Today I got a postcard from one of those places. This time it was Permskya Oblast. "Looking for my Elena. No luck so far. She broke my heart and this is an industrial wasteland so I know I'll find her. I'll put the pieces together. You better too, Pal."
I don't know what the hell Spaniels has gotten himself into. О чем, черт возьми, он говорит? He always finds these chicks who want to kill him and then he falls in love with them. He'll go bloody anywhere for a bit of Пытка сердца. And he's a liar. He'd rather have his pieces apart and all over the board than have to face it all. But that's why we get along. Anything he says, do the opposite. Most of the time he makes me crazy. He is a deserted street and I have to walk it. . .
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Heißer Blitz! Scientists: God Probably Invisible!
Although revved up to a measly 7 trillion electron volts (half what $10 billion is supposed to have bought), the Geneva-based Large Hadron Collider (LHC), the world's largest particle smasher, will nonetheless be attempting this year to scare up that elusive “God Particle”, aka The Higgs Boson.
The idea is to watch a couple of protons collide at the speed of light like opposing Porsches on the Autobahn and give us a taste of a whole “new class of unanticipated subatomic curiosities” or in layman’s terms the existence of extra dimensions. Given a little more juice (and money) the smasher will deliver a recreation of the Big Bang, or in layman’s terms the creation of the Universe.
Some scientists say that failing to find the Higgs Boson would “actually be more intriguing than finding it”. Nicholas Hadley, a member of the research team for the LHC's Compact Muon Solenoid detector, told reporters "If we don't see it, we will be very excited, because it means that there's something very brand-new.”
So there you have it. I don’t know about you but, for me, failing to find my glasses is not more intriguing than finding them. Give me $10 billion and my glasses back and I’ll pretty much confirm that God is invisible.
Let’s not jump onto theological bandwagons so quickly. Trying to figure out whether it took 14 or 1000 trillion electron volts to create the Universe is an enlightened pursuit, something that humans have the capacity to do when they are not fighting and blowing themselves up, starving, dying, begging for spare change, or exploiting those who are starving, dying, and begging for spare change. I don’t know how many trillions of electron volts it will take to sneak up on human faith. That of course doesn’t really con-CERN our plucky scientists. They’re hunting for God. We all know faith exists among the faithful.
Dr. C.G. Jung, the great 20th century psychoanalyst, founder of analytic psychology, and considered the first modern psychologist to state that the human psyche is "by nature religious", was once asked by a reporter whether he believed in God. His answer was “I have known Him”.
I think that’s a pretty good answer. It suggests that our friends in Switzerland are just trying to get a peek and just know God for a trillionth of a second, even if invisibility is their measure.
All I can say is that some of us have known him for longer than that.
For the inspiring article about what the LHC is up to these days, take a look at http://tinyurl.com/5s229ca
The idea is to watch a couple of protons collide at the speed of light like opposing Porsches on the Autobahn and give us a taste of a whole “new class of unanticipated subatomic curiosities” or in layman’s terms the existence of extra dimensions. Given a little more juice (and money) the smasher will deliver a recreation of the Big Bang, or in layman’s terms the creation of the Universe.
Some scientists say that failing to find the Higgs Boson would “actually be more intriguing than finding it”. Nicholas Hadley, a member of the research team for the LHC's Compact Muon Solenoid detector, told reporters "If we don't see it, we will be very excited, because it means that there's something very brand-new.”
So there you have it. I don’t know about you but, for me, failing to find my glasses is not more intriguing than finding them. Give me $10 billion and my glasses back and I’ll pretty much confirm that God is invisible.
Let’s not jump onto theological bandwagons so quickly. Trying to figure out whether it took 14 or 1000 trillion electron volts to create the Universe is an enlightened pursuit, something that humans have the capacity to do when they are not fighting and blowing themselves up, starving, dying, begging for spare change, or exploiting those who are starving, dying, and begging for spare change. I don’t know how many trillions of electron volts it will take to sneak up on human faith. That of course doesn’t really con-CERN our plucky scientists. They’re hunting for God. We all know faith exists among the faithful.
Dr. C.G. Jung, the great 20th century psychoanalyst, founder of analytic psychology, and considered the first modern psychologist to state that the human psyche is "by nature religious", was once asked by a reporter whether he believed in God. His answer was “I have known Him”.
I think that’s a pretty good answer. It suggests that our friends in Switzerland are just trying to get a peek and just know God for a trillionth of a second, even if invisibility is their measure.
All I can say is that some of us have known him for longer than that.
For the inspiring article about what the LHC is up to these days, take a look at http://tinyurl.com/5s229ca
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Exit 7: Universe
“CAPACITY: 40 ASSINGERS”. The “P” had peeled off, as had many other things over the course of this bus’s long lifetime. When the old beast fired up it coughed deadly blue smoke and the unmistakable odor of third-world diesel, blending into the dark morning’s icy fog. The otherwise silent and peaceable forest kingdom was abruptly awakened from its wintry slumbers. The warm nesting squirrels, herds of deer, and a few pheasants jumped and wrinkled their little noses, not happy. Headlights blinked on and the ancient bus blasted a backfire that ricocheted the steep hills, then the dinosaur wheezed its way back to life. What remained of its transmission clanked into SLOW gear; the first of two that actually worked. The next was WHIPLASH, which is pretty much what the 40 assingers sustained when the clutch was popped.
