tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7324535119095790822023-06-15T05:44:26.532-05:00Ferocious ToadAdventures in Less Fashionable Areas of the Space/Time ContinuumFerocioustoadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10508704640972325503noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-91488669554502475172013-12-11T16:07:00.000-06:002013-12-11T16:07:11.585-06:00Into Memory: Jimmy Liptak<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A good man passed this week; someone I knew when I was much younger. Whenever this happens, I find myself stuck in some sort of quantum dislocation. In my mind, that person is still young and stays so till I observe differently. This last month, I’ve found myself considering the loss of three fifty/sixty-somethings who still populate my memory as twenty-somethings.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I've not seen Jimmy in decades. My memories of him, like many other camp folk, stem from back in The Dreamtime. <i>(The sixties and seventies) </i>This was a time in our lives of chaos and possibilities. <i>(And hormones; lots of hormones)</i> The universe was young. Stuff apparently happened before us but couldn't have been that important. The summers were warm and endless and we meandered through them obliviously.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">It was a time of formation for us. We look back on those days, much like the constantly repeated stories of our parents' childhoods, as a sort of mythology that has guided our lives. <i>(eg. The Legend of Dennycles and the Bottle of Cheap Wine; wherein our hero learns a valuable lesson about unsympathetic friends who will put ice cubes down your pants when you're helpless to fight back.)</i> We learned things but not well or readily and much of what we learned was useless if not downright dangerous.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Like any garden variety universe, we start out with chaos; particles and potential whirling about with no particular direction or form. That would be our teens… Then, suddenly, order starts to impose itself.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You know what order in such a system consists of? Small influences over time. A minor nudge to a careening asteroid, over time, can alter its course by millions of miles. Small influences…</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">MD camp was an example of the multiplication effect of those small influences. Back in The Dreamtime, there was a concentration of remarkable people; the very type needed to populate a new mythology. Why, there were giants in those days, folks! <i>(Granted they were all oddly dressed teenagers with unusual haircuts and varying levels of no-clue-at-all but this is my mythos and I'll populate it as I like!)</i> People such as I'd never met in my life up to that point. Everyone has individuals at camp who had some particularly telling effect on them. To me, for instance, one was Ricky Balsamo. Here was a guy my own age who startled and amazed me. Imagine! To be responsible and organized of one's own volition! Hell, I didn't realize, at the time, that was even an option. <i>(My stable of peer group role models up till then was, unfortunately, a rather sad and mangy lot.)</i> I would observe Ricky wielding that clipboard like a dog watching a human use a can opener, <i>"Hey, he's performing actions in the present to affect conditions in the future! Wow! I wanna be like that… But with a nicer hat!"</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">There are always people like that at camp. I remember Jimmy, his lovely sister Marian and more in those early years. People like this give you a glimpse of what they are; what you could also be if you just suck up your nerve and open out. These people have an amazing effect on a life's trajectory. Some have more effect on more people; people like Jimmy. Small influences over time tend to build and amplify. They're shared and grown, transferred and bequeathed. Ah, then order and direction develops! Friendships, influences and lessons learned create pathways and orbits in our lives. </span><i style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(I keep working this metaphor and I know it's getting old but stay with me…) </i><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Those small influences have developed into our careers, our friends, even, for many of us, our spouses. Worlds and lives were created by the influences we experienced then. I find it wonderful to see that those original influences continue to form order as camp folk have married, had children who became camp folk, married each other and had even more tiny, little camp folk. It's a marvelous thing to look back nearly 44 years </span><i style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">(I know; that doesn't sound particularly old to be called "The Dreamtime" but I'm the one telling the story, dammit…)</i><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> and to see the paths so many friends' lives have taken that can greatly be attributed to people like Jimmy.</span><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6WxMXud7l2o/UqjgRRZujxI/AAAAAAAAAcE/234yMXd2A1I/s1600/JL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6WxMXud7l2o/UqjgRRZujxI/AAAAAAAAAcE/234yMXd2A1I/s320/JL.jpg" width="317" /></a><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">As I said, I've not seen him in years. I didn't even know what path his life took, or what all he did with it. I think it's telling, though, that I just assumed he continued to be that force; touching lives, building spirits. That's what people like him do. Reading some of the postings from his friends and students over the last couple days, that appears to have been a safe assumption.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Small influences over time… </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Eventually, you end up with… this.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Look at the worlds you created, Jimmy Liptak…</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">God bless and godspeed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-36320861119986361052013-10-09T20:50:00.002-05:002013-10-09T21:15:29.599-05:00Spider, Spider, Burning Bright!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br />"No spider! No spider! Scorpion!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The food stall vendor's voice was taking the same exasperated tone as the last four and I was getting the strong impression that dinner was off for tonight. I'd been up and down the narrow lanes of the Beijing night market but, try as I might, could not find the deep fried tarantula I had been prepping my taste buds for.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Months before our trip, I had planned a trip to the Donghuamen night market, famed for cooking up the most horrible things imaginable and feeding them to tourists. There were all manner of crunchy delights emerging from pots of smoking oil. Here were racks of fried silkworm larvae, fronting skewers of live wriggling scorpions. Off to the left was a brace of skewered intestines with my name on them (In English; seriously, what were the odds?) and row upon row of whole fried quail whose tiny heads stared back at me reproachfully. Every imaginable horror was present, accounted for and ready to be dipped in hot sauce for my gastronomic delight, save one.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2OdFMGDJ1Q/UlYAXT7P5fI/AAAAAAAAAag/NtySSIAKoys/s1600/P1000245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2OdFMGDJ1Q/UlYAXT7P5fI/AAAAAAAAAag/NtySSIAKoys/s400/P1000245.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The quail stared back reproachfully.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The big black scorpions are meatier.</span></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MN12kUs3E6Y/UlYAhh_wx_I/AAAAAAAAAao/erlC8TQZbMI/s1600/P1000249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MN12kUs3E6Y/UlYAhh_wx_I/AAAAAAAAAao/erlC8TQZbMI/s400/P1000249.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><i style="background-color: black;">Skewers of live wriggling scorpions</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Where, oh where had my fried tarantula gone? I'd seen them on TV travel shows, checked them out on YouTube videos, learned the best way of eating them and what to avoid. (Their taste is apparently reminiscent of crab except that crab doesn't make you scream inside for several months after eating them... ) I had also internalized a cautionary tasting note that the abdomens of some are full of egg sacs that are, apparently, not as fun to eat as the rest of the otherwise yummy arachnid. I'd even planned ahead. Our tour guide, Joe, had e-mailed us several weeks before the trip to ask if there were any special requests; sights we wanted to see that weren't on the itinerary or a bit off the beaten path; cultural highlights or holy sites that called to us. I gave careful, deliberate consideration to his question and replied back, "Night Market! Fried tarantulas!"</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Drumsticks for everyone!</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I could imagine his internal response. "In all of China and it's 9,000 years of history and culture, he wants to eat crunchy nightmare with the tourists..." I followed up with a lame explanation that while I, of course, would rather drive a few extra hours to see how the restoration of my favorite gorge Buddha was coming along, I had promised my (fictitious) grand kids that I would go eat a giant spider and film it for them to take to show and tell. "Kids", I chuckled weakly and unconvincingly. He promised to write out a route for us to follow and, I assume, consigned us mentally to the lowest level of hillbilly tourist hell.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In Beijing, on our first night, as we visited with the guide and our 12 travel companions, I sheepishly brought up a reminder of our interest in spider eating. I explained to the group that we were planning to skip the Chinese face changing show in favor of a visit to the night market in a bid to achieve hard core immortality in the eyes of some 8 and 10 year olds. The response was amazing. Several others had the same idea and, in short order, all the others did, as well.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"We want to be hardcore, too!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"We want to eat tarantulas with Dennis! "</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Yeah, let's go to the night market and gross out the little kids!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"I am Spartacus!" (At this point I was feeling a bit giddy...)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Joe's expression shifted back and forth from dismay to disbelief a few times before coming to rest on resignation. Face Theater was off; Night Market expedition was on.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">This turned out to be a good thing as that weekend happened to be Mid-Autumn Moon Festival weekend and you know how hard it is to get a cab during moon festival. Even if you can find one, they jack up the price by a factor of 10. Joe ended up having to herd 10 Americans ( Still chanting "Spider! Spider!" and giggling amongst themselves) through a series of subway and bus changes through crowds that could only occur in a country with 1.5 billion people on call for crowd duty.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">We finally arrived at the night market and plunged into narrow lanes that were a riot of sound, color and smells; and, oh, the smells... The aromas of roasted nuts and corn intermingled with barbecue, the occasional waft of open sewer and lots and lots of ????. I went stall to stall, followed by my hard core foodie posse but, though we found everything imaginable that shouldn't be eaten by rational beings... no spider. The crowd turned surly and drifted off to shop for other deals among the lanes. I pestered additional food sellers for a while before conceding defeat. This was a shame as I had reams of carefully prepared ad libs ready for my tarantula encounter:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Are these spiders farm raised or free range?", I'd ask with a sly grin, imagining millions of these multi-legged horrors sweeping majestically across the open plain.The vendor, despite understanding no English, would point both index fingers at me and go "Ooooooohhh!" (Chinese for- My, what a witty riposte. Well played, sir!)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Hey", I'd burble to the appreciative tourist audience as I pulled off a leg. " Drum sticks for everyone!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Mmmm. That's good spider!", I'd mug to the camera in my best Dave Letterman, before looking down at the skewer and screaming uncontrollably.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"Staci! Are you eating the centipedes? I was saving those for company!"</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A dozen or so similar gems went begging.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I settled for picking out a skewer of live, wiggling scorpions which were then deep-fried before my eyes for guaranteed freshness and tucked right in to them. It wasn't fried spider but would still garner some hard-core respect from those 8 and 10 year olds.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Staci unaccountably turns down my generous offer to share the scorpions.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">2 days later, I was still picking legs out of my teeth.</span></span><br />
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Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-57637409108528751422013-08-30T16:09:00.001-05:002019-04-14T15:49:25.937-05:00Harris the Rain King: Chaac and Awe in Belize- Part 1<i>Hunapu stood at the edge of the forest, looking up the road into the distance. The far trees danced and jumped in the shimmering heat. A flinty, scorched smell mixed with the smoke and dust filling the air; making his eyes tear and each breath burn.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>He turned back to his family's open hut and the stunted plants wilting in </i><i>the sere <span style="background-color: white;">earth </span></i><i style="background-color: white;">around it. Mother sat in the shade of the hay roof, holding his baby sister, Cuicatl, and staring blankly at the dying garden plot. His father moved slowly among the dusty plantings, metering a small amount of precious water to each, only to watch the ground swallow it and dry up again immediately. Chicahua dropped the empty huacal gourd to the ground and sank, exhausted, to his knees beside it. The rains were long overdue. In Hunapu's ten years, a' yax-hau; the first rains, had never been this late. He muttered a quiet prayer to Chaac, as he and his parents had, daily, since the drought had deepened.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>Turning back to the road, he kicked the dust into small swirls that moved only slightly into the dead air before settling back at his feet. Hunapu raised his eyes again, shielding them against the searing glare beating down from the cloudless sky. In the distance, the images still danced in the heat and haze. </i><br />
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<i>Then, gradually, one began to resolve itself.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"Tat, Na'na; Someone comes!" Hunapu shouted to his parents, who moved hesitantly to join him, squinting into the distance at the approaching figures.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>As the travelers neared, Chicahua's eyes widened in alarm. "Hide your face! Look to the ground until they have passed!" he hissed urgently to his wife and son. Hunapu did as he was told. He could feel the closeness of the strangers, hear the sounds and </i><i>smell the dust kicked up by</i><i> their passage over the uneven road. At the last moment, defying his father's words, he raised his head slightly to steal a glance at the procession.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>His eyes locked immediately with those of the man being carried down the road and widened with amazement. His skin was pure white! He wore white hair and a white beard and his great dark eyes (the Mirrors of His Eyes!) reflected back Hunapu! Frightened at being caught, he tried but could not tear his gaze away. "Chaac!" he murmured. "Chaac, Lord of the Rains! Lord of Thunder!" Alarmed at his boldness, Hunapu dropped his face again but not before seeing Chaac smile back at him as he turned the Mirrors of His Eyes back to the road he travelled.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>As the procession moved out of sight, a single drop fell from the sky in front of Hunapu, raising a small puff in the dust and leaving a tiny crater. Another followed, as did another, slowly but with increasing speed. The scent of the air changed as distant thunder rolled over the forest.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"A' yax-hau!" Chicahua exulted through cracked lips. "The First Rain has come, Hunapu! Always remember this day!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>And Hunapu would remember it. When he was very old, he would share the tale of how his eyes met the mirror eyes of Chaac with his children and with his children's children...</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>Or at least he would have if he and his family hadn't been carried off and drowned in the flash flooding fifteen minutes later.</i><br />
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"Did you see that Mayan family we just passed?" I turned to ask Staci as I pulled off my aviator sunglasses and wiped the sweat from my face. "I can't imagine working in this sun all the time. I go from pale to stroke without ever hitting tanned." Digging through my backpack, I double checked the sunscreen's SPF for reassurance before settling back. "The little boy smiled at me. It's probably the white hair. All kids think "Santa Claus" when they see me."<br />
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"I'm sure that's it", Staci muttered through clenched teeth as our jeep rattled her spine like castanets. "The Mayans have always been big on Santa, you know." It hit another rut and launched her a foot in the air before catching her, again, like a baby in the hands of its drunken, least favorite uncle. "God, does this thing have a suspension?!?"<br />
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We were an hour south of Belize City, bouncing down what had rapidly changed from pavement to dirt to rutted mud to a game trail, apparently cratered by years of indiscriminate cluster bombing. Being the last jeep of three, we were also nicely coated with dust while shaken like human martinis. One moment, Staci would bounce across the back seat atop the luggage. The next moment, the luggage would ride her back the other way. By virtue of my heroic proportions, I had wedged myself tightly in place and was watching the jungle deepen as we passed.<br />
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The driver, Hernan, glanced back apologetically. "The dry season has been tough this year. That's why it's so dusty. The farmers are having a hard time of it. If we don't get rain soon, it's going to be very bad for everyone."<br />
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Hearing this, I smiled knowingly at Staci as she rattled past, clinging to a couple of playful scuba tanks. "Oh, I have a feeling the rains will come." I grinned. "I have a feeling the rains will come soon. Don't you think so, honey?"<br />
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Staci, closed her eyes and groaned apprehensively. "You know, forget the suspension. Hernan, can this jeep float?"<br />
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I'm not sure when I first realized I was a rain god.<br />
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That sort of realization comes slowly, on little catfish feet.<br />
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I don't even try to justify that status anymore; everyone thinks that the weather has it personally in for them. However, anyone reading this who knows me is silently nodding their heads, some violently as if to dislodge an unpleasant memory. <i>(See October 12, 2009 entry, "Travels With Dennis in Search of...) </i>Some who, unaccountably, have travelled with me more than once <i>(Usually due to marriage or other unavoidable circumstance.)</i> are even able to silently mouth the common refrain, along with the local survivors digging themselves out of whatever wreckage is currently burying them. Ready, my friends? All together!<br />
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<i>"I don't know what happened! We've never had weather like this before at this time of the year! It was... It was just on us with no warning! Oh, God... Where's the baby?!?!"</i><br />
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Unfortunately, I have no actual control over precipitation levels or exactly what form the weather event will take so there's no money to be made by, say, breaking droughts or ushering in an occasional Ice Age. Normally, the only recognition I get is a friend's occasional look of stunned disbelief at what's happening outside or a high-five from my brother when our combined mojo has rendered an entire region uninhabitable.<br />
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There was this one time, however...<br />
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<span style="color: yellow; font-size: large;">Stay tuned <i>(or online, whatever)</i> for the next riveting <i>(meh...)</i> installment!</span><br />
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<span style="color: yellow; font-size: large;"><i>Who'll Stop The Rain. Anyone? Anyone at all?</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: yellow; font-size: large;">or</span><br />
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<span style="color: yellow; font-size: large;"><i>I, Me, Mayan</i></span><br />
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<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-20972915192487065762012-07-11T17:00:00.000-05:002012-07-11T17:00:51.056-05:00Litterbox of the Damned!!!<br />
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Another favorite old thread from Facebook; and one of Bob Secco's finest hours...</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a></div>
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The Cat is now radioactive...</div>
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Following radiation treatment, we have to keep her isolated from the other cats for a week, carefully package and dispose of her glowing poop and pet her only with a stuffed mitten attached to a stick. <br />
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Of course, I'm trying to decide how to employ radioactive tabby-turds to terrorize and subjugate the good citizens of Vernon Hills. <br />
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I'll be needing a really cool super-villain name, some costume suggestions and a plausible flowchart for most effective utilization of deadly cat muffins.<br />
Bob, you start...<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=248360&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 14, 2010 at 7:25pm</a> · Unlike · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=111098982296780">1</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> ...and remember, "Senor Bag-o-Crap" is a Mexican wrester name and is already taken.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=248371&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 14, 2010 at 7:26pm</a> · Like <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> The cat has a runaway thyroid and has dropped to 4 lbs. RadioCat in Arlington Heights specializes in radioactive cat thyroid ablation. (Apparently thyroid ablation is popular among cats, just behind bulimia and cutting themselves...) It's spendy but Staci won't accept my proffered addendum to Shroedinger's famous thought experiment ( I call it the "Cat Disposability Postulate...)<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=255050&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 15, 2010 at 7:32pm</a> · Like <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> At any rate this should fix her and will remove the need for chasing her down twice a day to stuff pills down her. She's smarter than me and can fake accepting medication like a tiny, well-groomed Amy Winehouse. We keep finding the pills later on, usually in my shoes or on my toothbrush.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=255075&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 15, 2010 at 7:35pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=111345062272172">1</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> After all this brouhaha, though, we'd better get at least another 5 years out of her or I'm going to have her stuffed and mounted and keep her around like Roy Rogers did with Trigger.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=255082&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 15, 2010 at 7:36pm</a> · Like <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> I seem to remember hearing, at the time, that Dale Evans also wanted to be stuffed and mounted, though not necessarily in that order...<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/111098945630117?comment_id=255084&offset=0&total_comments=17">December 15, 2010 at 7:37pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=111345445605467">1</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris">Staci Tull Harris</a> Torture is finally getting your very affectionate cat back from 3 very long days away from us (for radiation treatment)... only to have to keep telling her "I'm so sorry. You're still glowing. I can't hold you, or pet you for 2 weeks. I can only look at you!" The looks she is giving are killing me (not to mention the constant meowing all night long outside our closed bedroom door)!<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479">December 17, 2010 at 12:34pm</a> Like<br />
