Today’s post is a personal opinion. Don’t get over ripped by it. I’m sure you have some opinions I won’t like. Not that you will particularly care, but… You are free to disagree, both in the philosophy of my political ideology and my religion. I hope you can say the same.
“Islam seeks to destroy everyone but itself. And when there is no one else around, it turns upon itself. I don't understand it, but that's the rule of mechanics I see it following.” That is the statement I left today as a comment on Mike’s America. Sticking my neck out to be politically incorrect may not be so smart, particularly in a land where we have traditionally espoused freedom to practice the religion of your choice. But, I’m just going to tell you exactly what I think, no holds barred. Let the chips fall where they may. I find Islam to be a cult following of an ideology that hides behind the face of religion, using appeal through the core human emotions to promote and veil itself.
What Islam seems to do best is legitimize the murder of anyone outside of its status quo of the moment. While other religions of the world tout “live and let live”, or “live and let die”, Islam’s ideology claiming to be a religion, touts “die killing anyone different”. That has to be the strangest philosophy for evangelism ever contrived.
Nothing is ever really simple in the whole, but many things are simple at the core. For me, Islam is simple at this core spot. I’m sure I will be called a simple minded, ignoramus for this opinion. Well, while everything in life isn’t simple, everything in life isn’t complicated either. For me, this one is simple. Intolerance and hatred, no matter who, what, when, where, how, or why once injected into anything, breeds pain, destruction, and death. Pain, destruction, and death aren’t quite what any of us start out searching for in a religion are they?
That’s just an opinion from beneath the Carolina moon, and you know what they say about opinions. We have an ample supply of those here also, beneath the Carolina moon. Thankfully, most of them are damnyankees.
Dread
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Ménage à Blog
I’ve noticed that my posts generally seem to be about twice as long as is comfortable to read. Maybe three times? Anywho, henceforth, I’m going to try to be more concise, to the point, and in general; brief. I’m not making hard contract promises. I just promise to try to improve. At least I will try. That’s more than a lot of blog writers that I’ve quit reading ever did.
One that I haven't quit reading is Shannon at Bless Your Heart. That ceramic fish that she posted a pic of a while back has bothered me. It just creeped me out. This morning, it finally clicked that the face on the fish is perhaps the face of the caterpillar from Alice In Wonderland. Hmmm? Speaking of wonderland, I'm giving a free pass to the funny but maybe scary People's Cube web site. Be your own jury.
Yesterday, I was treated once again to a performance of a grand master manure spreader. I stood in awe, as he spewed such a widely ranging torrent of English verbosity over a simple subject and concept, so as to completely shroud it in a thick mire of what one could only politely call mental fecal something nor other. The verbal barrage was relentless for several minutes, completely offending all minds of any level of cultivation or sophistication within ear fall. For anyone to have to be exposed to it, was criminal. It was an even greater crime that his boss sat there, actually beaming proudly over his accomplishment, his hands clasped in a prayerful expression of his admiration, with a proud smirk accenting his glowing stare of infatuation.
Another of his boss’s underlings had to go and show off by saying, “I understand what he is saying.” Wow! That placed him in some elite category. Then, he proceeded to paraphrase the linguistic equivalent of an interstate highway, into a few simple common English sentences. “Ooooh touch you!”, I thought. I had to wonder if he is as infatuated with the manure spreader as his boss obviously is, or just so thrilled with his own ability to understand tortured and overworked English, that he couldn’t keep it to himself. Either way, all three of them appeared to the rest of the room, as three very strange men, of questionable mental balance and social relationship. I think everyone felt sorry for those that had to return to work with the ménage à trois. They have my sympathy.
Speaking of sympathy, Palmetto Sweetheart has a list of notable deaths of recent. And it seems she has taken SC Girly Grl’s crazy test and failed. I figure she either cheated on the test, or just didn’t understand the questions. If that sounds crazy, that’s okay. I passed the test, and of course have been state certified as crazy for years. It seems SC Girly Grl is looking for more answers than the crazy test can extract. Sometimes answers come with the questions, and sometimes they come later, like in the next day’s mail. But sometimes… Oh, I could go on about questions and answers all day, and still be nowhere but in philosophy land. Some things can be explained, and some things can’t. And that’s just the way it is, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
One that I haven't quit reading is Shannon at Bless Your Heart. That ceramic fish that she posted a pic of a while back has bothered me. It just creeped me out. This morning, it finally clicked that the face on the fish is perhaps the face of the caterpillar from Alice In Wonderland. Hmmm? Speaking of wonderland, I'm giving a free pass to the funny but maybe scary People's Cube web site. Be your own jury.
Yesterday, I was treated once again to a performance of a grand master manure spreader. I stood in awe, as he spewed such a widely ranging torrent of English verbosity over a simple subject and concept, so as to completely shroud it in a thick mire of what one could only politely call mental fecal something nor other. The verbal barrage was relentless for several minutes, completely offending all minds of any level of cultivation or sophistication within ear fall. For anyone to have to be exposed to it, was criminal. It was an even greater crime that his boss sat there, actually beaming proudly over his accomplishment, his hands clasped in a prayerful expression of his admiration, with a proud smirk accenting his glowing stare of infatuation.
Another of his boss’s underlings had to go and show off by saying, “I understand what he is saying.” Wow! That placed him in some elite category. Then, he proceeded to paraphrase the linguistic equivalent of an interstate highway, into a few simple common English sentences. “Ooooh touch you!”, I thought. I had to wonder if he is as infatuated with the manure spreader as his boss obviously is, or just so thrilled with his own ability to understand tortured and overworked English, that he couldn’t keep it to himself. Either way, all three of them appeared to the rest of the room, as three very strange men, of questionable mental balance and social relationship. I think everyone felt sorry for those that had to return to work with the ménage à trois. They have my sympathy.
Speaking of sympathy, Palmetto Sweetheart has a list of notable deaths of recent. And it seems she has taken SC Girly Grl’s crazy test and failed. I figure she either cheated on the test, or just didn’t understand the questions. If that sounds crazy, that’s okay. I passed the test, and of course have been state certified as crazy for years. It seems SC Girly Grl is looking for more answers than the crazy test can extract. Sometimes answers come with the questions, and sometimes they come later, like in the next day’s mail. But sometimes… Oh, I could go on about questions and answers all day, and still be nowhere but in philosophy land. Some things can be explained, and some things can’t. And that’s just the way it is, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Testing, Testing...
My religious preferences test results from yesterday, seem to point toward an interdenominational mission that, although the form and full vision for which is yet to completely unfold, has been hinted at in many ways already. So the test results are not really surprising. This is just a continuation of what has already started unfolding. And that is a serious matter upon which I don’t joke.
In a previous life was I a Quaker? I don’t even know anything about the Quakers. Wasn’t Richard Nixon a Quaker? Well I’m not a crook either! I once ate in a restaurant owned and operated by what I think were Mennonites. I’m not sure. The women wore these crocheted things on the back of their heads and long dresses. They were pretty, had good bread and good home cooked type meals. I can’t remember why I thought they were Mennonites, but at the time there was something to indicate that they probably were.
The years have clouded my memory of a lot of minor events of my life. I pulled off the interstate somewhere and ate and went on about my way. Where was I and where was I going, and with whom? I don’t remember. It must have been a semi-uneventful trip. Except for eating in a restaurant, that for some reason, I believe was operated by Mennonites and, I vaguely remember, was maybe a large yellow building, I don’t remember much else. My mind recalls, the ladies that waited the tables, good country cooked food, exceptional bread, and then my memory goes flat.
Isn’t it strange how my memory tends to discard masses of events and their details, but hold on to seemingly trivia, like pretty women and good food? I think that’s because pretty women and good food are no trivial matters. They are two of the seven flavors of life. What are the other five? I forget just now. But these two are important to a man. Right now, I haven’t had breakfast, so it’s hard for me to think much further. Without my morning bowl of oatmeal I’m without fortitude. A world without pretty women? Well, that would be a trivial place in the universe, that I wouldn’t want to even visit.
Speaking of trivia, as a point of trivia, I will point out one of those strange truths of life. All women are born pretty. It’s what happens to them afterwards that makes them plain, harsh, ugly or beautiful. It’s what happens in their hearts and to their hearts. Déjà vu! I’ve made this statement before and caught loads of criticism over it. Life just isn’t quiet that simple I’m told. Yeah I know. But it’s fun stirring things and people up and watching the debris fly around.
Today Mike, over at Mike’s America, is stirred up about multiculturalism. Since he is also moonlighting over at Palmetto Pundit while Barry is on vacation, you can drink the same water at either trough. SC Girly Grl has a crazy test. I scored 100%. Crazy I do joke about. Crazy is too serious to not joke about. Crazy is what keeps me sane, here beneath the Carolina moon. We all should be crazy tested. I expect it would explain a lot.
Dread
In a previous life was I a Quaker? I don’t even know anything about the Quakers. Wasn’t Richard Nixon a Quaker? Well I’m not a crook either! I once ate in a restaurant owned and operated by what I think were Mennonites. I’m not sure. The women wore these crocheted things on the back of their heads and long dresses. They were pretty, had good bread and good home cooked type meals. I can’t remember why I thought they were Mennonites, but at the time there was something to indicate that they probably were.
