Thursday, December 31, 2009

Goodbye 2009!!


Memories of last year.

Microsoft's Vision of the Near Future

<a href=";playlist=videoByUuids:uuids:a517b260-bb6b-48b9-87ac-8e2743a28ec5&amp;showPlaylist=true&amp;from=shared" target="_new" title="Future Vision Montage">Video: Future Vision Montage</a>

A slick vision of one company's concept of the life in the year 2019.  I sincerely hope they are right but primrose promises have been made before.

I remember when cable television was first installed at my parent's home. We were told that we could read books from the library at our home through the television. Cable television promised to revolutionize our lives. We could actually chose which films we wanted to watch. I just thought I would die before our turn came for the cable line to be installed.

Then, one summer afternoon, late in the day, four beefy guys in sweaty uniforms  practically stormed our home, drilling holes in all the walls. Boom, boom, boom without so much as a smile. Boots and loud voices hollering from room to room.

My mother and I were standing there, looking at the TV screen-here wasn't much else to do- when suddenly a man's face, bloated and horrible, appeared on the screen. He was begging for his life to a guy with a gun. The criminal took no heed and fired point blank into the poor guy's forehead.

My mother, with a  gulp, turned to me and said, "It's so realistic!"  We had  glimpsed the future and  It was so realistic.

The Decade in 7 Minutes

Scopitone- Ain't it Just Like Me

I know that I normally have Scopitone Wednesdays but, this being a special occasion, I thought I would put all my Nomads in a party spirit with this little ditty. Still sounds cool despite the fact that all the dancers are probably grandmothers now. Enjoy.

I admit to doing a double take at the man lounging under the canopy in the first seconds of this clip. A flesh colored speedo? I suppose this is a balance for all the women dancing in the other Scopitone clips. Okay.. now, let's do the Hully Gully.

Pro-Government Rally in Iran


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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Scopitone Wednesday- High Boots

A frighteningly bad one courtesy of Scopitone. Particularly surprising lines of this song are… "She does the dog, she does the jerk."  Sorry I couldn't find any background information on this one!

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Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Utopia for the Deaf

Hands I came across this passage last night in Seeing Voices, an Oliver Sacks book about the history of the deaf, their struggle for acceptance in the world of the hearing and the development of Sign language.  In his book Sack relates a fascinating  story from Nora Ellen Groce's  Here Spoke Sign Language: Hereditary Deafness on Martha's Vineyard.
Through a mutation, a recessive gene brought out by inbreeding, a form of hereditary deafness existed for 250 years on Martha's vineyard, Massachusetts, following the arrival of the first deaf settlers in 1690s. By the mid nineteenth century, scarcely an up-land family was unaffected, and in come villages, the incidence of deafness had risen one in four. In response to this, the entire community learned Sign, and there was free and complete intercourse between the hearing and the deaf. Indeed, the deaf were scarcely seen as  "deaf" and certainly not seen as being at all handicapped.
In astonishing interviews recorded by Groce, the island's oldest residents would talk at length, vividly and affectionately about their former relatives usually without even mentioning that they were deaf. And it would only be if this question was specifically asked that there would be a pause and then, "Now you come to mention it, yes, Ebenezer was deaf and dumb." But Ebenezer's deaf and dumbness had never set him apart, had scarcely been noticed as such; he had been seen, he was remembered, simply as  "Ebenezer"- friend, neighbor, dory fisherman- not as some special handicapped, set-apart mute. …
Intriguingly, even after the last deaf Islander had died in 1952, the hearing tended to preserve Sign among themselves, not merely for special occasions but generally. They would slip into it, involuntarily, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, because Sign is "natural" to all who learn it as a primary language and has an intrinsic beauty and excellence sometimes superior to speech.    
Seeing Voices, by Oliver Sacks

Monday, December 28, 2009

Sign of the Times


Cool photograph, cool sign and very cool people.

Albert Schweitzer of Optimism and Pessimism

An optimist is a person who sees a green light everywhere, while a pessimist sees only the red stoplight... the truly wise person is colorblind.