Barely surviving the four-miles of kidney-rattling pothole-pitted dirt road, the faded yellow SCHOOL BU (the “S” long gone) lurched onto paved County Route 101 headed for Interstate 95. Thirty minutes later it ramped into light southbound traffic on 95 and proceeded at what the assingers thought was lightning speed. Two State Troopers, seated in their Crown Vic cruiser, hidden in I95’s most notorious speed trap, pointed their radar gun through the mist and clocked the bus at a blazing 45 MPH. “Haven’t seen those guys for a while,” mused Sergeant Nameen, sipping his steaming coffee. “Out for a holy romp, I guess,” mumbled Trooper Wrigley, biting into a glazed donut. “Umh,” responded Nameen thoughtfully. Neither Trooper took notice of a beat-up gray unmarked panel van behind the SCHOOL BU lost among the Focuses, Civics, and Malibu’s in swelling commuter traffic.
* * *
His Holiness Wu Hsing, alone in the dark temple, chanted his morning sutras. His shaven head was still and unmoving. His humming basso voice soothed the walls and ceiling of the temple, as did the wraiths of incense smoke gently curling up from sticks placed in front of the alter. Finished, he stopped and stood up slowly. A little monk, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, his head shaven too, walked to the Abbot’s side and placed a simple brown robe over his shoulders. Ignoring his acolyte, His Holiness murmured “Kun Chien”, turned and walked through the temple to the heavy wooden temple doors, which the monk quick-stepped to open. The Abbot was bathed in bright Spring sunshine as he walked onto the wooden porch. Birds blessed the forest with their symphony of chattering and chirping. The flowers were glistening and dewy. Turtles in the pond below lazily poked their noses out of the water.
The Abbot watched as his monks unloaded a cargo of large crates from the CLUE WAGON, an innocuous fossilized gray Ford panel van (once a CLUB WAGON before some of the “B” wore off). More monks left their dormitories to help haul the crates into a large garage behind the temple. Behind His Holiness Wu Hsing the little monk thought: “Kun Chien. This is most appropriate.”
* * *
The freezing fog was still as thick as it had been in the woods when the CLUE WAGON veered off the highway onto the Exit 7 ramp and came to a stop at the first traffic light in the city of Stamford. The streets were empty at this early hour. The van took a right and headed down Washington Avenue, through four green lights and past the huge monolithic buildings of the Union Bank of Salamanca, the Regal Bank of Swedenborg, the Government Center and other recently mushroomed financial institutions.
At the fifth light, the van swung a left onto a long side street and parked behind the SCHOOL BU, whose 40 assingers had already assembled on the manicured grass facing the offensive but apparently trendy distressed-steel-and-plywood headquarters of Sporsky and Associates, a world-famous accounting firm, architected by the world-famous Carbunkle and Partners. 40 monks, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, wearing little maroon knit caps, gathered in a circle and began to chant. The headlights of a very large tractor trailer swung around the corner off Washington. The rig pulled in and parked in front of the SCHOOL BU with the explosive hish of pneumatic brakes. The trailer was unmarked save for three small diamond-shaped DOT signs that warned: “HAZARDOUS”. The fog was lifting. The sky was brightening. It was 7:30 AM.
The truck driver, a little beefy guy, got out of the cab, walked to the rear of the trailer, and opened the large trailer doors. Inside were the business ends of sixteen neatly arranged fat steel tanks, each as long as the trailer that carried it. Metal spaghetti of copper tubing connected the tanks. The driver began pulling and unreeling a high pressure hose from the trailer.
* * *
Enter video stage left: a tall, burly, handsome hulk of a guy with obligatory goatee, long blond hair, a nifty grill of pearly whites and aw-shucks-you-gotta-love-me grin. Enter video stage right: a voluptuous raven-haired I’m-so-adorable coochie-coochie Fiesta de Sabado type on speed. Va-va-va-voom!
It's Connecticut's Channel 3 Action News Traffic "Reporter", Juanita LaBomba! Lips as red as fire-engines and almost as big. Enough foundation, eyeliner, mascara and lash extender to paint all the Rockettes in one go. A smile with teeth like Klieg lights. Hips with incredible childbearing potential. And huge are her boobs, delightfully encased in a nude tone skin tight cashmere turtleneck. The couple took their seats behind the WBUZ Action News Mobile Desk, put on headphones, grabbed the handheld mikes, did a “1-2-3 how’s this?” sound check for the camera crew, and looked over what was becoming a mass of humanity on Stamford’s Atlantic Avenue. The director counted down “Three . . . Two . . . One” and the clock blinked 11:00 AM.