The years have clouded my memory of a lot of minor events of my life. I pulled off the interstate somewhere and ate and went on about my way. Where was I and where was I going, and with whom? I don’t remember. It must have been a semi-uneventful trip. Except for eating in a restaurant, that for some reason, I believe was operated by Mennonites and, I vaguely remember, was maybe a large yellow building, I don’t remember much else. My mind recalls, the ladies that waited the tables, good country cooked food, exceptional bread, and then my memory goes flat.
Isn’t it strange how my memory tends to discard masses of events and their details, but hold on to seemingly trivia, like pretty women and good food? I think that’s because pretty women and good food are no trivial matters. They are two of the seven flavors of life. What are the other five? I forget just now. But these two are important to a man. Right now, I haven’t had breakfast, so it’s hard for me to think much further. Without my morning bowl of oatmeal I’m without fortitude. A world without pretty women? Well, that would be a trivial place in the universe, that I wouldn’t want to even visit.
Speaking of trivia, as a point of trivia, I will point out one of those strange truths of life. All women are born pretty. It’s what happens to them afterwards that makes them plain, harsh, ugly or beautiful. It’s what happens in their hearts and to their hearts. Déjà vu! I’ve made this statement before and caught loads of criticism over it. Life just isn’t quiet that simple I’m told. Yeah I know. But it’s fun stirring things and people up and watching the debris fly around.
Today Mike, over at Mike’s America, is stirred up about multiculturalism. Since he is also moonlighting over at Palmetto Pundit while Barry is on vacation, you can drink the same water at either trough. SC Girly Grl has a crazy test. I scored 100%. Crazy I do joke about. Crazy is too serious to not joke about. Crazy is what keeps me sane, here beneath the Carolina moon. We all should be crazy tested. I expect it would explain a lot.
Dread
Monday, June 26, 2006
Carolina Blogger Links
As if damnyankees trying to be experts on Southern cuisine isn’t bad enough, now we have geriatric strippers on American TV. SC Girly Grl gave the idea what’s for in her Thursday blog post. I to agree with her opinions on this issue. In fact, I’m at a loss for words. I sat through the first few seconds of the performance before leaving the room in disgust. Check out her post though.
The Palmetto Pundit is on vacation but has a guest blogger, Mike, of Mike’s America filling in. When I started this blog and the previous one tied to my original site, it never crossed my mind to have a guest blogger for the weeks when I was on the road or vacationing. I may try that this year, or not. We’ll see. But in the Palmetto Pundit’s case, Mike, another Carolina blogger, is doing an excellent job. And Barry still popped in with a post. Drop in and have a read.
I’ve been hunting Carolina bloggers to link here. It seems there are plenty, but few who aren’t totally whacko. I’m not talking eccentric. Heck, all Southerners are eccentric. It’s a moral obligation that comes with being Southern. I’m talking certifiable nut case, wrap’em up tight in that duct tape Bubba, he’s dangerous, whacko!
But,I am finding a few gentle souls to link, like Shannon. She’s a Floridian by birth, who’s been here beneath the Carolina moon since age 3. Her dogs are so ugly that they’re almost cute (kind of like my offspring), but the beauty of her summer plastic dish collection puts Waterford to shame. Drop by Bless Your Heart and say hello to Shannon. Shannon also tipped me to another couple of Carolina bloggers for possible links. Thanks Shannon.
Also added is Mike's America. Mentioned at the beginning of this post, Mike hails from Hilton Head, a Carolina subsidiary, and keeps an interestingly conservative eye for national and political issues. He brings a mainstream balance to our eclectic collection of links. You can’t say that Carolina is without variety and scope when it comes to personalities. The Carolina Blogger Links are becoming a well rounded collection, but a few more are needed to give it a full hand. If you have anyone to recommend, please drop me a line or just leave a post comment.
Taking the bait from Palmetto Sweetheart, I took the denominational, ritual, traditions, standards, something-or-other, test. The results were about the same as the instant diagnosis every psychiatrist that ever met me has given. Nobody’s sure exactly how to classify anyone this twisted. Actually, I found that the multiple guess format, leaves something to be desired of the test. I usually disagreed with choices A, B, and C and choice D was “Not sure”. More often than not, I was dead sure alright, but my sure answer wasn’t choice A, B, nor C, so I left unsure, even though I was sure. So I disagreed with all four answers, but wasn’t given that choice.
It felt like I was in the army. Sure, wear any color pants you want, just as long as its olive drab green. So I’m not satisfied with the test questions, but I can’t argue with the results. If Voodun and Rastafarianism had been on the list, no doubt I would have scored high on those too. It seems I just score high for religion, even if I do mark “not sure” more than a pole trailing politician. Isn’t it strange how politicians strongly support religion in an unofficial generic way?
Anywho, I’ve posted my scores below. Drop by Palmetto Sweetheart and follow her links to see where you come out. As you can see, all those psychiatrists were right about me, or darn close. I’ve not shot anyone lately, and am not being medicated, nor indicted. But… probably enough said. Go take the quick little test. It won’t kill you, unless you’re Presbyterian, and I don’t have time or space to explain that issue. Just take my word for it. I won’t be judgmental of you if you won’t be judgmental of me.
(100%) 1: Anabaptist (Mennonite/Quaker etc.)
(100%) 2: Pentecostal/Charismatic/Assemblies of God
(97%) 3: Eastern Orthodox
(88%) 4: Anglican/Episcopal/Church of England
(88%) 5: Methodist/Wesleyan/Nazarene
(79%) 6: Seventh-Day Adventist
(76%) 7: Congregational/United Church of Christ
(70%) 8: Lutheran
(70%) 9: Roman Catholic
(58%) 10: Baptist (non-Calvinistic)/Plymouth Brethren/Fundamentalist
(55%) 11: Presbyterian/Reformed
(47%) 12: Baptist (Reformed/Particular/Calvinistic
(29%) 13: Church of Christ/Campbellite
If happy little blue birds fly beyond the rainbow then why oh why can’t I? Because the freaking blue birds don’t fly beyond the rainbow, and to start with, you don’t have wings Dorothy! The blackberries are ripening. Get a bucket, watch for snakes, and don’t come home with a head full of ticks! No, I’m not coming with you. I picked my share of blackberries before age 12. From age 12 to 18 I picked plums. From 18 to whenever, just never mind. Suffice to say, you can have gray hair and still be reaping wild oats. So mind you Clifford, stick with picking blackberries. At least the stain they leave on your hands is an honest stain.
Do I plan to explain the above paragraph? Nope. But, I figure that I’ve accomplished enough grouching here over the last three posts and need to make a 180 with my attitude. So, from here forward, I’ll try to only have positive stuff. We’ll see how long that will last. Anyone want to start an office pool?
This could be one of those summers that never ends. It wouldn’t be the first, nor would it be the last. Let’s redecorate the patio and let winter worry on its own. That’s just the way it goes here in the deep South. Nothing is ever quiet logical, nor 100% real here beneath the Carolina moon, even when it is.
Dread
The Palmetto Pundit is on vacation but has a guest blogger, Mike, of Mike’s America filling in. When I started this blog and the previous one tied to my original site, it never crossed my mind to have a guest blogger for the weeks when I was on the road or vacationing. I may try that this year, or not. We’ll see. But in the Palmetto Pundit’s case, Mike, another Carolina blogger, is doing an excellent job. And Barry still popped in with a post. Drop in and have a read.
I’ve been hunting Carolina bloggers to link here. It seems there are plenty, but few who aren’t totally whacko. I’m not talking eccentric. Heck, all Southerners are eccentric. It’s a moral obligation that comes with being Southern. I’m talking certifiable nut case, wrap’em up tight in that duct tape Bubba, he’s dangerous, whacko!
But,I am finding a few gentle souls to link, like Shannon. She’s a Floridian by birth, who’s been here beneath the Carolina moon since age 3. Her dogs are so ugly that they’re almost cute (kind of like my offspring), but the beauty of her summer plastic dish collection puts Waterford to shame. Drop by Bless Your Heart and say hello to Shannon. Shannon also tipped me to another couple of Carolina bloggers for possible links. Thanks Shannon.
Also added is Mike's America. Mentioned at the beginning of this post, Mike hails from Hilton Head, a Carolina subsidiary, and keeps an interestingly conservative eye for national and political issues. He brings a mainstream balance to our eclectic collection of links. You can’t say that Carolina is without variety and scope when it comes to personalities. The Carolina Blogger Links are becoming a well rounded collection, but a few more are needed to give it a full hand. If you have anyone to recommend, please drop me a line or just leave a post comment.
Taking the bait from Palmetto Sweetheart, I took the denominational, ritual, traditions, standards, something-or-other, test. The results were about the same as the instant diagnosis every psychiatrist that ever met me has given. Nobody’s sure exactly how to classify anyone this twisted. Actually, I found that the multiple guess format, leaves something to be desired of the test. I usually disagreed with choices A, B, and C and choice D was “Not sure”. More often than not, I was dead sure alright, but my sure answer wasn’t choice A, B, nor C, so I left unsure, even though I was sure. So I disagreed with all four answers, but wasn’t given that choice.
It felt like I was in the army. Sure, wear any color pants you want, just as long as its olive drab green. So I’m not satisfied with the test questions, but I can’t argue with the results. If Voodun and Rastafarianism had been on the list, no doubt I would have scored high on those too. It seems I just score high for religion, even if I do mark “not sure” more than a pole trailing politician. Isn’t it strange how politicians strongly support religion in an unofficial generic way?