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Brion Davis Thompson- I don't know if I could do it!<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479?comment_id=2227518&offset=0&total_comments=11">December 17, 2010 at 12:40pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=177806838903655">1</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/robert.secco.1">Robert Secco</a> Sure you could, Brion. The hard part would be breaking into their house so you could get close enough to their closed bedroom door to start meowing. (I'm not sure why you'd want to do it, but it could be done!)<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479?comment_id=2227713&offset=0&total_comments=11">December 17, 2010 at 1:16pm</a> · Unlike · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=177814042236268">4</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/robert.secco.1">Robert Secco</a> And as for you, Staci, you want to hug your kitty even though she's radioactive, yet when Dennis gets a little too "gassy", you have no qualms about locking him in the basement for the evening. For shame!!!<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479?comment_id=2227784&offset=0&total_comments=11">December 17, 2010 at 1:24pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=177815702236102">1</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> Bob, that was the best reply to the best set-up line in memory. You must still be basking in the afterglow...<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479?comment_id=2235910&offset=0&total_comments=11">December 18, 2010 at 5:35pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=178109585540047">1</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1135226352">Bill Harris Sr.</a> I had the thyroid ablation done, myself. While I was radioactive, Carolyn made me sleep in the basement by the water heater. My meowing got so loud that the neighbors called animal control and they shot me. Fortunately I was able to create a protective bubble around myself at the last minute. Carolyn finaly let me back into the bedroom after she couldn't get me to stop levitating outside the bedroom window. Sadly when the radioactivity wore off, so did my powers. It takes a week or so ....... until then I would be very afraid .... I'd hide the car keys ...<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/staci.tullharris/posts/177805265570479?comment_id=2231121&offset=0&total_comments=11">December 18, 2010 at 12:12am</a> · Unlike · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=177925908891748">4</a> <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> <span style="background-color: white;">The Cat is now back home... </span><br />
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Smurfette and I have been observing her for any signs of radiation induced mutant superpowers. <br />
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It actually appears that she's developed some low level psychic mind control abilities over the other cats. She's sitting under the Christmas tree perfectly still, eyes unblinking, making an eerie keening sound as Abbey totters back and forth in a zombie-like state constructing a tiny, grisly pyramid of mouse skulls to honor her."<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FiJ1Wt7JlFI/T_Zc22loNHI/AAAAAAAAAZc/5ytu41whYN0/s1600/Radio+Kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FiJ1Wt7JlFI/T_Zc22loNHI/AAAAAAAAAZc/5ytu41whYN0/s400/Radio+Kitty.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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At the same time, Attila is standing there with a confused, scared look on her face as she repeatedly slaps herself. Sad how easily their tiny, simple minds are controlled. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1507427094472&set=a.1053250060330.2008900.1498144980&type=1&comment_id=816714&offset=0&total_comments=3">December 16, 2010 at 9:50pm</a> · Like <br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52">Dennis Harris</a> Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go cash out my 401K and buy squeaky toys... <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1507427094472&set=a.1053250060330.2008900.1498144980&type=1&comment_id=816715&offset=0&total_comments=3">December 16, 2010 at 9:51pm</a> · Like · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=1507428614510">1</a><br />
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<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-38790118092889048162012-07-05T21:50:00.000-05:002012-07-05T23:20:34.014-05:00Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Skunks<br />
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Now and then, it's worth all the attendant annoyance of Facebook just to be part of a good string when you have the right friends participating. I think that transcribing a few favorites over is a nice, lazy man's way to fill up some blog space.</div>
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Here's one.</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157">September 22, 2010</a></div>
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Man vs. Skunk- Day 2 A man can only take so much! I mean, I've done my best. I've tried to reason with it but it's fought me at every turn. This is the second time the little bastard has gone off next to the house, infusing the basement with that special aroma which quickly circulated through the house. Last time, one fell into a window well. Oh, that was fun! Never again! </div>
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Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Skunks!! I need a cunning plan...</div>
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<li class="li2"><b>Sandy- </b>oh no...the worst-try the exterminator! call the village!<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530636&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 6:38pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><b>S</b>cott- Eat some asparagus and pee on the little creep. Fight fire with fire<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530656&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 6:42pm</span></a> · Unlike · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=154063481280716"><span class="s2">1</span></a></li>
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<li class="li2"><b>Sandy-</b> try candles-baking soda in the carpet and vaccuum-how about a ozone machine> lol< so sorry dennis<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530673&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 6:46pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span> Since ammonia soaked rags, filling in the access holes and sending strongly worded letters (anonymously) hadn't worked, I had to move on to stronger methods. This being me, of course, you pretty much know where this is going. Embracing my inner Elmer Fudd, I went straight to the Home Center to arm myself with mothballs and poison smoke bombs.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530683&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 6:48pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span> Now, instead of a house that smells like skunk, I have a house that smells like skunk, mothballs and poison smoke bombs. The basment is uninhabitable and the cats are huddled together, desperately trying to dial Staci's cell number.... <br />
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Sadly, I know how this cartoon usually ends. I see myself standing in a scorched blast zone where my home used to be; nothing but a roasted caricature in shredded underwear, holding a single spent match, totally smoke-blackened except for, in a triumph of 40's era bad taste, my enormous white lips and wide, surprised eyes. <br />
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Somewhere off camera, a skunk laughs mockingly...<br />
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Smurfette will be home Friday. Can I crash on someone's couch for a couple weeks? <a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530687&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s2">September 22, 2010 at 6:49pm</span></a> · Like ·</li>
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<li class="li2"><b>Denise- </b> Play a radio where he is. My inlaws had one that kept coming around and the radio actually worked. Seriously try it!<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1530820&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 7:13pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span><b> I tried the radio thing but he'd keep changing it to soft jazz in the middle of the night. 3 hours of Kenny G and I gave up on it as a bad job. Skunk's clever; too clever.</b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1531219&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1"><b>September 22, 2010 at 8:29pm</b></span></a><b> · Like</b></li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span> I have, though, come up with a cunning plan for when Smurfette returns on Friday. I'm cooking up a welcome-home dinner of fried fish and cabbage with lots & lots of garlic. I may have to burn it a bit but it should keep her distracted till morning. That's when she'll probably get suspicious, though, upon being confronted with limburger pancakes... Suggestions?<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1531277&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 8:38pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><b>Bill Harris Sr.</b> I know a guys what knows a badger ....see .... $500.00 and this skunk (what skunk? I don't know nuthin' about no skunk) has a little "accident" on Rt. 45 . (I hear there was rabies involved! Too bad!) Nuf said lemme know.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1531500&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 22, 2010 at 9:11pm</span></a> · Unlike · <a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=154091061277958"><span class="s2">1</span></a></li>
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<li class="li2"><b>Glen McAfee</b> Just mention an old girlfriend stayed over one night this week and spilled some unknown substance. Trust me, the subject of a possible skunk will never come up.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1532509&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 23, 2010 at 12:16am</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><b>Robert Secco</b> Are you sure it's a skunk? A buddy of mine thought he had a skunk living under his deck, but in reality it was just a bunch of chipmunks smoking some really expensive weed. That little discovery also cleared up the mystery of his missing Cheetos and hearing the faint sound of reggae music all night.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1535761&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 23, 2010 at 11:10am</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span> Well, I can see from the footprints in the corn starch I scattered around the<br />bird feeder that the skunk is alive and well. <br /> <br />Great... <br /> <br />I'm wondering, then, what the hell I gassed yesterday. </li>
<br />I keep getting these horrific mental images of a dark and silent "Fraggle Rock"... <br /> <br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1536963&offset=0&total_comments=18">September 23, 2010 at 3:42pm</a> · Like
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<li class="li2"><b>Robert Secco</b> Have you considered using black spray paint to make one of your white cats look like a comely skunk vixen so as to entice the little bugger out of his lair? History has taught us that it worked numerous times on Pepe Le Pew, so it might be worth a shot.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1537187&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">September 23, 2010 at 4:49pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<li class="li2"><span class="s1"><b></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52"><b>Dennis Harris</b></a></span> Tried that... Attilla ended up not getting home till after dawn, smelling of cheap liquor, with her fur on backwards.<a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1537871&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s2">September 23, </span></a><a href="https://www.facebook.com/dennis.harris.52/posts/154062404614157?comment_id=1537187&offset=0&total_comments=18"><span class="s1">2010 at 4:57pm</span></a> · Like</li>
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<br /></div>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-34872411780631518532012-01-08T11:51:00.000-06:002012-01-08T12:32:35.682-06:00Chalk Outline of the Body Politic (A Look Back)<br />
<i>Back in November of 2010, I posted the following rant after the mid-terms but then took it down after a few days. Chock full of good, snide metaphor as it may be, it smacks of the same smug, patronizing tone that I find so distasteful in anyone who's not me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>I thought I'd archive it, give it a year and see if I had any legs as a political prognosticator. With New Hampshire coming up in a couple days (the first reality based contest) and the battle focusing in on the Empty-shirt-wearing-the-mom-jeans, Mister Seepage and Ron Paul, the dust should start settling and we'll see who's left chewing on the Republican carcass. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>A reminder to my friends on both ends of the political fringe. Please don"t mistake this as a leftist diatribe. Being a radical centrist, I think you're both crazy as hell. It's just that I find the battle for the soul (or whatever serves in its place...) of the Republican Party more fascinating.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Besides, who am I kidding? I am smug and patronizing.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Let's see what happens.</i><br />
<br />
______________________________________________________________<br />
Nov. 4, 2010<br />
<br />
I know you’ve been watching the returns and the apparent rise of the Tea <em>(Terrorize Elderly Americans)</em> party with a frozen look on your faces as if someone were waving a turd under your nose. Take a deep breath, though, and stop surfing through those Canada websites. This is where it gets really fascinating. <em>(Of course I’m slightly sociopathic and find fun in some strange things; like history…)</em><br />
<br />
You don't want to miss the part where the tea party true believers, just like the Religious Right that Bush Junior date-raped and dumped during his elections, meet reality. Flushed with imagined power, the rank-and-file fringe element of the Baggers actually believes that the Republican Party is going to leave its Wife for them. This is the same coalition of delusional "Salt-of-the-earth" types <em>(Blazing Saddles subreference, folks...)</em> , paranoid old people and completely whacked out billionaires that Karl Rove cynically co-opted in 2000 by leading them on; using and abandoning them at the altar. The current tea bag herders <em>(Hey, Karl, what’s new?)</em> will have tired of them soon, even though the baggers will do things for them, dirty things, that no respectable political base would.<br />
<br />
The most entertainingly insane of the bunch have already been voted off the Island. Angle lost to Harry Reid. Harry Reid! This has to be the psychic equivalent of giving your best pole dance, and still being laughed off the stage; <em>"No-one wants to see that, honey!"</em><br />
<br />
And of course Christine O'Donnell, number one on the Republican MILVF list <em>(Moms I'd like to Vote for- Just $5.99 to access streaming video of the "news conferences"; an extra $50 gets you ten minutes for a private discussion of the Chinese conspiracy, Pinky and the Brain and, just possibly, a happy ending.)</em> This dumbed-down <em>(god help us…)</em> Sarah Palin and her ilk <em>(good word)</em> have possible futures on “Dancing With The Stars”, FOX and the “Late Show Top Ten List”, but what about all the little, pale, pink-eyed people out in the towns and villages that have powered this movement with their energetic banality?<br />
<br />
You can actually envision them standing outside the Capitol building in the cold, greasy light of dawn; soiled panties bunched up in their purse, no money for the bus, an ominous itch developing and hot tears of shame carving gullies through their make up. <em>"I did it again! Oh why do I keep falling for the same sweet lies? He's probably putting those campaign videos up on Face Book for his pervert friends? Oh, God!!"</em><br />
<br />
In the meantime the rest of the body politic will move on as the two vaguely more functional ends of our lunatic fringe continuum continue to do whatever we can to screw things up in more surprisingly unforeseen ways.<br />
<br />
Here are the parts I’m looking forward to watching (<em>Remember, though, that I do have antisocial tendencies and I’m sort of at loose ends for entertainment since “Lost” went off the air)</em><br />
<br />
1. The Republican Party Civil War as Boehner and McConnell each have to play different hands for different stakes with the Baggers.<br />
<br />
2. The bellows of dismay when the Baggers realize that they were a means to an end.<br />
<br />
3. The continuing bellows of dismay when the mainstream Republicans realize they’ve played this hand one too many times and that they’ve lost control of the Baggers This will start to get fun right about the time raising the debt ceiling comes up. It should be as epic as “Lord of the Rings”, with Jim Demint as Sauron.<br />
<br />
4. The subtle maneuvering by the Republicans to torpedo Sarah Palin before she can do more damage. She cost them a possible shot at the Senate by backing candidates even less qualified than her. <em>(You want to look thin, stand next to a fat person. You want to look sane, stand next to O’Donnell)</em><br />
<br />
This coming few years can be a lot of fun if you don’t actually think about it or have any stake in the future. Turn on “E”; have a beer and wait for the end. <em>(Of course, I don’t have any kids and the cats will probably die before me so what the hell…)</em><br />
<br />
<em></em>Meanwhile, somewhere out of the way in an old burnished and worn boxing ring, Adam Smith and John Maynard Keynes continue to trade blows before a silent audience of old white guys. After many hundreds of rounds, neither seems to have a notable advantage. However, Mr. Smith is the only one that appears to be smiling.<br />
<br />
Let's sit back and watch the fun, kids. Better bring along that well-thumbed, dog-eared copy of The Wealth of Nations, just in case we need a ruling.<br />
<br />
Get comfortable. This is going to take a while...Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-64345470671461230442012-01-04T20:14:00.002-06:002019-04-14T15:39:39.420-05:00In Praise of Crazy WomenListening to the news this afternoon, I learned that Michelle Bachmann has officially withdrawn from the race. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ajPVvsvf3OI/TwUEr7hRayI/AAAAAAAAAZU/OTgOHT9KJN4/s1600/MBach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" rea="true" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ajPVvsvf3OI/TwUEr7hRayI/AAAAAAAAAZU/OTgOHT9KJN4/s320/MBach.jpg" width="313px" /></a></div>
While she wasn’t necessarily a credit to the race, <em>(or gender or species)</em> I’ll miss the fun she brought to the party, as will most of late night TV. This set me to thinking and, before too long, I could see that shimmery, wavy air thing that usually presages a flashback. Settling back into the hotel room sofa, I relaxed and waited for it.<br />
<br />
_____________________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
About a year ago, I was sitting on the deck with Glen, discussing the world scene, politics, fine cheese… the usual hot topics. We had gone through the custom rote declamations of amazement at the pinheads currently holding down both ends of the political bell curve and capped it off with nearly 20 minutes of our best material on the trio of wackettes that were mesmerizing the TEA <em>(Terrify Elderly Americans)</em> Party. Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann and Christine O’Donnell, despite being crazier than a soup sandwich, were completely dominant over that edge of the spectrum. <em>(Actually, “dominant” is a fitting term. You get a feeling that a lot of these folks would pay dearly to have one of these ladies give them the spankings they so richly deserve.)</em><br />
<br />
Glen and I had settled into the smug, superior, self-satisfied silence that always caps reviewing and solving problems you know you won’t be personally called on to deal with. After a moment or two, though, Glen sheepishly confessed to something that had been weighing heavily on his mind. He felt he had to talk this out even though he was worried that I would…<br />
<br />
1. Think he was nuts or…<br />
<br />
2. Share his secret shame with the world. <br />
<br />
Right on both counts, it would seem…<br />
<br />
“I realize they are completely mad,” he agonized, “but I find them oddly attractive. Is there something horribly wrong with me?"<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I assured him. “Yes, there is.”<br />
<br />
But he’s not alone. I think he put his finger on the cause of their almost inexplicable appeal.<br />
<br />
“Hey, what’s that shimmering, wavy thing in the air there?” Glen whispered, warily.<br />
<br />
“Just another flashback,” I explained.<br />
<br />
“It’s coming closer!”, he nervously hissed.<br />
<br />
“Hmm… Best keep your arms and legs away from it”, I opined lazily as the “<em>Wonder Years</em>” music washed over me. “I’m not sure what would happen if…”<br />
<br />
“Aaaaaaaaaiiiiiieeee!!!!!” <br />
<br />
The scream cut off abruptly but I was already back several decades and the 70's music soon drowned out the gurgling sounds.<br />
<br />
________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
At some point in our early years, most of us guys have been involved with crazy women. We will, for the most part, deny this if asked; especially as it will be our wives doing the asking and we do not want them ever thinking, even for a moment, that:<br />
<br />
1. We ever went for crazy women<br />
<br />
2. They might, in fact, be those crazy women<br />
<br />
They aren’t. Fortunately, those of us who survived crazy women learned to sincerely appreciate non-crazy women. Just as bungee jumping over a dry, rocky river bed may be exciting once; you’re nuts if you continue that sort of behavior after the cord snaps a few times. <em>(Yes, a few times. We’re guys. We learn but not particularly quickly)</em><br />
<br />
This is because young guys are all crazy as well. Well, perhaps not crazy but definitely of diminished capacity because they’re completely in the thrall of their sad, hormone-driven nether brains and the nether brain knows, instinctively, that there’s nothing more exciting than crazy sex; trumping angry sex, makeup sex or outdoor sex and possibly incorporating all of those at the same time. You don’t know where you’re going or where you’ll end up with Crazy Woman but it’s like a ride on an extreme roller coaster that has not been maintained or inspected. You may excitedly raise your arms or something into the air during a curve only to lose it suddenly. It’s amazing what some women will do to disappoint their fathers and a bit disconcerting to realize that you’re probably it.<br />
<br />
Eventually though, assuming you survive, the ride comes to an end. Crazy girl heads back to Bradley University, changes hats and enters a convent or joins the Young Republicans. Perhaps you, yourself, come to the realization that it’s time to move on. This could happen while you’re assembling what’s left of your record collection and clothing scattered about the lawn, trying to get the painted graffitti off your car or snagging pieces of your cat out of the blender. It could occur during the day’s 14th frantic, suicidal personal phone call at work. It may come at 3 AM when you wake up to find her standing over your bed in the darkness. Sure, she’s naked, but she’s also holding a knife and staring blankly at you. You leave the apartment and most of your possessions and go far, far away.<br />
<br />
It’s reassuring to know, though, that ultimately even "Little Elvis" himself is able to draw a line in the sand. <em>(Yep, I'm that endowed... Sorry...)</em> This usually happens in your early 30's when the raging hormones start to die back a bit. I remember finding myself in that situation, getting involved with a girl because she was the sister of an old friend and it theoretically seemed like a nice thing. However, when going to seal the deal, Elvis actually initiated a dialogue. As I recall, it went something like this...<br />
<br />
<em>Elvis: "What the hell are you doing?"</em><br />
<br />
<em>Me: "Uh, what do you mean? Boy? Girl? Elvis gets touched?"</em><br />
<br />
<em>Elvis: "Are you nuts? Look in those eyes. She scares the hell out of me!"</em><br />
<br />