“Hello, everyone!! I’m Juanita La Bomba!” (For it is She) “Welcome to this year’s spectacular annual Thanksgiving Day Parade here in downtown Stamford, Connecticut! This parade is a Thanksgiving tradition here in Stamford, and a special favorite of tens of thousands of people who travel from everywhere to be here, and of all of you watching from the comfort of home on WBUZ Channel 3: your station with the Action News Team: Bolt Fabric, Tina Baghwasali, Tony Chen, K’enosha Umbagwi, Geoffrey Hodge-Turnip, and me, Juanita La Bomba!!”
The camera zooms back and pans to the crowd lining Atlantic Avenue four or five deep. Ten mounted police slowly trot up the street next to blue police barriers.
Mounted Cop 1: “Pretty good crowd, huh?”
Mounted Cop 2: “Yeah. A couple of fallen old timers and diabetic seizures and we’ll be hoisting a few brewskies before you know it.”
Back to our hostess with the moistest (ed. surely you mean “mostest"?). “It’s a pleasure to be here with you for all the excitement of this nationally-renowned parade, second only in size to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. with eighteen character balloons, eighteen in all marching down Atlantic Avenue! And we’ve got a great crowd today, too!”
Juanita La Bomba (nee Suarez) was “discovered” selling sandwiches and coffee from the quilted aluminum back of the lunch truck that pulls up to WBUZ Channel 3 at 11:30 AM each week day. Though at the time Juanita was decked-out in frump hoodie, jeans, and scuffed athletic sneakers, Archibald (“Archie”) Godfrey, General Manager and panjandrum of WBUZ Channel 3, spotted his future WBUZ Channel 3 Action News Traffic Bimbo in the flesh, in fact a lot of it, while waiting in line for his egg salad. Archie was well-known as having a God-Given sixth sense for talent (he found Bolt Fabric at a Gun Shop), and with $2.25 for the egg salad, the promise of a meteoric career in show business, and a generous promise of scale, Ms. Suarez was his.
Considerable speculation surrounded Ms. La Bomba when she appeared on the WBUZ Channel 3 Action News set at 5AM the next day in a black-and-nude skin-tight fishnet nipple-popping mini-thing, ready to launch into he morning’s panoply of flat tires, repaving and jackknives. Mr. Peepers, WBUZ’s long-time traffic guy, known by viewers only by his nasal voice narrating blurry black and white traffic cams, was sent packing. Once Juanita exploded on the scene, if not out of her bra, groggy early morning viewers were treated to Double-D’s that upstaged anything Interstate 95 could dish out, in outfits by Fredricks of New London and Hair by Vesuvio. Ratings skyrocketed and the fan mail poured in. Not only did Archie achieve Connecticut A-List status by inserting his mug into all of Ms. La Bomba’s publicity photos but he took no end of pleasure in humiliating Ernie Tataglia, General Manager of Stamford’s Local Mega News WHOA Channel 12, Archie’s mortal morning news ratings enemy with his “piss-off, Archie” traffic helicopter.
“And with me today, as our special guest for this year’s parade is our own Clint “Banger” Zelig, heroic quarterback and eligible bachelor of the New England Minutemen. Banger, it’s great to have you here!”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. I love Thanksgiving.”
For it is She: “So tell me, Banger, just how did you get your nickname?”
Banger: “I’ve had that since High School. I’ve been banging my passes right into the pocket, like, forever.”
Juanita: “Oooh! You sure have! And your team has had a terrific season so far. 12 and 1! What do you attribute that to?”
Banger: “Sheer luck, Juanita. You know, in New England we get all kinds of weather and traffic.”
Juanita [TO CAMERA]: “You got that right!!”
Banger: “You know we played Miami and there was, like, 3 feet of snow; we played Arizona and those guys just drowned in that hurricane; then there was no wind when we played Chicago and they lost their balls in the stands; Atlanta got stuck in traffic; we had terrific weather and Buffalo folded;
You know that’s pretty much how it went.”
Juanita: “But you lost to the 49ers . . .”
Banger: “They’d had a terrible season, and the guys just felt bad for them. We gave ‘em their only win of this year, and it was our way of giving back and we really felt good about it.”
Juanita: “That’s really wonderful.”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. It shows the fans that we have a human side, too.”
* * *
The Abbot of the monastery arrived to greet and bless his devoted monks. They chanted prayers together, and the Abbot addressed them. He praised the assembled monks for their eternal devotion, for their discipline and sacrifice in meticulous preparation for the blessed event that was about to take place. “The Oracle has spoken,” he said, as a long oily burnt orange high pressure hose was being reeled back into the “HAZARDOUS” unmarked trailer.
* * *
“Well Banger, the parade has begun!
Much anticipated, the first of the Parade balloons turned the corner of Broad St. and Atlantic Avenue. A huge cheer came from the thousands lining the street as Popeye stood up to his 60 foot height, tethered as he was to the ground by twenty five ropes and handlers, waving his inflating spinach can. Clouds of confetti filled the air.