Anywho, I’ve posted my scores below. Drop by Palmetto Sweetheart and follow her links to see where you come out. As you can see, all those psychiatrists were right about me, or darn close. I’ve not shot anyone lately, and am not being medicated, nor indicted. But… probably enough said. Go take the quick little test. It won’t kill you, unless you’re Presbyterian, and I don’t have time or space to explain that issue. Just take my word for it. I won’t be judgmental of you if you won’t be judgmental of me.
(100%) 1: Anabaptist (Mennonite/Quaker etc.)
(100%) 2: Pentecostal/Charismatic/Assemblies of God
(97%) 3: Eastern Orthodox
(88%) 4: Anglican/Episcopal/Church of England
(88%) 5: Methodist/Wesleyan/Nazarene
(79%) 6: Seventh-Day Adventist
(76%) 7: Congregational/United Church of Christ
(70%) 8: Lutheran
(70%) 9: Roman Catholic
(58%) 10: Baptist (non-Calvinistic)/Plymouth Brethren/Fundamentalist
(55%) 11: Presbyterian/Reformed
(47%) 12: Baptist (Reformed/Particular/Calvinistic
(29%) 13: Church of Christ/Campbellite
If happy little blue birds fly beyond the rainbow then why oh why can’t I? Because the freaking blue birds don’t fly beyond the rainbow, and to start with, you don’t have wings Dorothy! The blackberries are ripening. Get a bucket, watch for snakes, and don’t come home with a head full of ticks! No, I’m not coming with you. I picked my share of blackberries before age 12. From age 12 to 18 I picked plums. From 18 to whenever, just never mind. Suffice to say, you can have gray hair and still be reaping wild oats. So mind you Clifford, stick with picking blackberries. At least the stain they leave on your hands is an honest stain.
Do I plan to explain the above paragraph? Nope. But, I figure that I’ve accomplished enough grouching here over the last three posts and need to make a 180 with my attitude. So, from here forward, I’ll try to only have positive stuff. We’ll see how long that will last. Anyone want to start an office pool?
This could be one of those summers that never ends. It wouldn’t be the first, nor would it be the last. Let’s redecorate the patio and let winter worry on its own. That’s just the way it goes here in the deep South. Nothing is ever quiet logical, nor 100% real here beneath the Carolina moon, even when it is.
Dread
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Social Gumbo Misfit
I’m still trying to figure what search engine result strategy that missing link blog of the transplanted damnyankee is trying. His subject matter has been all over the socially taboo ladder. It began with gay marriage, on to teen sex, to pubic styling, then Salma Hayek’s breasts were thrown in, although I wouldn’t consider Salma Hayek’s breasts specifically to be socially taboo. Like every other heterosexual male on the planet, I carried a crush on Salma from my first sighting of her, for onwards of a year. Every heterosexual male of age on the planet earth did the same and carries that secret. Reminding them of it is the social taboo. If I have to detail out why, then I will be crossing off taboos worse than the transplanted damnyankee. Of course being a hack artist, I have always appreciated the total beauty of women, Salma Hayek included. That’s common knowledge. But, I digress. Back to the transgression of the transplanted damnyankee. Of all the subjects of bad taste, the transplanted damnyankee has now moved to the subject of gumbo.
Normally, the subject of gumbo is a good thing. Gumbo is Southern stuff, and therefore, good stuff… very good stuff when prepared by someone who has the correct ingredients, knows how to combine them properly, and serves it all up hot. But the guy is actually on about freaking chicken gumbo! That’s just nasty! And it doesn’t even have all of the right ingredients in it! Who gives people the idea that for one, they can cook Southern food and have it turn out anything like a Southern cook’s food? And, two, what makes them think that the insane recipe that the original cook passed off to the damnyankee that thought they were getting an authentic recipe… (I’m starting to giggle) is a… (I’m really beginning to laugh) genuine for sure… (I’m dying laughing here) authentic recipe, as handed down for the past six generations of Southern cooks? (I’m rolling on the floor! Stupid tourists! And, this one stayed!)
Hello people! Let me tell you once and for all. Whatever recipe you got, it ain’t what they cooked for you! If you are a damnyankee transplant, it ain’t even nothing near what you had at the restaurant. Further, what could possibly ever qualify a damnyankee transplant as an expert on Southern foods? I got news for you. If you want authentic gumbo, come South… all the way to the coast! Shrimp gumbo, seafood gumbo, fish gumbo, whatever, even alligator makes good gumbo. But who want’s Tyson Farms force fed, cage raised, chicken gumbo? Who also in their right mind wants gumbo without okra? Is there such a thing as gumbo without okra? Only the kind they feed damnyankees! And that ain’t gumbo!
I won't be providing links to authentic gumbo recipes here. Every coastal town has at least two versions or more of gumbo. But people, let me tell you here and now, ain’t none of it gonna be found on the blog of a transplanted damnyankee. So that did it for good. Some transplanted damnyankee who lives inland (in a state not even known for gumbo) posting some recipe for gumbo as being representative of the best the South has to offer, just tips me over. I’m done, and done. Meanwhile, I’ve found another nice Carolina based blog to link, if the owner is willing. I’ve asked. And, I’m still looking for more to link here. So if you know of a Carolina based blogger, drop me a line and let me know. I enjoy reading them, and well, if a Carolina blog is going to be linked, shouldn’t it be linked from beneath the Carolina moon?
Dread
Normally, the subject of gumbo is a good thing. Gumbo is Southern stuff, and therefore, good stuff… very good stuff when prepared by someone who has the correct ingredients, knows how to combine them properly, and serves it all up hot. But the guy is actually on about freaking chicken gumbo! That’s just nasty! And it doesn’t even have all of the right ingredients in it! Who gives people the idea that for one, they can cook Southern food and have it turn out anything like a Southern cook’s food? And, two, what makes them think that the insane recipe that the original cook passed off to the damnyankee that thought they were getting an authentic recipe… (I’m starting to giggle) is a… (I’m really beginning to laugh) genuine for sure… (I’m dying laughing here) authentic recipe, as handed down for the past six generations of Southern cooks? (I’m rolling on the floor! Stupid tourists! And, this one stayed!)
Hello people! Let me tell you once and for all. Whatever recipe you got, it ain’t what they cooked for you! If you are a damnyankee transplant, it ain’t even nothing near what you had at the restaurant. Further, what could possibly ever qualify a damnyankee transplant as an expert on Southern foods? I got news for you. If you want authentic gumbo, come South… all the way to the coast! Shrimp gumbo, seafood gumbo, fish gumbo, whatever, even alligator makes good gumbo. But who want’s Tyson Farms force fed, cage raised, chicken gumbo? Who also in their right mind wants gumbo without okra? Is there such a thing as gumbo without okra? Only the kind they feed damnyankees! And that ain’t gumbo!
I won't be providing links to authentic gumbo recipes here. Every coastal town has at least two versions or more of gumbo. But people, let me tell you here and now, ain’t none of it gonna be found on the blog of a transplanted damnyankee. So that did it for good. Some transplanted damnyankee who lives inland (in a state not even known for gumbo) posting some recipe for gumbo as being representative of the best the South has to offer, just tips me over. I’m done, and done. Meanwhile, I’ve found another nice Carolina based blog to link, if the owner is willing. I’ve asked. And, I’m still looking for more to link here. So if you know of a Carolina based blogger, drop me a line and let me know. I enjoy reading them, and well, if a Carolina blog is going to be linked, shouldn’t it be linked from beneath the Carolina moon?
Dread
Saturday, June 24, 2006
A Genuine Advantage
A few days back I received my usual Windows Secrets email newsletter from Brian Livingston. It has a most interesting and alarming, but not surprising, article. You can read it here on the web also. http://windowssecrets.com/comp/060615/
Click the link above then scroll down to the article titled "Genuine Advantage is Microsoft Spyware". These writers are some of the most trusted preeminent Windoze experts of the day.
I also read a news piece, just days ago, about the approaching retirement of Bill Gates from MicroShaft. The story was replete with named executives that are to slip into various positions. And there was a whole bunch of hoop de doo about the Melinda Gates Foundation and the work Billiam plans to do there in his retirement from MicroShaft, and all the cash that has already flowed from there for various social engineering efforts.
Nobody seems to get the idea that just because Bill Gates has the brass kahoonas to do something outrageous, that we should let him get away with it. Once a line is crossed, the infringement just continues to creep, and creep, and creep, until the frog boils to death without complaining. I'm awaiting the AOL, Microsoft, Walmart, Pat Robertson, and Shiite Muslim merger to form and butt heads with the Communist China-North Korea consortia. All the Linux geeks will move to northern Europe, western Canada, southern Australia, New Zealand, and the southern tip of South America, to watch the two mega-powers nuke the earth in half across the equator.
I'm not trying to supplant the book of Revelation. I'm just saying that if anyone thinks that Bill Gates' retirement as Chief whip slasher at MicroShaft, to go into full time philanthropy at his Bill and Melinda Social Engineering Organization, is an equivalent of an enlightened and new heart for Bill that will now only think soft, pure, and kind toward your fellow man thoughts, then you better wake up from your fanciful dream. I think the strategy is that with the forays into violating personal privacy and social engineering that MicroShaft has been and likely will be into over the next few years, it was thought better that a new kinder gentler MicroShaft will sell easier without the well known, cold, calculating, icy, hand of Gates on the tiller.
