It's even better when coated with gravy, accompanied by dressing (not stuffing) and some delicious sweet potatoes.
Trust me. It was as delicious as it looks.Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter dinner
Mag 8
Or is it a Phoenix Bird,
campfire?
I gaze at the scene,
unfolding its miniature terror,
and I wonder . . .
What bird is this?
And, Willow, thanks for driving me crazy with this prompt!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
A little mystery
"Boss, there's a new girl in town. Dark hair, nice eyes, sassy. Goes by the name of Tess. Tess Kincaid. We're not sure yet what her racket is but she looks dangerous."
"Tess Kincaid. Now that's a monicker. You got any background on her at all?"
"Well, we hear she came from Dillinger country . . Indiana . . but she turned up here around Columbus some time back. And get this . . . we only just found out her real name. She's been goin' by the name of Willow and claims she lives in a haunted house that she calls Willow Manor."
"A haunted house?"
"Yeah, she claims people have heard strange noises at night and even seen wispy spirits walkin' around. But she doesn't seem scared of 'em at all, just kinda laughs it off."
"Hmmm, that's a little strange. Any idea what she does to keep payin' the rent?"
"Apparently she doesn't have any problems there. She's got some guy who travels a lot who takes care of that. So she just stays at home and writes poetry."
"Poetry!"
"Yeah, she's pretty good, too. Whimsical, I think they call it."
"Well, she sounds harmless but let's keep an eye on her."
"O.K. Boss. That'll be a pleasure."
"Tess Kincaid, aka Willow. Interesting."
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This little mystery was prompted by a blog posting here this morning. I just couldn't resist.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Yellow is the color of Spring
Monday, March 29, 2010
Mag 7
"We all live in a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine, a yellow subm . . ."
What’s that?
A daffodil?
Are you quite sure?
Hmmm.
Well.
Never mind, then.
=======================
I told you it was different. To see the other creations click here.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, Sunday
I haven't posted since Monday. Living on my Mag 6, you say.
Well, not really. I just haven't had a thing to say. I've been watching the NCAA basketball tournament and following, with glee, the fortunes of Butler's Bulldogs, which are in the Final 4 next week.
I've been keeping tabs on a friend, who is in the hospital.
I've been reading "Game Change". It's a book in the likes of those written by Theodore H. White but it's more superficial. Maybe it's perfect for this era but it's fun, with lots of gossip on the 2008 presidential race.
And I've watched a couple of movies - "The Men Who Stare at Goats" - a totally mindless hour and a half but a bit funny; and "Broken Embraces" - with the perfectly lovely Penelope Cruz and her favorite director, Pedro Almodovar. That one was better.
So, you see, I've been kind of busy. I'll be back.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Mag 6
I passed through the gates at the institution for the criminally insane, past thick iron bars, past stolid armed guards. I was told bluntly to stop, to raise my arms and was frisked thoroughly. As the guards eyed me, seemingly hostile, I felt a nervous tremor in my stomach. I was not a threat but they didn’t know that. They knew only that I was here to visit one of their most dangerous prisoners.
Burt Jensen had been born in a tarpaper shack on a dirt poor northern Wisconsin farm. He lived through his childhood in that shack with only a small iron stove for heat, sleeping on a ragged pad with one blanket on the floor in one corner of the single room that housed them all. His mother had died giving birth to him. He had one brother four years older, who used to beat him nearly every day and steal food from the tin plate on which he ate. Those were the good days. The day his father, Olav, didn’t beat him.
One night they both beat him, kicked him into a small bundle and left him on his pallet while they laughed and drank the evil smelling alcohol they brewed out of potatoes. Later that night, after they had passed out, he took a knife and cut both of their throats.
When the police came to take him away, he was hollow-eyed and chanting, over and over
Fratricide,
Patricide,
Cops call it
Homicide.
That’s all the authorities ever got out of him. Just that mad rhyme. That was all he had ever spoken since that horrible night.
So now he was here. In the bowels of this huge grey institution. And so was I.
I was a reporter. After months and months of effort, I finally had been granted this opportunity to talk to Burt Jensen. Was I fearful? Oh, yes. Even in spite of knowing that he would be shackled, hand and foot, and I would be "protected" by the armed guard in the same room.
So I entered. And waited. The room was empty except for a small wooden table and two straight-backed wooden chairs.
I jumped as I heard the door clang open. And Burt Jensen came in, with a guard holding tightly to one arm. His dark hair was disheveled and hung down on his forehead. His eyes were on the floor. The guard roughly pushed him down into the chair by the table opposite me. I sat and, slowly, his eyes rose to my face. They were blank.
My long sought interview was a disaster. Burt Jensen didn’t answer any of my questions, he didn’t respond at all, he just stared. Not at me, exactly, but through me. He sat still for the entire time, just staring.