“And here comes the Delmar Washington High School Marching Band!”
Twenty tubas, twenty glockenspiels, forty trumpets and trombones, thirty snare drums and eight huge bass drums swiveled in unison to the marching band version of “I Want to be Sedated” by The Ramones. Forty high kicking, baton-twirling, booty-shaking majorettes led the “Marching Delmars” down the Atlantic Avenue parade route.
Banger: “They’re hot, Juanita!”
Juanita: “They sure are, Banger! Too young for you! [LEVITY].
Banger: “Heh. Heh.”
Juanita: “You know, this band is world famous! Earlier this year, they went to Lima, Peru, and marched in Peru’s national ‘Viva La Revolucion Communista’ parade as part of the world’s only Global Marching Band Exchange Program, sponsored by our own favorite local electrical utility -- Positive Energy. Positive Energy, We Put Money Back in Your Pocket!”
Banger: “That must have been something. What’d we get?”
Juanita: “I thought you’d never ask! [LEVITY] Well, it’s the Peruvian Sendero Luminoso Pan-Piping Marching Band, of course. And they’ll be bringing up the rear of today’s parade.”
Banger: “Ay Chihuahua!”
* * *
11:55 AM
The Parade continued , to the delight of what was now a crowd of over 100,000.
Astroboy was followed by a float manned by “Epiglotis”, a local grunge favorite from Moosup, screaming their hit “Toaster” through torn and dried beer-encrusted amplifiers, their angry static punctuated by occasional EMS radio chatter about today’s diabetic seizures and old folks who’ve fallen and can’t get up.
Wide-eyed gas-filled Garfield stared down at Freddy Olfahrt, the obscure and pickled Polka King from Windsor Locks, losing his footing with the rest of the “Polka Gang” on the bouncing flatbed while in the throes of “The Multiple String Sausage Polka”.
Bloated Fred Flintstone heralded “Los Aburridos”, a mariachi band now appearing during Happy Hour at Montezuma’s Revenge in Bridgeport.
Acrobatic clowns and unicyclists swerved in formation around Smokey the Bear, who was trailed by a reconditioned Model-T, in which Gene Farley, the world’s worst Johnny Cash impersonator, did his best to mangle “Walk the Line”, something Farley could do before the bars opened.
Fourteen more giant balloons glided past the happy cheering crowds in languid succession. More confetti cannons fired fountains of little paper dots.
* * *
Eight blocks behind the parade, a father and mother with 5-year old twins quick- stepped along a side street to join the throng, obviously late. Turning a corner and taking a short cut through a back street, one of the tots exclaimed and pointed: “Mommy, Daddy, what’s that?” The mother looked up, stopped abruptly and whispered, “Oh, my God!!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
Barely surviving the four-miles of kidney-rattling pothole-pitted dirt road, the faded yellow SCHOOL BU (the “S” long gone) lurched onto paved County Route 101 headed for Interstate 95. Thirty minutes later it ramped into light southbound traffic on 95 and proceeded at what the assingers thought was lightning speed. Two State Troopers, seated in their Crown Vic cruiser, hidden in I95’s most notorious speed trap, pointed their radar gun through the mist and clocked the bus at a blazing 45 MPH. “Haven’t seen those guys for a while,” mused Sergeant Nameen, sipping his steaming coffee. “Out for a holy romp, I guess,” mumbled Trooper Wrigley, biting into a glazed donut. “Umh,” responded Nameen thoughtfully. Neither Trooper took notice of a beat-up gray unmarked panel van behind the SCHOOL BU lost among the Focuses, Civics, and Malibu’s in swelling commuter traffic.
* * *
His Holiness Wu Hsing, alone in the dark temple, chanted his morning sutras. His shaven head was still and unmoving. His humming basso voice soothed the walls and ceiling of the temple, as did the wraiths of incense smoke gently curling up from sticks placed in front of the alter. Finished, he stopped and stood up slowly. A little monk, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, his head shaven too, walked to the Abbot’s side and placed a simple brown robe over his shoulders. Ignoring his acolyte, His Holiness murmured “Kun Chien”, turned and walked through the temple to the heavy wooden temple doors, which the monk quick-stepped to open. The Abbot was bathed in bright Spring sunshine as he walked onto the wooden porch. Birds blessed the forest with their symphony of chattering and chirping. The flowers were glistening and dewy. Turtles in the pond below lazily poked their noses out of the water.
The Abbot watched as his monks unloaded a cargo of large crates from the CLUE WAGON, an innocuous fossilized gray Ford panel van (once a CLUB WAGON before some of the “B” wore off). More monks left their dormitories to help haul the crates into a large garage behind the temple. Behind His Holiness Wu Hsing the little monk thought: “Kun Chien. This is most appropriate.”