Look for the new warm fuzzy MicroShaft imaging efforts soon after Bill's departure, if not before. Meanwhile, Bill will be sold as the newest celibate initiated monk into the monastery of foundationalism. There he will be cleansed before he returns to MicroShaft... But will he ever? As a major voting shareholder, does he really ever have to? Isn't this whole departure thing just so much image positioning and little else? Isn't it a bit like saying that when George Bush is vacationing on his ranch in Texas that he's not the president and whatever happens during that time at the White House isn't his doing? (recognize the spin strategy?)
But hey, what skin off my teeth is it if Bill Gates wants to call himself retired? I'm sure there must be a "Genuine Advantage" for Microsoft in it somewhere. As for the rest of us, we must find our genuine advantages where we can. I find mine from a point of view, beneath the Carolina moon.
Click the link above then scroll down to the article titled "Genuine Advantage is Microsoft Spyware". These writers are some of the most trusted preeminent Windoze experts of the day.
I also read a news piece, just days ago, about the approaching retirement of Bill Gates from MicroShaft. The story was replete with named executives that are to slip into various positions. And there was a whole bunch of hoop de doo about the Melinda Gates Foundation and the work Billiam plans to do there in his retirement from MicroShaft, and all the cash that has already flowed from there for various social engineering efforts.
Nobody seems to get the idea that just because Bill Gates has the brass kahoonas to do something outrageous, that we should let him get away with it. Once a line is crossed, the infringement just continues to creep, and creep, and creep, until the frog boils to death without complaining. I'm awaiting the AOL, Microsoft, Walmart, Pat Robertson, and Shiite Muslim merger to form and butt heads with the Communist China-North Korea consortia. All the Linux geeks will move to northern Europe, western Canada, southern Australia, New Zealand, and the southern tip of South America, to watch the two mega-powers nuke the earth in half across the equator.
I'm not trying to supplant the book of Revelation. I'm just saying that if anyone thinks that Bill Gates' retirement as Chief whip slasher at MicroShaft, to go into full time philanthropy at his Bill and Melinda Social Engineering Organization, is an equivalent of an enlightened and new heart for Bill that will now only think soft, pure, and kind toward your fellow man thoughts, then you better wake up from your fanciful dream. I think the strategy is that with the forays into violating personal privacy and social engineering that MicroShaft has been and likely will be into over the next few years, it was thought better that a new kinder gentler MicroShaft will sell easier without the well known, cold, calculating, icy, hand of Gates on the tiller.
Look for the new warm fuzzy MicroShaft imaging efforts soon after Bill's departure, if not before. Meanwhile, Bill will be sold as the newest celibate initiated monk into the monastery of foundationalism. There he will be cleansed before he returns to MicroShaft... But will he ever? As a major voting shareholder, does he really ever have to? Isn't this whole departure thing just so much image positioning and little else? Isn't it a bit like saying that when George Bush is vacationing on his ranch in Texas that he's not the president and whatever happens during that time at the White House isn't his doing? (recognize the spin strategy?)
But hey, what skin off my teeth is it if Bill Gates wants to call himself retired? I'm sure there must be a "Genuine Advantage" for Microsoft in it somewhere. As for the rest of us, we must find our genuine advantages where we can. I find mine from a point of view, beneath the Carolina moon.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Lost Something or Someone?
I'm amazed at how quickly my mind can loose a thought. At least my mind is quick. I bet I can totally forget a thought quicker than most of my peers! Wait. That's not a good thing is it? If I start getting lost again on my way to work, (yes that's happened, but its been a few years ago) maybe one of you will get me to the doctor. Meanwhile, I'm having fun.
My skitzo-manic boss sent another smart mouth email. I semi-calmly responded. Heh, heh, heh. But, then tromped into his office... the jury may or may not be out for days on outcome... Whatever! I've filed this under the "Hey WHATEVER!" tab. Life goes on.
The one remaining peep that I haven't had a reply from on linkage for the Carolina Blogs list has delved off the edge subject wise to the point that I really don't give a anum rodentum to link the blog anyway. And, besides, he really is a transplant and not native to the Carolina habitat. I really don't need further reason to not provide the link. So I won't. I'm sure he won't miss it, and I will still enjoy reading most of his posts...I hope. I've had my say about subject matter before. Until I loose my grip, I may as well shut up on the objectionable subject of objectionable subjects.
But anywho, over at Palmetto Pundit there's news of WMD's in Iraq, and SC Girly Grl seems to be wrestling with some of the same frootloops that I do. Napoleon over at The Life and Times of Mediocrity is on about an interesting lecture, if you plan to be in the Columbia SC area in mid September.
One, Two, and Three are doing well in their new environment, but no one seems to have decoded their names as yet. I didn't think it would be that difficult, or did I? I do have one totally uncoded message for a certain group of people in one particular Carolina city, "A genius who is a freaking lunatic is STILL a FREAKING LUNATIC! Putting your assets into the hands of a genius to handle... good move! Putting your assets into the hands of a lunatic to handle... really dumb! Putting your assets into the hands of a lunatic who happens to be a genius... STILL REALLY DUMB! Maybe TREMENDOUSLY STUPID even! Do we have to fly you to the moon for you to see it?
There, I feel better having that off my chest. Oh well. Time for me to head to work. You know, somewhere deep in my psyche, I think I actually harbor a desire to get lost while driving to work. That kind of thing tends to happen here rather commonly you know. Its just not that unusual of an event here, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
My skitzo-manic boss sent another smart mouth email. I semi-calmly responded. Heh, heh, heh. But, then tromped into his office... the jury may or may not be out for days on outcome... Whatever! I've filed this under the "Hey WHATEVER!" tab. Life goes on.
The one remaining peep that I haven't had a reply from on linkage for the Carolina Blogs list has delved off the edge subject wise to the point that I really don't give a anum rodentum to link the blog anyway. And, besides, he really is a transplant and not native to the Carolina habitat. I really don't need further reason to not provide the link. So I won't. I'm sure he won't miss it, and I will still enjoy reading most of his posts...I hope. I've had my say about subject matter before. Until I loose my grip, I may as well shut up on the objectionable subject of objectionable subjects.
But anywho, over at Palmetto Pundit there's news of WMD's in Iraq, and SC Girly Grl seems to be wrestling with some of the same frootloops that I do. Napoleon over at The Life and Times of Mediocrity is on about an interesting lecture, if you plan to be in the Columbia SC area in mid September.
One, Two, and Three are doing well in their new environment, but no one seems to have decoded their names as yet. I didn't think it would be that difficult, or did I? I do have one totally uncoded message for a certain group of people in one particular Carolina city, "A genius who is a freaking lunatic is STILL a FREAKING LUNATIC! Putting your assets into the hands of a genius to handle... good move! Putting your assets into the hands of a lunatic to handle... really dumb! Putting your assets into the hands of a lunatic who happens to be a genius... STILL REALLY DUMB! Maybe TREMENDOUSLY STUPID even! Do we have to fly you to the moon for you to see it?
There, I feel better having that off my chest. Oh well. Time for me to head to work. You know, somewhere deep in my psyche, I think I actually harbor a desire to get lost while driving to work. That kind of thing tends to happen here rather commonly you know. Its just not that unusual of an event here, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
One Fish, Two Fish, Three Fish
Most days when I get an idea for the blog, I forget what it was by the time I can get to settle down at the keyboard. So today, I’m making a note or two as I go along and maybe tomorrow morning I’ll have sufficient notes to constitute a blog post. The greater question of course is not whether or not my post will evolve into existence, but rather, whether or not it ever should have. In other words, quality will be the central issue.
One of my notes involves the odd names of the fish that I introduced into the new water feature here at the homestead. The names I gave in the last post, are actually code names for their real names. Yeah I have code names for my fish. You can figure out their real names if you can figure out the clues in the post previous to this one and this one. It will all seem so much easier than it should, but don’t let that fool you. Are you game to take a go at figuring out the code and the three fish’s real names? How difficult can it be right? After all the fish are code named One, Two and Three.
Today I’m adding another Carolina blog link, “The Life and Times of Mediocrity”, written by Napoleon from Charleston. Napoleon says he will be leaving the Carolinas for at least three years. For me, that would really drag my soul in the dust. He will no doubt need the moral support of his family, friends, and all be it strangers, his fellow Carolinians. Well Napoleon, no matter where on this planet you go, you can always look up at night and know that the moon you are under is the same Carolina moon. Just be careful of the air and water you partake of, particularly in Europe, Central America, and New Jersey.
Loosing a fellow Carolinian from our geography is sad. Our culture takes a hit when even one pod of okra is taken from the soup mix. The Southern culture is an amazing thing. The Carolina culture is a miraculous thing. Subtracting just one thing from our harmonious stew can dramatically change flavors, appearances, how we know things, how we count things, weigh them, color our views. Can you imagine loosing one hour of every day, as if we happen to have one too many already?
Okay, our culture is not quiet that fragile; volatile maybe. Southerners do seem to have more heart attacks and domestic violence. At least half of that gets blamed on diet. I have my doubts, and my own theories. I suspect passion has a lot to do with both. Passions run hot and run deep here, even when they aren’t evident. That saying that a Southerner will smile and be gracious even when they are mad, right up to the split second before blowing your brains out, is true. At least its true, for true Southern people of culture. Bubbas are a different breed. They leave the trailer in the morning ready to shoot something, and carry the shotgun in the truck “just in case”.