Coat Hanger Sculpture- Scottish artist David Mach

Amazingly Bad Album Covers - 1

Lately we at Nomadic View have been getting too artsy-fartsy and high-falutin' so we decided to jump off the high horse for a minute and tackle the issue of trash. Namely, trashy album covers.

Bad album covers come in many styles. In this post, we shall examine the heavy metal genre. 

I worked in a factory with some guys like this. They worked nights, of course.

An apt title for an album if ever there was one.

This must be a record… erm.. for a record. Three examples of poor taste in one cover. But then who ever said the music industry had anything to do with taste?

Obviously sketched by the drummer in  rehab. I think I went to high school with that guy too.

If you can endure even more examples, head on over to Worst Album Covers. Next week, Nomadic View takes on religious music albums. Believe me, you can find some homegrown dillies.

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The Gardens of Zeus

FS The Temple of Zeus.JPG

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Photographer: Udo Hinnerkopf;

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Acquainted with the Night


I have been one acquainted with  the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have out-walked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

Too Cute for Words

Saturday, December 26, 2009

KFC- The Dark Years


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Lillian Hellman on Necessity


God forgives those who invent what they need.

Men Bicycles Winter

Men Bicycles Winter -one of the blogs I regularly follow- posted some wonderful photographs taken while in Netherlands. I took one and did a bit of tinkering with it and here are the results.  Thanks Eleni.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

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Because You Laughed

Whenever my family traveled anywhere, my parents tended to pack our Chevy station wagon as if it were a Conestoga and as if we were about to set off with the last wagon train to California.

My father had left no space unaccounted for, except for a clearing in the back of the station wagon for Charlie, the dachshund.He had tightly packed all the presents like pretty bricks. He had calculated everything and everything had to be placed in balance, A few things over the axle, not too much on either side. The strategic packing and rearranging had taken my father hours and now, all for nothing. The back tire, my father explained, must have a puncture. Although I couldn't see anything wrong, he assured both my mother and I that it was slowly but steadily losing air. Everything would have to be unpacked, the spare tire (buried under suitcases) removed and the sagging tire changed.

Looking back now, the trip did seem ill-fated. Besides the deflating tire, the forecast predicted a mix of sleet and snow, "possibly heavy at times." A dream come true perhaps for other families. My mother could only envision our car, sliding down an ivory ravine, buried under snow for weeks, and later recovered with frozen bodies clinging to one another in search of the vanishing warmth. Gruesome photographs of our remains would be tastelessly exhibited in every newspaper in the country.

For any sensible person, all this would have been enough to put Christmas travel plans on hold. Cancel everything and move on to Plan B. But Christmas is not really a thing you can cancel.

In any case, by this time, a dreadful kind of momentum compelled us in only one direction. With angels giving omens, other invisible hands seem to be pushing us on.

Excluding the supernatural, the main reason for this feeling was my grandmother. My mother's mother was an exceedingly fussy "contrary" woman. And, anything could be seen as a slight, an attack or insult. One day she might stop talking to a life-long friend without any explanation, leaving behind confusion and dismay. And nobody could hold a grudge like her. Sometimes she would harbor a grudge against somebody for so long that even she had forgotten the original reason.

My mother had always hinted privately that my grandmother's difficult nature- that moodiness and bitterness, ran in her mother's side of the family, like diabetes or asthma. "All her people were like that. Rather spit in your eye than give you the time of day."

"She just can't stand seeing somebody have something she can't have." My father would say in agreement.

"Or somebody happy." My mother added, with a knowing look to my father.

Missing Christmas, especially at this late a date, would have guaranteed weeks of unspoken acrimony. A suitable period of punishment would be followed by exaggerated displays of sadness and staged self-pity.( No, don't think twice about it. I understand. don't you worry about me.. ) followed by a month or more of acidic letters in which every minor disagreement from the last twenty years would support some bitter theory of neglect and indifference. (You have never..not once...You've made it clear time and time again that..) In short, my grandmother was the inventor of "passive-aggressive behavior." So, there could be no question of turning back now.

