tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-100004982024-03-13T13:23:43.912-04:00Inside the Hotdog FactoryBringing you all the gristly goodness that's squeezed
inside of the sausage-casing of our culture.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.comBlogger745125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-64727208590552417612020-08-07T11:03:00.001-04:002020-08-07T11:15:46.186-04:00Reason 429,313 Why I Could Never Be a Doctor (and not just because I don't really like people)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpxECmUOVYU/Xy1pjiYl3gI/AAAAAAAABWU/aQbRqVr1KwoqhRMj5CcnI3eUVnp0dJskgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Dr%2BGnaukweirst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1139" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZpxECmUOVYU/Xy1pjiYl3gI/AAAAAAAABWU/aQbRqVr1KwoqhRMj5CcnI3eUVnp0dJskgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Dr%2BGnaukweirst.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.stcatharinesstandard.ca/news/niagara-region/2020/08/05/international-traveller-among-niagaras-eight-new-covid-19-cases.html" target="_blank">International traveller among Niagara’s eight new COVID-19 cases</a>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patient X languished in his hospital bed, sweaty, feverish,
miserable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Dr. Gnaukweirst entered the
room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Doc, you gotta help me!”
Patient X said. “I feel like I’m
dying!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Your tests have come back,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“What is it, Doc?
What have I got?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“You have COVID-19,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Oh my God,” Patient X lamented. “But that’s impossible!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“That’s always how it seems,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “But it is a certainty. We’ve run several tests. You have COVID-19.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“But it’s impossible! I’ve done everything right! I check Facebook every five minutes. I read and upload memes. I take selfies.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Have you worn a mask when you go out of the
house. Have you practiced social
distancing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Patient X mustered the strength to lean up on one
elbow. <i>“Wear a mask?</i> And give away my freedoms? Are you crazy?” He fell back on his pillow. Patient X would have then referenced Nazis
and Jews, except he didn’t know enough about history to do so. He had never heard of the Holocaust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“And ‘social distancing’?” Patient X said. “Why would I do that if I don’t have
COVID-19?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Except, you do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“But I <i>didn’t!”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“You have it now,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “Someone gave it to you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Gave it to me? That’s
a conspiracy theory! To make us wear
masks!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Actually, it’s science.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I don’t know how that happened!” Patient X moaned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“We’re going to have to do contact tracing,” Dr.
Gnaukweirst said. “Have you been
anywhere in public other than to grocery shop for bare essentials?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Been anywhere?” Patient
X said, mulling over the words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Yes, where there are other people. We need to determine who you’ve been in contact
with.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Well, I did get a really sweet deal on it trip to Europe three weeks ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>“Europe?!!”</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Yeah, it’s that country across the
ocean where they speak European and they pay for everything with U-ros.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“You mean ‘Euros’?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Whatever.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“So, you were out of the country.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Not for very long,” Patient said. “Few weeks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“It didn’t dawn on you to maybe curtail travel outside of the
country during a global pandemic?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“And give away my freedoms?
No way!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Dr. Gnaukweirst looked into the middle distance for a moment. Here was yet another selfish, shortsighted
miscreant who was too impatient to wait until the pandemic had passed in order
to carry on with his life. Whose
actions, ironically enough, would <i>prolong</i> the pandemic that everyone was so weary of.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>This is the specimen who has taken away my Chinese buffet</i>, Dr.
Gnaukweirst thought. <i>Who has made
handshakes and hugs things of quaint old movies. I'll never see Wayne Newton live, again, because of this son of a bitch</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Come with me,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “I have a special treatment for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“What?” Patient X
moaned. “I’m tired as hell and everything hurts!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Come on, you can do it,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “I have exactly the thing for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Patient X slowly, painfully shifted in his bed, eased his
feet to the floor, wincing and gasping, squinting and muttering sweet self-pitying
nothings to himself. Dr. Gnaukweirst led
him to the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Slowly -- ever so slowly -- they moved down the corridor. Dr. Gnaukweirst led Patient X around a far corner
to a disused hallway in the hospital. At
the end of it, there was an elevator. As
they approached, Patient X said, “Why are the elevator doors open, but no
elevator there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“It’s not really an elevator,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. “There is a special prize in there for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Patient X brightened slightly within his display of pain and
discomfort. “For me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Just for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As they got closer, Dr. Gnaukweirst stopped. He coaxed Patient X to continue the final few
feet.<br />
<br />
“I don’t see anything,” Patient X
said. “Are you sure? I should get back to my room.” He moved to leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“There is a free iPhone in there for you,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Patient X’s face brightened.
“Are you kidding? That’s great!” He turned, wobbly, and moved toward the open
elevator doors. He looked into the
darkened shaft. “I don’t see
anything. Are you sure?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Oh, I’m sure,” Dr. Gnaukweirst said as he raised his right
foot and placed it upon Patient X’s rump.
It felt good to do that. Made him
feel like Louis Armstrong when he first walked on the moon, and put one of his moon
boots onto a moon rock and said, “I claim this planet in the name of Pink
Floyd!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Dr. Gnaukweirst launched Patient X into the open elevator
shaft. There was a momentary cry, but
then it was gone. Then, a distant thud, as Patient X landed on the pile of other COVIDiots
and hypochondriacs Dr. Gnaukweirst had brought here. One of the first to
go in actually had an iPhone in her hand, so that hadn’t been a lie.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Dr. Gnaukweirst turned and went back to the ward and continued treating patients.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-82871712691331870332020-06-03T11:21:00.000-04:002020-06-03T11:21:18.854-04:00Donald Trump Photo-Op During Riots<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xytrbqdd3M0/Xte_vuhb3GI/AAAAAAAABTU/AHeCzyzduUIMe7PWOfngQgzzzSzP_0Y5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Trump%2Band%2BSteak.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1139" height="350" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xytrbqdd3M0/Xte_vuhb3GI/AAAAAAAABTU/AHeCzyzduUIMe7PWOfngQgzzzSzP_0Y5QCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Trump%2Band%2BSteak.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-63277702302703774272020-03-27T05:49:00.002-04:002020-03-30T18:23:11.663-04:00The Forgotten Victims of COVID-19<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DB-4dgS8ZT8/Xn3K11K7dnI/AAAAAAAABRA/uwts7rPqm3gFIfDhMbxQheQc7bhuY4DCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/ct-hypochondria-health-0222-20160222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DB-4dgS8ZT8/Xn3K11K7dnI/AAAAAAAABRA/uwts7rPqm3gFIfDhMbxQheQc7bhuY4DCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/ct-hypochondria-health-0222-20160222.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
As news media covers and world health experts combat the COVID-19 outbreak, there is a contingent of
forgotten people who are left to suffer in silence and obscurity: the
hypochondriacs.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's really hard," says
Luc (not his real name). "I'm usally in the ER two or three times a
week because the tip of my nose is numb and I get headaches, and I just don't feel
really good..." He trails off, stares out the window of his rented
room. "But there's the fear."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a
common thread among hypochondriacs -- fear of contracting an <i>actual</i>
ailment by visiting the local hospital emergency room. Under normal circumstances, it's a risk they are willing to take. Since the worldwide COVID-19 outbreak, many are rethinking their ER visit schedules.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's
hard," says Giselle (not her real name). "I feel really, really...
<i>strange</i>. You know? In my hands, and then the sensation moves up into
my neck. Sometimes I have to blink my eyes a few times to get them clear." Giselle dabs her eyes with a tissue. "What am I
supposed to do?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Federal and provincial
governments have asked citizens to self-isolate,
and to practice "social distancing" when in public. News
stories about hospitals overwhelmed with COVID-19 cases abound, as do stories
of medical staff running low or completely out of supplies, such as
masks, gowns and gloves. Hospitals are soliciting donations from the
public.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the rush to treat the ever
rising tide of COVID-19 cases, a major constituency of the medical
landscape has been shunted aside -- the hypochondriacs who
ordinarily populate the nation's ER waiting rooms with minor coughs,
non-specific-non-life-threatening aches and pains, general malaise,
minor rashes, strange taste in the mouth, a click in the shoulder when
it's moved in a particular way. The list of imaginary ailments is as
varied as the hypochondriacs themselves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One of the unforeseen consequences of the public anxiety surrounding COVID-19 is that the nation's ERs are much less busy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"People
are stressed," says Roda (not her real name). "I don't want to go into
my local ER, tell them my hair hurts and then get a fatal disease like
coronavitis!" She dabs her eyes with a tissue. "So, if I want to stay
alive, I have to stay <i>away</i> from the hospital! That's so sick! That's
so backwards!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At the time of publication, there is no word of an aid package for the nation's hypochondriacs by the federal government.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"We're left to fend for ourselves," says Xander (not his real name). "Nobody cares. It's like we don't exist." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There
is talk in certain communities, among local activists, of opening faux clinics staffed by actors and volunteers to service the
hypochondriacs, but currently efforts are hampered by
self-isolation and social distancing orders.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
In this time of need, spare a thought for those who <i>believe</i> they are afflicted.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-994269028731346602020-03-18T14:35:00.001-04:002020-03-18T14:35:45.538-04:00Headbands In A Time Of Pestilence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4KEyUJx1VJQ/XnItIpIvbAI/AAAAAAAABQY/mE3wJFqfQ-Md0xx3Lm2llgPWmXBW7iPUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Man%2Bwho%2Bfell%2Bto%2Bheadband.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1600" height="276" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4KEyUJx1VJQ/XnItIpIvbAI/AAAAAAAABQY/mE3wJFqfQ-Md0xx3Lm2llgPWmXBW7iPUgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Man%2Bwho%2Bfell%2Bto%2Bheadband.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
"Let's enjoy these aimless days while we can..." <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>Don DeLillo <i>White Noise</i><br />
__________<br />
<br />
It's all in the headband. I own a stretchy NBA headband and a bland blue stretchy headband. On this night, I choose to tie around my head a length of material torn from an old concert shirt that doesn't fit anymore.<br />
<br />
People are not neutral about headbands. It's one of the few statements in modern life that cannot shrugged away. Strangers in the mall have gone out of their way to tell me: "You know, people don't wear those anymore."<br />
<br />
I wear them. While exercising, of course, but also to the grocery store, watching my kids at karate class, swimming, cutting the grass, checking the communal mailbox. I even have a smart black headband that I wear with my suit to job interviews.<br />
<br />
My morning was spent trying to transfer funds from my bank account to my microwave oven. The unhelpful bank person on the phone told me it was impossible because my microwave oven does not have an email address. It does.<br />
<br />
Because the markets are chewing the genitals off of my investments. They are not, precisely, investments. I think of investments as stocks that have been researched and then purchased after long sober thought. I'm involved in funds, entangled in plans -- a <i>plan</i>. A plan whose genitals are being chewed off by the stock market.<br />
<br />
They're coming. They're coming for the toilet paper. I crouch in the bushes in front of my house, headband secured around my head. My hands grip an old shillelagh my grandfather brought back from Ireland decades ago. This is new Airborne Toxic Event. The Corona Virus -- COVID-19, which makes it sound like a video game -- is something else in this place that suffers no floods, tornadoes, hurricanes or earthquakes. The worst we suffer are hard rains, terse looks in traffic, squirrels eating our tulip.<br />
<br />
It was the absence of toilet paper in the supermarket, that told me, <i>Shit's flying</i>. In the past, I avoided making that purchase of household goods out of a childish embarrassment, the tacit public admission that I, too, use toilets. But the Panic inspired by the absence of toilet paper, the miles long empty shelf in the supermarket, had nothing to do with commodal works.<br />
<br />
<i>If they -- faceless, nameless, without conscience </i>they<i> -- have ransacked the toilet paper aisle</i>, I thought. <i>What is next?</i><br />
<br />
I use exercise to deal with stress. You can always tell how terrible I feel by how good I look.<br />
<br />
This time of pestilence is causing everyone stress because it reminds us all that we are going to die, at some point. That death will come like a thief in the night even if it comes in the form of a Honda during the day.<br />
<br />
The virus is causing trouble not only by making people sick, it's challenging our distractions. Professional sports are gone. Public gatherings are finished. Even going to bars and restaurants is against the public conscience. We are left with 1970s-era distractions: TV, Internet, cell phones, board games... conversation... No doubt, there are people beginning to think that death would be preferable.<br />
<br />
One of my distractions is riding my stationary bike. Some friends say, "How can you do it, day after day? You don't <i>go</i> anywhere."<br />
<br />
And I wonder, <i>How do you say if I don't</i> go <i>anywhere why am I always different when I get off the bike again?</i><br />
<br />
I also hear: "You don't see people wearing headbands at the gym."<br />
<br />
"People still work out at gyms?" I said.<br />
<br />
You are what you do for free. You are what you do when it cost you to do it. You're not a doctor, or a cab driver, or a landscaper. You're a stamp collector, hunter, or a ventriloquist. And when you do it while wearing a headband, you do it with verve.<br />
<br />
My nightly vigil is nearly done. I really feel like I've gotten to know myself while crouching in the bushes. Who cares if I sleep away the day. The toilet paper can keep itself safe in the sunlight.<br />
<br />
<br />Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-48549957764529542952020-03-17T09:44:00.003-04:002020-03-17T10:02:05.779-04:00Corona Virus Days - 1st Fiction of the 2020 Corona Virus Outbreak<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nm8zhIduoQ0/XnDOOTEkZNI/AAAAAAAABPg/ynfwOFuLxEACNLIMeSaEwpg9-OcBSJMuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Corona%2Bimage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="640" height="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nm8zhIduoQ0/XnDOOTEkZNI/AAAAAAAABPg/ynfwOFuLxEACNLIMeSaEwpg9-OcBSJMuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Corona%2Bimage.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>Reddit "Shower Thought" 3/17/2020:</b><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Due to the earth's rotation, it's orbit around the sun and the suns </i>[sic]<i> orbit in the galaxy, you are the only human who ever has, or ever will occupy your current location in the universe</i>.</blockquote>