We’ll save Bubbas for discussion on another day. They cause enough grief on the world without me cheering them on here. Now where was I? Oh yes; I think if my boss sends me just one more smarty mouth curt email… I’m smiling and trying my best to be gracious here… No wait, we were discussing Napoleon’s departure from the Carolinas. It’s a tragedy I tell you. He'll be a fish out of water, and we'll be one less in our Carolina fish school. Drop over to his blog and extend your sympathies. It’s the least a fellow Southerner can do for someone who must leave their place beneath the Carolina moon. The Life and Times of Mediocrity Then tell me my fish's real names... No I don't need to get a life. You'd be amazed how much fun this one is.
Dread
One of my notes involves the odd names of the fish that I introduced into the new water feature here at the homestead. The names I gave in the last post, are actually code names for their real names. Yeah I have code names for my fish. You can figure out their real names if you can figure out the clues in the post previous to this one and this one. It will all seem so much easier than it should, but don’t let that fool you. Are you game to take a go at figuring out the code and the three fish’s real names? How difficult can it be right? After all the fish are code named One, Two and Three.
Today I’m adding another Carolina blog link, “The Life and Times of Mediocrity”, written by Napoleon from Charleston. Napoleon says he will be leaving the Carolinas for at least three years. For me, that would really drag my soul in the dust. He will no doubt need the moral support of his family, friends, and all be it strangers, his fellow Carolinians. Well Napoleon, no matter where on this planet you go, you can always look up at night and know that the moon you are under is the same Carolina moon. Just be careful of the air and water you partake of, particularly in Europe, Central America, and New Jersey.
Loosing a fellow Carolinian from our geography is sad. Our culture takes a hit when even one pod of okra is taken from the soup mix. The Southern culture is an amazing thing. The Carolina culture is a miraculous thing. Subtracting just one thing from our harmonious stew can dramatically change flavors, appearances, how we know things, how we count things, weigh them, color our views. Can you imagine loosing one hour of every day, as if we happen to have one too many already?
Okay, our culture is not quiet that fragile; volatile maybe. Southerners do seem to have more heart attacks and domestic violence. At least half of that gets blamed on diet. I have my doubts, and my own theories. I suspect passion has a lot to do with both. Passions run hot and run deep here, even when they aren’t evident. That saying that a Southerner will smile and be gracious even when they are mad, right up to the split second before blowing your brains out, is true. At least its true, for true Southern people of culture. Bubbas are a different breed. They leave the trailer in the morning ready to shoot something, and carry the shotgun in the truck “just in case”.
We’ll save Bubbas for discussion on another day. They cause enough grief on the world without me cheering them on here. Now where was I? Oh yes; I think if my boss sends me just one more smarty mouth curt email… I’m smiling and trying my best to be gracious here… No wait, we were discussing Napoleon’s departure from the Carolinas. It’s a tragedy I tell you. He'll be a fish out of water, and we'll be one less in our Carolina fish school. Drop over to his blog and extend your sympathies. It’s the least a fellow Southerner can do for someone who must leave their place beneath the Carolina moon. The Life and Times of Mediocrity Then tell me my fish's real names... No I don't need to get a life. You'd be amazed how much fun this one is.
Dread
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
A Quick Think Around
Do you ever pause to think, "How did I get to where I am, and where the heck am I headed?" Of course you do. Then you shake it off and get busy again, without giving it a second thought. Those of us who lead unique lives don't have time to philosophize on end, but some of us do hit points in our lives that give us pause. I've been freeze framed for about a week or two now, and still haven't found a sufficient answer that will pull my feet back to the ground so I can get moving again. You can spot these pauses in a writers work if you look closely.
I asked four or five, five I think maybe, bloggers, all from the Carolinas, for permission to link their blogs here. My thinking is, bloggers from the Carolinas should all be listed in one place, and what better place than Beneath the Carolina Moon? Anywho, I've heard back from three. The fourth, David Terrenoire who writes the A Dark Planet blog hasn't responded, or didn't find my request buried in his comments of one day's or the other's post. Whatever. I had commented that David's blog posts had taken a turn away from his normal quality output. Happily with his Father's Day post, David cleared his throat and seems to be climbing back into the saddle. I'm not sure that regular employment wears well on David. It doesn't on many of us.
I spent much of my Father's Day piddling about the outdoors around my house. I polished off a whim project last night by adding three small koi to a water feature I tinkered into existence on Sunday. Sliding my two potted Japanese maples to either side of it, I also picked up two potted water lilies last night at Lowe's, and dropped them in. Now, I have more living creatures dependent on me. Just what I need! Gads! Anywho, the koi are named One, Two, and Three. For you politicos correcto bunch, you may refer to them as Uno, Dos, Trace. Since one of the Bush brothers married into the ethnic reservoir of Hispanics which spans from Spain, to the countries of South and Central America, to Puerto Rico, Cuba, South Florida, and pretty much South any part of North America, it seems that the Republican party is splitting along the lines of those who want to kick Hispanics out, and those who want to make all illegal immigrant Hispanics legal, to buy their vote for the Republican party. It's all nasty business I tell you. I hope in the end we can all get along. Time will tell.
Meanwhile visits to Palmetto Sweetheart's and SC Girly Grl's blogs points up to me the partitions we put up in our lives and how we sometimes compartmentalize, or only share from compartments. Palmetto Sweetheart is busy about activities and nest sorting. SC Girly Grl is about a personal place, in her heart, and conditions in the local political geography. Barry Ready's Palmetto Pundit continues to be pushed by his patriotism. There's nothing wrong with any of these compartments or directions of expression, its just an observation, that we are so complex that we can't communicate all of ourselves at once in one place. Quiet frankly, I'm glad. I would hate to be just simple. I would be bored. You would be bored. We would all be boring. However, we are not boring, except on occasion.
Click the links to the right and have a good read. Maybe you will get a whiff of our Southern essence. Maybe, you'll just mire deeper into the mystery of the Southern psyche. Either way, when you crawl into bed tonight, you won't be the same person that climbed out of that bed this morning. That's just the way it is beneath the Carolina moon.
Have a good day. I have other plans.
Dread
I asked four or five, five I think maybe, bloggers, all from the Carolinas, for permission to link their blogs here. My thinking is, bloggers from the Carolinas should all be listed in one place, and what better place than Beneath the Carolina Moon? Anywho, I've heard back from three. The fourth, David Terrenoire who writes the A Dark Planet blog hasn't responded, or didn't find my request buried in his comments of one day's or the other's post. Whatever. I had commented that David's blog posts had taken a turn away from his normal quality output. Happily with his Father's Day post, David cleared his throat and seems to be climbing back into the saddle. I'm not sure that regular employment wears well on David. It doesn't on many of us.
I spent much of my Father's Day piddling about the outdoors around my house. I polished off a whim project last night by adding three small koi to a water feature I tinkered into existence on Sunday. Sliding my two potted Japanese maples to either side of it, I also picked up two potted water lilies last night at Lowe's, and dropped them in. Now, I have more living creatures dependent on me. Just what I need! Gads! Anywho, the koi are named One, Two, and Three. For you politicos correcto bunch, you may refer to them as Uno, Dos, Trace. Since one of the Bush brothers married into the ethnic reservoir of Hispanics which spans from Spain, to the countries of South and Central America, to Puerto Rico, Cuba, South Florida, and pretty much South any part of North America, it seems that the Republican party is splitting along the lines of those who want to kick Hispanics out, and those who want to make all illegal immigrant Hispanics legal, to buy their vote for the Republican party. It's all nasty business I tell you. I hope in the end we can all get along. Time will tell.
Meanwhile visits to Palmetto Sweetheart's and SC Girly Grl's blogs points up to me the partitions we put up in our lives and how we sometimes compartmentalize, or only share from compartments. Palmetto Sweetheart is busy about activities and nest sorting. SC Girly Grl is about a personal place, in her heart, and conditions in the local political geography. Barry Ready's Palmetto Pundit continues to be pushed by his patriotism. There's nothing wrong with any of these compartments or directions of expression, its just an observation, that we are so complex that we can't communicate all of ourselves at once in one place. Quiet frankly, I'm glad. I would hate to be just simple. I would be bored. You would be bored. We would all be boring. However, we are not boring, except on occasion.
Click the links to the right and have a good read. Maybe you will get a whiff of our Southern essence. Maybe, you'll just mire deeper into the mystery of the Southern psyche. Either way, when you crawl into bed tonight, you won't be the same person that climbed out of that bed this morning. That's just the way it is beneath the Carolina moon.
Have a good day. I have other plans.
Dread
Friday, June 16, 2006
Good News and Good Dreams
I have asked a small handful of fellow bloggers, all of which are from one or other of the Carolinas, for permission to link to their blogs from here. Hopefully, that will be the beginning of a small loose network of Carolina blogs. I enjoy each one I read, and feel that others will also. Prior to getting permission though, I won't be linking any of them, except in this post. On Barry Ready's blog "Palmetto Pundit", scroll down to the post titled "It Doesn't Have to be Grim to be a Milestone!" I can't resist referring readers to that post. I've had similar situations so many times on a much smaller, and less serious, scale; but still similar. The borderline valueless media really does put a damper on my spirits. http://palmettopundit.blogspot.com/
Anywho, if you happen to be from either of the Carolinas, have a blog, and would like to be included in the blog links, drop me a line. No damnyankeewannabees need apply. I also almost tripped over David Terrenoire's blog titled "A Dark Planet" which I won't provide a link to in this post because the last couple of his posts I read were carefully uncrafted pieces with key words inserted which may or may not be the intention of the author to generate hits in searches. By key words, I mean phrases such as teen sex, gay marriage, and well, I really didn't analyzee them very closely. Those phrases (teen sex and gay marriage) just jumped off the page in an almost otherwise semi-unrelated narration. Why not include the whole bent list of terms David? There are quiet a list of bloggers out there who regularly use and heavily sprinkle their blogs with various morphations of the "F" word. I find that I can be just as offensive, if not more so, by not using such profanities, vulgarisms and damnyankee regurgitations. However on reflection, perhaps an abundant use of the "F" word gets you more hits from search engines, or more frequently blocked from Net Nanny, and thus fewer adolescent comments. I really don't care. I still wonder if David was using teen sex and gay marriage to garner search engine hits or what. The polite thing would be to ask I suppose.