Finally, I had enough. I gave up. I turned off my recorder, looked at the guard and nodded. He took Burt Jensen’s arm and raised him from his chair. And I turned to leave. As my back turned, I heard, for the first time, Burt Jensen’s voice.
Nails in his arms,
Spear in his side,
Jesus Christ
Was crucified.
I stood there, stunned, as he repeated the words over and over again as the guard shouldered him down the hall. His words grew fainter as my hands gripped the edge of the table in an effort to stop the trembling.
==============================
This is the sixth in series of weekly writing exercises initiated by Willow, who posts a photo and invites people to write a poem or a story or an essay based on it. You can learn more and read other entrants' writings at Magpie Tales.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
R.I.P. Stuart Udall
My favorite line from his obituary in today's New York Times reads as follows:
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A nearly private concert
They are, from left to right, Larry, Cousin Bonnie, Clayton and LaLonnie.
Spring is here!
A fine day for a bit of drinkin' of the Guiness!
Update - 4 p.m. - the high reached 71 degrees (F). What a fine day it is!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Mag 5
It never worked very well. It was supposed to be controlled by nerves in what was left of his arm. But it didn’t. When he wanted to put it forth to grasp another’s hand, it frequently shot up the middle finger in what was thought to be an obscene gesture.
==================================================
This is the fifth in a series of writing tests based on photo prompts put forth by Willow. You can read other entrants' offerings at Magpie Tales.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday night
Arizona State University's basketball team was passed over for the N.C.A.A. tournament today. The N.I.T. tournament picked them as the #1 seed. The University of Arizona was passed over by both tournaments.
Glenn Beck has suggested that anyone who is a member of a religion that supports "social justice" shoud leave it. Beck is a member of the Mormon Church. No word yet on when he's leaving it.
The "media" is saying this is crunch week for the Obama administration's push for health care reform. Time will tell.
The weather is warming here in Arizona. The forecast is for the 60's all week. I'm ready.
That is all.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
This godawful winter
By 5 o'clock this afternoon it was 50 degrees and the weather person says it will reach 60 tomorrow.
How can a person achieve any stability in his life if the weather can't?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Another recommendation
Monday, March 8, 2010
Spring in Indiana
Mag 4
"What the hell is that thing?"
"It’s an elephant."
"Awfully small elephant."
"It’s a baby. A young one."
"Well why do you have it? You carry it with you all the time."
"It brings me good luck."
"Good luck! We’ve been in this damned prison for nearly 27 years! Some good luck."
"But we’re still alive aren’t we?"
"Sometimes I wonder about that."
"Have to keep on believing though. One of these days it’s all going to get better."
"Yeah, one of these days we’re gonna die and then it all WILL be better."
"Ah, now, you’ve got to have hope. Be like the elephant."
"Ha! How long does an elephant live?"
"They say it can live for some 70 years."
"Yeah, and how old are you now? 72?"
"Oh not quite. But I still have hope."
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Several weeks later – the guard opens the cell door. It is February 11th, 1990. After 27 years, Nelson Mandela and his cellmate are released from prison. Mandela leaves the small elephant on the sill of his barred window, smiles and walks out into a changed world.
It has been questioned as to whether this story is true or not. One fact is accurate. Nelson Mandela was released from prison on February 11th, 1990 after 27 years of confinement. The rest . . . is all my imagination.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Oscars
But . . . all in all . . . 5 for 7 isn't bad.
Me and my big mouth!
Yesterday I was bragging to some friends back East that it was pushing 60 degrees here. This morning, it became evident that rain had fallen during the night. And a little while ago . . . WHAT? SNOW? AGAIN? YeGods!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Recession? What recession?
Meantime, down at Glassford Hill Road and Lakeshore Drive, another project is underway. This, I am told, will be a Maverick service station and store.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Lily and Jet
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Magpie Tales 3
Brought a package that brings joyful sounds,
A box of fresh weed
All foil-wrapped, indeed,
A kilo that weighs two-plus pounds.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
A rant
Our sainted Arizona legislature, overcome by Republicans, has decided rather than try to solve its budget crisis that the most important thing to do is to object to President Barack Obama's right to serve. To wit, that he is not a citizen of the United States. He has never produced a birth certificate that confirms that he was born in Hawaii (a state) but that his birthplace was in Kenya. There is a photo circulating on the Internet showing a sign that says "Welcome to Kenya, birthplace of President Barack Obama." Of course, it has been shown to have been Photoshopped and is totally false. But the "birthers" still proclaim it.
Now, a crazy woman from a place known as Skull Valley, in Arizona, has introduced a bill in the Arizona legislature to insist that future candidates for the presidency proclaim their birth as U.S. citizens.
It is obvious hatred.