<b>Corona Virus Date 0034 days:</b><br />
<br />
Pod battened. Wife objects to my referring to house as "pod". I apologize, but explain that science fiction times call for science fiction language.<br />
<br />
Sixteenth angry tweet directed at Netflix has gone unanswered. Requesting they stream 60s and 70s era home movies made by their viewers. No word. They may be suffering.<br />
<br />
Toilet paper toilet paper store: +2313 squares.<br />
<br />
Progress of toilet paper shrine to Don Delillo is slow. Using far too much in its construction. There are complaints, dissension.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0037 days:</b><br />
<br />
Idea for a story came while riding my stationary bike in the basement:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Family living in a house during Corona Virus outbreak (write what you know). One day, the hapless husband opens the fuse box for the first time since buying the house years ago. Finds it is not, in fact, a fuse box, but contains rolls and rolls of toilet paper in a cavernous gap in the wall. Corona Virus ravages society, family uses this found toilet paper due to shortages at the supermarket. It seems like regular toilet paper. There is no indication who put the toilet paper in the fuse box gap, or how long it's been there. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
As the family uses the found TP, they gradually become smarter. How do they/gauge this? In the case of the hapless husband, small tasks around the house that once bedevilled and befuddled him are now simple fixes. He repairs the solid state television, going so far as breaking open the back of the set to access the electronics inside. Husband not only successfully repairs the television, he seamlessly repairs the back of it using his wife's curling iron and strands of her hair, which are the same graphite colour.</blockquote>
<b>Corona Virus Date 0037 days:</b><br />
<br />
Riding stationary bike in basement. Imagining I am pedaling across the ocean on a three foot wide track. Weather service indicates that I have one hour of clear weather before the wind whips up and the ocean swamps my track.<br />
<br />
This technique gets my heart rate into that sweet zone.<br />
<br />
Don't let me listen to anymore Don Delillo interviews on YouTube.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0038 days:</b><br />
<br />
Scolded eldest son for dismantling one of Don Delillo's wings on the shrine in order to wipe up after bathrooming.<br />
<br />
<b>Coronavirus Date 38.5 days:</b><br />
<br />
Wife expelled me from pod, saying: "Get a hold of yourself."<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0038.75 days:</b><br />
<br />
Returned to pod. Wife found Corona Virus journal. Objects to be referred to as "Wife" in narrative.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0041 days:</b><br />
<br />
The only benefit of civilization collapsing is that Netflix will be abandoned by its legal counsel and personal security. I will make the journey to its headquarters in the Himalayas -- part spiritual journey and part customer complaint. "Why does Netflix Austria have so many more offerings than Netflix Canada???? Why so much British content? I don't care about their Top 10 Conspiracies!!!"<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0045 days:</b><br />
<br />
Despair. Cat demolished Don Delillo shrine.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0045.25 days:</b><br />
<br />
Where are our celebrities in this time of crisis? Why have they not mounted webcams in their homes and livestreamed their own self isolation? I would feel less isolated if I could watch such a thing. Also, no word of comfort, yet, from Don Delillo. I imagine thousands of people gathered outside of his apartment in New York City, waiting, staving off despair.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0045.75 days:</b><br />
<br />
Why can't I find a secret trove of intelligence-generating toilet paper in my house?<br />
<br />
Have dreamed for months of connecting my stationary bike to a generator. Tried today. Ruined wife's curling iron in the process. Looking for secret gap in house in which to hide it.<br />
<br />
<b>Corona Virus Date 0052 days:</b><br />
<br />
At least I do not have to cut the grass.<br />
_______________________________<br />
<br />
<i>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Due to the time distortion wrought by the Corona Virus, all mentions of time in increments of days are in fact increments of hours</i>.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-31760410912459622032019-08-03T21:06:00.001-04:002019-08-06T18:58:21.606-04:00The Bad Future is Here -- I Hate New Technology<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8MAblswn7Bs/XUYg6AoVfOI/AAAAAAAABIQ/JwYIpS4DQn4jpEpAW2FlKc1glVODNYT5wCLcBGAs/s1600/Bad%2BFuture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1500" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8MAblswn7Bs/XUYg6AoVfOI/AAAAAAAABIQ/JwYIpS4DQn4jpEpAW2FlKc1glVODNYT5wCLcBGAs/s640/Bad%2BFuture.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cineplex ticket counter. Computerized kiosks sit in five spaces<br />
where actual human beings used to work.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am a standard issue North American suburbanite. Buying things used to be fun. My first CD player, first DVD player, the tank of a desktop computer in 2004 that I still own, the Apple Mac Classic from 1991, which I still have in my office (and booted up when I turned it on in 2016).<br />
<br />
The last laptop I purchased was a run-of-the-mill Windows machine in 2013. Soon after it arrived, I installed an SSD and the thing just hummed along as I used it to write half a dozen plays, dozens of articles, a few screenplays, worked with Photoshop, and even tried creating a graphic novel. It was only when I recently had need to edit video on a level beyond Windows Moviemaker, that it was time to expand beyond my old reliable.<br />
<br />
After buying a Ford Escape in 2013, I realized the world had passed me by. With all the attention now placed on "distracted driving" what did Ford put right in the middle of the dashboard? A <i>video</i> console. No longer do I have radio buttons that I can feel and know which preprogrammed station will come on. Now, I must look at the flat screen and press buttons on an interface created by a committee in which not a single soul had usability training. Yes, the car is equipped with voice command capability. I do not have time to teach my voice and my worldview to my vehicle.<br />
<br />
The Ford Escape will not allow me to close my own trunk door. I must push a button to have the vehicle do this for me. The car beeps when I back up. The beeping grows more urgent and harried if there is something behind me. There must have been high fives all around among the Ford Motor Company brain trust when that feature was implemented. Think of all the grateful garbage cans and light posts and fire hydrants. "Won't anyone think of the fence post?!!!!" I can almost hear one of the geniuses exclaim with emasculated ebullience.<br />
<br />
So, I recently purchased a new Windows laptop. Reluctantly. Apprehensively. Out of necessity. Still, I hoped there might be a semblance of the old excitement of getting a new machine. There wasn't. You see, technology makers are now convinced they know better how <i>I</i> will use their product than I do. They are wrong, of course. But like all people with a bad idea, they run like Jim Brown with it.<br />
<br />
Within seconds of turning the new machine on and beginning the arduous, needlessly complicated and convoluted set-up process, I was forced to create a Microsoft account. I have no use for a Microsoft account. I have tried in the past to create Microsoft accounts after they purchased Skype. I couldn't figure it out. It sounds ludicrous, but the manner in which Microsoft insists people create accounts is so confusing that -- in the case of Skype -- I couldn't complete the process. There was no getting past this step with my new laptop. That moment soured the entire experience. I muddled through, gave Microsoft information I didn't want to give to it, and created one of their execrable accounts.<br />
<br />
When I had finally hurdled enough hurdles and jumped through enough hoops, my laptop's screen went dark and suddenly a single word appeared in the center of it: "Hi". I wanted to throw up.<br />
<br />
Then the laptop proceeded with its own internal set-up process. Read: the installation of boatloads of bloatware and bullshit that I would spend the next few days uninstalling.<br />
<br />
McAfee Anti-Virus was on the machine. Really? I mean, fucking really? First off, Windows 10 comes with Windows Defender Security Center, which is said to be (in my research) an effective and comprehensive anti-virus program. So, why put McAfee on, in addition to this? I can only guess that mega-billion-dollar Microsoft was paid a few more dollars to add this crimp to its customers.<br />
<br />
McAfee is the syphillus of software. I have never had a machine even remotely run well with McAfee on it. McAfee is not meant for computers. I don't know what it's meant for. Maybe it was intended for toaster ovens or certain mid-90s electric sex toys. Who knows. Whatever. McAfee should not be anywhere near a computer, and there it was in the bowels of my new laptop. It was the first thing I uninstalled.<br />
<br />
My new keyboard has LED backlighting. I love it.<br />
<br />
The mouse trackpad buttons are part of the live trackpad, so I am endlessly clicking the wrong buttons, folders, drives and links on my computer. I'm continusouly, unintentionally enlarging web pages by using the trackpad as I have since 2003 when I purchased my first laptop.<br />
<br />
The speakers and/or my headphones don't work with any regularity. I have to continuously go online to troubleshoot both. Yesterday, neither worked. I got the speakers working after watching a few YouTube videos. Today -- the computer won't recognize that there are headphones plugged in. My old laptop? Plug in headphones, music played through the headphones. Never in my computer-using life have I had to delve so often and so far into arcane settings deep within the machine in order to simply make it work the way it should, out of the box.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>UPDATE</b>: Fixed headphone issue after going to the Dell forum about headphones jack not working. Found the fix, but still pissed that I have to dig so far into this wretched machine to make it work like is should.<br />
<br />
There are endless notifications popping up as I try and use my new laptop. I turn off and deactivate the notifications as quickly as they arise, but it's almost like a full-time job beating back this computer's continuous badgering.<br />
<br />
Windows Updates are now whole day events, like Armistice Day and Columbus Day, like the SARS concert. I succumbed to an update this morning and it took hours to complete. I just received notice that another update is on deck, sighing loudly and shuffling its feet, like an impatient guy behind me in line at the grocery store. Fuck you, Windows! I am a human being! We will update when <i>I</i> say we update!<br />
<br />
The most maddening of these maddening glitches, bugs and pains in the ass is the Lock Screen and Login. My laptop's set-up process forced me to create a login for my personal laptop. Which means, when I restart my computer, it comes to a "lock screen" where the boot-up process comes to a complete halt until I login. Meaning, I must wait that much longer to actually use my machine. My laptop is for home use. I do not want a login. There is no reason for it. I'm willing to assume the responsibility that if my laptop were to fall into the wrong hands, that wrongdoers could access everything on it. It's my stuff. I'm willing to take that risk. But Microsoft will not allow me. Microsoft <i>thinks</i> it knows better. It does not know better.<br />
<br />
And if you decide to actually telephone Microsoft, their automated phone debacle simply directs you back its useless online resources (which led me to call, in the first place). The Circle of Microsoft!<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the early 2000s, technology bounced off the wall and has become increasingly <i>less</i> useful, <i>less</i> user-friendly. The makers of technology think their customers are idiots who need the jaunty greeting of "Hi" from their new laptop as bloatware and bullshitware are installed behind the scenes.<br />
<br />
The only consolation is that Built-in Obsolescence, shitty workmanship and the general engineering of the early demise of products, just as their warranties expire...<br />
<br />
Wait. There is no consolation.<br />
<br />
That brief window where new technology was actually interesting and exciting is gone -- just like the ticket sellers at the cineplex. Now, it seems, Rube Goldberg has gotten a hold of applets and dynamic link libraries.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-37509739555434994112018-04-12T20:57:00.000-04:002018-04-17T05:45:29.848-04:00April 12 Pilgrimage - J.T. Hurley's Anniversary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: orange;"><b>The J.T. Hurley Chronicles</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2017/11/counting-to-infinity.html" target="_blank">Counting to Infinity</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2018/03/home-movie-time-travel.html" target="_blank">Home Movie Time Travel</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/03/lost-in-tall-grass.html" target="_blank">Lost in the Tall Grass</a></li>
<li>April 12 Pilgrimage - J.T. Hurley's Anniversary</li>
</ul>
<hr />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jR26hSVL-30/WtXAm5zghWI/AAAAAAAAA2k/Y3hkD6Z-1FwlrLRaetWN2p4W_DnU09xagCLcBGAs/s1600/St%2BWilliam%2BCemetery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jR26hSVL-30/WtXAm5zghWI/AAAAAAAAA2k/Y3hkD6Z-1FwlrLRaetWN2p4W_DnU09xagCLcBGAs/s400/St%2BWilliam%2BCemetery.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. William Cemetery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dMC_ZW7FOPI/WtAA_6y4-wI/AAAAAAAAA0M/QDaqTpmJUdUUdI1aa56GV8-dd0rRpjsGQCEwYBhgL/s1600/grave%2Bstone.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dMC_ZW7FOPI/WtAA_6y4-wI/AAAAAAAAA0M/QDaqTpmJUdUUdI1aa56GV8-dd0rRpjsGQCEwYBhgL/s320/grave%2Bstone.jpg" width="320" /></a>There is a temptation to canonize and rhapsodize about the dead. Thirty-nine years ago, my friend, J.T. Hurley, died: April 12, 1979, the Thursday before Easter weekend. At the time, my little brother and I were looking forward to going to J.T.'s on Easter Sunday for an Easter egg hunt. Then came the phone call for my mother from Metropolitan Hospital. It was J.T.'s mother. She was frantic, but she was clear -- J.T. was dead. He was nine years old.<br />
<br />
I was seven years old at that time, and remember playing in my back yard when my father called my brother and I into the house. An ice storm, days before, caused a neighbor's tree to collapse across a couple of yards -- the topmost tangled part of the tree (the part we could never climb to when it stood straight) rested in our yard and my brother and I were exploring it when my father called us.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QF3yt11sFj4/Ws-qYCvfSjI/AAAAAAAAAy8/hYHBi3Osq5owNvPZ6pvEdi0v5u7W9za8gCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2Bschool%2Bpic%2B-%2Bcorrected.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1163" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QF3yt11sFj4/Ws-qYCvfSjI/AAAAAAAAAy8/hYHBi3Osq5owNvPZ6pvEdi0v5u7W9za8gCLcBGAs/s320/JT%2Bschool%2Bpic%2B-%2Bcorrected.png" width="232" /></a>Dad led us into the living room and sat on the floor with us, which was unusual. His face was in turmoil, but at seven, I had no way of reading it. Adults were strange creatures to me, then, who confused and bewildered me on an hour-to-hour basis.<br />
<br />
When Dad said, "J.T. had an accident," I remember smiling inward, excitedly preparing to hear about the latest cool cast J.T. would be wearing on Easter Sunday. Months before, he had broken his leg, and I remember examining his plaster cast with rapt fascination, running a finger over the inscriptions and drawings left in multi-colored pen by his friends. Maybe it was his arm, this time, or maybe he had a black eye. Or, a bandage wrapped around his head like those guys in TV shows who had amnesia.<br />
<br />
Then my father said, "J.T. has gone to Jesus." It took nothing more for me to understand that something terrible and irrevocable had happened.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yx9ccr_BO0I/Ws-p-wfdE6I/AAAAAAAAAy4/OQKHrDysvbIEJOio_c0cPTvEgdOXTcj1wCEwYBhgL/s1600/windows.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yx9ccr_BO0I/Ws-p-wfdE6I/AAAAAAAAAy4/OQKHrDysvbIEJOio_c0cPTvEgdOXTcj1wCEwYBhgL/s320/windows.jpg" width="320" /></a>The most galling, scalding detail of J.T.'s death was that he died while climbing through a window into his house. It was the one day he was allowed to go home by himself -- his regular after school babysitter was out of town for Easter weekend. After a week of concerted lobbying to be allowed to go home by himself just this one time, J.T.'s mother relented. Except, J.T. forgot to ask for the house key, or his mother forgot to give it to him. When he got home, he was locked out.<br />
<br />