<em>Me: "For god's sake, knock it off! You're embarrassing me! Do your stuff, dammit, she's getting that "sympathetic" look! </em><br />
<br />
<em>Elvis: "No way, man. You wanna tap that, you're on your own! I'm taking the boys and spending the night up in the abdomen. Good luck!"</em><br />
<br />
<em>Me: "No!! Don't leave me alone with... What do I... Oh Lord!!!!"</em><br />
<br />
"Wanna cuddle?"<br />
<br />
I understand that years of trauma and psychic damage elsewhere have confirmed Elvis's sage wisdom from all those years ago. Thanks, little buddy. <em>(You can come down, now...)</em><br />
<br />
__________________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Back in the hotel room, I draw out of the reverie and back to the news, silently wishing Bachmann well, in an odd way. O' Donnell has disappeared; Palin's stuck in a dead end relation with some guy who walks dogs for a living and the Republican whack-a-mole game has dwindled down to a few less colorful players. Thank god there's still one crazy girl left. While not at all attractive, it still provides someone for the Tea Party to lavish their twisted affections on until they finally sneak away in the middle of the night, tears of embarassment stinging their faces.<br />
<br />
Keep cab fare and a change of underwear in your murse, Santorum.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-1897749051499778452010-07-24T18:33:00.001-05:002010-07-24T18:39:19.020-05:00Another great travel moment.Here's the cab that picked me up at O'Hare Thursday. A perfect coda to a week in Iowa...<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IhLOxkdC7w4/TEt5UT1KSGI/AAAAAAAAAYc/Dg0Unf9UUlk/s1600/Hell+cab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" hw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IhLOxkdC7w4/TEt5UT1KSGI/AAAAAAAAAYc/Dg0Unf9UUlk/s400/Hell+cab.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-82348617168669122442010-07-21T19:21:00.007-05:002010-07-24T17:55:54.219-05:00Two-fisted Tales of the Frozen North! Aberdeen, S.D.<em>I've been traveling to North and South Dakota for nearly two decades. I've seen things over the years and, like anyone my age, love to drone on and on about them. So, without further preamble...</em><br />
<br />
South Dakota is cattle country.<br />
<br />
In Aberdeen, meat is not only what's for dinner; it's also what's for lunch, breakfast, mid-day snack and dessert. It's everywhere, along with cowboy themed decorations and cow-hide fabric patterns. Whatever you can think of; if it's not made from meat, it soon will be. Pork-in-the-bottom yoghurt, Beefie-Roll Pops <em>(with the chewy tenderloin center</em>), 85% lean ice cream; teriyaki jerky baby pacifiers ; if it doesn't exist, it's just because no-one's gotten around to marketing it yet. <em>(All that muscle tissue going through the colon slows one down a bit. Give them time.)</em><br />
<br />
This region's like the quantum opposite of Vegan; Meateater versus anti-meateater. I'm pretty sure if Aberdeen were to make contact with Southern India, they would cancel each other out in a massive nuclear fireball of delicious, savory devastation. This is an Atkins diet wonderland where you're going to need all your teeth.<br />
<br />
The <em>Steak Buffet Restaurant</em> is Aberdeen in microcosm. When you walk in, you will not find diet platters or veggie dishes. As a matter of fact, you won't find much of anything in the vegetable family. After ponying up your $7.95 for the <em>"All-You-Can-Choke-Down"</em> Golden Ticket, you're immediately confronted by <em>"The Salad Bar."</em> (Chuckle) <br />
<br />
The closest thing to salad here, in the traditional sense, is a small bowl with several wilted leaves of tannish, dispirited lettuce; probably handed down from father to son over several generations till its original purpose was lost in the mists of time. It's now just placed there for tradition or a laugh. The real salad bar contestants are potato salad, macaroni salad and ham salad<em> (my favorite- cubes of ham mixed with cubes of cheese and green peas in a sauce of sour cream, mayo and human cholesterol; a heart attack in a bowl)</em><br />
<br />
The next table holds the appetizers and "vegetable" offerings; fried chicken, meatballs and baked potatoes. <em>(Your choice of topping; butter or sour cream)</em> Then it's a cheerful ramble over to the carver table for sliced roast beef, ham or turkey. Of course there are large, double-fisted dinner rolls, pre-slathered with butter, at every turn. It's a testament to the regulars that they manage several rounds of these tables, shambling from one to the other, humming tunelessly while they sweep item after item into their gaping maws, as this is all mere prologue to the main event.<br />
<br />
Having defeated the all-you-can-eat gatekeepers already described, they come to... <em>The Steak Pit!</em> <br />
<br />
<em>"Step right up, folks. Choose your steak and how you want it done. Hork it down and come on back for more! "</em> <br />
<br />
Dim, hulking shadows can be seen; shuffling through greasy, billowing smoke towards the open grill, to slap down their chosen slab of meat with cooking instructions in a scene from <em>"Apocalypse Cow" </em><br />
<br />
These are folks who've been here all day. You can recognize the outlines of their bodies in the upholstery. Entire families occupy a booth; Aunt Pearl leaves only to be replaced by Ruthie-Mae's youngest <em>(Not quite right in the head but a heart of gold..)</em> while the twins, Travis and Travis <em>(They were named after each other...)</em> head up to the <em>"Wall 'o Desserts" </em> to ruminate over the vast selection of fruit pie slices, carrot cake squares and Boston cream pies on display. There is, of course, a soft-serve ice cream station, to round things out and account for any random survivors.<br />
<br />
Scanning the customers around the room, you notice a certain commonality, beyond the fish-belly complexions and their slow, underwater movements, as they progress from feeding station to feeding station. Bypass scars can be seen peeping out from the graying chest hair above many flannel shirts. <em>(Note: Not all of these are men...)</em><br />
<br />
If you manage to walk out of Steak Buffet on your own, any pangs you may feel won't be from hunger. Sit down, take a children's aspirin and wait for the paramedics to finish their pie.<br />
<br />
I love finding new places to eat when I travel. Other things I enjoy are, in no particular order:<br />
<br />
Finding a nice bar where the music and talking doesn't immediately cease when I walk in. This is inevitably followed by some slightly deformed individual with a name like <em>"Stumpy Joe"</em> sidling furtively out the back to raise the alert that <em>"There's a stranger up ter the saloon what's askin' questions about martini's"</em> This never seems to end well for me.<br />
<br />
Locating the right hotel for this and future stays. This doesn't necessarily mean the best hotel. You just know it when you find it. <em>(There's an odd correlation between the right hotel and the right bar. What are the odds?)</em> I found mine on the outskirts of town; the Ram-kota. <br />
<br />
The first time I showed up in town, I had made reservations there based on its proximity to the location I had to visit the next day, Having made it through the piles of drifting snow sharing the road with my rental, I was confronted with a big marquee sign saying <em>"Welcome Dennis Harris."</em> I was pleased, honored and, in a way, humbled to realize my arrival meant so much. I assumed that the location I was inspecting the next day was trying to butter me up or that, for some reason, Aberdeen itself was just delighted to see another carnivore turn up. It was only after I'd proudly made myself known at the desk that I learned of the standard practice of pulling a random name from a hat to choose the <em>"Guest of the Week".</em> I ended up with an upgrade to a whirlpool room and a free <em>"Chunk-o-Meat"</em> dinner at Minerva's; not world acclaim but better treatment than I'd get in California or some Shirley Jackson short story... <em>(Bingo!!!! Why are you all looking at me like that?)</em><br />
<br />
After settling into my regally appointed whirlpool room, I decided to shake off the Dakota chill a bit. Having already indulged in a little light <em>vivisection-with-potatoes-au-grautin</em> at Minerva's and returned with a nice Go-cup of Gordon's, I filled the tub and slipped into it with my accustomed walrus-like grace, pausing for only 7 or 8 strangled squeals as I adjusted to the water. Then, acclimated, I lay back in comfort with one hand gently cradling the slowly dissolving styrofoam cup of gin as the other punched the button to start the whirlpool jets...<br />
<br />
Over the next hour or so, as I worked to pick off all the tiny feathers that were glued damply to my body, I learned a lot about Aberdeen from the desk attendant on the other end of the phone line.<br />
<br />
I'll bet you didn't know that Aberdeen, South Dakota is, apparently, the pheasant hunting capital of the world, did you? Did you? Well, it is. <br />
<br />
Come pheasant season, vast herds of the little bastards can be seen flapping majestically across the fields, flying into things, being run over by cars, getting shot by drunks in red plaid who then tie their legs together and hold them up for photographs. After that I'd assumed they were just thrown away as one never sees them on a menu. <em>"Pheasant-under-glass"</em> just doesn't seem to turn up in restaurants here. <em>(Waitress, I'd like something stringy and gamey with, perhaps, just a hint of lead pellet...) </em> I assumed, then, that they were hunted by local ranchers trying desperately to protect their livestock from the depredations of that fiendishly wily predator, the pheasant! A mental image arises of 100 or so Ringnecks laboring, with grim determination, to airlift a young steer to their mountain redoubt where they'd eat like kings for month<br />
<br />
Actually, people come from all over the world to bang away at these things. Like hordes of maddened Dick Cheney's, they pop these dim-witted birds out of the sky till their pouches are full. They then take them back to wherever they came from and hand them over, proudly, to the wife who's no more about to clean them than those cut-throat trout they were presented with weeks before.<br />
<br />
This is where the pheasant-gypsies enter the story! <em>(Feel free to lightly hum "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" over the next paragraph or so.)</em> Another distaff arm of America's itinerant service industry, the pheasant-gypsies arrive with the season to eke out <em>(actually, "eek out" seems more apt here...) </em>a meager living processing these feathered unfortunates for transport home to the hunter's freezer. Requiring much less space and facilities than, say, deer carcass processers, the pheasant gypsy has only to gut and pluck the bird, at which point it's ready for bagging and freezing. Simple enough; the main requirement is a nice big container of hot water for dipping and plucking those carcasses.<br />
<br />
Whirlpool rooms are booked months ahead for pheasant season... Make your plans well in advance.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-72454516761962488162010-06-23T01:08:00.009-05:002010-11-09T21:17:22.667-06:00Languid in DubuqueAs a well-seasoned business and pleasure traveler of long standing, I like to think of myself as a sort of travel expert; a master of the road if you will. <em>(I also like to think of myself as lean and catlike, with lighting reflexes and a 30 foot wingspan. I just do...)</em> I'm so comfortably at home in airports and hotels that people have commented on the similarities between myself and George <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Clooney</span> in that <em>"Up in the Air"</em> movie; primarily the fact that we're both bilaterally symmetrical <em>(Women love that, I understand...)</em><br />
<br />
Over the years I've developed my own rating listings of the places I travel; a veritable Michelin Guide to the nation's plague spots. When someone has need to travel to, say, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Platteville</span>, WI; Springfield, MO; Fargo, ND or Toledo, OH, the second thing they'll do <em>(after trying desperately to get out of travelling to <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Platteville</span>, WI; Springfield, MO; Fargo, ND or Toledo, OH)</em> is to call good old Denny for trip advice. In a trice <em>(sometimes less...)</em> they'll know which hotel has the best beds, attached bars, least objectionable pillows, Manager's happy hours, hottest and least <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">rashy</span> whirlpools, double-bubble 2-for-1 drink specials, best workout rooms <em>(okay, I made that one up...)</em> or most amusingly surreal Karaoke night <em>(Bar in the Holiday Inn Fargo- hands down. There's a blog post all its own there, someday...)</em> I've always taken a certain measure of pride in this. <em>(As well as in my lighting reflexes and 30 foot wingspan.)</em><br />
<br />
This is why I'm not at all happy with changes that have lately been occurring within my little travel domain. I've had about 20 years to get used to everything <em>(About the standard period for me to commit anything to memory)</em> Now, however, things are changing right under me. I've stayed at the same Comfort Suites hotel in Green Bay for 18 years. I loved it because they had a huge pool and spa that was virtually empty except for me whenever I was there. They also had a supper club made up of dark wood, velvet flocked everything, comfy furniture and tables with crisp white tablecloths waited on by old staffers who'd served there since LBJ was in office. The dependable menu had nightly specials including the truly hilarious <em>"Thursday Polish Buffet"</em>. I enjoyed the food, even venturing so far as to have a bowl of <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Charnina</span> <em>(Duck blood soup)</em> periodically just to trick someone else into having some as well. This is entertaining twice; first when you tell them what they're eating and then again once they can bring themselves to ask what the lumps are. <br />
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Even better, though, was the clientele. Large, extended families of large, extended people would show up every Thursday dressed in colors and fabrics not found in nature since Robert Hall outlet stores shut down in the early 70's, grazing contentedly on blood soup, blood sausage, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pierogis</span> <em>(probably blood <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pierogis</span>...)</em> and all manner of blintz-centric foodstuffs. I actually came to recognize many of them over the years and was able to watch the children grow into their teens, heading for high school and their first coronaries. All this history, all this tradition came to an unexpected, crashing end a couple years back. I strolled through the hotel, down the access corridor and bopped through the supper club door into a parallel universe. The supper club was gone.<br />
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In its place was a slick, modern bistro/lounge with flat black walls and ceilings, decorative metallic panels, pendant lighting and thick slabs of glass everywhere. The old wait staff were gone, their dogs barking now only in my memory; replaced by young, eager servers sharing a common look of puppy-like incomprehension. The long-standing menu was gone. In its place were offerings apparently spit out by some sort of evil, random-menu-generator. Entrees were date-raped by sauces or recipes with no reason to exist in our plane of reality. <em>(I imagined a large, heavy book back in the kitchen. Chained to an iron <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">bookstand and glowing malevolently</span>, the words "Cooking With <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cthulu</span>" are dimly visible on the cover. Distant, anguished chanting is heard, "The chicken is sauteed in a sage/oregano/lime/herb butter, finished with a <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pomnegranate</span>/chocolate/balsamic reduction, why not, and served on a bed of couscous with fried plantains, tickled broccoli rabe and THE STILL BEATING HEART OF THE VIRGIN SACRIFICE! ALL HAIL, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">CTHULU</span>! ALL HAIL THE DARK LORD!! This is offered with a bread basket and your choice of pretentious field greens salad or some <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">absurdist</span> soup. Today it's Pumpkin Ionesco. Please let me die now...")</em><br />
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This was sad enough. Worse awaited me, though, as I made my way to the far end. Where once a big, 4-sided bar surrounded an island of grown-up offerings; Scotch, Wild Turkey, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Cuervo</span> and a reliable, if limited selection of nice, old single malts, <em>(Critical for those nights when you just have to swirl one around as you stand in the rain, loudly declaim<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ing</span> T.S. Eliot into the teeth of the storm. "<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Thass</span> right! <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Aprilzz</span> <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">cruuelest</span> month, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">sumbitch</span>, you <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">callin</span> me liar? <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Oww</span>! Okay, okay, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">sstop</span> hitting me, lady!!!")</em> I now found a minimalist bar fronting a glowing, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">backlit</span> wall that silhouetted the fruit vodkas and other kiddie drinks currently underwriting all the most annoying TV commercials. There was, of course, a huge day-<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">glo</span> list on the wall of all their specialty martinis, none of which is actually a martini! I'm sorry, "<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Appletini's</span>"? "Hershey's Mint Chocolate Kiss-o-<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">tini</span>"? This is sick and wrong.<br />
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I can actually feel <em>"Grumpy Old Man"</em> rising up self-righteously in my consciousness, waving his cane about, good ear cocked forward and ranting about the old days when <em>"we drank Old Forrester until we finally came to, being led back to our rooms by some smiling Latino man from the Wait staff and that was the way it was, dammit!"</em> <br />
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The crusty old, rough-whiskered bartender <em>(Wonder what became of her?)</em> has been replaced by a blank <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ci</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pher</span> named Chad. Nice enough in a dim way but no apparent appreciation for a patron's fascinating tales about the old days. No proper understanding of how badly the music, sports teams, work ethic etc. of his generation compares to, say, certain others. Worst of all, the priceless knowledge of how to make the perfect martini that I had, in my Promethean way, imparted over the years was gone; lost to the ages! <br />
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<em>Here is the recipe! Save and share it! Teach others so it will survive the dark times! The machines are coming, dispensing frozen margaritas and oblivion!</em><br />
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<blockquote><strong><em>Denny-<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">tini</span></em></strong></blockquote><ul><li><em>Fill a glass with 3 oz. Bombay Sapphire, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Gordons</span> or <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Everclear</span>, chilled to below freezing.</em></li>
<li><em>Wave a bottle of vermouth threateningly in its general direction.</em></li>
<li><em>Garnish with 3 <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">vicodin</span>-stuffed blue-cheese <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">olives</span></em></li>
<li><em>Scatter throw pillows about the floor and alert smiling Latino man from Wait staff.</em></li>
</ul><br />
I gradually adjusted to the loss of the supper club just in time for the next surprise.<br />
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I arrived one late Fall day to discover that the peaceful, empty pool area had been converted, seemingly overnight, into a water park. Screaming small people were whizzing down <em>(and probably on)</em> water slides, splashing through shower hoses and floating, lazily, face down in the whirlpool spa. Sighing softly to myself, I quietly downed the last of my drink and had Gonzalez lead me away. I've not been back since.<br />
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This is just a sampling of the changes, some large and some small, that now assail me. One hotel chain has converted all their bed mattresses to pillow tops; nice and comfy but notably taller which can be confusing when, like me, you often wake up with travel amnesia; no idea what city or hotel you're in, in which direction the bathroom or air conditioner lie or, particularly critical after several Denny-<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">tini's</span>, where exactly or how far away the floor is currently located. Also troubling is the expanded offering of pillows I'm now confronted with. God meant us all to have two nice, rectangular pillows on our beds. One of my favored chains now proffers a bed with 5 square pillows. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with them. Often I just curl up on the floor and weep softly to myself.<br />
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Last night, though, marks a turning point beyond which my world just no longer makes sense. Worst of all, it seems, is that I've been done in by a Best Western. Somehow, it's just wrong being taken down by a hotel that accepts pets. Apparently some <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">yappy</span> Maltese can comfortably negotiate something that totally confounds me.<br />
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One nice thing about hotels is having an easy chair or recliner to prop yourself in while you watch TV, read or find other ways to avoid checking e-mails. There's usually a nightstand to one side and a lamp stand/table to the other, allowing you to multi-task between eating and drinking which is critical to high achievers like myself. Last night, though, I checked in and found myself confronted with this.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is not an easy chair. Actually this is not any sort of chair. I remember seeing pictures of these things in movies. I'm pretty sure this is a fainting couch. They were prevalent back in the old times when women wore whalebone corsets so tight they tended to pass out a lot. They'd apparently spend a lot of time on these things, waving wanly at prospective suitors and dying of consumption which was much in vogue back then. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These are not conducive to sitting, though I made a game attempt. I think you're supposed to drape yourself languidly across it which I'm unable to pull off. The closest I can get is to sprawl myself uncomfortably on top of it which just isn't the same. This piece of furniture frightens and disturbs me. If I'm being presented with fainting couches in my hotel rooms, what's next? I already can't work the ergonomic desk chairs. They fold me in half and then flip me over backwards into a somersault not nearly as graceful as you might think me capable of. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Some day I imagine I'll walk into a hotel washroom to find one of those mechanized, Japanese toilets with the servo arms, gauges, probes, rotating knives and such. That's where I'll have to draw the line. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, I'll get by for a while by booking rooms with open balconies but that won't work forever. I get dizzy just thinking about it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a matter of fact, I think I'll head across the room and take another shot at that chair. I seem to be feeling just a little bit languid right now.</div>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-44758691922262473032010-01-16T00:42:00.003-06:002010-01-17T20:33:35.464-06:00Mouse HuntThis week we’ve been in Orlando, Florida at some resort Staci booked us into; the name escapes me. I don’t always pay attention to such details as long as she handles things and tells me what to bring, when to be ready <em>(what to wear, appropriate times to laugh and when I really should stop talking… This has worked out quite well so far.)</em> and so on.<br />
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It’s a nice enough resort, I guess, though the staff is a bit creepy. (<em>Everyone keeps wishing me a “magical day” like members of some strange sort of Doug Henning cult.)</em> I have found something truly disturbing about this place though.<br />
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It’s completely overun by rodents.<br />