What is painful is that some 40 members of the legislature (Republicans all) have signed onto this crazed piece of legislation.
What is wrong with them? Are they crazy? Or are they just so biased against a popularly elected president of the United States that their sensibilities have become enraged and biased?
Lucy Mason, Andy Tobin and their co-horts in the legislature should be ashamed of themselves.
And most of all . . . Judy Burges, who sponsored this abominable legislation.
If you, as responsible voters, have any common sense at all, you will vote against all of these people in the future.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
An Elvis breakfast
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Olympics Fever
I obediently padded down the hall and said "What?"
She said a woman from a two-woman bobsled team had just been thrown out of her sled and skidded down the track on her backside.
I asked if the sled had run over her and SWMBO responded "No, she was behind it."
I unfeelingly said "I don't really have any use for the Olympics, winter or summer."
SWMBO responded sharply "Oh, yes, you'll watch 9 months of baseball or football games on television."
. . . . .
After thinking that over, I returned to the fray and said, smartly, "Baseball is the national pastime and I'd certainly rather spend my time with it than to watch a bunch of silly girls fall out of sleds or a bunch of girly-guys use brooms to sweep the ice in front of what they call a stone!"
. . . . .
I know.
I'm going to pay for that.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Catalyst's big Oscar predictions
Foreign Language Film:
"The White Ribbon" *
Supporting Actress:
Mo'Nique in "Precious: Based on the novel 'Push' by Sapphire" *
Supporting Actor:
Christoph Waltz in "Inglorious Basterds" *
Actress in a Leading Role:
Meryl Streep in "Julie and Julia"
Actor in a Leading Role:
Jeff Bridges in "Crazy Heart"
Best Director:
Kathryn Bigelow for "The Hurt Locker"
Best Movie:
The Hurt Locker
I know this goes against the huge push for "Avator" and James Cameron and I have not seen the movie. But I was so impressed by the Hurt Locker and by the fact that this high testosterone movie was directed so well by a woman that I can't overlook it. And things I've read about Avatar and its big-ego director make me believe the Academy may turn on it.
March 7th . . we'll all see.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Magpie Tales II (Two)
The Hotel Forum. Now, the Hotel Crowne Plaza. In Bratislava. How the times have changed. Slovakia. It dates back to 270,000 BCE. Before the Christian Era. Not the hotel. The country. But it’s all changed. Now the Hotel Forum is the Hotel Crowne Plaza. It’s still across the street from the Presidential Palace. But it’s different.
Restaurant Magd a Lena is still there. But there is now Restaurant Fusion. Fusion? What the hell is that? Fusion music is awful. What can the restaurant be like?
But . . . the Forum. Let’s take it back in time.
I was there in 1959. It was dark then. The rooms were lit by multiple candles. It was warm, from the heat of many fireplaces and by the ambience of those candles. Hundreds of candles, throughout the restaurant and the hotel and the halls. Candles in sconces on the walls. Warm. Beautiful.
There were exotic women in gorgeous gowns. Men in tuxedos. Gourmet meals. Champagne.
And then.
(No, I didn’t wake up.)
There was more.
I was posing as a businessman but I was really an operative for a government agency I won’t identify, even now. I waited inside the hotel lobby, looking for a certain man.
Then I saw him. He was tall. He had a dark moustache. He had dark hair. His eyes were intense, also dark, betraying nothing except that he was dangerous. He and I had long been enemies. I had been told he was in Bratislava to assassinate the president. He was Drago.
Our eyes met and he smiled slightly as we nodded to each other. I walked slowly into the cognac bar at the hotel. He followed. I sat at a small round table. He gazed around the room. We were alone in the room except for a bartender who was watching a noisy soccer game on the television over the bar. Then he approached me, pulled out a chair and carefully sat down at the same table. We each ordered and the bartender brought us our cognacs. I gazed into his eyes as we both sipped from our glasses. We knew we were enemies. Yet friends.
I drew a cigarette from my pack of Gauloises and offered him one. He declined and took one from his own pack. A Russian cigarette. He took out the matches from his box . . . Hotel Forum, Bratislava . . . and moved to light his cigarette. In the glare from his matchlight, I quickly pulled my silenced gun and shot him between the eyes. And killed him. The bartender heard nothing over the blaring sound from his television.
I left Drago’s burnt match lying across the open box on the table and slipped quietly out of the bar.
The president was safe.
For now.
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This is the second in a set of writing exercises under the name of Magpie Tales, organized by Willow. You can read more and join the fun by clicking here.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Winter returns - - - - - maybe
The weather forecast says we could get 5 to 8 inches of snow tonight. We'll see.
Update: It's now down to 1 to 3 inches of snow if we get anything.
In the meantime, here are some sky scenes all shot within a few minutes of each other.