* * *
The freezing fog was still as thick as it had been in the woods when the CLUE WAGON veered off the highway onto the Exit 7 ramp and came to a stop at the first traffic light in the city of Stamford. The streets were empty at this early hour. The van took a right and headed down Washington Avenue, through four green lights and past the huge monolithic buildings of the Union Bank of Salamanca, the Regal Bank of Swedenborg, the Government Center and other recently mushroomed financial institutions.
At the fifth light, the van swung a left onto a long side street and parked behind the SCHOOL BU, whose 40 assingers had already assembled on the manicured grass facing the offensive but apparently trendy distressed-steel-and-plywood headquarters of Sporsky and Associates, a world-famous accounting firm, architected by the world-famous Carbunkle and Partners. 40 monks, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, wearing little maroon knit caps, gathered in a circle and began to chant. The headlights of a very large tractor trailer swung around the corner off Washington. The rig pulled in and parked in front of the SCHOOL BU with the explosive hish of pneumatic brakes. The trailer was unmarked save for three small diamond-shaped DOT signs that warned: “HAZARDOUS”. The fog was lifting. The sky was brightening. It was 7:30 AM.
The truck driver, a little beefy guy, got out of the cab, walked to the rear of the trailer, and opened the large trailer doors. Inside were the business ends of sixteen neatly arranged fat steel tanks, each as long as the trailer that carried it. Metal spaghetti of copper tubing connected the tanks. The driver began pulling and unreeling a high pressure hose from the trailer.
* * *
Enter video stage left: a tall, burly, handsome hulk of a guy with obligatory goatee, long blond hair, a nifty grill of pearly whites and aw-shucks-you-gotta-love-me grin. Enter video stage right: a voluptuous raven-haired I’m-so-adorable coochie-coochie Fiesta de Sabado type on speed. Va-va-va-voom!
It's Connecticut's Channel 3 Action News Traffic "Reporter", Juanita LaBomba! Lips as red as fire-engines and almost as big. Enough foundation, eyeliner, mascara and lash extender to paint all the Rockettes in one go. A smile with teeth like Klieg lights. Hips with incredible childbearing potential. And huge are her boobs, delightfully encased in a nude tone skin tight cashmere turtleneck. The couple took their seats behind the WBUZ Action News Mobile Desk, put on headphones, grabbed the handheld mikes, did a “1-2-3 how’s this?” sound check for the camera crew, and looked over what was becoming a mass of humanity on Stamford’s Atlantic Avenue. The director counted down “Three . . . Two . . . One” and the clock blinked 11:00 AM.
“Hello, everyone!! I’m Juanita La Bomba!” (For it is She) “Welcome to this year’s spectacular annual Thanksgiving Day Parade here in downtown Stamford, Connecticut! This parade is a Thanksgiving tradition here in Stamford, and a special favorite of tens of thousands of people who travel from everywhere to be here, and of all of you watching from the comfort of home on WBUZ Channel 3: your station with the Action News Team: Bolt Fabric, Tina Baghwasali, Tony Chen, K’enosha Umbagwi, Geoffrey Hodge-Turnip, and me, Juanita La Bomba!!”
The camera zooms back and pans to the crowd lining Atlantic Avenue four or five deep. Ten mounted police slowly trot up the street next to blue police barriers.
Mounted Cop 1: “Pretty good crowd, huh?”
Mounted Cop 2: “Yeah. A couple of fallen old timers and diabetic seizures and we’ll be hoisting a few brewskies before you know it.”
Back to our hostess with the moistest (ed. surely you mean “mostest"?). “It’s a pleasure to be here with you for all the excitement of this nationally-renowned parade, second only in size to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. with eighteen character balloons, eighteen in all marching down Atlantic Avenue! And we’ve got a great crowd today, too!”
Juanita La Bomba (nee Suarez) was “discovered” selling sandwiches and coffee from the quilted aluminum back of the lunch truck that pulls up to WBUZ Channel 3 at 11:30 AM each week day. Though at the time Juanita was decked-out in frump hoodie, jeans, and scuffed athletic sneakers, Archibald (“Archie”) Godfrey, General Manager and panjandrum of WBUZ Channel 3, spotted his future WBUZ Channel 3 Action News Traffic Bimbo in the flesh, in fact a lot of it, while waiting in line for his egg salad. Archie was well-known as having a God-Given sixth sense for talent (he found Bolt Fabric at a Gun Shop), and with $2.25 for the egg salad, the promise of a meteoric career in show business, and a generous promise of scale, Ms. Suarez was his.
Considerable speculation surrounded Ms. La Bomba when she appeared on the WBUZ Channel 3 Action News set at 5AM the next day in a black-and-nude skin-tight fishnet nipple-popping mini-thing, ready to launch into he morning’s panoply of flat tires, repaving and jackknives. Mr. Peepers, WBUZ’s long-time traffic guy, known by viewers only by his nasal voice narrating blurry black and white traffic cams, was sent packing. Once Juanita exploded on the scene, if not out of her bra, groggy early morning viewers were treated to Double-D’s that upstaged anything Interstate 95 could dish out, in outfits by Fredricks of New London and Hair by Vesuvio. Ratings skyrocketed and the fan mail poured in. Not only did Archie achieve Connecticut A-List status by inserting his mug into all of Ms. La Bomba’s publicity photos but he took no end of pleasure in humiliating Ernie Tataglia, General Manager of Stamford’s Local Mega News WHOA Channel 12, Archie’s mortal morning news ratings enemy with his “piss-off, Archie” traffic helicopter.