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Seriously; everywhere you look there are rodents of every size and type imagineable. I haven’t mentioned it to Staci as she’s apparently oblivious to it and I don’t want to weird her out. At home, I’m pressed into service to capture and release every bug, bird or chipmunk that wanders into the wrong area. I know if I say anything here, I’ll end up having to trap, feed and relocate every one of the little vermin I come across. <em>(Probably with its own little squeaky toy and a stern talking to about looking both ways before scampering across the road to spread disease.)</em> Therefore, I’m keeping my mouth shut around her.<br />
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</div>However, I can’t believe that the management is this lax with its pest control policy, especially when there are so many kids around. Kids just seem drawn to these things <em>(I blame their parents for having such a cavalier attitude about sanitation and safety, as well as the kids' apparent limited diet of juice boxes and Ritalin.)</em> It’s just a matter of time till someone gets bitten. Fortunately, I have some free time between taking the grandnephews on rides, explaining to Staci "just-what-I-was-thinking-taking-the-5-year-old-on-Space-Mountain/Yeti Plunge/Tower of Terror/The Regurgitator etc." and tucking her into bed early with some aspirin and a cold compress, so I’ve taken action to help address the problem.<br />
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</div>Fortunately, I've not seen any “no hunting” postings so I'm assuming there’s no limit on these things and have been picking them off at will. It’s rather challenging as these things are pretty clever and grow to an enormous size. I thought, at first, that they were big mice or rats but now believe they may be a South American rodent of some kind like a capybara; probably forced north by global warming or habitat destruction. Some of the bull rodents reach the size of a man with a rack of ears 4 feet wide! (<em>One of those heads would look great over my mantel.)</em> I’ve also heard that capybara is very tasty and, considering the exorbitant meal prices here, have decided that supplementing the larder with a little wild game would only be prudent.<br />
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</div>Stalking the beast was surprisingly easy as they seem to have lost their fear of man. This is when they can be most dangerous, though. I’ve seen what happens when tourists walk up and try to pose for pictures with bison in Colorado. (<em>Bison don’t like this. They’re very self-conscious about their appearance, especially after a moult.)</em> I’m not sure what these giant rodents could do with those ears, they’re probably more related to sexual display or dominance, but no point in taking chances. They could be made of bone or some antler-like material; you wouldn’t know till it lowered it’s head and charged. By then it would be too late. <br />
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I dropped my first big specimen from the cover of an Italian-ice stand by the periphery of the roller coaster. (<em>They probably range in from the surrounding swamps.)</em><br />
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It was surprisingly tough to kill. After several shots, it was still screaming in a disturbing fashion which seemed to upset the women, children and one or two of the men in the area. I finally managed to dispatch it by snapping its neck, although even that involved twisting the head around two or three times before finally hearing that crunching-celery sound as the beast kicked twice and went limp.<br />
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I hung the carcass from the branch of a nearby artificial tree to bleed out <em>(which seemed to take forever)</em> but had to leave the bulk of the meat as I was being assailed by people shouting angrily at me and waving their fists. Probably some of those PETA activists. <em>(They need to learn to control that anger as it scares their children, a number of whom in the area seemed traumatized to the point of catatonia. Some people probably shouldn’t have kids.)</em><br />
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I had to content myself with slicing off a couple big ham steaks before beating a hasty retreat. Tasted sort of like good quality pork; oddly familiar texture.<br />
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I still needed my big trophy rodent, though, and got my chance the next night during dinner when one actually got into the restaurant. It was going from table to table, probably looking for scraps. I was able to get in very close.<br />
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</div>It was while skinning it that I made my horrible discovery about how these things attain such size. What tumbled out of the carcass when I opened it up was horrifying. Its unexpected food source, which is plentiful in the area and which it somehow swallows whole… Well, I can’t bring myself to describe what I saw as Staci probably wouldn’t handle it well. I’m counting, instead, on all the parents and children who were in that dining room to spread the word about this threat. I’m sure they will as they all ran screaming hysterically from the building; having realized, I guess, how close they may have come to sharing the fate of the poor unfortunate that lay splayed out on the floor.<em> (I don't think of myself as a hero, by the way. I'm just a man; like any other man you'd meet in Greek mythology...)</em> <br />
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As for myself, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough after that and won’t be going back. Well, not soon, at any rate, though I did see something else down there that may draw me back to Orlando some Autumn.<br />
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Does anyone know when duck season starts in Florida?Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-56605209659399231602009-12-22T20:39:00.001-06:002009-12-22T20:45:04.664-06:00Abhaneri Step WellThis is a video of an 11 story deep step well in India that would keep M.C. Escher up at night. It's accessed by walls of staircases. No waiting.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Click for video<br />
</div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0nLqbCQquk">Abhaneri Step Well</a>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-44516639815113847812009-12-11T20:51:00.001-06:002009-12-11T20:56:05.244-06:00My Celebrity Stalker<span style="color: black; font-size: x-large;"><strong>The Times of India</strong></span><br />
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<span style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><strong>Goldie Hawn prays, meditates in Varanasi</strong></span> <br />
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<strong>Hollywood actress in holy Hindu city</strong> <br />
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<strong>Tue, Nov 10, 2009 10:54:55 GMT</strong> <br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Goldie Hawn is in India for a spiritual trip. The Oscar winning actress is at home in the holy Hindu city of Varanasi where she performed pooja, paid obeisance to her late guru, and also meditated in a boat on the holy river Ganges. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">The 63-year old actress performed 'Ganga Aarti' at the Dashashwamedh Ghat (wharf) and visited an ashram to offer flowers as a tribute to her late guru Devkinandan Shastri. She first met the guru about 32 years ago and took lessons in spirituality and astrology from him. </span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">“I am fascinated by India and its culture and colours. This is my seventh visit to the holy city and the main purpose of the visit was to pay homage to my late guru, who imparted me lessons in astrology and spirituality,” Hawn is quoted as saying by PTI. </span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Later on, Hawn went shopping for silk shawls in the city. She also observed a Hindu religious ceremony from a boat. </span></strong><br />
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</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Image courtesy agencies) </span></strong><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">__________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></strong><br />
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<br />
As many of you know (<em>Having heard it from me repeatedly)</em> I am possessed of a certain dark charm that, while not immediately apparent, develops over time. Staci can confirm that it takes approximately 20 years to find me just irresistable. The rest of you will have to take my word for it. <em>(Check back in a couple decades, though. If you're still alive we can have lunch and compare notes.)</em><br />
<br />
I mention this by way of explaining why I'm not responsible for this recent embarrassing situation in Varanasi and would hope that the news media will respect my privacy and that of my wife. She's putting on a brave front; feigning indifference <em>(Those little barks of derisive laughter are Staci's way of feigning indifference...)</em> but it's important she know there's nothing going on between me and Goldie Hawn.<br />
<br />
Sure, there's a little history there. <br />
<br />
Back in the seventies, I'll admit to finding Goldie attractive. I'll even acknowledge taking grand prize in the "Win a Bubble Bath With Goldie Hawn!" contest four year's running though I never actually collected on it. <em>(Granted that I was creator of and sole participant in the contest but I still feel her publicist and security people over-reacted a bit when I turned up with the Mr. Bubble and several cans of Crazy Foam.)</em> At any rate I remained a fan of Miss Hawn over the years, from a minimum distance of 1,000 feet, as we went on with our respective lives.<br />
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You can imagine my surprise, then, when she suddenly turned up in Varanasi everywhere we were visiting. Morning boating on the Ganges; Aarti ceremonies at the Ghats, visiting the bazaars and the Bharat Mata temple; she would show up everywhere shortly after we left. I immediately realized what was happening.<br />
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As recounted in the Nov. 4th post, after Staci and I won the annual turban wrapping contest at Pushkar, our pictures were all over TV and in the papers. I put two and two together...<br />
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Goldie must have seen me splashed across the media and that dark charm thing kicked in. Now she was trailing me during the day and spending tortured nights <em>(I'm naturally assuming...)</em> dreaming of me, poor thing. <em>(By the way, Staci just fell off the sofa in great gales of feigned indifference. Poor thing...)</em> <br />
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I was relieved to get to the airport for our flight to Delhi, thinking a little distance might help bring her back to her senses. We'd made it through security and were waiting for our plane when I had the feeling I was being watched. I looked around the waiting room till I noticed a blonde woman, surrounded inconspicuously by photographers, who seemed to be making an awfully transparent show of totally ignoring my existence. <br />
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It was her! Worse, she was between me and the exit and bound for Delhi on the same plane we were. I was about to be trapped at 20,000 feet with 2 women who were both overwhelmed by a burning, raging indifference <em>(Feigned...)</em> How was I going to keep them apart? How was I going to prevent a catfight? How was I going to get a kiddie pool full of jello onto an airplane, 3 ounces at a time?<br />
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Fortunately, I'd had the foresight to book us coveted seats in the rear of the plane while Goldie was stuck in those lonely, oversized seats up front. Once we got to Delhi, I cleverly got us stuck in large lines with everyone else while she was whisked off by security. Hopefully, time will help her to recover someday. <em>(Staci? Do you need a glass of water or something? A little heimlich maybe? Where are you going?)</em>Well, at least it ended with no-one getting hurt. By no-one, I mean me; which is the important thing as Kurt Russell could probably kick my charming butt. <em>(Oh, let's face it; Goldie Hawn could probably kick my charming butt.)</em><br />
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Plus, imagine how awkward it would have been once word gets about about my having won the third annual "Win a Hot Oil Massage From Kate Hudson" contest.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-18700175705851186752009-11-30T15:51:00.002-06:002009-12-16T20:18:20.977-06:00Varanasi- The Holy City<span style="color: blue;"><em>(As Staci says, Varanasi was a profound experience and doesn't lend itself to joking about. I'll present my review later on but I think Staci's impressions pretty much stand on their own.)</em></span><br />
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It’s taken a bit of time before I felt ready to capture my memories about Varanasi. It seems like most of us in our group fell pretty silent for this part of the journey. <br />
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Varanasi is the holiest of the Hindu cities and is also one of the oldest cities in the world. There is written history that dates back more than 4000 years. Our goal was to see the Ganges river at sunrise and again at sunset. For the sunrise trip we were able to drive pretty close to the old city that led down to the river. Our driver parked as close as he could and then we all got out and walked the rest of the way. It was still dark and we were warned to watch out for cow patties (which is why we were instructed to bring flashlights on the trip - and here I thought those would be for the camping portion). As we walked the narrow walkways toward the river we passed tightly packed small wooden structures where the shop keepers sold their goods. Cows and dogs wandered aimlessly along with women holding babies on their hips and small children begging for money. Even though there were quite a few people it seemed like the only voices heard were those of the hawkers and beggars. Everyone else seemed to be caught up in spiritual quietness. <br />
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In single file, our group made its way down a long series of steps and landings to the waterfront where we got into a small boat and were rowed away from the shore. Looking back on the river front we could see many hundreds of people in both directions as far as the eye could reach. A small family sat on the steps together as they performed a ceremony of some sort; several priests performed ceremonies in solitude; a couple of girls helped wash each others hair in the river; an old man with long stringy white hair and beard bathed himself in the water, as did several other people. Men swam across the river and back. Some people threw flowers and/or incense into the river. Over a muted loudspeaker, a yogi called out yoga poses to a group of followers and several people washed clothes, pounding the material against flat stones along the river wall. There was an eerie quiet about it all and everyone along the shore seemed completely caught up in only what they were doing, as if they were the only ones there. As our boat was rowed up and down the river the same scenes play out again and again, until we reached an area much further down the river. As we approached the area we could see a little smoke rising. Our trip leader told us that once we passed a certain marker we were no longer allowed to take pictures out of respect for the families. Even the hawkers who had been coming along side our boat, with their boat filled with goods to sell, stopped and did not bother us as we were in this area. We saw family members stand close to the cremation pyres as they said their final good-bye to a loved one. <br />
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After we finished our boat tour we again walked single file up the stairs and through another very old section of the city where the passageways were even more narrow than they had been earlier that morning (that did not seem possible). We passed the shops where fabric was sold that the Hindus use to wrap the dead and shops that sold the flowers that they used to cover the deceased. We also passed a couple shops where men were having all of their hair cut off. It seemed kind of strange to me that they were all going for the same hair style. I was wondering if they were becoming Monks. Later I found out that when a loved one passes away, the eldest son or another appointed male will have their hair cut off as a sign of respect. It is also this person’s duty to care for all the cremation arrangements. <br />
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That evening we made our way back toward the bathing ghats. This time the city was much more crowded and we could not drive as close to the Ganges as has we had that morning. Our driver took us as far as he could and then we took rickshaws the rest of the way in. The rickshaw ride was very entertaining but I really felt sorry for the guy who was peddling the bike with Denny and me in his carriage. <br />
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As we got closer and closer to the Ganges river the noise level got louder, the crowds were more densely packed and the air was charged with excitement. Once again in single file, our group made its way down the steps to the waterfront. The beggars and hawkers seemed more persistent this time and I was surprised to see that one of the young girls selling flowers and candles had managed to make her way onto our small boat. We were once again rowed out to the middle of the river where we could look back at the scene we had just left. As the sun set, the river banks took on a whole new look. Candles were lit all up and down the riverfront. There were priests, each on his own altar, one next to the other. They were all performing the same ceremony in unison which included fire, Ganges water and incense. There were bells clanging, chanting, singing, loud speakers blaring, etc… It all seemed like a rather chaotic gathering to me. It wasn’t until we rowed further down the river where it became very quiet, that it seemed like we saw something similar to what we had witnessed during the sunrise trip. <br />
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</div>Again we saw smoke rising, but this time it was from several sandlewood fires burning one after another all lined up along the banks of the Ganges River. There we spotted the men who had shaved their heads, each one solemnly standing by a separate fire along with a small group of family members. There were also neatly stacked piles of sandlewood that had not been set on fire yet. By each of those stacks was a body wrapped in cloth and covered in brightly colored flowers. A small gathering of family members stood by as they waited their turn for the priest to come by and perform the cremation ceremony. When the fires ended and all that was left were ashes, the family man with the bald head would take the ashes down to the river and throw them in. Surrounded by the smoke from the fires, we sat in silence as we watched. Even though it seemed like the family members were not aware of our presence, I couldn’t help but feel like I was intruding on something that was so deeply personal. <br />
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As we started our way back to the main festive activities, where the crowds were gathered and several priests performed ceremonies, the young girl who had joined us in the boat gave each one of us a lit candle that sat in a small bowl surrounded by flowers. Vishal explained that we could each make a wish and that when we set the candle bowl in the Ganges River our wish would come true. <br />
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Vishal informed us that what we experienced that evening played out every single night in just the same way. He said that the crowds were just as large if not larger and that for many, it would be their first trip to the Ganges River and most likely something they had wanted to do for their entire lifetime. I came away from the experience with mixed emotions and a profound respect and envy for the depth of spirituality the Hindus have.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-61770875634422055552009-11-24T19:10:00.008-06:002009-12-16T21:33:01.556-06:00He said- She said Part 3<span style="color: blue;">Continued from Part 2</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">(Click on pictures to enlarge)</span><br />
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Our next stop was to a women’s co-operative. Here, women are taught a skill and they were making all manner of craft items to be exported to stores in other countries. They do a lot of business with World Market and Ten Thousand Villages. The money that the women make is deposited directly into bank accounts or in some cases the women use the money to buy gold earrings that they wear as a sort of fashionable savings account. They can sell some of the gold if they need money. <span style="color: blue;">(Which has actually done well for them lately.)</span> Either way, their husbands can’t take the money away from them and use it to buy liquor. <br />
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The co-op was situated in a wooded area. Outside, there was white material hanging on lines to dry, a group of women dyeing the material and another group of women sitting on the ground doing needlework. Inside, more woman were ironing, stamping, cutting and sewing material. They had 3 rooms with much of the finished products on the shelves, ready to sell. <br />
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</div>I picked up some cloth eyeglass cases that had cats stamped on them <span style="color: blue;">(What! Now they've outsourced all our cat-stamped eyeglass case production to India? That trade agreement is destroying another American industry!)</span> , along with some other items. As we walked through the various rooms, one of the ladies saw what I had in my hand and motioned that she was the one who had stamped the cat on the case. I took her picture holding the glass case. <br />
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The remainder of the day, and part of the next day, was spent traveling to Agra. Vishal arranged for us to see the Taj Mahal at sunrise and again at sunset. I don’t think there is anything I can say that would come anywhere close to describing it; and pictures simply won’t do it justice either. It was bigger than I had expected and was made of marble with inlaid gem stones that sparkled when the sun hit them at just the right moment (which was only for a few minutes in the morning and could not be captured by camera). The marble seemed to change color as the sun rose and set. <span style="color: blue;">(Actually, Hon, that pretty much describes it...)</span>Vishal did a remarkable job of passionately telling us the story behind how this building came to be built and bringing it all to life for us. We took a million pictures and repeatedly Denny and I reminded ourselves that we were really in India and that we were really seeing the Taj Mahal. <span style="color: blue;">(Since hitting mid-fifties, I need that sort of "reality orientation" thing more and more. Right now, I've no vague idea where I am.)</span><br />
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<strong>More experiences, observations and stuff to remember:</strong><br />
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<ul><li>Vishal spotted his younger brother on a local bus as we were driving around one of the days. He called him on his cell phone and had him join us on our bus when we came to a stop. When he entered our bus he bent down and touched Vishal’s feet.<span style="color: blue;"> (And deftly tied his shoes together.) </span>Later, Vishal explained that it was a sign of respect for the younger brother to touch the feet of the older brother and that it was a very common gesture (similar to shaking hands I guess). Women don’t do this, only the boys do it. <span style="color: blue;">(Women are smarter than that)</span></li>
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<ul><li>Vishal informed us that when traditional couples are married, the wife will not call her husband, nor refer to her husband by his first name. Instead they will say something like “this is the father of my son“. <span style="color: blue;">(That's right. Stick with that story.)</span> It is considered disrespectful for the wife to say the husbands first name. Vishal said that he and his wife have made up pet names for each other. I can’t remember the name he told us he calls his wife, but it means “beautiful flower”. <span style="color: blue;">("Castrating bitch" means beautiful flower? I'll never understand Hindi...)</span> I think that this practice of the wife not saying the husbands first name may be changing with some of the more modern couples. <span style="color: blue;">(And the courts forcing husbands to disclose their names.)</span></li>
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<ul><li>The caste system is very evident here. Vishal explained that people are born into their castes and remain in them for life. If someone from the lowest caste were to become successful, they would still remain in their caste and not be accepted very easily by people in the higher castes. It is just their lot in life which is based on Karma. If someone is in the lowest caste, then it must be because they are paying for something bad they did in their last lifetime. How they handle this life will determine what caste they may be in for their next life. There is not a lot of incentive for them to try and rise to better jobs or positions in life. <span style="color: blue;">(The screenplay fairly writes itself! The lead role will be played, badly, by Will Ferrel) </span><span style="color: black;">Vishal explained that through education and the passing of some laws, some of this is slowly changing.</span></li>