My older brother had announced a week before that, for the first time, he would not be accompanying us but, would be meeting us there in Arkansas, driving his 1956 International pickup.

Additionally he informed us that he would be bringing his new girlfriend, Brenda. My brother fancied himself a regular Lothario and there was always an entertaining parade of varied types to meet-but usually only once or twice before they disappeared without another mention. We eventually stopped trying to remember their names. Brenda was it? Or Brandi? We all exchanged glances when we first heard of this one. It didn't ring any bells.

Upon our arrival, my mother and grandmother began their ritual "catching up" which was little more than a lengthy exchange of local gossip. The same names I had heard so many times. Although I had heard these names all my life, I was never quite able to identify any of these people by sight. Stories heard on good authority at the post office or over the fence, at the Piggly-Wiggly.

Not long after that, Brenda, my brother, my sister and I, out of sheer boredom, began playing cards at the dining table in the other room. It was at that moment that I saw something quite extraordinary. In fact, I wasn't sure if I had actually seen it or if, in my feverish hormonal adolescent mind, I had imagined what I was seeing. Brenda was playfully making obscene hand motions with the banana-our Christmas fruit! My mind seized upon this act like a monkey with a piece of candy. In fact, as an introverted but relatively well-informed 12-year-old male, it fairly threw me into a catatonic state for a full minute, staring so hard and so long my eyes began to water. Clearly, I had not met the women from her planet before. My sister was embarrassed into silence. My brother nervously laughed it off. I, for one, wanted her to do it again.

It is important to note that, for a long time, I thought-seriously thought- I had invented "that sort of thing." Accidentally. Like some lab experiment gone amiss. Secondly, I was quite startled that a woman- any woman- should know anything on the subject.

After the card game was over, we joined the adults in the over-furnished living room. My brother and I sat crossed legged on the floor. During this time my brother had been having trouble deciding which direction he would pursue in life. He had been talking about majoring in Political Science and my father, being a practical man, could make no sense of it. Typical of my parents, they chose this time and that place to bring the subject up.

"And what is that going to get you? What is political science anyway?"

My mother joined in, "You need to sit down and think about what you are going to do with your life."

"Sammy, " my grandmother chirped,"You just can't go around half-addled all your life."

My brother looked up. "What? Half-addled?"

He looked at me with a broad smile and I giggled. It was an old-fashioned word I had never heard before. Then there was a moment of silence. We probably could have heard the snow falling outside if we had wanted to.

My grandmother stood and, in tears suddenly left the room. Less than a minute later, my mother followed. That was when the mother of all family fights began in earnest.

If you have never been in a family argument, I have to tell you it is as if somebody has thrown a moist packet of firecrackers into the room. After the initial blast, you may imagine the worst of the racket is over, that the last shock would be the very final one. But then, somebody makes some new demand, gives some new ultimatum, or throws another hissed remark and the situation begins exploding all over again. Groups form, attempting to separate the feuding pairs but this becomes "sides." Before long, if the house were. at that moment, to go up in flames it would only seem like a relief.

My mother tried to comfort my bawling grandmother and marched into the dining room. (Incidentally, my grandparents' house had wooden floors and an angry stomp gives the sensation of impending Doomsday. It felt quite like riding on the back of an hysterical elephant.)

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" my mother said to my brother, when she returned. My mother's classic pose, arms akimbo, head high.

"Don't you think you owe her an apology?"

"For what?"

She bristled. "For laughing in her face, that's what."

"I didn't do anything." My brother answered. "There is nothing to apologize for."

My mother told my brother that if he refused to apologize then he would have to leave her mother's home and "take that whore with him." The fact was that Brenda- "that whore"- had obviously had nothing to do with any of it. Everybody gulped on cue.

My brother gallantly attempted to defend his girlfriend's "honor" by demanding an immediate apology. Instead of an apology, however, there was a further exchange of artillery fire. A few minutes later, in the hushed aftermath, my brother and Brenda drove off, presumably back to St. Louis. I never saw Brenda again. Understandably perhaps. I think my brother also never saw her again.