The "F" word, and all its permutations at one time were my favorite nouns, verbs, adjutives, and adverbs. I still lapse into a string of them when I become extremely addled. Anywho, back to David Terrenoire's tortured outcry of writer's cramps... Okay, truthfully, David I enjoy your writing style. HOWEVER, your most recent two posts suxored badly. Did you have a ghost writer? As a friend of my gay brother is fond of saying, "I unknow". I may sound as the pot calling the kettle black, but I don't proclaim myself to be any kind of writer other than a marginally literate person, dabbling a brush load of simple vocabulary over the canvas of the net. I pronounce the pictures that I paint aren't cute, pretty, nor very amusing. But I know fairly decent writing when I see it, even if I can't do it. David does a fairly decent writing job most of the time. In fact, its much more fairly decent than any writing that I do. And, I consider myself a fairly decent judge of fairly decent writing. Its that really fantastic writing that seems to swim over my head.
Half the renown writers of today are people that seem to make a living by being outlandish or rude, but not by writing. Another fourth of the renown writers have been misclassified as writers. They are actually something else, but I couldn't find the profession listed in the CIA Fact Book, and the word escapes me just now.
Carolina writers though generally have a charm about them that you don't find anywhere else in the world. I hope to prove that point to readers soon, by collecting the links here that will most definitely prove that fact. Hopefully including David Terrenoire's link. He's a transplanted yankee, but been here long enough, and suffered the passions of living Southern long enough, to now qualify as a Southern writer.
I wish I would have followed the advice that was passed to me in my youth by one of the Carolina writers of that time. He said that the way to become a renown writer is to be a prolific writer, but only a prolific writer who hid away at least 95% of what he wrote, and only revealed to his publishers his best 5%. I asked him if it was true that his publishers had published everything that he wrote. He told me no, that they published everything that he ever submitted to them, which was only about 1% of everything he ever wrote.
It seems the writing business is just as much hard work as any other. The callous settles on your brains though, instead of your hands. But, the work is all about the same as that of the hired field hand, and the pay, even more meager. I've worked as a farm hand in the fields. Its hard, back breaking, but honest labor. At the end of the day, you know you've done a days work. It gives you character and personal dignity. I've never submitted my personal dignity to the challenges of pulling something so personal as my written work product and submitting it to a publisher for probabal rejection. That either takes guts or arrogance; maybe a healthy dose of both? Perhaps some Carolina writers who have, can tell us what the slow stream of rejection is like.
I would prefer to experience the joys of an acceptance and offer letter for myself. Yes, I know that New Orleans Snowballs served up on a Carolina Beach sidewalk stand a better chance of surviving the summer than of my getting an acceptanc/offer, ever; probably stands a better chance than that of my ever finishing a submission. But hey, we all like to read and dream. Some of us like to write and dream. The secret is, its not because we necessarily like to, but are driven to. If you are Southern and live beneath the Carolina moon, then you know some things about being driven. Yes, I would say you do. You also know some things about dreams. Yes we do don't we. We like good news and good dreams. Its really good when they are the same. Its just one of the passionate hopes we live for, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
Anywho, if you happen to be from either of the Carolinas, have a blog, and would like to be included in the blog links, drop me a line. No damnyankeewannabees need apply. I also almost tripped over David Terrenoire's blog titled "A Dark Planet" which I won't provide a link to in this post because the last couple of his posts I read were carefully uncrafted pieces with key words inserted which may or may not be the intention of the author to generate hits in searches. By key words, I mean phrases such as teen sex, gay marriage, and well, I really didn't analyzee them very closely. Those phrases (teen sex and gay marriage) just jumped off the page in an almost otherwise semi-unrelated narration. Why not include the whole bent list of terms David? There are quiet a list of bloggers out there who regularly use and heavily sprinkle their blogs with various morphations of the "F" word. I find that I can be just as offensive, if not more so, by not using such profanities, vulgarisms and damnyankee regurgitations. However on reflection, perhaps an abundant use of the "F" word gets you more hits from search engines, or more frequently blocked from Net Nanny, and thus fewer adolescent comments. I really don't care. I still wonder if David was using teen sex and gay marriage to garner search engine hits or what. The polite thing would be to ask I suppose.
The "F" word, and all its permutations at one time were my favorite nouns, verbs, adjutives, and adverbs. I still lapse into a string of them when I become extremely addled. Anywho, back to David Terrenoire's tortured outcry of writer's cramps... Okay, truthfully, David I enjoy your writing style. HOWEVER, your most recent two posts suxored badly. Did you have a ghost writer? As a friend of my gay brother is fond of saying, "I unknow". I may sound as the pot calling the kettle black, but I don't proclaim myself to be any kind of writer other than a marginally literate person, dabbling a brush load of simple vocabulary over the canvas of the net. I pronounce the pictures that I paint aren't cute, pretty, nor very amusing. But I know fairly decent writing when I see it, even if I can't do it. David does a fairly decent writing job most of the time. In fact, its much more fairly decent than any writing that I do. And, I consider myself a fairly decent judge of fairly decent writing. Its that really fantastic writing that seems to swim over my head.
Half the renown writers of today are people that seem to make a living by being outlandish or rude, but not by writing. Another fourth of the renown writers have been misclassified as writers. They are actually something else, but I couldn't find the profession listed in the CIA Fact Book, and the word escapes me just now.
Carolina writers though generally have a charm about them that you don't find anywhere else in the world. I hope to prove that point to readers soon, by collecting the links here that will most definitely prove that fact. Hopefully including David Terrenoire's link. He's a transplanted yankee, but been here long enough, and suffered the passions of living Southern long enough, to now qualify as a Southern writer.
I wish I would have followed the advice that was passed to me in my youth by one of the Carolina writers of that time. He said that the way to become a renown writer is to be a prolific writer, but only a prolific writer who hid away at least 95% of what he wrote, and only revealed to his publishers his best 5%. I asked him if it was true that his publishers had published everything that he wrote. He told me no, that they published everything that he ever submitted to them, which was only about 1% of everything he ever wrote.
It seems the writing business is just as much hard work as any other. The callous settles on your brains though, instead of your hands. But, the work is all about the same as that of the hired field hand, and the pay, even more meager. I've worked as a farm hand in the fields. Its hard, back breaking, but honest labor. At the end of the day, you know you've done a days work. It gives you character and personal dignity. I've never submitted my personal dignity to the challenges of pulling something so personal as my written work product and submitting it to a publisher for probabal rejection. That either takes guts or arrogance; maybe a healthy dose of both? Perhaps some Carolina writers who have, can tell us what the slow stream of rejection is like.
I would prefer to experience the joys of an acceptance and offer letter for myself. Yes, I know that New Orleans Snowballs served up on a Carolina Beach sidewalk stand a better chance of surviving the summer than of my getting an acceptanc/offer, ever; probably stands a better chance than that of my ever finishing a submission. But hey, we all like to read and dream. Some of us like to write and dream. The secret is, its not because we necessarily like to, but are driven to. If you are Southern and live beneath the Carolina moon, then you know some things about being driven. Yes, I would say you do. You also know some things about dreams. Yes we do don't we. We like good news and good dreams. Its really good when they are the same. Its just one of the passionate hopes we live for, beneath the Carolina moon.
Dread
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Ask the Right Question
Sometimes, even hindsight isn’t clear. I’ve finally gotten around to reading the various accounts and speculations, rumored accounts, etc., surrounding the joyous demise of the rabid animal, deemed by a few journalists as human, Abu-Musab al-Zarqawi, or ever how you spell fecal remnant in Aribineese. There seems to be some speculation that the two five hundred pound bombs that left a huge crater in the earth, uprooted trees, destroyed the house, and killed everyone else in the house, may have left al-Zarqawi wounded and conscious with US troops gut beating him until he died. Sounds like some limp wrested propaganda to me. What are the odds he would be the only survivor of such horrific blasts?
If someone wants to bitch out the US for being inhumane, they might well point out that a little girl, age 5 to 7 also died in the bombing attack. I really don’t find it offensive that someone may have taken a personal vendetta against a man who sawed people’s heads off to video tape for showing off his politics and religion to the world. Some bad old troops may have gut stomped that SOB? Awe…breaks my heart! SO NOT!
I realize that war has casualties. Some of them just plain must be done, such as blowing apart the entire being of a personality like al-Zarqawi. Some casualties are “oops, wished that hadn’t happened, but its war” type casualties. Some casualties should just break your heart, no matter how or why they happened. When an innocent child dies, it should break your heart. If it doesn’t, you should examine your heart. The fact that none of the reporters seem phased that a child died in the attack on al-Zarqawi, really strikes me and stands out. They report the child’s death as though its an adjective or a number. No one has even bothered to determine the exact age of the child, just a ball-park guess is offered, as age 5 to 7. At least someone noticed the child was female. It was probably required information on a casualty reporting form used by the military.