J.T. was a natural athlete, graceful and agile. He could climb anything. Climbing through a window into his house -- which was all of five feet off the ground -- was like a starting basketball player shooting a balled-up piece of paper into a garbage pail. Except, the window fell as J.T. climbed through. It seems he didn't raise the window high enough for the clasp at the top to catch and hold. It should have just clunked him on the head when it fell, leaving nothing more than a goose egg. If it had to fall, it should have fallen on his back. But on April 12, 1979, the window came down on the back of his neck, pinning him in place, his feet bare, excruciating inches from the ground. <br />
<br />
So, it's 39 years later, and though I have thought of J.T. many times during the intervening years, visiting his mother numerous times at their house, this anniversary has landed on me like an anvil. The 2018 calendar aligns with the 1979 calendar. Not perfectly. Easter was a couple of weeks ago, but April 12 is a Thursday, once again. And here I find myself on a self-guided pilgrimage.<br />
<br />
My first stop is J.T.'s grave. It is lunch time and, sure enough, the sounds of the students in the St. William school yard, nearby, are completely audible here. <br />
<br />
I never get used to seeing J.T.'s grave marker. There obviously has been some kind of mistake, and the more I visit, the more I'll draw attention to this flaw and something in the Time/Space Continuum will jostle itself and the whole tragic accident that claimed J.T.'s life will be undone. The utter ridiculousness of such a thought is apparent to me everywhere, except when I stand at J.T.'s grave.<br />
<br />
One afternoon, a few weeks ago, while visiting, I strolled around to see who his "neighbors" were. I was taken aback to find the graves of two other boys -- in a cluster of Robitaille family tombstones -- who had lived 1966 - 1976 and 1968 - 1978, respectively. I am no demographer, but I marveled at the slim odds of three boys, buried within 25 feet of each other, who had all died at the same young age outside a time of plague or pestilence. <br />
<br />
Following an unspecified length of time, graveside, I drive eight minutes to J.T.'s house -- though, it is no longer his house. After his mother's death in December, a new owner took possession (though, the house remains empty), so I am technically trespassing as I walk around the property, taking pictures.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6GfqEOhnfi0/WtULQF-5uuI/AAAAAAAAA1E/UieV2t3LCDMf49O_WecIFbgYxOpkq2HJwCLcBGAs/s1600/20180412_131703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6GfqEOhnfi0/WtULQF-5uuI/AAAAAAAAA1E/UieV2t3LCDMf49O_WecIFbgYxOpkq2HJwCLcBGAs/s640/20180412_131703.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I start at the open carport where I had watched J.T. perform one of his "stunts" -- crashing his bicycle into a pile of boxes, garbage cans, a hockey net and other, assorted garage debris. He had choreographed it to look and sound as dangerous as possible. It had worked. My brother and I, standing at a safe distance wondered, briefly, if he'd broken his neck, only to see J.T. jump to his feet without a scratch. After his death, the carport emptied of anything that looked fun. All that was left were garbage pails, an ancient extension ladder, various unused flower pots. The only thing, possibly, from J.T.'s era is a dirty, old plastic bin that used to be situated at the top of the back stairs -- a quarter-filled with water -- for us to swish our sandy feet before going into the house.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnsaOCSeznM/WtULWPKNBUI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/n7okmUeMcY8s73RdtedAOBNfJLFqSip4gCEwYBhgL/s1600/20180412_131814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnsaOCSeznM/WtULWPKNBUI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/n7okmUeMcY8s73RdtedAOBNfJLFqSip4gCEwYBhgL/s640/20180412_131814.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I pause at the small front porch. Next to it is a winter-ravaged plant of some variety I can't readily identify. My last visit here with Aunt June, J.T.'s mom, last September, she offhandedly pointed to the plant (flourishing at the time), saying, "I planted that right after J.T. died. It's doing well!" And it was, and it probably will, again.<br />
<br />
I look through the narrows windows on either side of the front door. There are no surprises inside the house. It is vacant; door of the fridge hanging open in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZct0RLvTZ8/WtUMfOJd53I/AAAAAAAAA1s/jPFxb80yFGQRgE5r5596jJxtmXriaF45QCLcBGAs/s1600/20180412_133227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZct0RLvTZ8/WtUMfOJd53I/AAAAAAAAA1s/jPFxb80yFGQRgE5r5596jJxtmXriaF45QCLcBGAs/s640/20180412_133227.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Th82l-u0spI/WtXBNEAbk6I/AAAAAAAAA2s/3gDt-DDVjCcNGLeLHjnsKRvS1HlSZsJzACLcBGAs/s1600/Halloween%2B1970s.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1285" height="272" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Th82l-u0spI/WtXBNEAbk6I/AAAAAAAAA2s/3gDt-DDVjCcNGLeLHjnsKRvS1HlSZsJzACLcBGAs/s400/Halloween%2B1970s.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halloween 1970s</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2wS9BAGoghE/WtULqY656WI/AAAAAAAAA1k/XEYEXohr5vM_wbCWFYoK-2Rv-2kaR83cACEwYBhgL/s1600/20180412_132142.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2wS9BAGoghE/WtULqY656WI/AAAAAAAAA1k/XEYEXohr5vM_wbCWFYoK-2Rv-2kaR83cACEwYBhgL/s320/20180412_132142.jpg" width="180" /></a>Then, around to the lakeside of the house. Long, long ago, Aunt June had the windows replaced, so the one that had claimed J.T. is long gone. My mother said that people would ask Aunt June how she could stay in the house after what had happened. It's a reasonable question, but to my mind, highly unreasonable to ask of a woman who lost her son in that house. I go around and look at the windows. I turn and look at the beach, which has receded greatly since I visited as a kid. The day is sunny and the winter chill that has stubbornly hung on has released its hold -- for this afternoon, at least. I go to the water and let a wave run up onto my shoes. My parents have Super 8 footage, somewhere, of me sitting on this shore as a baby, slapping my hands down on each small, lapping wave, attempting to catch them.<br />
<br />
I take pictures with my phone, and look into windows. Yes, I am looking for ghosts. I find none. All the furniture is gone. J.T.'s room has been devoid of his belongings for decades. On visits to Aunt June's, those first few times after J.T. died, my brother and I would approach the open door of his bedroom, never entering, and gaze at his stuff: sports pendants, a granite chess board, books, toys, his old bedspread on the bed. Far sooner than I was ready, the room emptied of J.T.'s belongings. No one could begrudge Aunt June for doing whatever she needed to do to make life livable in his absence. As it turned out, far from simply donating all of J.T.'s possessions to Goodwill, Aunt June allowed his friends to come over and pick out mementos. Of everything J.T. had owned, Aunt June held back his favorite jean jacket, an odd stuffed monkey with which he slept as a young child and his baseball glove. All of which I now have.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1qWS2kT_Olw/WtUMB-kXU4I/AAAAAAAAA1w/xENWLqYRoYQ7qxki5rsP_cSCsF_zGeYBgCEwYBhgL/s1600/20180412_133035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1qWS2kT_Olw/WtUMB-kXU4I/AAAAAAAAA1w/xENWLqYRoYQ7qxki5rsP_cSCsF_zGeYBgCEwYBhgL/s640/20180412_133035.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Hoping to indulge my over-developed sense of nostalgia with this visit, I'm only reminded of Thomas Wolfe once wrote: "You can't go home again."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOcV_yrSGZI/WtUNCPeF6fI/AAAAAAAAA14/tAicw-6vtRYPK_LJdsl4FuoW1oNTC6NOQCLcBGAs/s1600/20180412_133330_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aOcV_yrSGZI/WtUNCPeF6fI/AAAAAAAAA14/tAicw-6vtRYPK_LJdsl4FuoW1oNTC6NOQCLcBGAs/s640/20180412_133330_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
As I take a few final photos at the front of the property, a curious neighbor approaches and asks what I am doing. I explain my relationship to Aunt June and that it's J.T.'s anniversary; that he was once my friend. I am relieved to see the suspicion disappear from the neighbor's gaze. He remembers Aunt June fondly, though he never knew J.T.. He marvels that 39 years have passed since J.T.'s passing. "As we got to know, June," the neighbor says, "she would talk about him from time to time..." The thought drifts away. He goes back to his yard work. I go to my car.<br />
<br />
And drive to Metropolitan Hospital.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
We should honor how people lived, not dwell on the circumstances of their deaths. My memories of J.T. are filled with happiness and fun. There is a temptation to canonize and rhapsodize about the dead. Suffice it to say that J.T. Hurley was wall-to-wall fun.<br />
<br />
As a middle-aged father of two boys, my youthful delusions of invincibility are long in the past, shed like the jeans that no longer fit me. My mind dwells on the circumstances of J.T.'s death. He died alone, the silence of his childhood home surrounding him in mute helplessness. The waves of Lake St. Clair lapping against the shore with metronome regularity, utterly indifferent.<br />
<br />
According to <a href="http://climate.weather.gc.ca/climate_data/hourly_data_e.html?hlyRange=1953-01-01%7C2014-10-02&dlyRange=1940-08-01%7C2014-10-01&mlyRange=1940-01-01%7C2014-10-01&StationID=4716&Prov=ON&urlExtension=_e.html&searchType=stnProx&optLimit=specDate&Month=4&Day=12&StartYear=1840&EndYear=2018&Year=1979&selRowPerPage=25&Line=1&txtRadius=25&optProxType=city&selCity=42%7C18%7C83%7C2%7CWindsor&selPark=&txtCentralLatDeg=&txtCentralLatMin=0&txtCentralLatSec=0&txtCentralLongDeg=&txtCentralLongMin=0&txtCentralLongSec=0&timeframe=1" target="_blank">Hourly Data Weather Report for April 12, 1979</a> it was a cloudy, hazy day in the area with a high temperature of 13 degrees Celsius (55.4 Fahrenheit). Jacket weather. There is every chance that J.T. was wearing his favorite jean jacket that day, which his mother gave to me last September.<br />
<br />
In his book <i>Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives</i>, author David Eagleman says, "There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time." <br />
<br />
Mr. Eagleman offers some comfort that I can, at least, save J.T. Hurley from one death.<br />
<br />
The image that keeps returning to me centers on the first day back to school following Easter 1979 -- the day after J.T.'s burial.<br />
<br />
J.T.'s final resting place is in St. William cemetery, which was next to St. William Church (now defunct), which was right next to St. William elementary school, where he was a fourth grade student. The first time I visited J.T.'s grave, I was amazed to see that the school was visible from the cemetery and wondered if the sounds of kids playing in the school yard were audible there.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4llHDviPjE/Ws-rp-LS7GI/AAAAAAAAAzM/7IkNPGbh83EJ_YIbo0T2lmnHwNCBdAgXwCLcBGAs/s1600/kids%2Bin%2Bschool%2Byard.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4llHDviPjE/Ws-rp-LS7GI/AAAAAAAAAzM/7IkNPGbh83EJ_YIbo0T2lmnHwNCBdAgXwCLcBGAs/s640/kids%2Bin%2Bschool%2Byard.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Students in the St. William school yard beyond <span style="text-align: left;">the cemetery.</span></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I imagine that first day back, Tuesday, April 17, 1979, the students of fourth grade filing into their classroom following the morning bell, taking their seats, a somber silence hanging over them. And when finally the last student was seated, there was that one, lone, empty desk among them.<br />
<br />
J.T.'s desk.<br />
<br />
The morning announcements would have mentioned his death, prayers asked for. Many of his classmates, no doubt, arrived that morning already knowing of the accident. How sad and surreal it must have been to know that J.T. was gone, but nearby, that he lay within a grave that was five minutes' walking distance from where he sat through Math and Geography lessons. How circumstance had forced the trade of a student desk for a grave, a classroom for a coffin. That, on the previous Thursday, he was among them, laughing, running in the school yard, taking notebooks out of his desk, shoving them back into his desk, dropping pencils, chewing on erasers, talking, joking, listening, drawing.<br />
<br />
On that dismal Tuesday, the books in his desk, and the lessons they contained, had been exploded into irrelevance by his death. All of J.T.'s school things sat stuffed in that desk and the task of emptying it lay ahead. The desk must have been like a bomb crater in the room. I think of the student sitting behind J.T.'s desk, with that empty, gaping space before them the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the school year. Or, the student sitting in front of J.T.'s desk. Did they ever experience a superstitious tingling on the back of their neck? J.T. would mean no one any harm. He wouldn't haunt or frighten anyone. Our own minds do that job.<br />
<br />
Or, did the teacher reconfigure the seating arrangement and have J.T.'s desk removed? Did a new student arrive in the weeks following, to occupy the desk with no knowledge as to why it was empty? Kids being kids, there is no question someone would have stepped up to inform the new student. Not necessarily with malice, but with a kid's guileless desire to inform.<br />
<br />
Or, had the empty desk simply remained, as is -- sadder and starker than any grave marker could be.<br />
<br />
So, today is April 12. It is my eldest son's birthday. He was born in the hospital where J.T. had been taken. Although today is J.T.'s anniversary, it is first and foremost, to me, my son's birthday. J.T. would have no objection to that. Today, however, I am allowing myself to split it. This is the first anniversary on which I am actually aware of the date J.T. died. For 38 years, I only knew that he died on Holy Thursday, a moving target date that changed from year to year. Then came the day I finally located J.T.'s grave. The date engraved on it was suddenly engraved in me.<br />
<br />
As I write this, it's 4:03 p.m.. It is hard to say with any accuracy, but J.T. would have arrived at his home sometime around now. He would have found the front door locked and realized he didn't have the key. There is a part of my mind that is certain if I only pore over the details of J.T.'s final moments, some detail can be found, some glitch in the matrix that would allow me to reverse engineer the accident and save him. Impossible, of course, but part of me won't give up.<br />
<br />
The rest of me, however, knows the ending to the story: J.T. found an unlatched window, raised it and attempted to climb into the house. The window fell on him, pinning him, causing him to suffocate. At some point later, J.T.'s mother realized she hadn't given him the house key. She called a neighbor, asking if the neighbor could check on J.T. and see if he was wandering around the house, or sitting on the front steps. The neighbor found J.T., got him down from the window and attempted CPR. An ambulance was called. J.T. resided in Puce, Ontario, on Lake St. Clair, a 40-minute drive from Metropolitan Hospital. The ambulance arrived and took him to Met. The EMS tech worked on J.T. during the frantic drive, fishing an intubation tube down his throat and attempting to get him breathing again. Finally, J.T. was rushed into the ER, but it was apparent to all who observed him -- he was no longer alive. The ER doctor pronounced him dead at 5:55 p.m. His mother arrived. My mother was called. As they waited for J.T.'s father to arrive, Aunt June came and went from the examination room where J.T. lay with the intubation tube protruding uselessly from his open mouth.<br />
<br />
<i>Evening of April 12</i>...<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MLQKjbsc6UQ/WpfMQVox4yI/AAAAAAAAAsk/nsdx0enR0FY9ODZvqY00dD3hPoOPDseNwCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1105" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MLQKjbsc6UQ/WpfMQVox4yI/AAAAAAAAAsk/nsdx0enR0FY9ODZvqY00dD3hPoOPDseNwCPcBGAYYCw/s400/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J.T. Hurley, March 1979.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My friend is gone, and the day of his anniversary is nearly done. I'm sure there are those who would accuse me of not allowing J.T. to rest in peace. Nobody questions my thoughts and motives more than I do. What do I hope to find? What do I hope to resolve? </span><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
When I push to divine my motives, a phrase recurs in my mind: "He was us." </div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
One summer day when I was two or three years old, I was outside with my parents, hunting for bugs in the grass as they did yard work. It was a Saturday and it was sunny and at some point a sudden impulse took hold of me and I ran into the street. At the same moment, a car approached. There was a great shriek of tires, which seemed to wrench the flow of time right off its rails. The air was sucked out of the world. In that sliver of a moment, I looked at the car ten feet away from me -- I stood eye-level with the wide, round headlights -- and saw the startled expression on the face of the driver; he was still bobbing back and forth from the sudden stop. He was in his twenties with floppy blond hair. A girl with long hair parted in the middle sat in the passenger seat. The look on the guy's face was a mixture of terror and confusion. <br />
<br />
Then, air blasted back into the world, I took a breath, the sounds of the neighborhood reasserted themselves, and a pair of hands wrapped around my torso. I was lifted off the ground and I didn't return to solid footing until my father set me down in my bedroom and shut the door.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Had one or two actions occurred differently that day -- had the floppy blond-haired guy left the house a few seconds later or my sudden inspiration to run into the road come a second later -- it might well be J.T. Hurley writing a blog post about his three year old friend who never made it to school, never lived to see <i>Star Wars</i>, or to write his name.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