“And with me today, as our special guest for this year’s parade is our own Clint “Banger” Zelig, heroic quarterback and eligible bachelor of the New England Minutemen. Banger, it’s great to have you here!”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. I love Thanksgiving.”
For it is She: “So tell me, Banger, just how did you get your nickname?”
Banger: “I’ve had that since High School. I’ve been banging my passes right into the pocket, like, forever.”
Juanita: “Oooh! You sure have! And your team has had a terrific season so far. 12 and 1! What do you attribute that to?”
Banger: “Sheer luck, Juanita. You know, in New England we get all kinds of weather and traffic.”
Juanita [TO CAMERA]: “You got that right!!”
Banger: “You know we played Miami and there was, like, 3 feet of snow; we played Arizona and those guys just drowned in that hurricane; then there was no wind when we played Chicago and they lost their balls in the stands; Atlanta got stuck in traffic; we had terrific weather and Buffalo folded;
You know that’s pretty much how it went.”
Juanita: “But you lost to the 49ers . . .”
Banger: “They’d had a terrible season, and the guys just felt bad for them. We gave ‘em their only win of this year, and it was our way of giving back and we really felt good about it.”
Juanita: “That’s really wonderful.”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. It shows the fans that we have a human side, too.”
* * *
The Abbot of the monastery arrived to greet and bless his devoted monks. They chanted prayers together, and the Abbot addressed them. He praised the assembled monks for their eternal devotion, for their discipline and sacrifice in meticulous preparation for the blessed event that was about to take place. “The Oracle has spoken,” he said, as a long oily burnt orange high pressure hose was being reeled back into the “HAZARDOUS” unmarked trailer.
* * *
“Well Banger, the parade has begun!
Much anticipated, the first of the Parade balloons turned the corner of Broad St. and Atlantic Avenue. A huge cheer came from the thousands lining the street as Popeye stood up to his 60 foot height, tethered as he was to the ground by twenty five ropes and handlers, waving his inflating spinach can. Clouds of confetti filled the air.
“And here comes the Delmar Washington High School Marching Band!”
Twenty tubas, twenty glockenspiels, forty trumpets and trombones, thirty snare drums and eight huge bass drums swiveled in unison to the marching band version of “I Want to be Sedated” by The Ramones. Forty high kicking, baton-twirling, booty-shaking majorettes led the “Marching Delmars” down the Atlantic Avenue parade route.
Banger: “They’re hot, Juanita!”
Juanita: “They sure are, Banger! Too young for you! [LEVITY].
Banger: “Heh. Heh.”
Juanita: “You know, this band is world famous! Earlier this year, they went to Lima, Peru, and marched in Peru’s national ‘Viva La Revolucion Communista’ parade as part of the world’s only Global Marching Band Exchange Program, sponsored by our own favorite local electrical utility -- Positive Energy. Positive Energy, We Put Money Back in Your Pocket!”
Banger: “That must have been something. What’d we get?”
Juanita: “I thought you’d never ask! [LEVITY] Well, it’s the Peruvian Sendero Luminoso Pan-Piping Marching Band, of course. And they’ll be bringing up the rear of today’s parade.”
Banger: “Ay Chihuahua!”
* * *
11:55 AM
The Parade continued , to the delight of what was now a crowd of over 100,000.
Astroboy was followed by a float manned by “Epiglotis”, a local grunge favorite from Moosup, screaming their hit “Toaster” through torn and dried beer-encrusted amplifiers, their angry static punctuated by occasional EMS radio chatter about today’s diabetic seizures and old folks who’ve fallen and can’t get up.
Wide-eyed gas-filled Garfield stared down at Freddy Olfahrt, the obscure and pickled Polka King from Windsor Locks, losing his footing with the rest of the “Polka Gang” on the bouncing flatbed while in the throes of “The Multiple String Sausage Polka”.
Bloated Fred Flintstone heralded “Los Aburridos”, a mariachi band now appearing during Happy Hour at Montezuma’s Revenge in Bridgeport.
Acrobatic clowns and unicyclists swerved in formation around Smokey the Bear, who was trailed by a reconditioned Model-T, in which Gene Farley, the world’s worst Johnny Cash impersonator, did his best to mangle “Walk the Line”, something Farley could do before the bars opened.
Fourteen more giant balloons glided past the happy cheering crowds in languid succession. More confetti cannons fired fountains of little paper dots.