After that horrific Christmas, the damage was never repaired. In fact, it was to be the last Christmas we would spend together as a family. My brother's relationship with our family slowly deteriorated . He decided not to look back. The events in his life became more and more second-hand and murky. Both my mother and my brother were too stubborn and certain of their own cause to admit mistakes. In their minds, rapprochement equaled backing down. It was beyond their capability to recant, to concede or to forgive. Being right was far more important than any type of negotiated settlement.

He completed his Political Science degree. He went on to law school out of state and all through his graduate education, my mother told anybody who would listen that he would never finish. "He just doesn't have the discipline."

But he did finish and they attended his graduation with undeserved pride and pretended life-long support. He then married into wealth and social standing, calling my parents from time to time, mostly to provide them details of the honors he was paying his adopted family or how successful he had become. Country clubs and skiing trips, European vacations and lucrative legal settlements for corporations. Missed birthday calls, and long delayed baby pictures.

My sister had always held with a bitter resentment and half-hidden jealousy toward my brother. all through her childhood, she witnessed an endless showering of attention on a little prince. Now, she must have told herself every night, the tide was turning. Comeuppance was at hand. Ever the opportunist, she quickly filled the vacuum in my parent's affection.

Her tactics were fairly basic but effective. For my mother, she would provide audience, a vent for her bitterness and if possible, my sister would occasionally drive the blade an inch deeper. Asking questions she knew the answers to, just to make the pain a bit more exquisite.

Through these methods, she managed to become, for all intents and purposes, an only child, late in life. I myself moved on, each year taking another step back from the family, watching this slow-motion war from the ever-increasing distance. Stopping in for a couple of weeks every year, I listened to my parent's retelling of my brother's latest outrage. The intentional and imagined insults and predictions of his fantasy divorce and career self-destruction.

On the contrary, my brother's legal career was in ascent and within a year, he was to be made a partner in a prominent law firm. He would go further than that, into politics. A Reagan Republican. Although I lived in the same city, we rarely saw each other; he was not impressed with my friends- weirdos, he called them with a snort- or my neighborhood- the working class side of town. In the end, every visit required an appointment well in advance and the time was filled with mocking jokes at my expense.

What was the point, I finally asked myself.

About seventeen years after that black Christmas, my grandmother's Parkinson's disease finally claimed what was left of her tiny bird-like body. It was not unexpected and it was, as it turned out, the beginning of the winnowing of my family line. A little more than a year later, my grandfather, grateful to be released, would follow his wife to the grave.

As we prepared for the grandmother's funereal that morning, the subject of that particular Christmas came up. It was the only time we ever talked about it, in fact.

"That whole thing. At Christmas," my brother told me, staring at himself in the mirror and tying his tie."That was your fault."


"Of course. That whole thing was your fault. Because you laughed."