He was us.</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
And it would be <i>my</i> time-faded photograph on the wall, the memory of <i>my</i> voice and laugh and running footsteps that would haunt and harangue my parents the rest of their lives. I would have been little more than a ghost to my younger brother. But the world worked as it should have that day: the car stopped in time, I spent the afternoon in my bedroom, my parents thought twice about letting me so close to the road, again. And life went on.</div>
Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-12034252812524342132018-03-02T18:11:00.001-05:002018-04-14T11:10:16.660-04:00Lost in the Tall Grass <span style="color: orange;"><b>The J.T. Hurley Chronicles</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2017/11/counting-to-infinity.html" target="_blank">Counting to Infinity</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2018/03/home-movie-time-travel.html" target="_blank">Home Movie Time Travel</a></li>
<li>Lost in the Tall Grass</li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/04/april-12-pilgrimage-jt-hurleys.html" target="_blank">April 12 Pilgrimage - J.T. Hurley's Anniversary</a></li>
</ul>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MLQKjbsc6UQ/WpfMQVox4yI/AAAAAAAAAsk/W15kZdJhq1Y7W-QaeJKNQDUxGvYMvHy2wCEwYBhgL/s1600/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1105" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MLQKjbsc6UQ/WpfMQVox4yI/AAAAAAAAAsk/W15kZdJhq1Y7W-QaeJKNQDUxGvYMvHy2wCEwYBhgL/s400/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Probably the last photograph taken of J.T. Hurley, <br />
processed in March 1979, weeks before his death.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Whether it's Marilyn Monroe, Lenny Bruce, Jim Morrison, Anne Sexton or David Foster Wallace, I am fascinated reading about the final days of people's lives.<br />
<br />
One of the first biographies I read was <i>'Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky: The Life of Jimi Hendrix</i> by David Henderson. As I neared its inevitable conclusion, I pored over the increasingly sketchy accounts of Hendrix's final days and hours with an archaeologist's eye, directed by a strange sense that if his dwindling moments were given enough attention, Hendrix's death could be reverse-engineered, and possibly averted. Ridiculous, of course, but there is a part of me that still doesn't
know that, or at least, refuses to acknowledge it.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
And
so, revisiting the story of my childhood friend, J.T. Hurley's sudden
and tragic death, I am doing it all again, visiting the main
branch of the library, scanning through microfiche of our local newspaper, <i>The Windsor Star</i>, searching for the Easter weekend
1979 edition. I found a grainy image of his obituary and a short article describing the circumstances of his death with all the heart of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.<br />
<br />
J.T.'s accident occurred on the one day his mother allowed him to go home by himself after school. His usual after-school babysitter was out of town for Easter weekend. As it happened, J.T. forgot to get the house key from his mother, and was locked out when he arrived home. Never one to sit still, he went around
the beachside of his home on Lake St. Clair and attempted to climb in through an unlocked window. He was an agile, athletic boy for whom
climbing was easy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except it wasn't. The
window fell as he pulled himself through. It's maddening to
consider how easily it could have just thumped him on the head, leaving
him with little more than a goose egg, or falling across his back,
leaving him to wriggle his way in, possibly breaking the window with his heels as he swung his legs to propel himself forward... later suffering the harmless ire of his mother. But the window came down upon
the back of his neck. The window frame was five feet off the ground. J.T. was
four feet, six inches tall. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The details are as maddening as they are heartbreaking.</div>
<div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U9pW9jCDwLY/Wpi02R9s0TI/AAAAAAAAAtc/qwt212xXNNYhiZsbSihYPifaZNyUv7tDACLcBGAs/s1600/Tim%2Bseated%2Bby%2Bbonfire.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="1007" height="243" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U9pW9jCDwLY/Wpi02R9s0TI/AAAAAAAAAtc/qwt212xXNNYhiZsbSihYPifaZNyUv7tDACLcBGAs/s320/Tim%2Bseated%2Bby%2Bbonfire.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">J.T. Hurley (left), Tim St. Amand (seated, center),<br />
Matt St. Amand (right)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My
mother shared her recollections of the event with me. She was very close with
J.T.'s mom -- whom my brother and I grew up calling "Aunt June" -- and she was the first person Aunt June called from the
hospital. My mother went and recently described to me seeing J.T. lying upon the
examination table in the Emergency Room: A boy we were to see on Easter Sunday, whose diapers
my mother had changed when he was a baby, aged nine at the time of his
death, at the outer edge of adolescence, four and a half feet tall, a
"big guy" to me and my brother. All vital signs lost. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My
mother described how Aunt June, distraught and steadily descending into an inescapable circle of Hell, came and went from the examining room where J.T. lay. She was waiting for her ex-husband, Michael Hurley, who had driven in from Sarnia to see J.T. on Friday and Saturday. Time passed. He did not arrive. According to the doctors, J.T. was probably gone before he was placed in
the ambulance at his house. EMS made every possible effort to bring him back. As impossible as it still seems,
nearly 39 years later, nothing worked. He had died.<br />
<br />
And here is where reality and memory disrupt the even flow of a story that smoothed over in fiction. All the while Aunt June came and went from the ER examining room where J.T. lay, J.T.'s father, waited <i>for her</i> at her house. He had arrived some time after the ambulance
had left. Police officers lingered, making notes on the scene, but for some reason said nothing to J.T.'s father about the
severity of the accident. It doesn't make sense now, but apparently, that's what
happened. They knew J.T. had died, but nobody could utter the words outloud. All they said was that J.T. had an accident, giving no
indication as to its seriousness. In all likelihood, J.T.'s dad thought it was another fall from a tree, or some such accident, and that he'd just wait for his ex-wife to bring J.T. home.<br />
<br />
Except, she didn't.<br />
<br />
Finally, after literally hours had passed, a neighbor had mercy and told J.T.'s father that his son was at
Metropolitan hospital in Windsor and that he should probably go there, too. Michael Hurley arrived at Met Hospital ER, impatient from waiting, utterly unaware -- until he saw Aunt June and proceeded to freefall like a doomed airliner from the stratosphere of feeling irked and put-out at being kept waiting, to hearing his only child was no longer alive.<br />
<br />
At some point, a woman who worked with Aunt June at the Children's Rehabilitation Centre, heard the news and stepped in and took over as needed. My mother couldn't remember the woman's name, only that she was British. She was not an especially close friend of Aunt June's, but she knew what to do. She got Aunt June home, stayed with her, and set down to the business of arranging a funeral that had come decades before its rightful time.<br />
<br />
And so the terrible weekend played itself out with a visitation at Windsor Chapel across the street from Met Hospital. The burial on Easter Monday. And then school on Tuesday. I returned to school that day and I am sure most, if not all, of J.T.'s classmates went to school on Tuesday. I can't help thinking of the newly empty desk in their classroom, sitting their like a bomb crater, containing half-filled notebooks of spelling exercises and math problems, geography maps as yet unmarked or looked at, all of which had dissolved into irrelevancy over the weekend. The sharpened pencils, the used eraser, the smudged wooden ruler on the ledge just inside the desk -- never to be touched by J.T. again.<br />
<br />
Next door to the school was the church where J.T.'s burial service was held. Beyond the church parking lot was the cemetery where J.T. now lay buried. The sounds of the school yard could be heard in the cemetery.<br />
<br />
For weeks afterward, Aunt June stayed at our house. My brother and I shared a bedroom. We began each night in our own beds, but sometime in the middle of the night, I would roll over and find him next to me in my bed. I remember looking up and seeing the sleeping form of Aunt June in my brother's bed. <br />
<br />
And at some point, she returned home and went back to work. We all tried to get back to normal, but there was no normal with such a gaping crater in the center of our lives. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
A mutual friend
recently said to me, pondering J.T.'s death: "Can you imagine the
pain?"<br />
<br />
I could not. She could not. No one can, yet it exists and
beyond all comprehension, it appears -- to one degree or another -- to be endurable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-McWQdWT4XmM/WpdRMvk4yWI/AAAAAAAAAsI/qidZ2KHd-XEl07J7iiu8oSuZzum9COKYQCEwYBhgL/s1600/JT%2BMarch%2B1979%2BBACK.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1568" height="220" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-McWQdWT4XmM/WpdRMvk4yWI/AAAAAAAAAsI/qidZ2KHd-XEl07J7iiu8oSuZzum9COKYQCEwYBhgL/s320/JT%2BMarch%2B1979%2BBACK.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reverse side of final photo of J.T. Hurley.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2017/11/counting-to-infinity.html" target="_blank">When Aunt June died on December 8, 2017</a>, her niece left me some photos
of J.T. that Aunt June had close to her at the end. One of them shows
him lying in the middle of his living room floor with a boy whom I do
not know. They are playing with toy cars. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Across the back of the photo, in faded red script "MAR 1979" was stamped
several times by the company that developed the photo. J.T. died April
12, 1979. As I examine what must have been the final photograph
of him, and look at the microfiche scans from the April 14, 1979
<i>Windsor Star</i>, I somehow feel as though poring over J.T.'s final days,
hours, minutes, I might find a glitch in the Matrix, a line of incorrect
code, which, when corrected will bring him back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tirf0-xQJpw/WpdPS30FOGI/AAAAAAAAArs/fQNZV5KB3ksdm2O8BsWXjg3puiFoMy7zwCLcBGAs/s1600/April%2B12%2B1979%2BWindsor%2BStar%2Bpic.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="826" height="261" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tirf0-xQJpw/WpdPS30FOGI/AAAAAAAAArs/fQNZV5KB3ksdm2O8BsWXjg3puiFoMy7zwCLcBGAs/s320/April%2B12%2B1979%2BWindsor%2BStar%2Bpic.png" width="320" /></a></div>
After
one of my countless Internet searches for April 1979, a photo from <i>The
Windsor Star</i> came up -- a picture of a crucifix in St. Anne's cemetery,
dated April 12, 1979. J.T. was, in all probability, at school the
moment the picture was taken. I pore over the image and the date in the
caption wondering if there is no possible way to transport to that
place, to that moment, and to find my way to St. William elementary
school in Emeryville... It's all too ridiculous. Of course I cannot.
Although I understand the sentiment, I don't understand the futile
mental exercise of putting myself through that.<br />
<br />
When a story ends far too soon in real life, it's difficult to end it in the retelling. Whenever I visit J.T. Hurley's grave, I ask myself an uncomfortable question: Am I mourning his passing or am I mourning the passing of my own childhood and youth? The easy answer is to say "a little of both", but I'm not yet decided. J.T. is not the only friend I had as a kid. In fact, he is not the only one whose life came to a premature end. This is about the time someone would accuse me -- not for the first time -- of "thinking too much". I don't believe there is such a thing, but at times I do feel like I'm working on an algebra problem that has taken me right off the page, across my desk and into the air.<br />
<br />
And midair is where I have to leave this story. I will not stop thinking about J.T. Hurley, nor will I stop visiting his grave. After the spring, Aunt June's remains are interred there. The house of memory at 784 Old Tecumseh Road now belongs to someone else.<br />
<br />
I thought I saw an answer to it all in the 1978 movie, <i>Superman</i>, starring Christopher Reeves, when Lois Lane appears to die near the end. After finding her, a grief-stricken <a href="https://youtu.be/0Va10X8VzLI?t=2m45s" target="_blank">Superman flies out of the earth's atmosphere and begins flying around the world against its spin on its axis</a>. After a few dozen orbits, the world actually begins to turn backward. Superman eases it back just enough so that the accident that claims Lois Lane's life doesn't have a chance to occur. <a href="https://youtu.be/VBBms_VseEg" target="_blank">She's OK and impatient to be waiting at the side of the road with car trouble</a>. If only.</div>
Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-79038357553821193372018-03-02T13:50:00.002-05:002018-04-14T11:10:27.389-04:00Home Movie Time Travel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: orange;"><b>The J.T. Hurley Chronicles</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2017/11/counting-to-infinity.html" target="_blank">Counting to Infinity</a></li>
<li>Home Movie Time Travel</li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/03/lost-in-tall-grass.html" target="_blank">Lost in the Tall Grass</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/04/april-12-pilgrimage-jt-hurleys.html" target="_blank">April 12 Pilgrimage - J.T. Hurley's Anniversary</a></li>
</ul>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qP5nD3bsYPA/WpfOT3d7zbI/AAAAAAAAAss/fdi4Njc7nyoL7wsHeu0XL2H-HYtRScZDQCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2Bmontage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="309" data-original-width="1600" height="76" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qP5nD3bsYPA/WpfOT3d7zbI/AAAAAAAAAss/fdi4Njc7nyoL7wsHeu0XL2H-HYtRScZDQCLcBGAs/s400/JT%2Bmontage.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Our life-long family friend, <a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2017/11/counting-to-infinity.html" target="_blank">June Hurley, passed away on December 8, 2017</a>. As her nieces and nephews cleaned out her home, they located a box containing reels of Super 8 home movies. Aunt June's nephew, Dan, had them digitized and shared them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BdRWhZHOOaI/WpmZhLbgcMI/AAAAAAAAAv0/G6V4jvM-utUCDecITPllRzTxZ2VzodzYACLcBGAs/s1600/Home%2BMovie%2BCollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BdRWhZHOOaI/WpmZhLbgcMI/AAAAAAAAAv0/G6V4jvM-utUCDecITPllRzTxZ2VzodzYACLcBGAs/s400/Home%2BMovie%2BCollage.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Everyone moves like silent film stars in Super 8 movies. It was no different in Aunt June's home movies, so I watched them in ultra slow motion and was gratified to see numerous glimpses of my family throughout.<br />
<br />
The first section of film must have been shot around 1974. It shows Aunt June's son, J.T., and three other boys throwing a basketball and volleyball at a basketball hoop on Aunt June's carport in late afternoon sunshine. At one point, J.T. stands, smiles at the camera and then does a crazy dance.<br />
<br />
The home movies then flashback to Aunt June's wedding day in 1966. As the camera frantically pans the reception, my parents come into frame, my father looking
like a benevolent mobster with his slicked back, jet-black hair and
Alfred Hitchcock suit. My mother sits across from him, sipping red wine.<br />
<br />
The film jumps ahead through the years to approximately 1975/76, showing J.T. and two boys playing in his rowboat at the shoreline. One of his aunts tries to maintain control of the mutineers who scramble into the rowboat only to turn around and jump back out into the water.<br />
<br />
Another jump brings us to a summer afternoon at Aunt June's beach in the same time period. My family and I are in attendance. The camera follows J.T. -- who appears to have just come from swimming in the lake -- as he runs effortlessly up the business-end of his slide, only to gracefully turn around and jog back down. As he does this, I can be seen in the background, playing in the sand. J.T. goes up the slide a few times. One of the times, he lingers, standing there, a king surveying his kingdom -- whose plumber's crack peeks over the back of his teeny swim trunks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-srUviMwPSbg/Wpm6ryN5h_I/AAAAAAAAAww/Hf6YIe701dIqqnndTheLHfs_IqZIFnnIQCLcBGAs/s1600/Aunt%2BJune%2Bholding%2Bme%2B1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1009" height="243" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-srUviMwPSbg/Wpm6ryN5h_I/AAAAAAAAAww/Hf6YIe701dIqqnndTheLHfs_IqZIFnnIQCLcBGAs/s320/Aunt%2BJune%2Bholding%2Bme%2B1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
There is a jump in the action and the camera is then focused on my mother pulling the bathing suit off my younger brother, as she chats with Aunt June and some other ladies. My brother is crying for some reason. My dad bends down to see what's wrong. Then my dad sweeps sand off my brother's tan-lined behind. After a moment, I stroll into the shot, wearing my reddish/orange
Peche Island tank top. Aunt June is seated on the stairs of her back
porch. She appears to ask me something, and then she scoops me up into her arms. The love on display in that simple
footage is breathtaking. I squirm and Aunt
June lets me down, but not before kissing me on the back of my head.