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<ul><li>India has a very low crime rate. Vishal said that this was most likely because of the caste system and karma. <span style="color: blue;">(Actually it's because most everything worth stealing is siphoned off by crooked politicians before it can get down to the wanna-be thieving masses.)</span> If you do something bad in this lifetime, you may end up paying for it in your next. I wonder if this will be changing as laws change, more people are educated and future generations come to be. </li>
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<ul><li>It seems that every member of our travel group has taken their fair turn at having “Dehli Belly” (one lady even had to be flown home as the doctor determined she was no longer fit to travel) and some of us have also experienced some upper respiratory challenges. Vishal had arranged for our bus to stop by a pharmacy to pick up contact solution and cough syrup, on our way back to the hotel. Silly me, I was expecting that they would pull off some side road and there would be a store; something like a Walgreens. <span style="color: blue;">(Except you can't get codeine cough syrup without a prescription at Walgreens.)</span> Instead, we pulled up to one of the hundreds of wooden huts that lined the roads. It reminded me of the huts that you sometimes find along an island beach. It was basically a small square hut on stilts that had a swing down door they pad locked at the end of the day. The man behind the counter had all manner of medicines stacked along the narrow wooden shelves. He was able to provide cough syrup and decongestion tablets, but not the saline solution that Denny needed. <span style="color: blue;">(I have to sleep in it at night or I start to revert to... But perhaps I've said too much...)</span>We stopped at a similar hut a bit further down the way and there the man behind the counter was able to supply us with the saline solution. </li>
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<ul><li>Vishal warned us that it might not be a good idea to send our laundry out for cleaning in Agra. As we were driving past the Yamuna river, he showed us where the laundry boys washed the laundry and hung it out to dry. On our trip we saw many places where Indians wash their clothes in the nearest river or water supply. In Mumbai they even have a large operation where laundry men collect laundry from homes and hotels and then hand wash them. It‘s fascinating to watch. They wet the clothes in the water, soap them up, rinse them off and slap them across a flat stone to get all the dirt out. <span style="color: blue;">(That's also how they wash the kids. Makes 'em grow up tough and with that popular faded look.)</span> .In the operation we viewed in Mumbai, our tour guide explained that the stones that the laundry men were using have been handed down through generations of laundry men in the same family. <span style="color: blue;">(A major letdown if you were expecting that red Toyota for graduation.)</span> In most cases, the laundry workers learned the trade from their fathers. They don’t know how to read or write, but they pick up the dirty clothes, wash, dry and iron them and then return them to their owners by the following week. They wash for hundreds of families and business and have a 100% accuracy rate - nothing ever gets lost or returned to the wrong owner. Vishal told us of a company that came into one of the cities and sold a number of washer and dryers to some of the families who could afford them. When the company representative came back to check on how well the families liked the new machines he was told “Oh yes, they work great - we love them!“ He was then taken to the area where the machines had been installed and found that the laundry workers were slapping the clothes on the machines (in place of using the stones) <span style="color: blue;">(He told a number of stories along this line, usually involving Indians with names like "Patelski" and "Singh-owicz")</span></li>
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</div>Click for a video of Mumbai's Dhobis (Washermen) at work. <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIPouWscZY8">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIPouWscZY8</a><br />
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<ul><li>Indians take great pride in their elders. They recognize that they have a wealth of experience and are very wise. Children and young adults know that they have much to learn from them and treat them with a great deal of respect. <span style="color: blue;">(We heard this a lot, usually from the elders who seemed happy someone was talking to them.)</span></li>
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<ul><li>Even the very old continue to work. As Vishal says, there is no social security in India so everyone must continue doing what they can in order to keep eating. <span style="color: blue;">(None of that "New Deal" foolishness here, folks. This is the sort of thing that would just warm the hearts of Mark Boehner and Mitch McConnell. <em>Actually, it would make them moan with pleasure, softly at first, and then faster and faster till, finally, they crest and lie back in each other's arms, spent, smoking cigars and basking in the afterglow...) </em></span></li>
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<ul><li>The beggars and hawkers will try anything to get some money. They’ll offer to show you the best place to take a picture, offer to walk you across the road, offer to give you advice or even ask you to take their picture - and afterwards tell you that you owe them money for their service. <span style="color: blue;">(Wonder what they expect if they buy you dinner...)</span> I even had a boy tell me to watch out for a cow that was coming in my direction. He then he tried to convince me that I owed him money for his service. <span style="color: blue;">(You could have at least given me a fiver for my trouble. What if that cow had bumped into you? Or if you'd both ended up doing that little side-to-side jig; trying to get around each other? How awkward...)</span></li>
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<ul><li>Somewhere in India, someone is wearing my jewelry and 3 of my bras that were lifted from my suitcase during one of our interior country flights. <span style="color: blue;">(Police are looking for someone with 6 breasts who likes pretty jewelry. Was Rush Limbaugh in India that week? <em>There, that takes care of my right-wing psycho bashing for the week. Next week, left wing nutcases</em>...)</span></li>
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<ul><li>The arranged marriages still continue today. The news papers are full of match requests of people looking for brides or grooms. Our guide explained that when parents think they may have found a match, many times they will consult an astrologist who will let them know if the horoscopes are a good match. If they are, then the marriage takes place. Indians consider that Mars is a very strong influence. They believe that someone with Mars in their horoscope should marry another person who also has Mars in their horoscope. If not and the person with the Mars influence marries someone without the Mars influence, they believe one of them will die. <span style="color: blue;">(Another good role for Ferrel...)</span> Indians also consider that there are 32 qualities to a person. Before committing to a new union, at least 16 of the qualities must match. <span style="color: blue;">(Hey, isn't that E-Harmony? Why isn't India suing them?)</span></li>
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<ul><li>Things are slowly changing over time. In the past, the brides family provided a dowry to the newly married couples. If the dowry was not considered to be good enough, at times there would be a "mysterious" kitchen fire and the woman would be killed. Nowadays, dowries are illegal but are still done under the table. They are not supposed to mention them in the news paper ads anymore. In these times, the article is more likely to mention that they will be provided a “very decent marriage”. </li>
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<ul><li>I think that I will miss the cows when we return home. <span style="color: blue;">(Yeah, squirrels just don't provide the old thrill anymore...)</span> I’ve gotten so used to seeing them roaming or laying everywhere (in the middle of the streets, in front of the shops.) When we were outside the Taj Mahal, there was a whole herd of cattle that just seemed to like hanging around together. They didn’t belong to anybody. They moved together down one of the roads, blocking all traffic from both directions. In the midst of all the hustle, bustle and chaos, they seem to have a very calming presence. <span style="color: blue;">(Keep in mind that Staci was on that easily available codeine cough syrup around this time and did a lot of singing to the cows and making up little haikus for them. I'm not sure how much of it they followed but she seemed to be enjoying it...)</span></li>
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The night before returning home we stayed over in Gurgaon. After all that we had seen of old India, it was fun to see such a modern city. <br />
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Poonam, another coworker of mine, and her husband met us at our hotel and took us out for dinner. When we first met, Poonam introduced her husband to us by telling us his first name. Remembering what Vishal had said about Indian wives not saying their husbands name out loud, I immediately figured that they were a much more modern couple. Poonam confirmed that theirs was a "love" marriage, not an arranged one. <br />
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</div>We had a wonderful Indian dinner and fun conversation. We learned that Gurgaon is sometimes called the Millenium City because it started to build up around that time. Both Poonam and her husband grew up in Gurgaon. They said that it was a very small town at the time they grew up there. Apparently some developers came in and convinced some of the farmers to sell their land. There are now some very wealthy farmers who don't quite know what to do with all their money. <span style="color: blue;">(Oh, Ferrell...)</span><br />
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As we left the restaurant, we noticed there was a party going on next door. Poonam said that it was a pre-wedding party. Poonam and her husband took us for a closer look and before we knew it the groom's father was welcoming us to their party. Waiter after waiter came up to us with silver trays of food and drinks. Then the groom came over and welcomed us and the next thing we knew we were having our pictures taken with them. They pulled us onto the dance floor and even videotaped us! No wonder they have such large weddings... if they let anyone from the street in what do they expect! <span style="color: blue;">(This was just a blast. I could have happily stayed there all night if we didn't have a 3 AM flight. They throw some wonderful parties there. Having someone actually pleased to see me turn up at a party was a fascinating, new experience. I was packed full of appetizers and several glasses of a very nice single-malt before I knew what was happening. If this is representative of their dating skills, sorority girls don't stand a snowballs chance in Mumbai.)</span><br />
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After seeing so many of India's older cities and small villages, Denny and I were very happy that we also had the chance to see Gurgaon and Mumbai. Both of these cities had a lot of new development taking place. It was kind of a mixed thing.. On the one hand it was facinating to see so much of the "old" India, yet on the other hand it was encouraging to see some movement and progress. Seeing the "new" provided a bit of balance to many of the sights we had seen earlier in the trip. However the changes seem to be happening at such a break-neck speed that I can't help but feel badly for those who are pained to see some of the old ways die out. It's so complex - all the conflicts between older structures and newer ones, between old traditions and the more modern ways... it must be very unsettling for some. <span style="color: blue;">(Don't worry. From what I've seen in my travels over the years, these are the most adaptable and resourceful people in the game. And remember that this is India. Once you get past "one hand and the other hand" there are usually at least 4 more hands to go.)</span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-12074659504037816802009-11-23T18:25:00.007-06:002009-12-22T20:59:57.448-06:00He said- She said- Part 2<span style="color: blue;">As with the last "He said- She said" <em>(See Nov. 4th blog post)</em> this one consists of a portion of Staci's excellent travel journal. I think she's very good at capturing the feel of a place. She prefers to keep her writing private but, with her computer passwords so easy to figure out, I'm considering it public domain. </span><br />
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<span style="color: blue;">For my part, I'll just follow along and type snide comments under my breath in lovely blue Cambria 14 point.</span> <br />
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<span style="color: blue;">You can click on the pictures to view them full size, by the way.</span><br />
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<strong>Nov 6th - Friday</strong><br />
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We’re on a very long journey today. Currently we’re riding a train across the country to see the temples that the Chandelas constructed. <span style="color: blue;">(You remember those nice Chandelas? They were at Glen's dinner party?)</span> Later we’ll fly to Varanasi and ride down the Ganges river. <span style="color: blue;">(For the last leg of the triathlon we have to bicycle across the Himalayas...)</span> It’s a good time to catch up with journaling. <br />
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We spent a couple of days at the Naharghar Hotel <span style="color: blue;">(Apparently named by Ralph Kramden after having a bowling ball dropped on his foot...)</span> near the Ranthambhore National Park. After driving several hours over bumpy roads (many of them were dirt roads) we saw a giant white palace looming in front of us like a mirage. <br />
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It turned out that this was the hotel we were staying in. <span style="color: blue;">(Actually, it turned out that it was a mirage but we'd already showered and ordered dinner in so we stayed. This confused the hell out of the neighboring goat herders)</span> It was wonderful and put some of our American hotels to shame. So far, all of the hotels have really been incredibly nice - a stark contrast to the huts and tarps that line the streets just outside some of the hotel gates. <span style="color: blue;">(Probably why the tarp huts just aren't getting the drive-by tourist business.)</span> All of the hotels have staff that greet guests with a tray of powders and water (I think) that they use to place a dot between our eyes <span style="color: blue;">(I'm pretty sure that's how they identify who's allowed in the buffet line...)</span> and a small glass of something colorful and cool to drink (usually rose water or soda pop of some sort). <span style="color: blue;">(The guys get beer...)</span> A few of the hotels also greeted us with flower garlands made of marigolds and roses. <span style="color: blue;">(Again, the guys get beer; later on when no-one's looking...)</span> <br />
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All of the hotels have tall, mean looking fences and gates and almost all of them have many armed guards posted all over the place (especially in the city). We even had to walk through metal detectors every time we entered a few of the city hotels. One afternoon, a few of us decided to use the pool during some free time. We had the entire pool area to ourselves. At least that’s what we thought until one of our travel companions went off to use the ladies room. When she rounded the corner she found that there were a couple of guards equipped with rifles who were keeping watch over<span style="color: blue;"> <span style="color: black;">us.</span> (Actually, those were guys I hired to shoot that godawful woman from Indiana if she made a move towards the pool again. <em>Shudder...</em> All the guys at the pool experienced <u>severe</u> shrinkage <u>far</u> beyond what was attributable to the cold water (You could actually hear "popping" sounds as all the little elvis's "left the building", so to speak. Took 2 days, some string and a piece of cheese to lure mine back... I still start whimpering when I remember her taking off that coverup and <em>(Pop...)</em> Oh, great...)</span><br />
</div>While at Ranthambhore, we visited the tiger preserve on a photo safari. We went through the park in the morning and again in the afternoon. We saw peacocks, wild boars, spotted deer, sambar deer (the bulls are very large and blue), <span style="color: blue;">(Yep, I know how they feel...)</span> nilgai (antelope), <span style="color: blue;">(<em>"Some humpty-back camels and some chimpanzees"...</em> Extra credit for this subreference...)</span> mongoose, <span style="color: blue;">(I'm still all at sea about plural here; mongeese? mongooses? Nothing sounds right.)</span> monkeys (they are everywhere, even in the towns), <span style="color: blue;">(They're taking our jobs, dammit!!!)</span> a variety of birds including two sleeping owls, but I’m sad to say we never saw a tiger. I was really surprised to see the owls.. I could hardly believe my luck when my eyes came across that owl! It looked just like they do in the story books.. perched in a hole in the middle of the tree trunk.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbQeE_heTfk">Spotted Deer video</a><br />
</div><em><span style="color: blue;">Deadly cannibal spotted deer finishing off his victim (That or chewing on antlers for calcium)</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="color: blue;">Happy as a monkey in a monkey tree...</span></em><br />
Click here for video <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATkJu6nV8hI">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATkJu6nV8hI</a><br />
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</div><span style="color: blue;"><em>"What the hell kind of flavor is vinegar mesquite for potato chips? I hate you guys..."</em><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When we left the area to travel toward Agra, we made a couple of stops. The first stop we made was at a local school that is supported by our travel company, OAT (Overseas Adventure Travel). <span style="color: blue;">(Not "Old-Ass Tourists" as I had originally guessed...)</span> When our bus pulled up, we were greeted by a few kids and a couple of adults. They walked us to the school and along the way other kids from the village joined in. <br />
</div>When we got to the steps of the school we noticed that there were piles of shoes and flip-flops outside. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Apparently the kids are not allowed to wear them inside the school. The principal met us on the front steps of the school and gave us an overview of what we were about to see. <span style="color: blue;">(I got detention, dammit..)</span> Our group had many questions and he patiently answered each one. The school looked like it was a large brick box, two stories high. Inside, the air was still and thick. I was glad that we were there at the coolest time of the day, as I’m not sure any of us could have handled it much warmer. The first floor had 5 rooms all packed with kids sitting on the floors. <span style="color: blue;">(To be fair, they could get more kids in there if they stacked them properly.)</span> Kids were in the rooms by age/grade. In one room, the class was learning world history. Another class was learning social studies. <br />
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</div>Our group split up and took turns visiting the classes. All the kids seemed excited to see us and had big smiles on their faces. <span style="color: blue;">(Anything to stop the incessant learning!!!)</span> When we finished with the first floor, we headed up to the 2nd floor where the older kids were having classes. <br />
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Just as we reached the top of the stairs, we found that they were using the hallway as a classroom. I couldn’t get over how many kids there were and how cramped they seemed in this small building. The majority of the older kids were boys and they were eager to try their English out on us. <span style="color: blue;">(There's something filthy in that line someplace but I just don't have the heart to go there. Let's have a contest! Add your double or single entendre response as a comment at the end and the winner gets a nice prize. I brought lots of cheap trinkets back with me. Bob, you start. )</span><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The teacher showed Denny and me the book they were using in class. It was an English reading book, something along the line of “See Spot Run<span style="color: blue;">”.(Spot had better run. The traffic here is insane and his non-sacred doggy ass is grass and then some if he doesn't keep moving.)</span> He handed the book to Denny and asked him to read to the class. Denny read a couple of paragraphs while they all followed along. From the looks on their faces, we could see that they enjoyed hearing an American read to them <br />
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</div><span style="color: blue;">(Actually, I ignored what was in the book, telling them instead that evil men were planning to come to their school and steal their shoes and flip-flops during second period. When they don't show up, I'll blame British Intelligence.) </span>…. Lots of smiles. We were allowed to ask questions of the class and they were very open in answering them. <span style="color: blue;">(Only had to waterboard the one...)</span> They said that they all enjoyed school and wanted to continue learning. One young boy wanted to become a Bollywood star. A couple of the boys said that they were already married, at the ripe old age of 13. Because one girl’s family couldn’t afford to feed her, she was already living with her husband’s family. <span style="color: blue;">(That's how Staci got me. By the way, are you going to finish that chicken?)</span> Vishal said that in the villages it was not unusual for the young marriages to happen and that most of the time the girl would continue to stay home until she was a bit older. When it came time for the girls to live with her husband, she would move in with her husband’s family and they would continue to all live together. <span style="color: blue;">(That's for one given value of "live.")</span><br />
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Our last stop at the school was to see the preschool kids, who were sitting on the ground outside under an aluminum overhang. They were adorable. <span style="color: blue;">(They were just cute as anything...)</span> <br />
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</div>They sang a song for us and then we sang two songs for them, ABC’s and Old McDonald. As we were making the animal sounds in the song, the kids were getting strange looks on their faces. It turns out that we make animal sounds very differently than they do in India for the same animals. <span style="color: blue;">(Yep, everything here goes "Moo" in the hope of not getting eaten.)</span><br />
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Once we finished with the school visit, we continued to walk through the small village. We walked along dirt paths and passed small huts. Some of the huts had what appeared to be cement platforms in front of them that they used as porches. <br />
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Vishal explained that the material used to make the platforms was actually camel dung that they piled up and patted down real hard. <span style="color: blue;">(Then they set it on fire, ring the doorbell and run like hell!)</span> They even used white paint of some kind to outline and draw very pretty designs on it. The only problem with a porch made of camel dung is that it deteriorates quickly and must be replenished every couple of weeks. <span style="color: blue;">(Yeah, that's the only problem...)</span> They also used some colorful paint to spruce up their homes. <br />