December 25- The Birthday of the Unconquered

Reading from "The Bible as History" by Werner Keller, I found an interesting note regarding the origins of Christmas.
Christendom celebrates Christmas from December 24-25. Astronomers and historians, secular and ecclesiastical, are however unanimous that December 25 is not the authentic dates of the birth of Christ, neither with regards the year nor the day. The responsibility for this lies at the door of the Scythian monk Dionysius Exiguus, who made several mistakes and miscalculations. He live in Rome and in the year 533 he was instructed to fix the beginning of the new era working backwards. But he forgot the year zero which should have been inserted between 1 B.C and 1 A.D. He also overlooked the four years when the Roman emperor Augustus had reigned under his own name, Octavius.
The Biblical tradition gives this clearHerod_468x835 indication" "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea, in the days of Herod the king ( Matt, 2.1) We know from numerous contemporary sources who Herod was and when he lived and reigned. In 40 B.C. Herod was designed king of Judaea by the Romans. His reign ended with his death in 4 B.C. Jesus must therefore have been born before 4 B.C. if Matthew's statement is correct.
December 25 is referred to in documents as Christmas Day in 354 A.D. for the first time. Under the Roman emperor Justinian, it was recognized as an official holiday. An old Roman festival played a major part in the choice of this particular day. December 25 in ancient Rome was the "Dies Natalis Invicti," "the birthday of the unconquered," the day of the winter solstice and at the same time, in Rome, the last day of Saturnalia, which had long since degenerated into a week of unbridled carnival and, therefore, a time when the Christians could feel most safe from persecution.
helios copyAnd what about this Roman pagan holiday on December 25?
The Dies Natalis Invicti was probably first celebrated in Rome by order of the Emperor Aurelian (270-5), an ardent worshipper of the Syrian sun-god Baal. With theSol Invictus was identified the figure of Mithra, that strange eastern god whose cult resembled in so many ways the worship of Jesus, and who was at one time a serious rival of the Christ in the minds of thoughtful men.
Mithraism resembled Christianity in its monotheistic tendencies, its sacraments, its comparatively high morality, its doctrine of an Intercessor and Redeemer, and its vivid belief in a future life and judgment to come. Moreover Sunday was its holy-day dedicated to the Sun.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Christmas Stalkings

Santa Stalker

Yeah, so I fiddled with this Bell Telephone Ad from 1950 issue of Life Magazine. It just seems more interesting the Nomadic View way!

Pretty Paper

360 Izmir- Pasaport

Pasaport Sidewalk, Izmir Turkey in Izmir

Here is a wonderful panoramic shot of a sunset in winter in the Pasaport area of downtown Izmir, Turkey.

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360 Izmir Clock Tower

Izmir Mosque "Konak Cami" aside the Watchtower in Izmir

I am reposting this panoramic shot of the Izmir Clock tower. The previous link was somehow lost. If you click on the edges, the scene will change but gently, or your head will spin.

Ancient Viaduct - Izmir Turkey


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Saturday, December 19, 2009

Listen to Radyo Iz

As most people know, the internet has brought about a revolution in media communications and in such a short time.  One such triumph has been the creation of internet radio. It is like short wave without the static and fiddling with your knobs. Here is an example for you. For four years, Radyo Iz has, via the internet, broadcast Turkish folk, both classics and new releases.  I have to say that

I am not overly fond of Turkish TR82-Wlg copymusic, especially Turkish pop music.  Everyone has their own tastes and quite often I don't much care for Western pop music as well. Having said that, much of the folk music I heard on Radyo Iz seemed easy on the ears, especially the older music from the 70s and 80s.  In any case, click on the radio icon and give it a listen. Drop me a line and tell me what you thought of it.

Sunshine Bob


A strangely fascinating video. Please watch. Please.

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Friday, December 18, 2009

Quentin Crisp on Fashion


Fashion is what you adopt when you don't know who you are.

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Live from Izmir!

Webcams in Izmir

If a tree falls in the forest without anybody around, does it make a sound? This age old conundrum  is no longer a worry to those with enquiring minds thanks to webcams. You may not physically be there but you can spy to your heart's delight.

Below are some live-action webcams from Izmir, Turkey. As you might notice, the weather was stormy here today but, given the wintery conditions throughout Europe at the moment, I really can't complain. If you click on the links ( or the photos) you can watch us running about with our little lives like bugs.

Gumruk[7]  This is the main downtown section. In the foreground you can see the pier built Gustave Eiffel in 1890,  near the Konak Square in İzmir. It was thoroughly restored starting 2003 and was opened as an upmarket shopping mall in 2004. Since then, it became one of the landmarks  of  İzmir.


A symbol of the city, the Izmir clock tower, situated in Konak square,  was designed by the  architect Raymond Charles Père and built in 1901 to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Abdülhamid II's (reigned 1876–1909) ascension to the throne. The tower, at a height of 25 m (82 ft), features four fountains, which are placed around the base in a circular pattern, and the columns are inspired by North African themes. The area is located just in front of the huge open shopping district of Kemeralti and near the city government buildings.