The camera stays on us long enough to see me wipe at the kiss from the
back of my head, as I walk away. Then there are shots of my brother and
I with J.T. around a bonfire some dude is stoking.<br />
<br />
The film footage ends on a surprisingly dramatic image: J.T. stands beyond the roaring bonfire doing karate moves, chopping handfuls of sand. As he winds up and gives the beach itself an almighty karate chop -- the screen goes black. The grainy, shaky portal into the past closes.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XlVKSgeChJY/WpnKOPUyDJI/AAAAAAAAAxM/u-VpRFDYCf03RaT3-jL4vTDY2VFEXS8UACLcBGAs/s1600/final%2Bframes%2Bcollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="1600" height="117" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XlVKSgeChJY/WpnKOPUyDJI/AAAAAAAAAxM/u-VpRFDYCf03RaT3-jL4vTDY2VFEXS8UACLcBGAs/s400/final%2Bframes%2Bcollage.png" width="400" /></a></div>
I don't know how many reels were found, but their combined footage adds up to 11 minutes of irreplaceable personal history. For me, it's the video equivalent of the Shroud of Turin. And it plunged me, happily, sadly, profoundly, into my own memories of John Timothy Hurley of Puce, Ontario, circa the 1970s.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CEH3Eknd9VI/WplK63BuhmI/AAAAAAAAAuw/YlHn-ebB2eAYRexOL6LdlWwkZ7VfmbrSQCLcBGAs/s1600/Green%2BWooden%2BBoard%2Bin%2BBack%2BDoor.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1099" data-original-width="1546" height="227" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CEH3Eknd9VI/WplK63BuhmI/AAAAAAAAAuw/YlHn-ebB2eAYRexOL6LdlWwkZ7VfmbrSQCLcBGAs/s320/Green%2BWooden%2BBoard%2Bin%2BBack%2BDoor.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Cameron Avenue Crew" circa 1974:<br />
L-R Johnny Bennett, Tim St. Amand, Matt St. Amand, Glen Cameron<br />
(Painted wooden board replacing broken window shown by arrow)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
One my earliest memories of J.T. was when he visited our house. He and I and my little brother were engaged in our favorite activity: running -- inside, outside, around the backyard, back into the house, outside again. As we ran out of the house by way of the back door -- a wooden framed door comprised of three or four panes of rectangular glass -- J.T. pushed on the lowest pane of glass and put his hands right through it. Everything stopped. The adults mobilized. I stood stalk still, watching as J.T. held
his hands up like a surgeon after scrubbing, looking at them. His hands were covered with blood. The
blood shocked me, but I was instantly reassured by the look on J.T.'s face,
an expression that said: "Ugh, how long is <i>this</i> going
to take before we can get back to having fun?"<br />
<br />
My dad replaced the broken window with a
board and painted it green. We had that door
for many years afterward. Whenever I looked at that board -- which was
everyday, for that was the door through which we came and went -- I
thought of J.T..<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EIHBosyMGzA/WplE5gqK-AI/AAAAAAAAAuA/-2yffBvZDjktXfeg76vCKktOOlDjnaZZgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Climbing%2Bdoorway.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1098" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EIHBosyMGzA/WplE5gqK-AI/AAAAAAAAAuA/-2yffBvZDjktXfeg76vCKktOOlDjnaZZgCEwYBhgL/s320/Climbing%2Bdoorway.png" width="320" /></a></div>
We visited Aunt June's in December of 1977, when ice from the lake had piled in a mountain along the shore. Following an afternoon of climbing on the boulders of ice, we retired indoors where, among other pursuits, J.T. taught me how to climb a doorway. Afterward, J.T. had Aunt June play his favorite Christmas record
for us, over and over: <a href="https://youtu.be/Jlf---13Q0g" rel="noreferrer" target="_blank">"Snoopy vs. the Red Baron"</a> from the <i>Snoopy and His Friends</i> album.<br />
<br />
It was a great night of education: J.T. also taught my brother and I the age-old variation on "Jingle Bells":<br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Jingle bells, Batman smells</i><br />
<i>Robin laid an egg.</i><br />
<i>Batmobile lost a wheel</i><br />
<i>And the Joker got away!</i></blockquote>
We thought it was the funniest thing ever. Topped only by his recitation of:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Chinese, Japanese</i><br />
<i>Dirty knees... look at these</i>...</blockquote>
After
which point, Aunt June gave him a playful swat. That was all my brother and I
needed. We repeated the rhyme, too, and received the most
loving swats that only Aunt June could deliver, as she laughed in spite
of herself.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WxFdm5MIdNA/WplLxRKUvfI/AAAAAAAAAu4/b6OEMWQh2iE4TMQEOVnyEhXdoCXT1heFwCLcBGAs/s1600/CHiPs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="960" height="226" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WxFdm5MIdNA/WplLxRKUvfI/AAAAAAAAAu4/b6OEMWQh2iE4TMQEOVnyEhXdoCXT1heFwCLcBGAs/s320/CHiPs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>CHiPs</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The thing I remember best about J.T. is that he was a
genius of fun. One night, he and Aunt June visited our home. Down in our basement rec room, J.T.
showed us how
to build ramps with our wooden blocks and use them to jump our Fisher Price
cars. Then he put on a TV show that he enjoyed: <i>CHiPs</i>, about California highway motorcycle cops. It instantly became our
favorite TV show. I watch it to this day whenever the retro channel
shows it.<br />
<br />
J.T. had asthma. At one point, his doctor changed the medication he took to ease his symptoms. There was one side effect: it caused J.T.'s skin to peel, particularly on his hands. Being a kid, he
picked and picked at it, though Aunt June told him not to. My brother
and I must seem like deprived children because, yet
again, we thought it was so cool. Around this time, I remember riding in Aunt June's car
one afternoon. It was winter, the time of year we battled chapped lips, and Suzie
Chapstick commercials were everywhere. As J.T. picked at his hands, Aunt June handed a tube of lip balm back to us that had a 7-Up label on it. It was
the 1970s, so we all took turns using it. It smelled and tasted just like
7-Up pop. As I wondered how it would taste if I actually took a <i>bite</i>, I noticed a furtive look on J.T.'s face. He must have read
my mind because he opened his mouth a moment later and showed me he'd
bitten off half the stick. As always, he was the trailblazer and told
us that it tasted better on the lips. The whole stick tasted like bug spray.<br />
<br />
As it turned out, alarmed by his peeling skin and their doctor's lack of concern, Aunt June took it upon herself to research the new medication. The doctor had dismissed her as an over protective mother, but Aunt June showed up to the next appointment with proof -- photocopied from medical journals -- that her concerns were legitimate. The prescription was changed and J.T.'s skin no longer peeled.<br />
<br />
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hWgsQuOhcRw/WplPNjk50aI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/4CHF17gSByUV4izXcXOupve5Vc4xv9j4wCLcBGAs/s1600/Felix_the_Cat.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1490" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hWgsQuOhcRw/WplPNjk50aI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/4CHF17gSByUV4izXcXOupve5Vc4xv9j4wCLcBGAs/s320/Felix_the_Cat.png" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inimitable Felix the Cat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No matter when J.T. came to our house, it was an Event. At the risk of canonizing the dead, or turning him into a superhero, suffice it to say J.T. was wall-to-wall fun. There was one P.A. day when Aunt June left J.T. at my house while she went to
work. J.T. had his broken leg at the time and he allowed me to examine what his friends had written and drawn on his plaster cast. I thought it was the coolest thing that the leg of his pants had been cut up to the knee to accommodate the bulkiness of the cast. After that day, I remember asking my mother if I could cut my pants in a similar manner -- at the time, not realizing the practical purpose it served. <br />
<br />
On the P.A. day, J.T. brought with him a big sketch pad and a black marker. Since I had last seen him, he had taken up cartooning. A dabbler, myself, I was fascinated looking at the pictures he had drawn. At one point, I was
watching the old cartoon <i>Felix the Cat</i>. Next thing I knew, J.T. had
drawn a very close likeness of Felix the Cat in his sketchbook. Now,
Felix the Cat is not <i>Vitruvian Man</i>, but I have to say, for an
eight year old boy, it was pretty damned good.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KA74IGqN3nc/WplQVqeJplI/AAAAAAAAAvY/Dd_la04Invk84Ygx0JsD-vLBtvqXPx-LQCLcBGAs/s1600/hooper-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="426" height="250" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KA74IGqN3nc/WplQVqeJplI/AAAAAAAAAvY/Dd_la04Invk84Ygx0JsD-vLBtvqXPx-LQCLcBGAs/s320/hooper-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
J.T.'s favorite movie at the time he passed away was <i>Hooper</i> starring Burt Reynolds.