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</div>They use color to ward off evil. <span style="color: blue;">(Or to just perk up a blue Monday...)</span> At the end of the village we stopped at the home of a woman and her family. They gave us tea and cookies and we visited for a bit. <span style="color: blue;">(</span><span style="color: blue;">The lesson of dung's versatility not having been wasted on me, I stuck with just the tea...)</span> Two of the women had their faces hidden by the long colorful scarves that went with their saris. Vishal explained that when the husband dies, the wife is thought of as having been bad luck for the man. If she continues to live with the husbands family, she has to keep her face hidden (some sort of respect thing). Vishal further explained that in some places the widow is expected to wear only white and is therefore easily spotted by others (We saw some of this at Varanasi). We also noticed that some of the little kids and babies had black circles drawn around their eyes made with kohl. Vishal explained that they do this if the child has a cold or is sick. They believe it wards off evil and will help the child. But in fact, the stuff they use is very harmful and can cause permanent eye damage. <span style="color: blue;">(They'll probably just blame it on someone's widow, though...)</span><br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><em>(To be continued on next exciting posting!!!)</em></span><br />
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</div>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-71563003911836927672009-11-21T00:01:00.004-06:002009-11-21T00:12:05.029-06:00Charming them cobrasStaci and I visited a village of snake charmers in Rajasthan. Like that place in Peru where all those annoying pan flute players come from or that Toledo suburb inhabited solely by people who've painted themselves silver and stand real still, this is a village devoted to one thing.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Staci tells about this visit on the Nov. 4 posting. Here's a link to the video on YouTube<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5XjBVCWT8s">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5XjBVCWT8s</a>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-15226693323577791022009-11-18T18:41:00.003-06:002009-11-21T00:43:16.552-06:00Crazy Denny's New and Used Camel Emporium<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IhLOxkdC7w4/SweLkpUdF_I/AAAAAAAAAEA/lvi560QupxI/s1600/DSC00861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IhLOxkdC7w4/SweLkpUdF_I/AAAAAAAAAEA/lvi560QupxI/s320/DSC00861.JPG" yr="true" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">Here's a video from the Pushkar camel fair in India. Staci and I were thinking of getting a business going.<br />
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</div>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-54853549965885414812009-11-13T11:43:00.014-06:002016-08-28T22:40:39.468-05:00An Uneven Number of ElephantsApropos of nothing, an uneven number of elephants is considered to be lucky when it comes to Indian processions. This has nothing to do with anything but makes a great-sounding title so I’m going to wrestle it in somehow.<br />
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The seven of us who remain of our original group <i>(there we go…) </i>are now in the State of Kerala, in the far south of India; a hop, skip and jump from Delhi. <i>(A hop, in this case, consisting of a 3 AM wakeup call, a 2 hour flight to Bangalore, changing planes for another 1 ½ hour flight to Kochin and then a 2 ½ hour drive to the backwaters area. The skip and jump part remain constant for both equations)</i> We’ll be spending the next 3 days on a houseboat traveling through the rivers and backwaters. <br />
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This south-western tip of India is completely different from where we just left. This is a lush, green world with a 99% literacy rate, relatively clean streets, a healthy, well-fed populace and nothing <i>(or no-one)</i> burning constantly to gum up your lungs.<br />
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We’ve arrived in time for their second monsoon season of the year. A kinder and gentler monsoon than the big honker that ends in September, this one just tends to dump sheets of water in the afternoons and evenings. <i>(Unless I’m in the area, in which case you can expect specials on the weather channel showing bewildered survivors picking through their meager belongings and wondering which god’s dog they might have inadvertently run over.)</i><br />
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There’s a lot to say about Kerala so I’ll be breaking it up for your convenience.<br />
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<b><u>The Omnivores Solution</u></b><br />
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Nothing is sacred in Kerala. <br />
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This has nothing to do with mores and everything to do with the culture. While much of the rest of India is overrun by sacred (read "abandoned") cows, semi-feral pigs and randy little monkeys <i>(Plus one small, nightmarish village ruled by a gigantic sentient land squid)</i>, this area is largely Christian which means one thing.<br />
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Everything is fair game come dinner time. Beef and pork are what's for dinner as well as anything else that walks, flies, swims or flops about.<br />
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Having christians around pretty much obviates the need for animal control officers. Bothered by pesky livestock? Just speak His Holy Name aloud and by the time the coals have ashed over and are glowing nicely, Mr. Bull will find himself brushed off, smothered in a nice honey glaze and escorted on to the next plane of existence by the local parish Rotary Club.<br />
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Being sacred won’t save you in Kerala. If you see a cow here it belongs to someone and is lovingly cared for, washed daily, massaged and getting free medical treatment from the local government, as do the people. Most livestock is specially bred and tagged <i>(Lots of those nice, Jersey cows with the big, soft eyes that just stare a hole into the depths of… Where was I?)</i> and has a place to call home. There’s nothing more heartwarming than watching the family cow racing down the driveway, mooing excitedly, to welcome daddy home from the office.<br />
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At any rate, there are no cows, pigs or the like wandering about here. Here, they live out their lives as nature and god intended…<br />
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Standing around for a year or two and then being eaten.<br />
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<b><u>Jason and the Coconauts</u></b><br />
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On our way from Kochin <i>(aka- Cochin, Cochi, Kochi or Milwaukee Phil)</i> to the spot near the Arabian Sea where we would board our 3 boat fleet, we learned a lot about the area. <br />
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We’re in coconut central here. Everywhere you look there are coconut palms. Lining the city streets, receding into the distance in great forests or driving past you in cabs; you’ll find the ubiquitous coconut. Fortunately, in addition, there is plenty of pineapple and incredibly cheap rum which makes for the constant supply of Pina Colada needed to cope with daily life among the coconuts.<br />
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In addition to being their main export product, coconut intrudes into every aspect of life here in Twilight-Zone fashion. It becomes quickly apparent that the coconut thing has gotten completely out of hand. Coconut is in every dish, as exemplified by the sliced coconut in coconut sauce I just had with lunch. In addition to cooking with it, they use it to create mats, rope, houses, animal food, electric generators, radio sets <i>(The Professor from Gilligan’s Island is revered here for his work in developing new uses for the coconut, much as George Washington Carver was in the field of peanuts.)</i> People can’t give them away. Friendly locals come up to us on the street, say “Hello”, ask where we were from and then press coconuts into our arms and hurry off with haunted looks in their eyes. They’re left on neighbors porches, fired by trebuchet upon other villages, dressed up in fake noses and glasses and placed on buses but, still, they’re unable to make a dent in the supply. These things are like zucchini.<br />
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Deadly zucchini…<br />
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You see, the big problem with coconuts comes when you factor in gravity. Everywhere around us can be heard the staccato “thump” of coconuts impacting the ground. If you’re standing in the wrong place…<br />
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You see the lovely Keralan women always carrying open umbrellas when they’re out walking. Ostensibly, these are to protect them from the sun but, when you get close, you notice the metal reinforcement. The government provides helmets for the men but they‘re too cool <i>(i.e. stupid)</i> to use them. The dead and injured are lined up along the street, waiting for the overworked ambulances. Social service agencies are also stressed trying to address the increasing number of coconut-related amnesia cases turning up. There’s nothing more heart-breaking than the look in a cow’s eyes when she realizes her owner doesn’t recognize her.</div>
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This tasty and versatile menace has also taken its toll on the local wildlife. As the Christians have accounted for the regional cow and pig population, monkeys have borne the brunt of the coconut assault. Few are left in the wild and are seldom seen anymore other than the occasional lone male moving cautiously through the jungle, gibbering pathetically to itself and spinning around every few steps to look about. He’ll never hear the coconut that has his number.</div>
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Tonight, after our boats tied up for the evening and we sat sipping tea and listening to the sounds of the night, the regular thump of the falling coconuts was suddenly broken by a comical “bonk” and a brief simian scream.<br />
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After that, all was silence except for the “scritch-scritch” sound of a nearby Christian firing up his hibatchi.<br />
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<b><i><u>Parade Time in Sunny Chambakkulam!</u></i></b><br />
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Dawn breaks in the tiny Keralan riverside town of Chambakkulam as it does nearly every day. The toddy tappers are about their work of siphoning off coconut palm sap to make the local hooch. Shops are opening up; children in their neat school uniforms are walking along the waterways headed for early classes.</div>
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But there‘s a subtle change in the village; a certain excitement in the air, almost a carnival atmosphere, for this no ordinary day. The children linger along the embankment, laughing and chatting animatedly. First class can wait today! It’s time for the Walking-Around-of-the-Tourists!<br />
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Almost on cue, a houseboat pulls up to the bank and seven Americans totter onto land, blinking myopically in the carbon-arc light of the morning sun. They immediately begin snapping pictures of everything; children, trees, the river and each other. The children jump up and down with delight at the appearance of the tourists. Dressed in their nearly colorless beige tropical wear from Travelsmith, they pose an exotic contrast to the colorful, light clothing of the locals. Swaddled in layers of special microfiber guaranteed to wick moisture away, shod in sturdy walking shoes and carrying plenty of water, the tourists immediately begin to sweat buckets from beneath their expedition hats. </div>
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Trailing behind, giggling and punching each other, the children tag along to watch the fun as the tourists fall in behind their guide for one more “Learning and Discovery” death march. The mothers and shopkeepers exchange knowing smiles. Everyone’s in on the fun!</div>
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Bastards…<br />
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“Now on the right you see cashew tree. You know cashew tree? Tree that has cashews? Cashew tree.” he intones, followed by a chorus of appreciative “ahs” and the clicking of cameras. This will be repeated at least twenty times on the walk till we will be able to identify a cashew tree at the drop of a hat. This should prove useful some day, I’m sure, however my attention is increasingly focused on the skyrocketing heat. In an area with temps in the high 90’s and humidity levels around 112%, meaning it’s actually drier to be underwater, the sun is grilling me with an intensity I don’t actually remember encountering in a long, relatively sweaty life. It’s not 9:30 yet; I’m standing in the shade and yet I’ve already sweat so much that my pants are looser.</div>
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“Here on the left is store”, he continues, pointing at what is unmistakably a store, readily identifiable by the general “store-ishness” of the place, the advertising posters and the man behind the counter selling things to people. “You know store? The people come here and buy things from the store? Store.” he concludes, succinctly. We try to avoid each other’s glances and continue to snap the obligatory pictures, planning how we will present them, when we get home, to Kathy and Bob <i>(or whichever unfortunates are dragooned into reliving our adventures with us)</i> “We saw these in a small shop in a tiny Keralan town” we’ll tell them as Bob smiles frozenly and eyes the room for possible exits, “The native people use them to clean their homes with. They’re called brooms,” we’ll say, nodding sagely.<br />
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This is the point where I realize I’m beginning to lose it. Sweat’s running off me so fast that alarmed mothers have begun to pull their children away in fear. Noting that the group has gotten ahead of me, I sluice the sweat from my half blinded eyes and pick up the pace.<br />
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“…pepper plants and green beans”, I arrive in time to learn. “And back there is cashew tree. You know cashew tree?” I can hear one desultory camera click response and peel away from the herd once more. As consciousness toys with me, I look around for Staci. I want to tell her to go on without me and save herself but she seems to already be about 60 feet ahead, under a sheltering tree. I notice that even Staci, who doesn’t generally perspire <i>(I only remember two prior incidents; one involving climbing a mountain in Belize during the rainy season when she complained of “feeling a bit sticky.”)</i> is sweating so hard she’s actually out of breath.<br />
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Moving determinedly through the tour group, I’m able to drop back into the guide's patter, now tinged a bit with desperation as he’s run out of things to show. “… mud puddle, you know? Er… mud.” Then, suddenly, as a life line is thrown to him, he cries brightly, “And, on the right, two-wheel bicycle! You see bicycle?”</div>
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I try desperately to reach Staci, thinking that if I can only get to her, I could possibly push her out of the way and take her spot in the shade. At that point, however, the high point of our walkabout looms up ahead of us like some great, looming thing.</div>
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“Here is old, 17th century Portuguese Church.” we learn. “You know old church? The Portuguese build it? In the 17th century?” he adds helpfully. “Church. We can go in. Please remove shoes and watch your head”</div>
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Bv this time I’m pretty much beyond the pale and am staggering about the church grounds blindly. Broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses forgotten, I’m not even snapping pictures anymore, though there are a number of arches begging to have the usual shot’s framed by them. “Sky up, ground down,” I chant to myself through cracked lips, trying to maintain my tenuous hold on consciousness. I notice that I’ve stopped sweating and vague medical alerts start flashing in my dim awareness. I don’t have time to consider them, however, as this is the point where a number of my dead loved ones turn up and start the obligatory exhortations for me to “go towards the light”. This is a pointless exercise, though, as every direction leads to the light <i>(and more heat!)</i><br />
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Kicking off my shoes, I pad through the airless recesses of the old church, exchanging sympathetic shrugs with the crucified figure on the altarpiece as I look for cool shade, a breeze or some overlooked holy water. Staci’s in a pew, trying desperately to maintain. I notice that the spirits of my grandparents have now joined the tour group and are nodding with polite interest as the guide drones on. Uncle Dom is dispatched to herd them back as my father and Uncle Ray continue to drift after me shaking their heads ruefully.</div>
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Trailed by my incorporeal posse, I’m now standing in the doorway of a classroom at the church-run school, listening to the kids recite for us. I sway over to the next classroom door and am greeted by another 20 curious faces peering up. “Hello“, they chorus at me. “Ah-ha-ha-ha!”, I inform them, with a ghastly grin, as I spin back towards the Church.</div>
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At this point, I notice that even my dead relatives are sweating profusely. They’ve given up on me as a bad job and, groping around unsuccessfully in the glare for whatever passageway leads back to their ethereal plane of existence, are looking worried. My Grandmother tries to catch my attention but I turn and toddler-run towards the river. They’re on their own. We have 3 cats and our house is crowded enough..</div>
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Rejoining my travel companions, I notice that we’ve all attained a bright, cherry red color and steam is whistling cheerfully from our carapaces, signaling doneness. I’m longing for some nice SPF 40 lemon butter when we suddenly arrive back at the boat and safety; our 45 minute adventure over. </div>
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While waiting for water bottles to arrive, I try to tell Staci that I’m not leaving the boat again till the sun dies but my tongue, as well as part of one leg and miscellaneous debris from the walk, is stuck to the roof of my mouth. Looking at each other silently, our eyes say it all as they drift to the single chair in front of the single fan and then back to each other.,,</div>
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The children smile brightly and the watching villagers place their bets…</div>
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Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-62418023699397931442009-11-08T04:57:00.005-06:002009-11-26T09:27:27.112-06:00Things I've LearnedI pick things up quickly, Being a veritable font of knowledge is a responsibility I take seriously and so I make at least a halfhearted attempt to pay attention to things going on, whether or not they concern me. I never know what tidbit of esoteric wisdom is going to raise up its head at just the moment you need it to cure a snakebite or win a bar bet. I figure it’s best to pass them all along to you, just in case. <br />
<div><br />
</div>On this trip, a lot of information is tossed about, whether on busses, tours, guidebooks or the interesting hallucinations I get with fever. No reason to differentiate between them; it’s like choosing one’s favorite child <em>(The youngest…)</em> Here they are, in no particular order.<br />
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<div><br />
</div>The Taj Mahal is located on the Yamuna River in Agra. Yamuna is named after the sister of Yama, the Hindu god of death whose task it is to escort the souls of the newly deceased into the afterlife. <br />
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</div>This would be a tough job in any case as the souls often just don’t want to go, refuse to kick in for the cab or want to stop off for “just one more” on the way and often stick Yama with the bar tab.<em> (Yama has trouble asserting himself, even though he’s the god of death, go figure…)</em> <br />
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</div>Making things tougher is the fact that Yama’s mother is constantly pestering him to find “someone nice” for his older sister. Yama tries to explain to his mother that everyone he meets is either dead or gay and thus not a great choice for Yamuna who, in her third incarnation, has the body of a woman and the head of a river catfish <em>(and not a particularly attractive river catfish)</em> Plus, she tends to cry a lot for no apparent reason, which makes her seem kind of desperate and needy, which most incorporeal spirits are just not up for at this point in their careers. <em>(In her fourth incarnation, Yamuna has a regular head but heavy, poorly toned upper arms that she’s real self-conscious about.)</em><br />
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</div>The Vedas tell the tale of the time when Yama comes to collect the soul of Arun, a nice, Brahman boy from a good family who has just died. Yama offers him the gift of immortality and a magic cow that can whistle the entire score from “The Fantasticks” if Arun will marry his sister. However, Arun has seen statues of Yamuna in the temple and decides to take his chances with eternal nothingness, thanks very much. In his rage, Yama turns Arun into a neem tree. Arun still figures he’s come out ahead on the deal. This, then, is the origin of the tale of how the camel lost its appendix (Translation in question…) <br />
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</div>Death also has a younger brother, Billy, who is often portrayed in carvings and sacred books as a small, stocky figure in a horizontally striped <em>dhoti</em>. Billy is usually seen standing at the left hand of Lord Yama, repeatedly whispering the “three sacred questions” into his ear. <br />
<ol><li><em>“Whatcha doing?”</em><em></em></li>
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<li><em>“Can I hang around with you guys?’</em><em></em></li>
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<li><em>“Now whatcha doing?</em><br />
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Lord Ganesh is the son of Shiva and Parvati and the great favorite among Indian deities. Krishna and Kali claim this doesn’t bother them but, deep down inside, you know they’re hurting cause they really try…<br />
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When Lord Ganesh is very young, Shiva, in a fit of pique, cuts off his head. Realizing that Parvati will be home any minute and will not be at all pleased, Shiva hits on a desperate scheme. He takes a head from an elephant that happens to be passing by <em>(apparently on the worst day of its life…)</em> and sticks it on his son’s body. Apparently this works, as there is nothing in the Upanishads about child protective services being called in or Parvati being any the wiser. Shiva and Norton make it to the Raccoon Lodge meeting after all and Ganesh grows into the great elephant-headed god of happiness and, strangely enough, luck. This, in the Hindu mythos, apparently passes for irony.<br />
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<div><br />
</div>Popularized in the epic poem from the Maurya period, “Everybody Loves Ganesh” is second in popularity among the religious faithful only to the episode of “The Mahabarata” in which Rob is bringing Lord Krishna and his wife Lakshmi home for dinner but Laura realizes she is all out of Puja. Hilarity ensues.<br />
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Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-48561349498382388882009-11-05T08:49:00.013-06:002010-09-22T15:45:24.855-05:00Jungle Book Now<i>(Written at Ranthambore Tiger Preserve in Rajasthan while waiting for the fever to go away...Apologies to Kipling)</i><br />
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Bagheera the Panther lay on his side in a sunny spot beneath the jungle canopy. Yawning lazily, he arched and stretched his body out against the ground, looking at his claws critically as he unsheathed and retracted them one by one. Satisfied, he made a deft swipe at a lianna vine, slicing it in two with barely a movement, before rolling over on his back to scratch his tightly muscled shoulder against the rocky ground. Looking over through half-closed eyes at Father Wolf, who sat on his haunches nearby sniffing at the air occasionally to stay aware of any threat, he growled softly, “And what dost thou hear from our man cub Mowgli? Long has it been since he stood with his brothers at the council rock. How does he fare since he went down to the village of men?”<br />
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Father Wolf looked into the distance and paused a moment before replying. “I am concerned that I have not had word from him. His pack brothers see him at times in the village of men and we know that he is unharmed but still I find myself worrying.” Baloo, the great bear, sidled up at that moment and dropped heavily onto the ground between them. “Don’t worry about the man cub, my brothers, we taught him all that we know. He will not forget the lessons.”<br />
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From a darkened cave mouth several meters away, a reedy, nasal voice called out wretchedly, “What, my big shot man cub you speak of? He never calls. He never writes. Feh! I could curl up and die, what would he care?”<br />