* * *
Eight blocks behind the parade, a father and mother with 5-year old twins quick- stepped along a side street to join the throng, obviously late. Turning a corner and taking a short cut through a back street, one of the tots exclaimed and pointed: “Mommy, Daddy, what’s that?” The mother looked up, stopped abruptly and whispered, “Oh, my God!!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Point-Counter-Point: "UBS revises mocked dress code"
http://www.thehour.com/story/497753
Dateline: GENEVA, January 18, 2011
By FRANK JORDANS
Associated Press
Good news for Swiss bankers: They may soon be allowed to wear red underwear, black nail polish -- and even eat garlic.
Swiss banking giant UBS AG said Monday (January 17, 2011) it is revising its 44-page dress code telling its Swiss staff how to present themselves, which generated worldwide ridicule for its micromanagement of their dressing and dining habits.
The code instructs employees on everything from their breath -- no garlic or onions, please -- to their underwear, which should be skin-colored.
"We're reviewing what is important to us," UBS spokesman Andreas Kern told The Associated Press.
He said the bank would issue a pared-down booklet with more general guidelines on how to impress customers with a polished presence and sense of Swiss precision and decorum.
The existing code tells female employees how to apply makeup, what kind of perfume to wear and what color stockings are acceptable. It advises them not to show roots if they color their hair and to avoid black nail polish.
"You can extend the life of your knee socks and stockings by keeping your toenails trimmed and filed," Zurich-based UBS told its female staff. "Always have a spare pair: stockings can be provisionally repaired with transparent nail polish and a bit of luck."
Men are told how to knot a tie, to make sure they get a haircut every month and to avoid unruly beards and earrings.
"Glasses should always be kept clean," the code instructs. "On the one hand this gives you optimal vision, and on the other hand dirty glasses create an appearance of negligence."
The guidelines also recommended that employees always wear wristwatches to signal "trustworthiness and a serious concern for punctuality."
The UBS style guide prompted derision and disbelief when it first surfaced last month, but Kern insisted it was still good for the bank's reputation in the long run.
"Everyone knows the staff in our banks strive for the perfect look," he said.
So will employees now be able to wear red underwear? Who checked to see if they did before? Kern declined to give specific examples of planned changes.
A spokesman for rival bank Credit Suisse said he understands what UBS was trying to achieve.
"Every Swiss bank with private or retail customers has some sort of guidelines," Marc Dosch said. "UBS has taken it to absurd lengths, but in general it's a good thing that people have some guidance."
He noted that banks aren't alone in telling their employees what to wear: "There are gas stations, burger bars and supermarkets where you have to wear ties, and even silly hats at Christmas," he said.
The 157-year-old UBS has a history of providing detailed advice for its employees, which numbered 65,000 worldwide at the end of 2009. A handbook for bank trainees gives a country-by-country behavior guide.
In Russia, it tells employees to be prepared to hold your drink at business engagements and to "never reject an invitation to the sauna."
In Latin America, "turning up before an appointment might even be considered rude."
And in the United States, it says, "never criticize the President."
[END STORY]
**********************************************************************************
I don’t know what has possessed the elders in Zurich to revise our dress code. Listen, I’m as modern as the next guy, but black nail polish just doesn’t go with my stuff anyway, although occasionally I could go for something in the lacy red Unterwäsche department.
Even before I began my mandatory dress code courses I never refused an invitation to the sauna while holding a drink, anywhere.
And being Swiss I don’t need any instruction on punctuality, thank you. Nevertheless I wear a wristwatch to signal my trustworthiness and my serious concern for punctuality. The face on my IWC Schaffhausen Portuguese Grande Complication is a little hard to read so I clean my glasses obsessively, maintaining optimal vision so I can see the bloody thing and don’t appear negligent and about to be tardy. Naturally I am synchronized with the NIST-F1 Cesium Fountain Atomic Clock which, although it is in the U.S. (Apologies to the Verband der Schweizerischen Uhrenindustrie FH), does not deserve criticism for dropping a second every 10,000 years any more than does the President of the United States.
In order to be late in Latin America, I have had to resort to extreme measures. I’ve discovered that it is hard to turn an atomic clock back, certainly not for me just because I’m in Latin America for a couple of days. So I think it’s a good idea to wear silly hats in Brazil, or Uruguay or wherever, especially if being Swiss I am going to be compulsively punctual for a reunión de negocios.
And while I’m waiting for my meeting to begin in Bolivia I can extend the life of my knee socks and stockings by keeping my toenails trimmed and filed. If in the stress of making my connection through Manaus my knee socks and stockings develop the runs they can be provisionally repaired with transparent nail polish and a bit of luck, both of which I always carry on my person for such emergencies.
Actually, it’s not a bad idea to get a monthly haircut and cover those unsightly roots while I am cooling my Santoni-clad heels in La Paz. Have you ever seen unsightly roots on a Bolivian person’s head? No way. You can smell the garlic and their ghastly perfume a mile away, but no matter how close you get to your Bolivian colleague you won’t see a single unseemly root.