I had seen ads on television for the movie, but it didn't look like anything my parents would take me to see. I can't say for sure, but I would bet it was J.T.'s dad who took him to see it, as I could not envision Aunt June taking him, either. J.T. spoke about if often. Reynolds
plays an aging stunt man. J.T. loved anything related to stunt work. I have since seen the film and can say unequivocally that it was made for nine year old boys.<br />
<br />
On one of our visits to Aunt June's, we stayed into the evening and retired to her front room, which looked onto Lake St. Clair. In there, she had a small fireplace. After stoking up a fire, Aunt June unwrapped a waxy bar that looked like a large, white chocolate bar, that was separated into squares. She broke off a few squares and tossed them into the fire. A moment later, the flames turned a series of psychedelic colors. We were mesmerized. J.T. became instantly fascinated by the stuff. After our experience with the 7-Up Chapstick, I wondered if he was going to break off a square and eat it. He did not. Aunt June broke off some more squares and let each of us toss them into the fire, watching the phantom colors dance across the waxy stuff until it melted into oblivion.<br />
<br />
Among my final memories of J.T. Hurley was the day my mother gravely told me he had been caught stealing a bag of chips from a convenience store. It was kind of a <i>Scared Straight</i> moment, that if J.T. could be ensnared by such temptation, who was safe? And if J.T. could be caught, who could hope to get away with such a heist?<br />
<br />
The next time I saw J.T., I asked him about it. We spoke in solemn terms. Yes, he had done it. Yes, he had been caught (though, he was vague about the details). Then the Big Question: "What did your Mom do?" I asked. To put it succinctly, Aunt June was an excellent mother. She chose her battles, she knew when to be tolerant, and she knew when the hammer should fall. When it came to stealing a bag of chips, the hammer fell.<br />
<br />
"She made me bring the chips back to the store and apologize to the owner," J.T. said. I winced, imagining the awkwardness of the scene. Then my mind ran through the calculus of criminality -- so, J.T. hadn't even gotten a chance to <i>eat</i> the chips! Our parents and teachers had not been lying: Crime didn't pay.<br />
<br />
"Then I had to say ten 'Hail Mary's and ten 'Our Father's," J.T. said. He was then grounded for an unspecified period of time. If there was one unspoken message that made itself perfectly obvious: J.T.'s life of crime was over before it began.<br />
<br />
Somewhere around 1985, my mother took my
grandfather -- Ted Hickey, originally of County Kildare, Ireland -- out
to see Aunt June. By that time, Grandpa Ted had had a stroke and he went from being a profoundly active man in his late 70s (at one
point, digging up his own sewer when the city came to him and said repairs
had to be made to the line serving his house), to a man with a
half-paralyzed body whose only mobility was a wheelchair.<br />
<br />
If there is
one thing about Aunt June that continually struck me all the years I
knew her, it was her endlessly optimistic outlook. Sure, she was a
realist, and could certainly call a "spade" a "spade", but she was always so upbeat. It was no different the afternoon
Mom and my grandfather visited. At some point, Aunt June asked Grandpa (the most frugal man who ever lived, who never turned his
heat above 50 degrees Farenheit in the winter) what he would do if he
won the lottery. It was a wonderfully preposterous question. The idea
of Grandpa Ted parting with a dollar for a lottery ticket was beyond
the realm of reason, but I love that Aunt June asked him. At the best of times, Grandpa
was difficult to pin down and Mom later described how he demured and
avoided answering Aunt June's question. But Aunt June (who had known him for nearly 30
years by then) was having none of it. She prodded him from every direction -- "Would buy a new
car? Would you move out of the nursing home and hire
servants? Would you travel?"<br />
<br />
Seeing his chance to get off the topic,
Grandpa said, "Well, I could never travel with this <i>thing,"</i> indicating his wheelchair. To which
Aunt June goodnaturedly exploded: "Jesus, Ted, you hire someone to push
the <i>fucking thing!"</i> <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RZz8O0ytShk/WpmaiGwsOxI/AAAAAAAAAv8/MyCu7xZId7MWyzPh_sEwVxm5pIgS159vACLcBGAs/s1600/Batman%2Bat%2BJTs%2Bgrave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1600" height="221" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RZz8O0ytShk/WpmaiGwsOxI/AAAAAAAAAv8/MyCu7xZId7MWyzPh_sEwVxm5pIgS159vACLcBGAs/s320/Batman%2Bat%2BJTs%2Bgrave.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It was 38 years before I knew where J.T. was buried. Once I found out, I took every opportunity to visit his grave. By my third or fourth visit, I noticed many of the other graves had fresh flowers by
them, indicating they were visited by someone who cared. I didn't want
anyone to think J.T. was forgotten, so I drove into Belle River to get
some flowers. As I looked around the small floral section of a grocery store, I suddenly thought, "What use would a nine year old boy have
for flowers?" So, at home, I found an image of Batman visiting his
parents graves, holding a bouquet of flowers. I know what Batman means
to nine year old boys. I wrote a note to J.T. on the back, saying we loved him and we missed him, and laminated
the image. My five year old son was with me when I mounted it at
J.T.'s grave. Then my son and I visited Aunt June at Seasons Retirement Home down the
road. On subsequent visits, I have been amazed that the laminated
image remains standing at J.T.'s grave. In fact, it proved an
excellent marker for finding him in the snow.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
In my last conversation with Aunt June, we talked about a play I had written called <i>Sermon on the Ward</i>,
in which the actual, historical figure, Jesus Christ, is a resident in a modern hospital psychiatric
ward. Everyone around Jesus -- staff, patients, administration -- all
accept that he is the Jesus of the New Testament, though no one is willing to sign the paperwork to that effect. <br />
<br />
Aunt June was a tremendous
reader, devouring each gargantuan installment of <i>The Clan of the Cave Bear</i>
in mere days, for instance. She was kind enough to read my work, and was always very supportive. I appreciated
her feedback because she gave an honest opinion. When she didn't like something, she told me why. At one point in <i>Sermon on the Ward</i>, Jesus
Christ uses profanity. Aunt June didn't like that. She felt it was beneath
him. I agreed, but my point in the play was
that I don't believe contemporary Christians would recognize Jesus
Christ if he returned. Moreover,
since the story of Jesus in the New Testament is hearsay, nobody knows
<i>how</i> Jesus Christ actually spoke. It was a fun and interesting discussion with
Aunt June. One of her many positive attributes was that she was always
willing to listen to someone else's opinion.<br />
<br />
And now all we have left are 11 minutes of home movies saved from oblivion by Aunt June's nephew, along with some photo albums and our memories. It's not enough, of course, but they are, for me, much more a source of comfort and joy than of sadness. For anyone who heard Aunt June's laugh, who could forget it? For anyone who played with J.T., who could ever forget him? The boy who was never too cool to get down on the floor and play with a toy car.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aa5lwadbNFU/WpmcoL186SI/AAAAAAAAAwU/Y0BZ2JxyNfEKVb05iEydfmrRqssz-ZM9wCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1105" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aa5lwadbNFU/WpmcoL186SI/AAAAAAAAAwU/Y0BZ2JxyNfEKVb05iEydfmrRqssz-ZM9wCLcBGAs/s640/JT%2BMarch%2B1979.png" width="442" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last photograph of J.T. Hurley, taken March 1979, found<br />
among his mother's possessions at the time of her death.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-33804165225700489252017-11-27T21:49:00.002-05:002018-04-14T20:11:51.981-04:00Counting to Infinity <span style="color: orange;"><b>The J.T. Hurley Chronicles</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li>Counting to Infinity</li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2018/03/home-movie-time-travel.html" target="_blank">Home Movie Time Travel</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/03/lost-in-tall-grass.html" target="_blank">Lost in the Tall Grass</a></li>
<li><a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.cz/2018/04/april-12-pilgrimage-jt-hurleys.html" target="_blank">April 12 Pilgrimage - J.T. Hurley's Anniversary</a></li>
</ul>
<hr />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-egdrpuaZCLg/WiCXSg9EuRI/AAAAAAAAAog/mC0NDDb38ZMuUPU2YmOlagIdpy5dgRb5gCLcBGAs/s1600/Aunt%2BJune%2BBridesmaid%2B1200.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1056" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-egdrpuaZCLg/WiCXSg9EuRI/AAAAAAAAAog/mC0NDDb38ZMuUPU2YmOlagIdpy5dgRb5gCLcBGAs/s200/Aunt%2BJune%2BBridesmaid%2B1200.png" width="175" /></a>My family's lifelong friend, June Hurley, is at the end of her life. True to her singular, incorrigible way, June was given six months to live... more than three years ago. There is little question now, however, that the Ferryman is on his way. It's a long way from the time she and my mother
first met while attending the School of Social Work at the University of Windsor, back when Senator John F.
Kennedy was running for President of the United States.<br />
<br />
<hr />
<b>Update</b><br />
Aunt June passed away peacefully at 5:30 p.m. on
December 8th. She was surrounded by loved ones and will be missed by
everyone who knew her. <br />
<hr />
<br />
June was bridesmaid at my parents' wedding in June 1966.<br />
<br />
She was the second friend in my mother's circle to have a child. John Timothy Hurley
was born November 27, 1969. New coaches and teachers called him "John", but the rest of us knew him as J.T.. He was the image of June: chestnut hair, eyes so brown you
almost couldn't see his pupils. I was born eighteen months later and grew up calling June "Aunt June".<br />
<br />
By his second birthday, J.T.'s parents had divorced. He lived with Aunt June in their
little house on the shore of Lake St. Clair. The place was nearly swept away in the Flood
of 1973, but Providence and a fortress of sandbags staved off the lake. The
sandbags remained for years afterward. The great challenge for me and my little brother was
to take a run at the sandbags and get over them without using our hands. In the initial
years after the Flood, we couldn't do it. J.T. did it with ease.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6BPZw3UbpVE/Wh0yGvIHS-I/AAAAAAAAAmc/sOhrdCWLyVks9VdgCDuAR5b1bKWM5SLQQCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2Bschool%2Bpic%2B-%2B500x800.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="581" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6BPZw3UbpVE/Wh0yGvIHS-I/AAAAAAAAAmc/sOhrdCWLyVks9VdgCDuAR5b1bKWM5SLQQCLcBGAs/s320/JT%2Bschool%2Bpic%2B-%2B500x800.png" width="232" /></a>My brother and I loved visiting Aunt June's. Her house was like a cottage. Nearly the entire interior was made of wood. It smelled of summer year-round. <br />
<br />
J.T. once built a ramp for his bike with discarded wood from an old dock a neighbor was
replacing. It was a summer day in 1977 and while our parents visited on the lakeside of the house, J.T. demonstrated the ramp for us. He started off in the carport, sped across the gravel driveway, standing on his pedals, picking up steam as he came to the front lawn and hit the ramp. It creaked, but held, and he was airborne for one momentous second.<br />
<br />
After a few jumps, he rounded back to us, looking displeased. He didn't have to say anything -- we knew what was wrong. Those were the days of Evel Knievel -- a ramp was pointless unless you had <i>something</i> to jump. He looked at me and said, "How 'bout you lay down in front of the ramp?" Far from hesitating or being chafed at serving the same purpose a garbage pail might have served, I couldn't believe J.T. was including me in his stunt. I lay down in front of the ramp. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little apprehensive hearing the sound of his approach, but the moment he hit the ramp was exhilarating. It strained for a moment, but held and J.T. cleared me with ease. He was smiling when he rounded back that time.<br />
<br />
J.T. could climb anything. He wanted to be a stuntman or motorcycle
cop when he grew up.
While our parents visited on the lakeside of his house, he took my
brother and I along the
side of his house. He climbed onto the roof of his neighbor's small
house (they were small
houses then; they are all mansions now). Then, he asked me to shoot him.
I made a gun with my
hand and shot him. J.T. clutched his chest and rolled down the roof
onto a smaller roof above the
neighbor's dining room window. He rolled onto their shed and finally to
the ground. A moment later, he sprang to his feet, unhurt.<br />
<br />
When
my brother and I asked to take a turn, J.T. said no. But it wasn't
like somebody telling us "no". We knew J.T. was looking out for us.
And then he was off to the next fun thing. <br />
<br />
J.T.
taught us how to skim stones across the water at the riverfront. He
showed us how to
climb a doorway by jamming our hands and feet against the frame. He
came to our house one
day when we had my mom's old typewriter out on the kitchen table for
some reason. My brother and I drove our parents crazy by putting paper
in the machine and randomly holding down keys and the
space bar, enjoying the machine-gun sound it made. When J.T. arrived,
we stepped aside,
eager to see what he would make of the typewriter. He looked at it a
moment and then sat
down. With the deft touch of a seasoned newspaper reporter, he fed a
clean sheet of paper into it, centered the page, and typed: UFO REPORT.
He proceeded to type gibberish, but ever after, my brother typed up
dozens of our own
gibberish UFO REPORTS.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lPkowG19ceE/Wh0yfXuAqGI/AAAAAAAAAmg/jOgEySjlgpwI9jclPkeOsRkhdarbflvuACLcBGAs/s1600/Boat%2BLift%2B1200.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lPkowG19ceE/Wh0yfXuAqGI/AAAAAAAAAmg/jOgEySjlgpwI9jclPkeOsRkhdarbflvuACLcBGAs/s400/Boat%2BLift%2B1200.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">J.T. Hurley (left), Tim St. Amand (middle), Matt St. Amand (right). Puce, Ontario, summer 1978.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Easter of 1979, Aunt June invited my brother and I over for an Easter egg hunt.
Earlier in the week, as she and J.T. were planning where to hide the eggs, June suggested putting one
in their mailbox. They lived in the county and though their house was modest, they had a
huge long driveway. J.T. didn't think the mailbox was a good idea because it was so close to the road and my brother was only five years old at the time.<br />
<br />
As a working, single parent, June organized for J.T. to go to an after-school babysitter
each day, until she got home from work -- she was a social worker who helped profoundly disabled children. On Holy Thursday, however, the babysitter was unavailable because she was going out of town for the weekend. J.T. begged his mom to let him go home by
himself after school just that one day. June was reluctant, but J.T. was nine years old and he was a good,
capable kid. He would be alone for only about 90 minutes. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_w0ZwCHDhWk/Wh00XpxBtfI/AAAAAAAAAms/pqriretzqpQP5f5Mg7smd9axx5QOvGL1gCLcBGAs/s1600/Matt%2Band%2BJT%2Bin%2Btree%2B1200..png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="827" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_w0ZwCHDhWk/Wh00XpxBtfI/AAAAAAAAAms/pqriretzqpQP5f5Mg7smd9axx5QOvGL1gCLcBGAs/s320/Matt%2Band%2BJT%2Bin%2Btree%2B1200..png" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Climbing a tree at the Windsor riverfront.<br />
J.T.'s right leg was broken at the time and<br />
he wore a cast up to his hip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When he got home that day, J.T. realized he forgot to get the
house key from his mom. Around the same time, Aunt June had finished work and was getting her
hair done and had the same realization.<br />
<br />
J.T. was a
resourceful kid, so he did what any of us would do -- he climbed into the house through a window.
After all, he was a pro. I'd seen him climb unclimbable trees. He had climbed neighbors'
boat lifts and onto the roofs of their houses. Climbing through a ground floor
window on the lakeside of his house was nothing. The windows were five feet off the
ground. Almost too easy.<br />
<br />
Aunt June called a neighbor, explaining that J.T. was locked out of the house and asking if
she saw him outside, waiting, or wandering around the house. The neighbor went outside. As she walked around the lakeside of Aunt June's house, she beheld a scene that would haunt her the rest of her life -- the window J.T. was climbing through had fallen on the back of his neck, pinning him there.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KGJ46SFAbRc/Wh013UpPhKI/AAAAAAAAAnE/ksnDEZkJc3sPUUM0n8stwJkdsM4ayQuLQCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2Barticle%2Bcolumn.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="250" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KGJ46SFAbRc/Wh013UpPhKI/AAAAAAAAAnE/ksnDEZkJc3sPUUM0n8stwJkdsM4ayQuLQCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2Barticle%2Bcolumn.png" /></a></div>
An ambulance was called and J.T. was rushed from his home in Puce to nearby Windsor. The
hair salon where June awaited her neighbor's call was very near the hospital. She heard the ambulance roar past, having no idea that her son was inside. The neighbor finally called and told June that J.T.
had been hurt and was on his way to Metropolitan Hospital.<br />
<br />
June went to the hospital, where she called my mother. My mom arranged for my favorite aunt to come and get me and my
brother, and then rushed over to Met Hospital.<br />
<br />
The next day, Good Friday, my brother and I returned home and were playing in the yard when
our dad called us into the house.<br />
<br />
He brought us into the living room and sat on the floor with us.<br />
<br />
He said that J.T. had been in an accident.<br />
<br />
I remember the
words actually igniting a moment of excitement in me because it hadn't been so long ago that J.T.
broke his leg while climbing a tree with his friends. His fourteen year old neighbor had been there, too, and had splinted his leg with sticks and tape. Then J.T.'s friends had brought
him home in a wheel barrel. He had a cast up to his waist and on a visit to the riverfront
soon after, he put his crutches aside and climbed a tree with me. So, I figured he'd have
some cool cast on his arm or an even cooler black eye. But when my dad said, "J.T. has gone to
Jesus," I knew it was terrible. <br />
<br />
I said that I wanted to see J.T. My dad said no way, no how. I began to cry. My mother asked me why I was crying. I don't recall it, but she remembers me saying, "I want to say goodbye to J.T.."<br />
<br />
She talked to my dad and somehow it came about that my brother and I went with them to the
funeral home.<br />
<br />
Seeing him in that coffin, the only thing that looked strange about J.T. was
that he wore his "good clothes". I'd only ever seen him in cutoffs or jeans or his pajamas. He looked like he was sleeping. I watched his chest, waiting for it to rise. It did not rise.<br />
<br />
Aunt June was shattered, as anyone could imagine. Somehow, through her
tears, I remember her smiling. No doubt it was to keep herself from coming
completely undone.<br />
<br />
My brother and I didn't attend the burial at the cemetery. We spent the weekend with our favorite aunt.