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Bagheera and Baloo glanced at each other uncomfortably and then up at the trees, Nakhri the Kite circling overhead or anything other than Father Wolf, who hung his head for a moment before calling out, “Sylvia, why don’t you come out and sit in the sun? It will warm you.” “Don’t worry about me, “ came the grating reply, “I’m fine. I’ll just sit in the cave all by myself.”<br />
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After an uncomfortable moment, Baloo broke the spell by rising up. “Well,” he rumbled, “If you gents will excuse me, bear in the woods and all… I’ll be back.” The great bear padded off behind the shelter of a nearby banyan tree, the latest issue of “Ursa Minors- Triple-X!!!” tucked under an arm. <br />
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Suddenly, a great commotion woke the jungle folk as a roaring sound tore through the leafy expanses. Sounding like the trumpeting of distant elephants, it drove the easily panicked monkey people before it. They leapt through the trees chattering in fear. The green parrot folk and Khasri the Boar ran before it. Above the leafy canopy, Nakhri the Kite widened his circles as he rose up higher in the sky.<br />
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“Look, people, here is the jungle before you!” came a loud voice, strange and yet familiar at the same moment. “Here is the dangerous panther and the sly wolf! Keep thy hands in the jeep lest they be bitten right off. See the wild beasts even as I have promised thee.”<br />
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“Mowgli?” mouthed Father Wolf and Bagheera silently glancing at each other.<br />
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“And there, behind the banyan tree, is the great bear. Who knows what dangerous business he is about. Please stay in the jeep lest he come at you!” <br />
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“Hey,” came an aggrieved roar from behind the tree as Baloo stumbled out, guiltily hiding the magazine behind his back. “Bear in the woods! How about a little privacy?”<br />
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“Oh, my friends, thy jungle adventure is not over” the voice continued, now clearly belonging to an oddly dressed Mowgli who stood in front of a great machine from the village of men. It was packed with people of a kind not recognizable to the jungle folk. They looked all about them, pointing and chittering, much like the monkey people. “For there, upon the hill can you see Shere Khan, the dangerous tiger. Great and powerful killer, he rules all in the jungle!” The people shivered in delighted terror.<br />
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Bagheera and Baloo looked at each other in confusion and then up at the hill where the old, toothless Shere Khan was silhouetted against the clearing, growling asthmatically and waving an arthritic paw at the empty air. “Growl…” he coughed, “Growl, I said. Beware lest I leap upon and devour thee for I am the great Shere Khan! Now, get the hell off my lawn!” Exhausted, he plopped to his belly..<br />
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“Stay in the jeep, O my brothers, for only I may come near the great tiger unharmed” Mowgli called over his shoulder as he approached the bemused beasts before him. “Nice work, Khan” he whispered under his breath as he dumped the contents of several happy meals furtively from his bag before the starving old cat. “Same time tomorrow. If you’re very scary, there may be McNuggets in thy future. Hey, Pops. Baloo , Bagheera, I trust that they are hanging well for all of thee?”<br />
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“Is that my man cub out there?’ came a wheedling voice from the cave mouth. Mowgli looked up alarmed and waved a single finger, imploringly, before his face.<br />
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“Mowgli“, cried Baloo, “why do you bring people from the city of man into the jungle? It is forbidden!”<br />
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“Relax, Yogi” laughed Mowgli, “much have I learned since going down to the city of men. For instance, I can make a fat fortune off the eco-tourists. Now play along and you can all be getting some nice, regular kibble.” Looking back over his shoulder at the jeep, he called out theatrically, “Stand thee back, oh my brothers, for is it not written that the company is not responsible for any injuries incurred should thy feet stray from the vehicle provided? Jason, get back in your seat!” he called to a small, blonde haired man cub who was sitting on the mortified Shere Khan’s back, pulling at his whiskers and yelling “Horsey, horsey!!!”<br />
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Father Wolf growled urgently at his son, “Mowgli! This is not right. These humans should not be here. They must be driven from the jungle!” “Yes” chorused Bagheera and Baloo, “Drive them from the jungle!”<br />
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Mowgli paused a moment, hanging his head. “You are right of course…” Then he turned back, to the jeep and called out brightly, “Okay, everybody back in your seats. It’s time to drive back to camp for the buffet lunch, which is included today. Try the chicken, oh my brothers!” Piling into the machine from the village of men, the roaring slowly receded as Mowgli and the man machine drove out of sight.<br />
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Baloo, Bagheera and Father Wolf sat in stunned silence for several moments before finally speaking. ”This is not my man cub. A madness has come upon him” hissed Father Wolf. “It can not be allowed to continue like this” Bagheera said quietly as he looked over at the wretched figure of Shere Khan, who was tucking shamefacedly into his third Quarter-Pounder. “What?” he whined, defensively, “A tiger has to eat. Plus,” he added miserably, “I only need one more Transformer action figure and then shall I have the complete set…” His voice trailed off as he hung his toothless head and slunk off into the gloom of the jungle, listlessly gumming through the last of the fries.<br />
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Father Wolf and Bagheera turned again towards Baloo.<br />
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“But what can be done, my brothers,” protested Baloo helplessly. “Is this not Mowgli, our own little brother who we ourselves sent down to learn the ways of men? What can be done?”<br />
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“Let him face judgment at the council stone!” cried the young wolves from the safety of the clearing perimeter.<br />
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“Let us fling poop at him!” called the Monkey King, knuckling quickly forward, excited at the chance of being included in the proceedings.<br />
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Hahrdri the Hyena slunk forward. “He has trespassed against the law. Let him be killed and laid upon the council stone like transgressors before him!” he chuckled before circling back the way he came. <br />
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“And then we fling poop at him?", the Monkey King suggested hopefully, though pretty much sensing the moment had passed. The Monkey King is pretty messed up and the jungle folk don’t hang with him much. Not even Ghitra the Vulture who’s no picnic herself, I can tell you.<br />
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Bagheera gave Baloo a hard look. “My brother thou knowest what must be done!” Baloo paused a moment before finally dropping his chin and nodding sadly. “Yes, I know. I will go speak with Kaa.”<br />
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In the village of men, Mowgli sat contentedly at a table next to his home. Above him Nakhri the Kite circled ceaselessly. (Yes, still. It‘s sort of his thing.) In the bushes Timmy the Mongoose laughed idiotically at nothing in particular as Morris Rosen the CPA snapped his briefcase closed, winked approvingly at Mowgli and sauntered off down the driveway. Poolside, Phyllis the Trophy Wife lay in a chaise lounge snoring prettily beside a half-empty pitcher of melon margaritas. Close by, Senor Pepe the Chihuahua shivered miserably in the heat of the mid-day sun.<br />
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Mowgli had just nestled back into the cabana chair with a fresh mojito when a shadow fell across him. Looking up, he found himself surrounded by all the beasts of the Jungle Council. Hahrdri and Ghitra loomed over him, grinning unpleasantly. Nakhri circled pretty low for a change and waved. The Wolf brethren paced back and forth on all sides. Mowgli looked quickly about and was calculating the distance to the patio door when Father Wolf, Baghera and Baloo moved into the open space before him, cutting off any route of escape. <br />
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Recovering quickly for a kid who’d been raised by wolves, he smiled winningly. “Oh, my brothers! How nice to see you! For did I not just tell Phyllis that we needed to have you all down for a visit. Did I not just say that, my wife?” Phyllis, however, being pretty quick on the uptake herself, was already back in the house packing up anything valuable of a portable nature and planning out various possible futures that didn’t include a house full of jungle.<br />
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“Thou hast transgressed against jungle law, man cub.” Baloo rumbled sadly. “I take no pleasure in what must follow but it is upon your own head”<br />
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“What do you mean..” started Mowgli, who then faltered as he followed Baloo’s glance rise up and behind him. Mowgli turned slowly around and froze.<br />
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There, looking down at him, was a great, yellow-scaled head with dead eyes the size of fists and a crimson forked tongue that darted about tasting the air. It moved side to side rhythmically, hypnotically.<br />
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“Kaa the Snake”, Mowgli whispered.<br />
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Kaa closed his eyes and bowed briefly in a mocking salute. “Yesssss, man cub. Thou rememberssst me. Know, then, that I am now Kaa the Attorney; having taken sssome night courssesss at open universsssity. I believe thou knowssst my new paralegal?”<br />
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The Monkey King scampered forward, chattering self-importantly. In his arms he carried a briefcase and several stacks of papers, all liberally poop-stained, which he lay between Kaa and Mowgli before retreating several feet and glancing about, anxiously, at the other animals for any sign of approval.<br />
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“My clientssss have retained me to assssure that their interesstsss are being obssserved. Now, man cub, let usss ssspeak of licensssing agreementsss and marketing rightssss.”<br />
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Mowgli opened his mouth to scream but was drowned out by the sounds of the beasts as they all began shouting as one. A flight of green parrots broke noisily from the trees as the Monkey King began hooting excitedly. Hahrdri and Timmy joined in loud, mirthless laughter. Above them all, Nakhri the Kite flew lower in a tightening spiral as the ring of beasts pressed in upon Mowgli.<br />
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Watching impassively from poolside, Senor Pepe shivered miserably in the heat of the mid-day sun.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-41867769939631272312009-11-04T05:30:00.014-06:002016-08-28T22:24:55.477-05:00He said- She said<span style="color: cyan;"><em>Dennis- The following comes from Staci’s travel journal which is much more informative than the drivel I’ve been dishing out. She likes to keep her writing private but she’s in the spa right now and can’t do much about it. I think she really captures details and the feel of a place well, while I go for arcane sub-references and high-toned doody jokes.<br />
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<span style="color: cyan;"><em>Of course, there’s no reason not to have both so I’ll add my comments throughout in lovely Blue Cambria Italic 14 point. Enjoy…</em></span><br />
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It’s Friday already. A whole week of “new discoveries” has taken place and in some ways it feels like several lifetimes have also gone by. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(That should read "incarnations. Think "cultural relativism.") </span></em>I’m sitting out side our tent in Pushkar, India. It’s in the mid 90’s in the shade and pretty much unbearable in the sun. However it’s a dry heat… so I guess that makes it okay. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(No, no it doesn’t)</span></em> The flies are landing faster than I can swat them away…. Other than that, there really are not many bugs… although the ants are very scary looking – they have very long legs and move extremely fast. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Evolution would pretty much favor long legs and speed when you're dragging "Mr. Happy" through burning sand all day.) </span></em><br />
We’ve been to the Pushkar festival 2009 a couple of times now. The people are all very friendly and of course there are the hawkers who either want you to pay them for taking their picture or they want to sell you something. Watch out if they say “Please, just 20 for this.” They don’t mean rupees. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(They mean camels and small change is tricky to handle… I have a pocketful of Canadian sheep that no-one will accept.)</span></em> It’s dusty, hot, noisy, claustrophobic and at the same time colorful and exotic.. the music is strangely hypnotic and the smells are a mix of ? & ?.<br />
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We stayed in a special tent village that is only put up for 2 weeks every year. Our tent had an attached bathroom with running water and a western toilet.. It was actually very comfortable. <br />
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Our trip leader Vishal arranged for a priest to perform a special ceremony along the sacred Pushkar lake (that was dry). There were seven items that had special significance (rose petals, seeds, rice, dye, …. And a coconut that we held toward our chest and touched to our head. <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(?!?!)</span></em> </span>At the end the priest tied a colorful string around our wrist which was to aid in bringing good karma and protection. At one point the priest said a prayer and when we opened our eyes, it was dark. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(And our wallets were gone…)</span></em> I looked down toward the other end of the bathing ghat and there were hundreds of oil lamps and candles lit along the steps - just beautiful!. <br />
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While at the festival observing some of the various exhibits and shows, we were asked to take part in the turban wrapping contest. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Nothing like being in the right place at the right time. Also, I apparently resemble a Maharajah in some inexplicable manner. I hear this a lot here. At least it’s less annoying than hearing that I look like Celine Dionne’s creepy husband, which I get in Vegas…) </span></em>I guess it’s only fair that the locals get a good laugh at our expense. The goal of the contest was for the women to tie the turban on the man and whomever was fastest won. Denny and I came in second. It probably would have been first, except that I forgot I needed to tie a ribbon around Dennis’s wrist.<span style="color: cyan;"> <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(We definitely would have been first. Plus we were a real crowd favorite. Staci started out the practice session by wrapping the material around my neck which the Indian women just loved. She finished the turban way ahead of the pack and had applied the dye to my forehead. All she had to do was tie the ceremonial knot doodad on my wrist and …. Well, no sense crying over spilled ghee. Still, we brought home the Silver for the USA and that’s nothing to sneeze at.)</span></em> </span></span>We were awarded a trophy that commemorated the achievement. The date on the trophy showed the year as 20009. There were many photographers there taking our picture. Denny and I were doing the American thing and smiling broadly. Then very sternly, one of the photographers motioned to me and said “No! Serious” so I stopped smiling (I guess the women are supposed to show honor to their husbands by taking everything a bit serious… at least that’s what we were told it’s supposed to be like during their wedding ceremonies. If they smile, then the groom's mother might feel that she’s being replaced.). While making our way back to the stands everyone was shaking Denny’s hand and congratulating him on his success. Walking several paces behind I couldn’t help but feel that it was a bit unfair that he was getting all the attention. After all, I was the one who masterfully tied the turban on top of his big pumpkin head! <em><span style="color: cyan;">(It’s apparent that Staci doesn’t appreciate the work, concentration and planning involved in sitting perfectly still. Plus my big, pumpkin cranium required fewer turns than those of the sad microcephalics smiling and waving uncertainly from the loser’s circle.)</span></em> Even later in the day at other events, people recognized Denny from the contest and continued to congratulate him. The following day, our picture ended up in the newspapers and on TV.<br />
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Anyway since Denny is the one weaving the entertaining stories from our experiences, <em><span style="color: cyan;">(That’s not how she actually describes it to me but thanks, baby!)</span></em> I will simply capture what was.<br />
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We left O’Hare on Friday afternoon and arrived in Delhi that Saturday night around midnight. When we arrived in India, it seemed like Denny and I were off to a pretty rocky start. We waited in the wrong line for our Health screening. It took a local to point out that we were in the line for Indians only. No wonder we were the only non-Indian’s standing in the line… <span style="color: cyan;"><em>(Oh, it's easy to be a Monday morning quarterback...)</em></span> Once we got through the Health screening, we discovered that we had missed filling out several portions of the customs form causing us to hold up the customs line. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>(They're ridiculously fussy about plutonium...)</em></span><br />
Finally we moved on to collect our luggage and meet our trip leader, Vishal.<br />
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There were only three of us that night. It turned out that the other members of our group had arrived earlier and were all snug in their beds. Vishal led us outside where our senses were immediately hit with a noticeable contrast to the cooler, cleaner air inside the terminal. We went from a rather bright, organized, spacious area to a chaotic night scene. It was loud, with people shouting and horns blowing and there was a wall of smoke mixed with strong, pungent odors. We boarded a small bus and were taken to our hotel. The road we traveled was dusty and bumpy and everyone was blowing their horns constantly. It appeared that lane usage, and which side of the road to drive on, were optional just as were any rules associated with parking cars (they were parked in the middle of the road in some cases) . The different horn toots all had specific meanings; short toots means “Hi, just passing by”, a varied horn blow (something our American horns are not equipped to do) means “Get out of my way, I’m in a hurry!“ and the long horn blow means “Okay now you’ve really done it, I’m angry!“ Our driver was a master at weaving through the chaos. We later learned that three things are needed for driving in India; a good horn, good breaks and good luck! It was dark, but I could still make out that there were a lot of makeshift hovels that looked like garbage heaps with holes cut into them. Later I found out that these were shanty towns. There was a lot of construction taking place (a new subway was being built that our guide was very proud of). We passed a larger building that still had their lights up from the Diwali festival. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>(There's always some dipwad that leaves his Diwali lights up long after the season has passed. Am I right, guys?)</em></span><br />
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We finally arrived at our hotel which was a startling contrast to all the scenes we saw on the drive in. It was a very large new hotel connected to a brand new indoor shopping mall. Our room was like a small apartment, complete with kitchen area, 2 flat screen TV’s, large shower and remote controls for everything including the lights. I’m not sure what we were expecting, but we certainly were not expecting such a nice stay for our first night. <br />
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On Sunday, Somnath and his wife met us at the hotel for short visit (Somnath is one of my co-workers who works in Gurgaon, but lives in Dehli). They presented us with a bouquet of roses and a carved wooden Ganesh (which Denny just loves). <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(True. I love me some Lord Ganesha… Don’t know what it is. Everybody loves him here. He’s like a combo of God and Spuds McKenzie. I've since ensconced him in a place of honor at home.)</span></em> </span>We visited for a bit and then we showed them our hotel room and the pool area. Once it was time for us to meet with the rest of our travel group, they left. It was so nice of them to come visit us and welcome us to India<em><span style="color: blue;">. </span><span style="color: cyan;">(An adorable couple. He’s got this look on his face like he just won the arranged marriage lotto which, meeting his wife, you realize he did.)</span></em><br />
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We met the rest of our group and Vishal gave us a briefing of what was in store for the next 2 weeks.<br />
Monday, Oct 25, 2009<br />
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We saw Qutb Minar. Vishal provided us with a bit of a history lesson about the Place and then we walked around. He showed us where the faces of carvings had been defaced by Muslims. There is also a tower made of iron that has lasted more than 1000 years without rusting. They’re only now discovering how it was done. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(No, not rustoleum)</span></em> <br />
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I was surprised to see green parrots all over the place! They were just beautiful. <br />
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There were many arrow arches which Vishal explained were pointing to Mecca. He also pointed out some interesting Neem trees that the twigs were used for brushing teeth and other medicinal needs (his mother used to use the tree twigs when he was a little boy for treatment of pimples, storing clothes in the car trunk, etc.).<br />
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After we were finished exploring the ruins, Vishal took us to see a demonstration of craftsmen making silk carpets at a shop called Cottage Industries Carpet. The demonstration was wonderful. The man who gave the demonstration was sad that the younger generation does not have the desire to learn the trade. This art had been done the same way for generations. There were several families who created their own patterns and made the rugs from silk, using dyes they created themselves. Every carpet was hand made.. some taking as long as a couple of years to complete. They were all unique, no two alike. We were suckered in and ended up buying a small one that will probably be displayed on our living room wall. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(When we opened our eyes, our wallets were gone! Again!)</span></em><br />
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In the late afternoon, Vishal took us to see a Sikh Temple. Such an interesting experience. <span style="color: cyan;"><span style="color: cyan;"><em>(See "Sikh Temple posting from 10/27/09)</em></span> </span>I had seen these people before and for some reason always feared them. Probably because of the serious look and weapons they carry. <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(That’ll usually do it. That’s why we live in the northern suburbs, dear…)</span></em> </span>Before we got into the Temple, we had to put scarves on our heads and take our shoes and socks off. They were running a soup kitchen for anyone and everyone who needed something to eat to come in – no questions asked and no pressure. They had a place in the back where they kept their Holy book. A group of women were chanting/singing and there was a guy waving a large feather over the book. All of these people were volunteers and the book is never left alone during the day. At night they put a blanket over it and put it into another room – kind of like tucking it into bed. <br />