Yes, it isn't a very clear. It was the time of day.  In the background you can see one of the main ferryboat docks for the Konak area of Izmir. The ferries cross the bay from Karsiyaka- a sister township of Izmir- every half hour and are a relaxing way to journey to  work every morning instead of fighting traffic.

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Martian Sundown

On May 19th, 2005, NASA's Mars Exploration Rover Spirit captured this stunning view as the Sun sank below the rim of Gusev crater on Mars. Because Mars is farther from the Sun than the Earth is, the Sun appears only about two-thirds the size that it appears in a sunset seen from the Earth.

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Thursday, December 17, 2009

Homemade Deep Dish Pizza



Momma Mia, thatsa delicioso!!

For some reason, Turks, as a rule, tend to skip the tomato sauce from their pizzas- (even Dominos, for pity's sake)  so I decided to make my own deep dish pizza for this evening.

If you have not tried to make your own pizza before, let me assure you it is a quite an easy thing. Forget all that Lucy business with the dough tossing and twirling. My cats would fling themselves off the balcony if I should ever attempt it. 

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Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Divorced Woman

photo The Watts lived a few houses up the street which was just on the edge of my mother's radar. When they moved in, it quickly became apparent that this was a family quite unlike anything we had seen before.

"A round bed?" I heard my mother ask her next door neighbor. "Where on earth would you buy sheets for it?"

I recall peering into their home into the hall and seeing silvery-black wallpaper with nude cherubs. And gold-veined mirror tiles. Amber (swag) globe-lamps hanging down on chains from the ceiling. And what kind of weird music was that? (Jazz.) From what all I was used to, the decor was otherworldly.

Eventually, it was decided amongst my parents and our neighbors that the Watts were what they called "swingers." On what evidence, I can't imagine and in fact, at that age, I had no idea what being a swinger actually meant. (I am rather impressed that my parents even knew the term.) I doubtless imagined it having something to do with gymnastics.

Although I saw him very rarely, Mr. Watts was of particular interest to me because at that time, he happened to be the only adult that wore a mustache. And for this reason, he will forever remind me of Gomez from the Addams Family.

Mrs. Watts resembled a cross between Dolly Parton and Myra Hinley. "A woman can be busty," I heard my mother say, "but good grief." I only knew that the overall effect was startling- even by 60s fashion standards. Tight sweaters, with cleavage and big hair, like a platinum rococo bubble about to pop. It was as if one of Dean Martin's gold-diggers had crawled out of my television.

There was indeed something about Mrs. Watts that caused the wives in the neighborhood anxiety. Today, a photograph of Mrs. Watts would likely produce howls of laughter but back then, she was every middle-aged married man's fantasy. And after all, she was divorced.

Mrs. Watts didn't help her cause much, it has to be said. A careless bit of joking with a husband. "And with his wife standing right there." An off-color remark using language feminine decency generally forbade. An overly friendly bit of touching. Showing up to the front door in something satin and lacy called Boudoir Glamour.  Coming in at all hours of the night (meaning after midnight.) That's all it took to turn the tide against her.

By the time Mr. Watts left his wife for another woman, Mrs. Watts was already something of a pariah in the neighborhood. Her husband had left her with two small children and bills unpaid and unplayable.

To my mother, the divorced Mrs. Watt represented the prevailing moral decay of late 1960s America. Among the other women in my mother's circle, it was understood that a divorced woman could not be trusted. In a neighborhood filled with warm blooded husbands, a woman like that could easily be the cause of any number of problems.

Without much explanation, my teenage brother was discouraged from mowing her lawn. Compared to the manicured looks of all the houses on our street, the Watts front yard looked forsaken. ( Front lawns were an important outward show of the inner harmony of the family. Back yards, being hidden from view were a different matter. ) The Watts yard always seemed to be inhabited by forlorn weather-beaten toys. A gutter where careless drivers had badly parked. Or an afflicted brown patch. And worst of all, a scandalous wine bottle amongst the weeds.