At one point, she took us to our grandfather's house. Stepping through his door was like
stepping into County Kildare, Ireland circa 1928. The smell of stew, pipe tobacco and
lighter fluid always hit me in pleasant, equal measures. While there, we listened to news on
the radio. At one point, a report about a nine year old boy dying in a bizarre accident in
Puce came on. It was the first time I'd heard the word "bizarre" and asked what it meant.<br />
<br />
And there was something so surreal and appalling in how life returned to normal after that. My brother and I returned to
school after Easter Monday. My father went back to work. I have a photograph of me in my second grade classroom during
Education Week -- two weeks after J.T. died -- a math test of mine on the bulletin board next to me with a score of 30/30
on it. The test was dated 1979-04-24. Looking at the photo all these years later,
something in me is appalled that I got a perfect score on a math test 12 days after J.T.
died. <br />
<br />
I made my First Communion shortly after.<br />
<br />
That summer, we returned to our cottage
outside of Peterborough, Ontario. My brother and I swam and waterskiied.
And though undoubtedly crushed in ways no human being can really withstand, Aunt June carried on.
She returned to work. She continued birding. She invited us to her house. We often went there
in our little waterski boat. She was always so gracious.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-147Q-Tu9tSg/WtIXnnSpz3I/AAAAAAAAA0o/q5ciu3vGwe4-VINQpd1PNvgvwF7nY0A8wCLcBGAs/s1600/Matthew%2BApril%2B1979.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1046" data-original-width="1503" height="277" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-147Q-Tu9tSg/WtIXnnSpz3I/AAAAAAAAA0o/q5ciu3vGwe4-VINQpd1PNvgvwF7nY0A8wCLcBGAs/s400/Matthew%2BApril%2B1979.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt St. Amand, Grade Two, April 1979, Education Week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The first few times, after J.T.
died, I remember looking at the lakeside windows of Aunt June's house, wondering... which one...<br />
<br />
My brother and I were fascinated with J.T.'s bedroom (which was just off the
living in the little single-level house), though we never entered. He had a marble chess set that I had always wanted to look at, but never asked, just looked at it from the doorway. All too soon, we noticed
it emptied out of J.T.'s belongings. His toys, his clothes, his books, the chess set, gone, as though they evaporated over time.<br />
<br />
My mom remained in touch with June. They traveled to Ireland together in 1985. I visited, occasionally, as I got older. It was
always fun and nostalgic seeing her house. It hadn't changed a bit since I was a kid.
Three years ago, we learned Aunt June had been diagnosed with cancer. She was given
six months to live. She is still alive, though it's clear she really is near the end. Her
mind is sharp and she always looks sharp. She resides now in an assisted living home, which
is leaps and bounds more pleasant than any nursing my grandparents had lived their final
days.<br />
<br />
Over the years, I have run Internet searches on J.T. He died long before the Internet,
but I wondered if maybe his obituary was online or an errant, scanned news article from so
many years ago. I could just as easily go to the library and find a copy of <i>The Windsor
Star</i> from April 1979, but I have simply not gone.<br />
<br />
On September 1st, my search
found a link to the cemetery where J.T. was buried. I never knew where he was
buried. I never asked anyone, fearing I would upset my parents or Aunt June. In fact, I was
never even clear on the date. I somehow thought he died in 1978. As it turned out,
he died on April 12, 1979. Oddly enough, my eldest son was born on April 12, 2012.<br />
<br />
Alan Ginsberg once wrote about Bob Dylan being so focused during a performance, that he had become a "column of air", "where his total physical and mental focus was this single breath coming out of his body." In the moment I saw the photograph of J.T.'s gravemarker on my computer screen, I became a column of air. The years between the present and 1979 suddenly knitting together. The event -- J.T.'s accident -- that had hovered so distantly in the back of my mind for so long moved into the light. It was real. It had actually happened.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xfn3CHDsaZM/Wh01oSXch7I/AAAAAAAAAnA/L0K2OLr51CcRJb8ggzuzv8sBy7ZzADDlQCLcBGAs/s1600/gravemarker%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xfn3CHDsaZM/Wh01oSXch7I/AAAAAAAAAnA/L0K2OLr51CcRJb8ggzuzv8sBy7ZzADDlQCLcBGAs/s400/gravemarker%2B1200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
That day, after work, I drove to
Emeryville to find J.T.'s grave. I couldn't get there fast enough. Thirty-eight years had passed and I didn't want another moment to be lost. I was surprised to see how small and sparsely populated the cemetery was. I started walking from one end, looking at every marker and soon, I stopped. Soon, I found J.T..<br />
<br />
His grave marker is a
slab that shows Jesus/The Good Shepherd sitting on a rock, facing J.T.'s full name: John
Timothy Hurley. Jesus/The Good Shepherd holds a lamb. The inscription at the bottom reads: "IN HIS ARMS HE GATHERS THE LAMBS."<br />
<br />
And being forty-six years old, now, a father of two young sons, I suddenly saw J.T.
not only as the "big guy" he once was to my brother and I, but also as the nine year old boy he
was -- as a kid, a child who would never shave, drive a car or lose his virginity.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<br />
A couple of weeks later, I visited Aunt June on a sunny Sunday afternoon. We planned on having lunch, but my mom (who sees June about once a week) said that Aunt June didn't
have much appetite anymore. Thinking, "Who the hell wants to sit back and watch <i>me</i> eat?" I
asked if we could go to her house, instead. Aunt June was reluctant, mostly because one of her
nephews was helping pack the place up. "It won't look anything like you remember it,"
she said. I said that was fine -- I just wanted to see the place. She goodnaturedly
relented.<br />
<br />
Much of the furniture was gone, but the
kitchen doorway where J.T. taught me to climb was there, of course.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M-n1ZyVhDak/WiDNNYmbSYI/AAAAAAAAApA/Ql58hswNVW0pF200FGwfdVSSPjXmi_SSgCLcBGAs/s1600/Climbing%2Bdoorway.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1098" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M-n1ZyVhDak/WiDNNYmbSYI/AAAAAAAAApA/Ql58hswNVW0pF200FGwfdVSSPjXmi_SSgCLcBGAs/s400/Climbing%2Bdoorway.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I photographed the
front room and the lakeside windows. I photographed J.T.'s long-empty room. The single bed
that I am sure was his was still there, stripped and piled with a suitcase, a Scrabble game and
some pillows.<br />
<br />
I made my way into the laundry room where I found some boxes and a trunk.<br />
<br />
I opened the trunk and felt the breath leave my body.<br />
<br />
Inside, was a McDonaldland calendar
from 1979.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HGByWdjFRM4/Wh063h0GaJI/AAAAAAAAAng/lv5HEt1wfUsoDRclou5-9p5s8hX6ane7QCLcBGAs/s1600/1979%2BMcDonaldland%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="1200" height="358" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HGByWdjFRM4/Wh063h0GaJI/AAAAAAAAAng/lv5HEt1wfUsoDRclou5-9p5s8hX6ane7QCLcBGAs/s640/1979%2BMcDonaldland%2B1200.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
A picture of actress Kristy McNichol from a 1978 teen magazine and pictures of muscle cars with ancient scotch tape still on the corners.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QD_eq3zFP8E/WiDN9e_UUkI/AAAAAAAAApM/jWmOEF2UUxUTVjyU5AwAEIrvT2TDPOzSgCLcBGAs/s1600/Trunk%2Bcontents%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="1200" height="223" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QD_eq3zFP8E/WiDN9e_UUkI/AAAAAAAAApM/jWmOEF2UUxUTVjyU5AwAEIrvT2TDPOzSgCLcBGAs/s400/Trunk%2Bcontents%2B1200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
An unfinished Star Wars model.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6npCjjoceDo/WiDOTRmLjLI/AAAAAAAAApQ/5iGZkDDtlOgCfgt7SySV7CrFUR9JlNygACLcBGAs/s1600/Star%2BWars%2Bmodel%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6npCjjoceDo/WiDOTRmLjLI/AAAAAAAAApQ/5iGZkDDtlOgCfgt7SySV7CrFUR9JlNygACLcBGAs/s400/Star%2BWars%2Bmodel%2B1200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Sports badges for Essex County Minor Hockey
and tee-ball and little league from 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9LTPDSm5LR4/WiDOl6TJYII/AAAAAAAAApU/dtQYJvTj4EgrHVZeTN6tAWJIHF_RH2WdwCLcBGAs/s1600/Sports%2Bbadges%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="1200" height="223" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9LTPDSm5LR4/WiDOl6TJYII/AAAAAAAAApU/dtQYJvTj4EgrHVZeTN6tAWJIHF_RH2WdwCLcBGAs/s400/Sports%2Bbadges%2B1200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Aunt June sat in the front room as I looked around. Eventually, she told me she had something
of J.T.'s she wanted me to have. I figured it might be toy or maybe a Dr.
Seuss book -- anything would have been a treasure.<br />
<br />
Instead, June gave me J.T.'s favorite jean jacket. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-n3Cl02dV4/WiDO2uBunII/AAAAAAAAApo/NJibNPYNxe8uUhyj0Kczp_mS8Rfwsku8wCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2BJean%2BJacket%2B1200.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1177" data-original-width="1200" height="313" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q-n3Cl02dV4/WiDO2uBunII/AAAAAAAAApo/NJibNPYNxe8uUhyj0Kczp_mS8Rfwsku8wCLcBGAs/s320/JT%2BJean%2BJacket%2B1200.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZZjc00G-Os/WiDPKKehXmI/AAAAAAAAAps/PfdL8MQpuhcPjpWw_HLufS1wTycvZg50QCLcBGAs/s1600/Jean%2BJacket%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1510" data-original-width="1600" height="301" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZZjc00G-Os/WiDPKKehXmI/AAAAAAAAAps/PfdL8MQpuhcPjpWw_HLufS1wTycvZg50QCLcBGAs/s320/Jean%2BJacket%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I couldn't believe it. It was
as cool as the Fonz's leather jacket when I was a kid. She also gave me J.T.'s baseball
glove, along with the McDonaldland calendar, and other items I'd found. I was blown away
and more than a little emotional. June was very Zen through it all. We have come to know
her as an incredibly strong person, doing far too much on her own, never wanting to be a
bother to others.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11B9oyslwys/Wh07GMrHAvI/AAAAAAAAAnk/cgP0jFUauX0VQJZFEdzKTGCbk20KQhDGACLcBGAs/s1600/June%2Bat%2BWindow%2B1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11B9oyslwys/Wh07GMrHAvI/AAAAAAAAAnk/cgP0jFUauX0VQJZFEdzKTGCbk20KQhDGACLcBGAs/s640/June%2Bat%2BWindow%2B1200.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
It was good that we went to her house because her nephew had not yet rescued any of her photo
albums. We went through many of them and I photographed J.T.'s life
in pictures with my phone. June was so used to giving, so used to others being more important, that I worried I had barged into the most painful corner of her life for my own purposes. I kept an eye out for any sign of upset, but she seemed all right.<br />
<br />
Finally, as with all things, it was time to leave. I wiped my eyes, put my cell phone away and carried my treasures to the car. Aunt June took for herself the furry toy monkey J.T. slept with as a young child and two crucifixes -- one from his First Communion, the other from his burial.<br />
<br />
I drove her back to her new home. She assured me she had enjoyed our afternoon together. I thanked her, I hugged her, I went out to my car feeling myself outside of time, caught between the 1970s and the present.<br />
<br />
Afterward, I emailed my mother describing the afternoon and sharing my misgiving that I might have been selfish in asking June to return to her home, as I had. My mother wrote back:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I just talked to June to make a date for lunch and she loved your visit. She said she is so touched by your response to the things you found in the chest and your reminiscing about JT. To know that a child loved her little boy enough to remember him all these years and have his things mean that much to him is almost overwhelming to June. She is so happy and thankful for that.</i></blockquote>
My brother and I shared a bedroom at the time of J.T.'s death. We used to talk before going to sleep. I don't remember how often, but I recall us talking about J.T. a few times. In our own inchoate way, we tried wrapping our heads around the idea that he was gone <i>forever</i>. More in an effort to reassure myself than my little brother, I reverted to my know-it-all self and said to him one night, "If we start counting, J.T. will be back by the time we reach infinity."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fiUaNbJOqOM/Wh083twkaQI/AAAAAAAAAn4/saK9OMvoV9wOgwwRhcZKShBmSEMxY_GAgCLcBGAs/s1600/JT%2BCollage%2B900.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="939" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fiUaNbJOqOM/Wh083twkaQI/AAAAAAAAAn4/saK9OMvoV9wOgwwRhcZKShBmSEMxY_GAgCLcBGAs/s640/JT%2BCollage%2B900.png" width="500" /></a></div>
<br />Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-65492106334088589982016-11-10T16:37:00.000-05:002016-11-10T19:02:34.291-05:00President Trump's Cabinet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-02HQH9R_Cyg/WCUKcFNO1zI/AAAAAAAAAio/YprYK541UP4_5Vha4MVSsGxpm35hH5O_gCLcB/s1600/Bristol%2BPalin%2BSurgeon%2BGeneral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-02HQH9R_Cyg/WCUKcFNO1zI/AAAAAAAAAio/YprYK541UP4_5Vha4MVSsGxpm35hH5O_gCLcB/s320/Bristol%2BPalin%2BSurgeon%2BGeneral.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
Sources close to Team Trump are reporting that aides have discussed tapping Sarah Palin for Interior Secretary.<br />
<br />
"Governor
Palin has experience with firearms and has slaughtered small animals
with her bare hands," says Team Trump head, Karl Kralweiler. "She was
the one who spotted Vladimir Putin off the coast of Alaska. Until then,
we didn't know he was there."<br />
<br />
More shocking than Sarah Palin's
name being thrown into Team Trump's bingo ball cage, is the name Bristol
Palin, who is being considered for the position Surgeon General.<br />
<br />
Responding
to surprise at this leak, Kralweiler said, "Sure, Bristol has been
recognized across the country for her good looks and chastity campaign.
Sure, she's had her second child out of wedlock, but it's not like
she's going to perform actual surgeries! Among other duties, she will map out
the parts of a woman's anatomy that Congress can work on outlawing, once and for all."<br />
<br />
Other
tantalizing leaks have hinted at Newt Gingrich being tapped as
Secretary of State. "And we know where we can get a good deal on a
private email server," says Kralweiler.<br />
<br />
There is talk of Rudy
Giuliani being nominated to the Supreme Court, and an entirely new Cabinet
position is being considered for broadcaster and entertainer -- working
title is "Bitch in Chief".<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-34610819794949659682016-11-09T16:14:00.001-05:002016-11-10T16:37:24.095-05:00First Three Initiatives of President-Elect Donald Trump Presidency<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uTzuo1pGBTA/WCOPOWhVvLI/AAAAAAAAAhs/9sblQA9ZfNgC8LSdukW8h35Ka1LWRNs2wCLcB/s1600/Trump%2BWhite%2BHouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uTzuo1pGBTA/WCOPOWhVvLI/AAAAAAAAAhs/9sblQA9ZfNgC8LSdukW8h35Ka1LWRNs2wCLcB/s320/Trump%2BWhite%2BHouse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After his stunning defeat of Hillary Clinton, President-Elect
Donald Trump's Transition Team is losing no time in distributing
Non-Disclosure Agreements to every person living in the United States.