In summary, I am always striving for the perfect look, thanks to the UBS style guide. Others with their unruly beards and earrings may have been prompted to deride, ridicule, and disbelieve what has become the foundation of UBS’s global success, but they’re all just slobs.
Dateline: GENEVA, January 18, 2011
By FRANK JORDANS
Associated Press
Good news for Swiss bankers: They may soon be allowed to wear red underwear, black nail polish -- and even eat garlic.
Swiss banking giant UBS AG said Monday (January 17, 2011) it is revising its 44-page dress code telling its Swiss staff how to present themselves, which generated worldwide ridicule for its micromanagement of their dressing and dining habits.
The code instructs employees on everything from their breath -- no garlic or onions, please -- to their underwear, which should be skin-colored.
"We're reviewing what is important to us," UBS spokesman Andreas Kern told The Associated Press.
He said the bank would issue a pared-down booklet with more general guidelines on how to impress customers with a polished presence and sense of Swiss precision and decorum.
The existing code tells female employees how to apply makeup, what kind of perfume to wear and what color stockings are acceptable. It advises them not to show roots if they color their hair and to avoid black nail polish.
"You can extend the life of your knee socks and stockings by keeping your toenails trimmed and filed," Zurich-based UBS told its female staff. "Always have a spare pair: stockings can be provisionally repaired with transparent nail polish and a bit of luck."
Men are told how to knot a tie, to make sure they get a haircut every month and to avoid unruly beards and earrings.
"Glasses should always be kept clean," the code instructs. "On the one hand this gives you optimal vision, and on the other hand dirty glasses create an appearance of negligence."
The guidelines also recommended that employees always wear wristwatches to signal "trustworthiness and a serious concern for punctuality."
The UBS style guide prompted derision and disbelief when it first surfaced last month, but Kern insisted it was still good for the bank's reputation in the long run.
"Everyone knows the staff in our banks strive for the perfect look," he said.
So will employees now be able to wear red underwear? Who checked to see if they did before? Kern declined to give specific examples of planned changes.
A spokesman for rival bank Credit Suisse said he understands what UBS was trying to achieve.
"Every Swiss bank with private or retail customers has some sort of guidelines," Marc Dosch said. "UBS has taken it to absurd lengths, but in general it's a good thing that people have some guidance."
He noted that banks aren't alone in telling their employees what to wear: "There are gas stations, burger bars and supermarkets where you have to wear ties, and even silly hats at Christmas," he said.
The 157-year-old UBS has a history of providing detailed advice for its employees, which numbered 65,000 worldwide at the end of 2009. A handbook for bank trainees gives a country-by-country behavior guide.
In Russia, it tells employees to be prepared to hold your drink at business engagements and to "never reject an invitation to the sauna."
In Latin America, "turning up before an appointment might even be considered rude."
And in the United States, it says, "never criticize the President."
[END STORY]
**********************************************************************************
I don’t know what has possessed the elders in Zurich to revise our dress code. Listen, I’m as modern as the next guy, but black nail polish just doesn’t go with my stuff anyway, although occasionally I could go for something in the lacy red Unterwäsche department.
Even before I began my mandatory dress code courses I never refused an invitation to the sauna while holding a drink, anywhere.
And being Swiss I don’t need any instruction on punctuality, thank you. Nevertheless I wear a wristwatch to signal my trustworthiness and my serious concern for punctuality. The face on my IWC Schaffhausen Portuguese Grande Complication is a little hard to read so I clean my glasses obsessively, maintaining optimal vision so I can see the bloody thing and don’t appear negligent and about to be tardy. Naturally I am synchronized with the NIST-F1 Cesium Fountain Atomic Clock which, although it is in the U.S. (Apologies to the Verband der Schweizerischen Uhrenindustrie FH), does not deserve criticism for dropping a second every 10,000 years any more than does the President of the United States.
In order to be late in Latin America, I have had to resort to extreme measures. I’ve discovered that it is hard to turn an atomic clock back, certainly not for me just because I’m in Latin America for a couple of days. So I think it’s a good idea to wear silly hats in Brazil, or Uruguay or wherever, especially if being Swiss I am going to be compulsively punctual for a reunión de negocios.
And while I’m waiting for my meeting to begin in Bolivia I can extend the life of my knee socks and stockings by keeping my toenails trimmed and filed. If in the stress of making my connection through Manaus my knee socks and stockings develop the runs they can be provisionally repaired with transparent nail polish and a bit of luck, both of which I always carry on my person for such emergencies.
Actually, it’s not a bad idea to get a monthly haircut and cover those unsightly roots while I am cooling my Santoni-clad heels in La Paz. Have you ever seen unsightly roots on a Bolivian person’s head? No way. You can smell the garlic and their ghastly perfume a mile away, but no matter how close you get to your Bolivian colleague you won’t see a single unseemly root.
In summary, I am always striving for the perfect look, thanks to the UBS style guide. Others with their unruly beards and earrings may have been prompted to deride, ridicule, and disbelieve what has become the foundation of UBS’s global success, but they’re all just slobs.
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