Now, you would think that of all the howling the limp wrested media does, it would howl about an innocent child being blown apart in the hunt for the vile al-Zarqawi, but no. They whine that the poor old misunderstood terrorist may have finally and at last had the ever-loving (insert your own expletive for feces) beat out of him, and actually died knowing that it was a U S of A ass kickin’ that was doing him in. What kind of sick attitude is that? Will the question ever be asked publicly as to whether or not al-Zarqawi could have been taken out without taking the life of a child? In my mind, the two questions seem miles apart. One is the first question to pop into my mind. The other is easily answered with “who cares? I could have stomped his head in myself and never flinched.” Does that make me twisted and as bad and low as he? Maybe, but I doubt it.
al-Zarqawi chose his path. The child…? I have to ask the burning question about the child. Our media doesn’t seem motivated to in the least. They don’t even seem interested in learning who the child was or her accurate age. I hope they can answer whether or not al-Zarqawi was gut stomped by US troops as he lay dying. Never mind how many innocents have died at his hands, right? Perhaps he’ll be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize posthumously, since he has gone on to join his fellow terrorist and Nobel Peace Prize winner Yasser Arafat, who once ordered an Israli school house full of children bombed.
Was it really necessary to kill a five to seven year old little girl to get al-Zarqawi? I don’t have that answer. But I am enraged that our media never even pauses to ask the question. I hope someone besides me does. Can I understand and look over the rage that might have taken over troops who might have stomped al-Zarqawi? You betcha! I do remind you that stomping hasn’t been proven. If it ever is, I think you’ll have a hard time finding one single human living beneath the Carolina moon who gives an anum rodentum. I’ve spewed enough for one day. I know some reporters that should be gut stomped. I also know some five to seven year olds that should be writing news stories.
Even if you don't have the answer, and you know, sometimes there is no answer. At least ask the right question!
Dread
If someone wants to bitch out the US for being inhumane, they might well point out that a little girl, age 5 to 7 also died in the bombing attack. I really don’t find it offensive that someone may have taken a personal vendetta against a man who sawed people’s heads off to video tape for showing off his politics and religion to the world. Some bad old troops may have gut stomped that SOB? Awe…breaks my heart! SO NOT!
I realize that war has casualties. Some of them just plain must be done, such as blowing apart the entire being of a personality like al-Zarqawi. Some casualties are “oops, wished that hadn’t happened, but its war” type casualties. Some casualties should just break your heart, no matter how or why they happened. When an innocent child dies, it should break your heart. If it doesn’t, you should examine your heart. The fact that none of the reporters seem phased that a child died in the attack on al-Zarqawi, really strikes me and stands out. They report the child’s death as though its an adjective or a number. No one has even bothered to determine the exact age of the child, just a ball-park guess is offered, as age 5 to 7. At least someone noticed the child was female. It was probably required information on a casualty reporting form used by the military.
Now, you would think that of all the howling the limp wrested media does, it would howl about an innocent child being blown apart in the hunt for the vile al-Zarqawi, but no. They whine that the poor old misunderstood terrorist may have finally and at last had the ever-loving (insert your own expletive for feces) beat out of him, and actually died knowing that it was a U S of A ass kickin’ that was doing him in. What kind of sick attitude is that? Will the question ever be asked publicly as to whether or not al-Zarqawi could have been taken out without taking the life of a child? In my mind, the two questions seem miles apart. One is the first question to pop into my mind. The other is easily answered with “who cares? I could have stomped his head in myself and never flinched.” Does that make me twisted and as bad and low as he? Maybe, but I doubt it.
al-Zarqawi chose his path. The child…? I have to ask the burning question about the child. Our media doesn’t seem motivated to in the least. They don’t even seem interested in learning who the child was or her accurate age. I hope they can answer whether or not al-Zarqawi was gut stomped by US troops as he lay dying. Never mind how many innocents have died at his hands, right? Perhaps he’ll be awarded a Nobel Peace Prize posthumously, since he has gone on to join his fellow terrorist and Nobel Peace Prize winner Yasser Arafat, who once ordered an Israli school house full of children bombed.
Was it really necessary to kill a five to seven year old little girl to get al-Zarqawi? I don’t have that answer. But I am enraged that our media never even pauses to ask the question. I hope someone besides me does. Can I understand and look over the rage that might have taken over troops who might have stomped al-Zarqawi? You betcha! I do remind you that stomping hasn’t been proven. If it ever is, I think you’ll have a hard time finding one single human living beneath the Carolina moon who gives an anum rodentum. I’ve spewed enough for one day. I know some reporters that should be gut stomped. I also know some five to seven year olds that should be writing news stories.
Even if you don't have the answer, and you know, sometimes there is no answer. At least ask the right question!
Dread
Monday, June 05, 2006
A Gnome Moon is not a Carolina Moon
I do not title my blog Beneath the Carolina Moon due to an obsession with everything moon. It is primarily, at least in theory, meant to be an expression of the Southern experience, particularly the Carolina Southerner's experience. At best, it's Life 101 taught by an insane tenured professor. At worst, it's boring drivel. The blog is simply a peep hole rigged backward into the real space, that the marketer's antebellum mystic image glosses over. You want to know the real South? You gotta live and die here first. You want to be entertained by the South, you can read stuff, like this blog, and along the way, get a smidge of insight as to which spices and ingredients make up a healthy Southern psyche, or as in my case, a typically sick but passionately sick psyche.
For today's lesson we have the above gnome. Gnomes are not a Southern thing. The fact that the gnome is "mooning" whoever happens to look, is irrelevant to this blog. Yes, I keep a moon phase chart on the blog page. Yes, I believe, and its been scientifically proven, that the moon has influences on not only the ebb and flow of tides, but also many aspect of nature, and on human behavior. So yes, I pay attention to the moon phase. But this site is not about every freaking thing moon. So please do not email me "moon" stuff. A gnome mooning is considered "moon" stuff that I don't want. Gnomes are not Southern. They are an invention of other regions of the world. I do not like gnomes. They are creepy ugly little creatures that shouldn't be having sex and procreating. To me a gnome is like a troll that's had a bath and a visit to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop for clean clothes. I suspect they drink excessively on a daily basis also, but never mind all of that.
I don't plan to use the mooning gnome as a logo for the blog. I have a logo that was used when the blog was hosted o my own server, a story and history to be related at another time. Just suffice to say for now, I don't want or need a logo for this blog. When I do want one, I'll either say so or just draft one. Until then, please don't send moons or gnomes. Especially don't send gnomes mooning. A mooning gnome as a personal statement from you as a reader I could perfectly understand, especially readers from the New England area. You really are gnome people up there aren't you? Don't bother to answer. There's no mystery. At least here in the South, the South is itself a mystery. In fact, I'd go so far to say that all things Southern can be mysteries.
We have enough mysteries to fill books. We need very little spice added to make life interesting here. Gnomes we definitely don't need. Although if we had gnomes here, they probably would have the habit of jumping from behind shrubs in the garden and surprise mooning passersby. But then Walt would seem perhaps a little more normal to visitors and not cause such a fuss. On second thought, maybe I should order a few of these mooning gnomes and set them about the garden. It might help desensitize people to Walt. It gets tiresome answering the door to the police each spring when the garden tours are on. But I shouldn't really discuss Walt in this brief post. He's a much more complex and sensitive individual than just the mooning thing, and I don't want to imply that his eccentricities detract from him being a valued member of the community; quiet the contrary. There's just not time today to get into that. In fact, I'm going to be late for work if I don't fly out right now. That's it for today,
Dread
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Feline Ferocity
I don’t remember exactly where this picture came from, but it fairly well serves the purpose to prove out what cat owners have always known; a well trained and experienced cat, can and will whip even the most aggressive pit bull. Flying side kicks aside, I once shared company with a cat that had the reputation of ripping the throats from several dogs who had merely trespassed the property. I found it difficult to believe of such a fluffy, soft, loving creature as Jodie, until I witnessed one such incident myself. It was the most brutal attack I’ve ever seen inflicted on a living creature.
An innocent neighborhood dog one day wandered into my back lot in that nonchalant saunter the way that dogs trot from yard to yard through neighborhoods. Jodie, a black and white shorthair sitting at my feet, suddenly bolted straight for the dog, meeting it head on. The dog, a big yellow lab mix, just stupidly kept trotting along looking at the approaching cat with a puzzled look. Just before Jodie arrived in his face he stopped and brought his head up sharply. That’s when Jodie lunged beneath his head and latched on to the underside of this throat, digging in with all four claws and a mouthful of teeth.
Fur and blood flew violently for a few seconds, then the dog began to scream and run. Yes it screamed. I’d never heard a dog scream, but I’m telling you that dog screamed. A few seconds later and it was all over. Jodie had dismounted her undercarriage position of that dog’s throat and the dog was plunging wildly toward a side exit from the lot. Blood was surging from beneath his head. I doubt the dog made it very far away before collapsing. In a matter of three to five seconds, Jodie had literally clawed her way deep into the dog’s throat inflicting horrible wounds. Suffice to say, that if a ten pound domestic short hair can inflict that kind of mortal wounds in the short of a few seconds, then imagine what a forty to fifty pound bobcat when cornered would do. Which brings me to the real meat and potatoes of today’s post.
