: italic;">Chicago Poems</span> online</a>.<br /><br /><pre>They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I<br /> have seen your painted women under the gas lamps<br /> luring the farm boys.<br />And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it<br /> is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to<br /> kill again.<br />And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the<br /> faces of women and children I have seen the marks<br /> of wanton hunger.<br />And having answered so I turn once more to those who<br /> sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer<br /> and say to them:<br />Come and show me another city with lifted head singing<br /> so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.<br />Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on<br /> job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the<br /> little soft cities;<br /></pre><br />A tall bold slugger indeed.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-81385070244229858292008-11-21T07:42:00.003-06:002008-11-21T07:45:15.803-06:00What to do with defective parts?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.best-microcontroller-projects.com/image-files/robbie-the-robot-20020500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://www.best-microcontroller-projects.com/image-files/robbie-the-robot-20020500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"When life hands you cogs, make robots!"</span><br /></div><br /><br />Man, this one just popped into my head yesterday from nowhere. I think it's kinda cute. I was listening to the song Machinehead by Bush at the time so you do the math... (I was told there would BE no math!)Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-16251747859492458842008-11-21T05:56:00.001-06:002008-11-21T12:20:26.144-06:00Love on a Patch of IceA brief chuckle under his breath<br />As she slips on the ice he<br />So deftly avoided<br />With a move like Fred Astaire<br />In jeans and parka and gloves<br />Puffy arm plucks her<br />From assured catastrophe.<br /><br />"Thank you!"<br />Soft down in clenched fists<br />"You saved my ass."<br />He looks her in the eyes<br />Without smiling<br />"It was an ass worth saving."Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457284474002628538.post-68752822829713642592008-11-18T21:08:00.000-06:002008-11-18T21:24:18.192-06:00The Price of RecessionHe came home that night<br />Quiet, don't wake the family<br />Shoes off, sliding on socks<br />Like when he was young<br />When things were simpler<br />And a man could provide<br /><br />Slide through the kitchen<br />And down the hall to the cellar door<br />Quiet as a wraith, silent shade<br />No sound as he descends<br />The old wooden stairs<br /><br />Concrete floor, cold through socks<br />Sapping his energy with icy fingers pulling<br />Down into the cold earth, cold ground<br />Drawing him down to rest<br /><br />To the workbench he moves<br />His father's tools arrayed before him<br />Surrounded by the past, what matters most<br />Invisible to the future, what should have been<br />He bows his head in shame.<br /><br />In his pocket a handwritten note and<br />A crumpled form letter on letterhead<br />"Due to the economy we are forced<br />To release you effective immediately"<br />18 years a working man, never questioned<br />What he was supposed to do<br />Never asked for more than his due<br />Not yet 40<br /><br />The stillness of the dark is broken<br />Quiet night cracked open by<br />A single shot. The dog barks in his pen<br />Tearing at the fence with ragged teeth<br />Desperate to be free, released from this snare.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12247223131125650841noreply@blogger.com2