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That evening we had dinner at a typical middle class Indian families’ home. Arun and Deepankar, along with their teenage daughter and young servant fed us a wonderful dinner. Deepankar is an interior decorator and they both did business with exports. They work with local artists and sell to World Market in the States. Their home was a modest 3 bedroom, 1 story house. When we walked into the house we entered directly into the main room which was painted with a deep orange color. It was a combination living/dining room. The master bedroom was off to the left and was painted a deep blue. Just outside the barred windows was a little garden that Deepankar continued into the room by paining a mural of a tree branch along the wall. The spare bedroom was painted a deep red and was used as a combination family room/office with an alter for blessings. We talked about work, religion, weddings, family, Buddha (they were a Buddhist family).<br />
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During our travels, we stopped at a Snake Charmers village. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>(See 11/21/09 posting and video)</em></span> It was a small village of about 30 people. Their homes were made from the mud and straw. They had several half size walls made of mud which created a yard for every hut and a walk-way for general use. It reminded me of when we used to put sticks in straight lines to create the outline of our play houses when we were little. <br />
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When we entered the village everyone came out to greet us. They all had big smiles and of course wanted their pictures taken so they could see themselves in the play-back. </div>
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We were led through the narrow passageways to where there was an opening in the yard. Apparently this was the village activity center. I was surprised (although I shouldn’t have been) to see Denny sitting cross legged on a small rug along with the head of the snake charmer village and blowing the snake charmers flute. <span style="color: cyan;"><em>(Christ, Staci, try </em><span style="color: cyan;">and</span><em> clarify that better! Sounds awful! I bonded with this guy while we were singing tunes back and forth. They apparently got a kick out of me doing jazz riffs on their melody. I think they were all goofed up on hash or something. Snake charmers and carnival folk take to me for some reason.)</em></span> </div>
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Everyone gathered around and sat down on the ground for the show. The snake charmer took the flute and played music while a young girl did a special dance. After, the music continued and the snake charmer took the covers off of two baskets that were near him. Out of the baskets rose two shiny cobra’s (I wondered if they rubbed them down with something, they looked so polished!). When the snake charmer gave the signal, Denny attempted to pet the cobra. <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(If you know what I mean… heh, heh…)</span></em> </span>He got close, but the cobra seemed a bit agitated so they ended the show (Way to go Denny). <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Not my fault the cobras freaked out. They’re used to these tiny guys and here’s this huge maharajah looming over them. Probably figured they were suddenly on the other end of the food chain)</span></em> </div>
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Near Jaipur, we walked through a small village town that had narrow dirt passageways with what looked like a series of small cement garages that were all the same size (picture one of those 'U-Store It' storage places). They all had their aluminum overhead doors open and part of their goods were set just in front of the shops ready to sell. For many, their small homes were attached to the backs of these small stores. They were selling all manner of fruit, vegetables, shoes, purses, crafts, etc. Some were providing various services; barber shops, tire repair, blacksmiths, etc. Just about everything every ordinary town in the US would need to have, but on a more basic level and situated much closer together (no parking lots or even sidewalks). As we walked through the town, we shared the narrow walkways with the locals, which included cows, dogs and pigs. It seemed like it was a really crowded town because it was difficult to squeeze by everything. It turned out that the crowd had formed around us and we were all moving through the town as one big glob. Although everyone was very friendly and there were lots of smiles and “Hello” with an occasional “You buy?” (It seems that they’ve all learned the same phrases… and once the “Hello” was said - that was it. Which now that I think about it, is more than I know of their language) at times it seemed a bit claustrophobic and intimidating; especially when a pack of dogs started barking at us angrily… they’re usually so laid back like everything else seems to be. <br />
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It occurred to me that these villages probably operate as one large extended family and that they probably had the option of trading goods and services, rather than paying cash for them. I could now better understand all that I had heard about the Indian wedding ceremonies. If the entire town is an extended family, then it makes sense that everyone in the village attends the weddings and they last for days with great fanfare over the event. <br />
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As we continued our travels through the countryside, the interactions of men and women seemed to play out the same over and over again. Whether in a field or in a town, there would be groups of women standing, sitting or doing things together and there would be groups of men also standing, sitting or doing things together. In both groups, it was common to see men with arms around each others shoulders or holding hands. The same was true for the women. Rarely did I see the women and men doing things together. <br />
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<strong>Reminder to self -</strong> <strong>Some of the common sights and interesting stuff we saw and learned during the trip:</strong><br />
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<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Cows and pigs wandering around, eating garbage, standing in the middle of the streets with traffic going around them (if the cow no longer gives milk or can't work - they won’t kill them, they just set them free and let them wander the streets.) <em><span style="color: cyan;">(In the US, we only do that with people…)</span></em></li>
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<li>Busses overflowing with people inside, on top, hanging off the back, out the windows or where ever they find something to hang on to. </li>
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<li>Very colorful clothes. While staying at one of the hotels I sent some clothes out to be washed. My white top came back a few shades darker than when it left me. I now know why the Indian’s prefer such colorful clothes. </li>
<li>The countryside is dotted with tall narrow chimney’s that are use for making clay pots and bricks for building the homes.</li>
<li>Nomads herding their flocks (sheep, goats, camels, cows..) <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Cats…)</span></em></li>
<li>Men stopping to pee - anywhere. Outside urinals. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Wonderfully freeing. See earlier post)</span></em></li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Farmers walking flocks of camels from the Pushkar fair to their farms… sometimes for hundreds of days. </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The US has 360 million people living in it. India has over a billion and is not as large as the US.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Jaipur has 5 million people, but is not nearly as large as Delhi. Jaipur is the fastest growing city with much development going on everywhere.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It is not mandatory for kids to go to school. However school is free. The government is incentivizing parents to send their kids to school by supplying them with jumpers, sweaters, 2 meals a day and books. The literacy rate is growing from 30% to 55% within the last few years. Girls can attend High School free of charge. The sad thing is that in some cases, parents won't send their kids (especially girls) to school because they think either they won't need it for their future or they think the kids could make money by begging instead.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the villages, there is one well for many houses</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There are 1652 languages spoken in India. The government wants there to be two official languages which is why all signs are written only in Hindi and English.</li>
<li>Indians never kill their sheep, because they need them for the wool. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy. Kennedy had a secretary named Lincoln…)</span></em></li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Muslims don’t eat pork and the Indians don’t eat beef. So the McDonalds has signs outside that say “No Beef or Pork products sold here” <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Hand to Gods, I tried the “Veggie-McMuffin” and the “Paneer-Salsa wrap.” They were out of the “McCup o’ Corn”)</span></em></li>
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<li>Instead of using speed bumps, in most places they use two signs placed in the middle of the road. One is slightly ahead of the other and the idea is that you have to slow down in order to serpentine through them. Not real sophisticated, but very effective and I would think much less expensive. </li>
<li>The light switches operate the exact opposite of ours, down is on and up is off. </li>
<li>All the toilets have a hose and sprayer next to them. I’m still trying to figure out what they are used for. <em><span style="color: cyan;">(I’m still trying to avoid explaining to her what they’re used for. When Delhi-Belly hits, she’ll figure it out on her own. I have…)</span></em></li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Each Hindu family has a priest assigned to them. When a member of their family passes away, it is the priest who records the death in a special book before the ashes are let go in the Ganges river. This book has been handed down through the generations. Our trip leader explained that when his father died, he went to the Ganges to release his fathers ashes. When he got there, he gave them his family name and they directed him to the priest who was assigned to his family. The priest opened the book to record the passing of his father and Vishal could see his father’s signature from when he had visited to release his father’s ashes as well as his own name from where his father recorded his birth. He could also see the signatures that came before his grandfather for several generations back (hundreds of years).</li>
<li>As we drove through the small villages, we saw many strange looking vehicles. It looked like they just took a motor and set it on a platform and then connected it to a wagon of some sort. They call these vehicles “Gugaards” and they are everywhere.<span style="color: cyan;"><span style="color: cyan;"> <em><span style="color: cyan;">(Actually, they’re small electric generators that were originally used to power the water pumps out in their fields. They had to take them there by camel or cart in the morning and bring them back so they wouldn’t be stolen. Some genius figured out that he could build a cart around them so they could power their own way to and from the fields. From there it was a short jump to making their own trucks and such. They use these for everything. Thy don’t require a license and, as the government’s been unable to stop them, they just officially refuse to acknowledge they exist at all and won’t discuss them with foreigners. )</span></em></span> </span>Our trip leader told us that he read a newspaper article about the summit that was taking place in Dehli. In it, it said that President Bush had heard that they had a secret weapon that helped them in dealing with the Taliban and they were called “Gugaards”. When President Bush heard this, he said he wanted to know what this Gugarrd is - please send them to me so we can also have this advantage. The Indians, never wanting to say “No” simply said, “President Bush, we can’t send you our Gugaards. <span style="color: cyan;"><em><span style="color: cyan;">(Indian humor. Go figure.)</span></em> </span>It turns out that a Gugaard is there way of saying they “Jury-rigged” something .</li>
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Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-89797428165892958792009-11-04T05:18:00.002-06:002016-08-28T21:33:37.713-05:00Pushkar Camel FairThe Holy city of Pushkar is situated on a sacred lake flanked by 2 mountains crowned with temples. Every year at around this time, the population swells from about 17,000 to a quarter-million for the Pushkar festival. People come to sell camels, horses and cattle, and to bathe in the sacred lake. <br />
This year, though, in a triumph of bureaucratic scheduling, the lake was drained before the festival for “improvements“. We arrived in the afternoon to a cacaphony of sounds. There were horns blowing, music playing, sacred chanting and, rising above it all, the bawling “squonks!” of 17,000 peeved camels. <em>(Which roughly translates from Camelese as “Hey! WTF? Where’s the water?! We were told there would be water! Hello?”) </em><br />
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Staci and I stayed in a tent on the outskirt of town that was pretty ritzy by Pushkar standards. We even had a private bathroom tent out back with cold running water and several hours of electricity daily. From here we could make our way into town by camel cart <em>(Note: If you’re sitting in a camel cart, always try for the back seat. Up front is a little too close to the after-burners and your average camel is one gassy customer. Smoking is not advised.) </em><br />
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As for the fair itself, where to begin? I suppose “In the Beginning there was Dust. It pretty much stayed that way”. The air was packed with dust from the sandy desert and the smoke from thousands of camp and cooking fires fueled by camel dung. Constantly renewable, camel dung is true green energy. <em>(Actually, greenish brown… sometimes with yellow streaks,,,)</em> We found ourselves worrying about what would happen when the air reached saturation point on the dirt humidity scale. Would a fresh strata drop from the sky with a thud? <br />
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The market and bazaar was filled with people selling everything you could imagine plus quite a few things that you can’t. <em>(Not in your wildest dreams; trust me.)</em> You could buy fruit, vegetables, cooked breads, soups, clothing, jewelry, and every type of tourist tschotchke that has ever been foisted on confused travelers since the dawn of time. We were surrounded by children and young men hawking their wares .“Miss, miss, you look; you buy? Very nice. My family made this” This has to be a very busy family as literally millions of these things can be found anyplace where we out-of-towners congregate. “Sar, Sar! You look! You buy? Very nice. Carved from my own pelvis; special price for you!”. <br />
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<em>A quick note about beggars and hawkers:</em> Staci and I have traveled through a number of the worlds prettier plague spots and have come to know hawkers and beggars in all their various forms. Indians are, without a doubt, the most pleasant of the bunch. They will follow you incessantly, if you’ve made the mistake of glancing in their direction, as that means that you’ve opened the negotiations. Still I’ve not seen one get mean or unpleasant <em>(Unlike Arabs, the Desert French, who will follow you sullenly through the bazaar shouting angrily, “Hey! Buy my worthless crap made in China. Who are you to refuse, infidel dog.”)</em> <br />
The beggars take pathetic to a whole new level that pathetic didn’t need to see. It was like high tide at Fatima as throngs of the halt, lame and really, really creepy surged after us. We saw a number of people dragging themselves around on their hands and waists with perhaps a shrunken useless limb dragging behind. Grinning amputees waved their scarred stumps at us coyly as they rubbed thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for “Got baksheesh, sailor?” Even the gypsy children flashed winning smiles as their tiny, clever hands darted in and out of my pockets. One neat trick they’ve learned is training their babies to cry pathetically, on cue, the moment a tourist walks by only to switch off as soon as the he’s passed. At least I’m hoping it training. I’d hate to think the moms are just pinching them. <br />
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I would expect anger and resentment from those who seem to have so little when confronted with us, who seem to have so much. Still the entire time we’ve been here, we’ve been greeted welcomed, waved at and chased with unbound delight. Staci has had many people walk up and ask to have their picture taken with her. Teens and young men especially love having pictures taken with us on their cell phones and cameras. I’m trying to imagine what stories are being told about the scores of pictures making the rounds of small, skinny people locked in an embrace with this big, bald white guy. More than that, the poor who don’t have cameras and cell phones, dearly love having their pictures taken with us and then looking at them in the camera display. This just cracks them up to no end. They seem to really, really like us.<br />
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They must be up to something.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-42996700708405328912009-10-28T12:00:00.003-05:002016-08-28T21:28:42.708-05:00Whiz KidInterestingly enough, when traveling through a country with so many fascinating, disturbing, exciting and appalling sights, the one thing that always captures the Westerner’s attention is the Indian sense of freedom in toilet stylings.<br />
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In a country with a billion people and approximately 3 public toilets, accommodations have to be made. These consist of letting fly anytime and anyplace<em> (God, it’s great to be a guy…)</em> There are people dropping trou behind any tree, wall or sleeping cow to move the last curry onto it’s next plane of existence. Copping a whiz is much simpler. Every 20 feet or so, guys are just facing away from the street and letting go. This was an adjustment but, as I said, there’s not much alternative unless you never leave home. The greatest thing was strolling down the street in the tonier areas and coming across the classier version of this “any port in a storm” style. There are open air public urinals on the street. You’re still whizzing in front of 20,000 people at any given moment <em>(God help anyone born here with a shy bladder)</em> but you have a nice, reassuring expanse of porcelain to concentrate on.<br />
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I went out for a walk tonight in search of incomprehensibly labeled medicine for Staci who is suffering her standard Day 3 upper respiratory plague. <em>(There’s nothing better than buying foreign medication with instructions in a different language from a druggist who has no idea what you’re asking for. The side effects can be fascinating. In Greece, I picked up some pills that cleared up my indigestion within hours… The enormous breasts lingered for several days but I managed to while away the time in a nice soapy shower.)</em> I walked about a mile, dodging all manner of traffic and the occasional dyspeptic cow, just to find my baby some relief <em>(I expect e-mails from you all telling her how lucky she is to have me as I’ve been my typical self on this trip and can use the manna…)</em> Along the way, I ended up walking along a few shady, tree-lined streets that, judging by the aroma wafting from the well established wet stains imprinted into the walls and sidewalks, were particular favorites among the cognoscenti.<em> ( I hope they appreciate this recognition…)</em> I found myself thinking… well, hell, you all know what I found myself thinking.<br />
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This picture commemorates a spot in Jaipur, Rajasthan that is now, in a way, forever mine.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732453511909579082.post-80073470794208486262009-10-27T19:52:00.008-05:002016-08-28T21:26:32.655-05:00Sikh TempleI’ve always wanted to see a Sikh Temple… just one of those things. <br />
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Sikh’s are an interesting people. They began as a warrior caste during a time when Hindu’s were being kicked about by the Moguls. The Hindu king at that time told his subjects to send him their eldest sons. They were taken into the jungle and trained as warriors. Now, in the jungle there’s a surprising shortage of hair care product so they grew theirs long and wrapped it in turbans. Today that’s still one of their five identifying characteristics*, in addition to carrying a long curved knife at all times, wearing an iron bracelet, and special long underwear <em>(in case they’re attacked while napping or in the can)</em> . You can recognize them today by these accoutrements as well as their common middle name “Singh“, meaning “lion” <em>(Beats hell out of “Timmy” or “Norm“)</em><br />
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Held in high regard by their countrymen for valor and character <em>(aside from occasionally dabbling with ethnic cleansing and political assassination but, hey, we've all done that; right guys?)</em> they kicked all manner of ass in a series of wars and now hold a wide number of positions in business and politics including, currently Prime Minister. <em>(Rahm Emmanuel really needs to carry a long curved dagger. That would bring the rest of the Dems in line real quick. If it didn‘t, he could show them his special underwear)</em><br />
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Sikh’s maintain temples all over India and in much of the rest of the world. Here, in addition to maintaining and revering their holy book (aka The Tenth Guru) they also run the ultimate in soup kitchens. In every Sikh temple, lunch is on for whoever wants it regardless of race, creed, caste or nationality. Volunteers from the poor to corporate CEOs work in their kitchens There are bicycles and Mercedes parked out front.<br />
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This may have been about the most fun I’ve had so far. After leaving our shoes and socks at the door (to be watched over by some corporate executive/shoe guy volunteer), we donned head covers <em>(I got a bandana with lions printed on it and I’m never taking it off!)</em> and walked barefoot into the temple enclosure. <br />
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Like my brother, I have a thing about kitchens and cooking utensils Can’t explain it. Just accept it.<br />
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<em><span style="color: blue;">Click to view Youtube video of kitchen operation.</span></em><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZMFsQadY6g">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZMFsQadY6g</a><br />
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The head cook took me on a tour of the operation. It was like being behind the scenes at some sort of culinary sorcerers apprentice disaster as vast mounds of food assembled themselves and gushed out in a torrent to the servers at the end. The cook proudly ran me through the operation showing each cooking station, describing the cooking process for the food being made and the incredible quantities of ghee being consumed in the process. The chapati operation in particular is fascinating. <br />
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Cooked on a massive steel griddle the size of two king-sized beds, the breads begin as pancakes of raw dough slapped onto the griddle by one volunteer and then make their way across, in nearly constant motion, being nudged along and then flipped by other volunteers. By the time they reach the far end of the griddle, they are browning and puffing up like pocket pita. At this point they’re hooked by one last worker and tossed, smoking and steaming onto a chapati mountain which will be chipped away at by other volunteers carrying them off to be served. The smell is wonderful. <br />
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Throughout the rest of the temple you can see visitors eating, washing, resting and visiting. In addition to feeding visitors they will also take in anyone that needs someplace to crash for a day or two; down on their luck travellers and such. This is their way of brightening up their Karma for the next round.<br />
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Happily devoid of priests, everything is pretty much a committee operation right down to the volunteers singing, chanting, playing instruments and fanning the Holy book <em>(which by the way has its own room in a corner of the temple, where it’s tucked into bed at night under nice covers and probably given a little drink of water. In the winter it gets a blanket. Not a bad life for a book.) </em><br />
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</em>Meeting and talking with these guys was just downright fun. Supremely confident and good-humored <em>(and reportedly enjoying a nice drink here and there.)</em> you get the impression that Sikh’s know they’re cool. If India is “Happy days”, the Sikh’s are Fonzie.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06740949641262877188noreply@blogger.com0