I found the picture above while doing some attic cleaning of my hard drive this morning, and the picture reminded me for some reason of a story I heard a few years back, well, many, many years back actually, of two New York gentlemen who were coming down through the Appalachian Mountains on their way to Florida. This was before the days of super highways being built through the North Carolina mountains, and it was a winding two lane blacktop trip.
Somewhere along the Southern part of the North Carolina trek, late at night, with some miles yet to go before crossing into South Carolina, the two gentlemen encountered a bobcat on the road. The car lights startled the cat evidently and despite braking hard, the cat managed to get bumped by the car. The two New York gentlemen not knowing exactly what the creature was, other than some type of exotic cat, stopped to have a look. The bobcat, knocked unconscious, but appearing dead, looked like something the guys would want to show off when they arrived in Florida the next day, so they loaded it into the back seat floor, and proceeded along on their trip.
Having already told you that the cat was knocked unconscious but appeared dead, you are already chuckling, or wincing, at what you already figure eventually happed. And you are right. Only, it didn’t happen until the gentlemen arrived in downtown Greenville, South Carolina, right on Main Street, approaching the Poinsettia Hotel. In those days, the Poinsettia was considered to be like one of today’s Hiltons, only better. Can you imagine the poor doorman and concierge encountering the car as it came to a stop in front of the hotel, windows up, with the righteously indignant, and now awakened, bobcat expressing his natural born fury on the two occupants?
Depending on where you were while it was going on, what ensued could be called catastrophe or hilarity. The fact that no one was killed, and the cost of medical care for the two gentlemen and of replacing the entire interior of the car, was only a few thousand dollars, I suppose, classes the event as a cheap lesson on wildlife management. Yes. Leave wild animals where you find them. In fact, just leave them alone altogether if you’re smart. And further, never underestimate the authority of a cat.
Speaking to not being smart, I heard that one of the New York gentlemen a few years later committed the same act of stupidity with a whitetail deer, and lost an eye for his effort. I can’t fathom that anyone would be that stupid. But, hey, they were from New York, and they were under the influence of the Carolina moon. I’ve known stranger things to happen under that moon. I’ll tell you about them sometime. Right now, I have Saturday errands to run. Until later,
Dread
Friday, June 02, 2006
Damn Hot Damn Humid
There are days when I sit down to write without a clue on my mind, and what I feel at least are brilliant thoughts of revelation, stream forth as though I had pondered and carefully considered each small detail, nuance, turn of phrase and overall general structure. Then, there are days when I can't even discuss the current weather conditions with sufficient fluency of the language to convey the simplest climatic attributes. It's damn hot here today. It's damn humid also. Anyone not accustomed to our Deep South climate would be or is damn uncomfortable. As for me; its summer, its hot, I'm happy. I doubt those few statements convey sufficient information to someone not from the South to understand very much about the current weather here, or my mindset. If you're from the South however, especially the Deep South, then you know exactly already where I'm coming from, and what I mean by my phrases. You even understand the exact level of heat and humidity, whether or not you agree with my prejudice for hot weather and summer. Others however, without exact temperature or humidity readings can only make odd guesses of the physical conditions of the current weather here, based on their own limited experiences. That means my description is lacking, but only if the reader is from parts outside of the Deep South. Therefore, we arrive at the crux of the problem of today's writer. Can they reach their target audience?
If I write to inform of the social and cultural nuances of the Deep South, but only those native to the Deep South fully understand what I write, then don't I miss my target audience? (Those ignorant of our ways) Or, do I? If they understand at least something of what I write, although not the full depth or any particular implied meaning, isn't that still a casualty in the war of words? I mean a hit is a hit. Even if it isn't a clean kill, it should score for something. One of my uncles used to say, "If you just shoot near a damnyankee, and make him mess his pants, its just as much fun as if you hit the bastard, and a whole lot less trouble to clean up." I have to agree. And, if they go back where they came from, it's a bonus to not have their carcass contaminating our soil. Actually, the damnyankee shooting gives me a scale upon which I think I can describe our weather so that a non-Southerner may understand. At least I will try to put it into words.
During our winters here, it sometimes gets cold enough to wear a coat, and believe it or not, occasionally on some odd years actually snows a few inches. Now on one of those particularly cold days, and say it snows, if a damnyankee slid off in the ditch, most southerners would stop and help the obviously lost out of the ditch and back along their way. On a day, in say early August, when the humidity level and the temperature both pass 100% saturation and 100 degrees F, (yes we breath water at that time of year...hot water...steam) say a damnyankee says something out of the way and off color before your innocent Southern bred, born, and raised children. Then he stands an extremely high chance of appearing on a milk carton, or being a side feature by John Walsh. Those are two extremes in weather we have here and two extremes in acts of ignorance of damnyankees and two extremes in Southern reactions to damnyankee actions.
Now, let's take a sane midlevel average of those examples. Actually, why don't you the reader just imagine one? It's too early in the morning for me to be expending creativity and brain-power. I have a meeting with my bosses later today and I really need to conserve for that. So, if you don't mind, just imagine a happy average mid point between the two extremes I have described. That would be the weather here today. As for the type of reaction a damnyankee would get today, well, that depends on how ignorant the damnyankee behaves. It always does. You didn't think it had anything to do with regional prejudice did you? If so, then get that thought out of your mind. There is prejudice for sure, but its about values, manners, consideration for others, its not regional, its cultural, its basic to human dignity, and of course its about how the weather agitates your patience. We aren't perfect; we're human here. And yes the hot weather does have something to do with the hot passions that tear through the fabric of our culture. Since we are used to it, it impacts us differently than outsiders, slower, and from different angles. But it does affect us.
Have I been too vague for you outsiders? I do think there is something here for you to glean without being a native Southerner, but you will have to expend a bit of brain-power. It could be worth it. In August, the difference between Fahrenheit and Beretta is discernible, although it can be split by the hair's breadth of a few words; words that are considered, or words flippantly thrown out. Now at the nice temperature of "damn hot, and humid", is a good time to consider and practice self-control and consideration of others. We generally are more forgiving in the spring and early summer. I'd say it's definitely the time to get in some hands on practice of getting along with the weather. When you learn to get along with the weather here, you learn to get along with the people, and generally vice versa.
Well, I'm off to work for a bit, and then the weekender. Have a good one. It's going to be a damn hot and humid one.
Dread
If I write to inform of the social and cultural nuances of the Deep South, but only those native to the Deep South fully understand what I write, then don't I miss my target audience? (Those ignorant of our ways) Or, do I? If they understand at least something of what I write, although not the full depth or any particular implied meaning, isn't that still a casualty in the war of words? I mean a hit is a hit. Even if it isn't a clean kill, it should score for something. One of my uncles used to say, "If you just shoot near a damnyankee, and make him mess his pants, its just as much fun as if you hit the bastard, and a whole lot less trouble to clean up." I have to agree. And, if they go back where they came from, it's a bonus to not have their carcass contaminating our soil. Actually, the damnyankee shooting gives me a scale upon which I think I can describe our weather so that a non-Southerner may understand. At least I will try to put it into words.
During our winters here, it sometimes gets cold enough to wear a coat, and believe it or not, occasionally on some odd years actually snows a few inches. Now on one of those particularly cold days, and say it snows, if a damnyankee slid off in the ditch, most southerners would stop and help the obviously lost out of the ditch and back along their way. On a day, in say early August, when the humidity level and the temperature both pass 100% saturation and 100 degrees F, (yes we breath water at that time of year...hot water...steam) say a damnyankee says something out of the way and off color before your innocent Southern bred, born, and raised children. Then he stands an extremely high chance of appearing on a milk carton, or being a side feature by John Walsh. Those are two extremes in weather we have here and two extremes in acts of ignorance of damnyankees and two extremes in Southern reactions to damnyankee actions.
Now, let's take a sane midlevel average of those examples. Actually, why don't you the reader just imagine one? It's too early in the morning for me to be expending creativity and brain-power. I have a meeting with my bosses later today and I really need to conserve for that. So, if you don't mind, just imagine a happy average mid point between the two extremes I have described. That would be the weather here today. As for the type of reaction a damnyankee would get today, well, that depends on how ignorant the damnyankee behaves. It always does. You didn't think it had anything to do with regional prejudice did you? If so, then get that thought out of your mind. There is prejudice for sure, but its about values, manners, consideration for others, its not regional, its cultural, its basic to human dignity, and of course its about how the weather agitates your patience. We aren't perfect; we're human here. And yes the hot weather does have something to do with the hot passions that tear through the fabric of our culture. Since we are used to it, it impacts us differently than outsiders, slower, and from different angles. But it does affect us.
Have I been too vague for you outsiders? I do think there is something here for you to glean without being a native Southerner, but you will have to expend a bit of brain-power. It could be worth it. In August, the difference between Fahrenheit and Beretta is discernible, although it can be split by the hair's breadth of a few words; words that are considered, or words flippantly thrown out. Now at the nice temperature of "damn hot, and humid", is a good time to consider and practice self-control and consideration of others. We generally are more forgiving in the spring and early summer. I'd say it's definitely the time to get in some hands on practice of getting along with the weather. When you learn to get along with the weather here, you learn to get along with the people, and generally vice versa.
Well, I'm off to work for a bit, and then the weekender. Have a good one. It's going to be a damn hot and humid one.
Dread
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