Divorce, in my mother's opinion, was something my mother felt quite strongly about. "Nobody ever said marriage was going to be easy, " she'd say, with one eyebrow lifted. "Not something you should rush into, that's for sure." Taking a puff on her Salem, she would add, "I just feel sorry for the children." (This was also her general complaint on mixed marriages. Think of the children.)

The most ironic part is, of course, that my mother's own grandmother had lived in a very small town as a divorced woman with eight children.  It was something that my mother's family rarely mentioned.

Andy Warhol on Living


People need to be made more aware of the need to work at learning how to live because life is so quick and sometimes it goes away too quickly.

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Scopitone Wednesday- The One I Love Belongs to Somebody Else

Despite all the campy dress switcheroos and flamboyant dancing,  this isn't a bad song and it Joi really sings her heart out here. Hope you enjoy. 

Monday, December 14, 2009

Pssst…. pass it on…

I Cried for You – Katie Melua

"I Cried For You"
You're beautiful so silently
It lies beneath a shade of blue
It struck me so violently
When I looked at you
But others pass, they never pause,
To feel that magic in your hand
To me you're like a wild rose
They'd never understand why
I cried for you
When the sky cried for you
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter
But this life was not for you
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper

I'll cross the sea for a different world,
With your treasure, a secret for me to hold
In many years they may forget
This love of ours or that we met,
They may not know
how much you meant to me.

I cried for you
When the sky cried for you,
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter.
But this life was not for you,
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper
Without you now I see,
How fragile the world can be
And I know you've gone away
But in my heart you'll always stay.
I cried for you
when the sky cried for you,
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter.
But this life was not for you,
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper
That beauty need only be a whisper

Written by Katie Melua
Published by Melua Music Ltd / Sony / ATV Music Publishing (UK) Ltd
From the album 'Piece By Piece'

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Dedicated to my friend, Can Kulduk

Provocatively Posed Cats

white black

With yearning eyes, they scream.. feed me, human.. feed me.

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The Musical Tuber with the Wrong Name

In last week's post, I told you about finding in the local farmer's market the mysterious purple carrot, as homely a vegetable you will encounter outside your nightmares. This week I want to share with you another find. The Jerusalem artichoke.GEDSC DIGITAL CAMERA           The name is famously odd since it does not come from the Middle East at all and has no connection to artichokes. (I will bypass the theories about the origins of its name if you don't mind. You can find other sites for that if you're that curious.) The Jerusalem artichoke resembles a knobby white potato and originally came from North America. Therefore the species grown in Turkey are  not- in any way- native. Still, the price is very reasonable and their slightly nutty, fresh taste is worth exploring.

Interestingly, Edgar Cayce, a famous psychic healer, claimed that Jerusalem artichokes were useful in keeping Type II diabetes in check. Years later, scientists discovered that this tuberous vegetable contained a form of insulin, inulin which "has a minimal impact on blood sugar, and—unlike fructose—is not insulemic and does not raise triglycerides, making it generally considered suitable for diabetics and potentially helpful in managing blood sugar-related illnesses," according to Wikipedia. "Because normal digestion does not break inulin down into monosaccharides, it does not elevate blood sugar levels and may therefore be helpful in the management of diabetes. " Score one for Edgar.

Additionally, they are immensely rich in potassium. They also contain Vitamin C and fiber. They are rich in iron and thiamine and they help the healthy bacteria in the intestinal tract to grow.  That's a good thing, by the way.

The vegetable has the texture of a Chinese water chestnut and tastes great raw in salads or cooked like a potato. Since Jerusalem artichokes are not so well-known, using them to make a soup or baked and tossed with bay leaves will surely impress your friends at your next shindig.  Click on the photos for the recipes.

One delicate point to add here, this deceptively innocent looking vegetable is a creature which holds a musical secret. Other adventurers report it has a very real tendency to produce wind when eaten in large quantities. So, given that warning, turn up the volume and put the dog out and enjoy the Jerusalem artichoke.


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