Beginning November 22nd -- coinciding with the 53rd anniversary of the
assassination of President John F. Kennedy -- waves of mailers will flood the country. Every recipient will be legally obligated to sign
-- based on future legislation.<br />
<br />
"We want to get this
house-keeping item out of the way, early," says Karl Kralweiler, head
of the Team Trump, the President-Elect's transition team. "We want this wrapped
up by Inauguration Day. <i>That's</i> when we begin rounding up every voter
who didn't for the Fuhrer... I mean, President Trump."<br />
<br />
Once the
recalcitrant voters are out of the way, Team Trump will turn
its attention to members of the media who did not support their leader's
campaign. "It'll be time to pay the piper," says Kralweiler. "We don't plan on hurting anyone. We just want to re-educate them. This will take place in camps. What could be a more friendly setting for re-education than at a <i>camp?"</i> <br />
<br />
Once
every dissenter -- down to the grandmothers who published disapproving paragraphs in church bulletins -- the Team Trump will roll-out
an extensive infrastructure program.<br />
<br />
"We're going to rebuild the entire country," President Elect Donald Trump says, stepping out of a nearby
lavatory, to the chorus of a flushing toilet. "It's going to be the most terrific infrastructure this country has ever seen. The best. Nothing ever like before anywhere in the world... maybe even in the universe."<br />
<br />
When asked, "How do you plan to pay for the program?" Trump
placed his hands on his hips and smiled.<br />
<br />
"We're going to hire every
small-time contractor in the country -- tens of thousands of people," he said.
"We're going to put them all to work. And when it comes time to pay
them... Well, we'll just have to re-open negotiations with them, that's
all. It'll be great. We'll have tremendous infrastructure. The
best..."Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-81506192149552771622016-07-29T05:31:00.001-04:002016-07-29T05:49:39.221-04:00Trumponium Epiphany - His Presidency Won't Be So Bad<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Umx-1zTdhLo/V5qMIbA-o4I/AAAAAAAAAhU/tx6tM7sRP8If2ifJc9s8BrXq904LGCzzgCEw/s1600/Donald-trump-hair-blown-by-wind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Umx-1zTdhLo/V5qMIbA-o4I/AAAAAAAAAhU/tx6tM7sRP8If2ifJc9s8BrXq904LGCzzgCEw/s1600/Donald-trump-hair-blown-by-wind.jpg" /></a>
<br />
Donald Trump is going to win the American Presidential election, and it's OK. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AnkwNNovvOE/V5qMSx9ZSrI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/YJwNDfDnXLY9YY5pTDo00-P_d72YDAMRgCEw/s1600/hillary-clinton-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AnkwNNovvOE/V5qMSx9ZSrI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/YJwNDfDnXLY9YY5pTDo00-P_d72YDAMRgCEw/s320/hillary-clinton-21.jpg" width="320" /></a>America and much of the world survived George W. Bush, arguably the worst president in American history. If W. didn't launch the nukes by his first Valentine's Day in office, Trump is even less likely. Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, no doubt has a list of enemies sewn into the lining of her favorite pants suit.<br />
<br />
There is a fundamental difference between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.<br />
<br />
Show Donald Trump a map of the world, and the first thing he thinks about is where to build casinos.<br />
<br />
Show Hillary Clinton a map of the world, and the first thing she thinks about is where to start bombing and bring FREEDOM<sup>TM</sup>.<br />
<br />
Compare Hillary's history of "pay to play" versus Donald Trumps ventures, and the casual observer would be hard-pressed to identify who is the actual huckster.<br />
<br />
Donald Trump is that loud, drunk guy at the company golf tournament, with the crazy, slashing sunburn across his face because he was too short-sighted to wear a hat or sunscreen. He's loud and laughing at stuff that's not funny, making jokes that aren't funny. He's got his arm around people who politely peel themselves out of his sweaty clinch. He scans the room looking for a kindred soul, and finds none. But a strange kind of hilarity coalesces around the guy, that even though he, personally, is not humorous, there is humor in his existence, in his spectacle, in how few fucks he gives about creating that spectacle. And if you're able to remain outside his vortex and observe from afar, soon the clownish asshole is greater than the sum of his parts, and you're laughing, imagining telling your friends about him the next day, thinking about how you'll describe the ridiculous sunburn he's got that an eleven year old would be smart enough to avoid getting. And his once-obnoxious guffaws roll in like waves. One or two or a handful of such laughs are intolerable, but the sheer onslaught of them, the magnitude, the plenitude, the unendingness of those humorless guffaws -- is hilarious. The man's commitment to being The Asshole, at some point, becomes almost <i>admirable</i>. That's he's willing to be Loud Guy, Drunk Guy, a Figure of Fun, with the blazing red stripe across his sweaty, leering face, the mask of Comedy and Tragedy all at once. And then you contemplate the hangover he'll doubtless have the following morning, and you feel a rush of compassion for the lout, that he would take on the mantle of Town Foole for the rest of us, have his blow-out in the most inappropriate of venues, sweat stains under his arms, crude remarks mixed with the odd, insightful insult spill from his lips. Slip into his vortex and you risk a sweaty hug. If you're a woman, you'll surely have your ass pinched. A man would endure an avalanche of backslapping. But as long as the proper distance is maintained, observing That Guy, The Fool, The Figure of Fun is cathartic.<br />
<br />
That is Donald Trump. <br />
<br />
And then there is Hillary Clinton, who would build a nest in your ear and charge you rent. <br />
<br />
The real reason Donald Trump would make an excellent president is because he doesn't want to govern. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/20/magazine/how-donald-trump-picked-his-running-mate.html?_r=0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">He just wants to be president</a>:<br />
<blockquote>
One day this past May, Donald Trump’s eldest son, Donald Trump Jr., reached out to a senior adviser to Gov. John Kasich of Ohio... (who spoke only under the condition that he not be named), [saying] Donald Jr. wanted to make him an offer... Did he have any interest in being the most powerful vice president in history?<br />
<br />
When Kasich’s adviser asked how this would be the case, Donald Jr. explained that his father’s vice president would be in charge of domestic and foreign policy.<br />
<br />
Then what, the adviser asked, would Trump be in charge of?<br />
<br />
“Making America great again” was the casual reply. </blockquote>
If Trump took it into his mind to govern -- unlikely -- his ideas are so radical and unhinged, not even the Republican House and Senate would pass his legislation. There is a reason why most Republican Congressmen and Senators were reluctant to endorse Trump and why they still find it hard to like him -- because he forces them to be responsible human beings. His prejudice is so overt that they're in the uncomfortable position of asking a fellow rich white guy to "reel it in". And this is painful to them. His alienating ideas of how to bully the rest of the world cause even war hawks to demur. <br />
<br />
Most of all, the outrageous egos of the House and Senate Republicans have now met their match and have been found wanting. Against the flashlight beam ego of your average citizen, the Klieg light ego of a politician is blinding and overwhelming. <br />
<br />
Enter Donald Trump's ego -- the dual suns of Tattooine!<br />
<br />
What would Donald Trump legislation look like? <br />
<ul>
<li>Putting his face on all United States currency.</li>
<li>Sales tax amnesty one day per year for all American men named "Donald".</li>
<li>Making Twitter the national bird. </li>
<li>Wet T-shirt contests on the South Lawn of the White House. </li>
<li>Taco Tuesdays. </li>
</ul>
I say, give him a chance. It's his turn.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-51862355421052468232016-03-30T19:45:00.002-04:002016-04-24T23:16:18.731-04:00Criminal Syndicate Seeks to Join Fraternal Order of Police<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.imgur.com/Q0E7yQr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/Q0E7yQr.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Bluffer Street Boyz in new gang attire; hoping to impress F.O.P. by standing in line.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A criminal syndicate known as the Bluffer Street Boyz announced today that it is seeking to join the Fraternal Order of Police.
"We consider ourselves an elite criminal gang," said masked Boyz spokesman, Toggle, "and joining the cop union seemed like a natural fit. <i>We</i> are expert at committing the crimes. <i>They</i> are expert at keeping criminals out of jail."<br />
<br />
To prove his point, Toggle pulls a tattered, folded, soiled news clipping from <a href="http://www.startribune.com/no-charges-for-minnesota-officers-in-police-involved-deaths-since-2000/373981961/" target="_blank">the Star Tribune</a> from the rear end of his low-hanging jeans. It begins: "Since 2000, at least 143 people in Minnesota have died after being shot,
Tased or restrained by a police officer. To date, not a single officer
has been charged in any of those deaths."<br />
<br />
<i>"Those</i> are the kind of results we're after," Toggle explained. "And remember that cop in <a href="http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/maryland/baltimore-city/bs-md-ci-officer-dog-20160307-story.html" target="_blank">Baltimore who slit a restrained dog's throat</a>? He was let go. Free -- and <i>got almost fifty grand in back pay!</i> <i>Boom!</i> That is what I'm talking about!"<br />
<br />
Toggle regains his composure: "That would be gold for the Bluffer Street Boyz. <a href="https://photographyisnotacrime.com/2016/03/28/video-nypd-cop-shot-killed-dog-wagging-tail-hand-owner-265-burial-fee/" target="_blank">We kill a lot of family pets</a> to, you know, 'send a message.'<br />
<br />
"Or, look at the cop in <a href="http://www.streetsblog.org/2016/03/22/nypd-teacher-killed-by-cop-in-crosswalk-assumed-risk-by-crossing-street/" target="_blank">New York who ran over a pedestrian who had the right of way</a>," Toggle opined. "It was on video, for fuck's sake! Even the boyz at the clubhouse thought for sure the cop would at least be charged, to, you know, at go through the motions. But <i>nah!</i> She walked. She wasn't summonsed or charged by NYPD, nothing. That would really work for me and the Boyz, cuz we get tied up a lot with traffic violations. Number of times I tell those motherfuckers to take some driving lessons, they get they asses pulled over all the damn time. And that's where the cop union'd come in and make everything <i>ah-ight."</i> <br />
<br />
The Fraternal Order of Police had no immediate comment regarding the Bluffer Street Boyz request for representation, though an insider who asked to remain unnamed says the gang's chances of being accepted are better than they think.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-68497117526670655012015-02-27T18:37:00.001-05:002018-02-27T12:31:59.578-05:00The Tiniest Trigger Fingers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdQ1itVm-E4/WpWVb5F5cfI/AAAAAAAAAq8/Kqq5R7bCuQ0PxVNGXpppN7IZhsU2YpPHACLcBGAs/s1600/small%2Bgun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="618" height="177" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZdQ1itVm-E4/WpWVb5F5cfI/AAAAAAAAAq8/Kqq5R7bCuQ0PxVNGXpppN7IZhsU2YpPHACLcBGAs/s320/small%2Bgun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
FAIRFAX, Virginia -- Yet another expectant mother was rushed to hospital
earlier today after suffering a gunshot wound -- part of what
appears to be an epidemic of attacks upon pregnant women. Ever
since the Fetus Defense Act (FDA) was made law, giving a green light to
the National Rifle Association (NRA) and anti-abortion organization, Stop
Abortions Now! (SAN), to arm fetuses, there has been a troubling spate
of accidental, <i>in utero</i> shootings.<br />
<br />
"The unborn have every right
to defend themselves, as guaranteed by the Second Amendment of the
Constitution," said Constance Goldschmirk, executive director of SAN.
"When the NRA reached out to us about this issue, it just made sense we
join forces in the current political climate where the rights of the
unborn are under constant challenge."<br />
<br />
With fears of crime and
terrorism on the rise, pregnant women have been standing in long lines
at FDA kiosks at discount retailers, DMV offices and private clinics
specializing in the procedure, seeking extra protection for their unborn
children. Ironically, the medical procedure that actually places the
miniaturized firearms into the hands of fetuses is hauntingly similar to
the very abortion procedure FDA advocates seek to prevent.<br />
<br />
"The <i>
in utero</i> firearm-discharge incidents are regrettable, but a very small
price to pay in order to protect our most valuable natural resource: our
unborn children," says National Rifle Association CEO, Wayne LaPierre.
"On the whole, the NRA's mantra is being proven true every day: more
guns equals more safety."<br />
<br />
Not everyone is convinced. Pro Choice
advocate, Kathy Rebar, is incredulous. "Arming fetuses?" she says with
an obvious air of disbelief. "I mean, they are putting guns into the
hands of unborn children! We believe expectant mothers have every right
in the world to protect their babies, but why do
this with lethal weapons? Why wouldn't the FDA have mandated the use of
brass knuckles, pepper spray or telescoping batons, instead? Why was the lethal
option the first one FDA advocates went to?"<br />
<br />
Surprisingly, few
expectant moms who've been injured by fetal misfirings express any
regrets. "It's <i>my right</i> to arm my baby!" says Cindy Trifle, of Corpus
Christi, Tennessee. "I just wish her little hands could hold a bigger
gun!"<br />
<br />
"I firmly believe my baby pulled the trigger because he
sensed danger," says Meredith Medak of Blood-on-the-Cross, South
Carolina.<br />
<br />
"Some people say, 'If God wanted your unborn baby to
have a gun, He'd a put one in your womb-place to begin with!'" says
Taila Meechum of Judas Iscariot Falls, Arkansas. "Well, I tell those
big mouth liberal pansies, 'Yeah? God don't need to put a gun in my baby nest. He sent Wayne LaPierre to do that!'"<br />
<br />
If the issue of
arming the unborn were not contentious enough, civil rights groups are
entering the fray with charges of racism. There is a growing number of
cases in which non-white babies have been arrested for possession of firearms
upon being born.<br />
<br />
"There are cases in which hospitals offer to
bronze the guns that white babies are born with," says Jamal Shaka,
communications director of the Black Frontier movement. "But babies of
color are being arrested, sometimes tasered, even before they are placed
in their mommas' arms! This is an outrageous double-standard!"<br />
<br />
Numbers backing up these allegations are sparse. Much of the data is anecdotal. And still the debate rages . . .Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-4370447186647744592012-07-25T10:08:00.001-04:002012-07-25T10:09:25.465-04:00Rebuilding Christendom -- You're doing it wrong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/94N1X.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/94N1X.gif" /></a></div>
I see the purpose of your "Rebuilding Christendom" conference is to "proclaim the politics of Jesus Christ".<br />
<br />
You're doing it wrong.<br />
<br />
Jesus Christ didn't have a political position.<br />
<br />
When asked about taxes, Jesus said to give what is due to Caesar and give what is due to god.<br />
<br />
Regarding the wealthy, Jesus said that a business man has as much chance of getting into the Kingdom of Heaven as a camel passing through the eye of a needle. In other words, zero chance.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>So, to have a conference proclaiming the politics of Jesus -- misnomer that it is -- I hope you'll be serving loaves of bread and fish at no charge. I hope there will be an endless supply of free wine, as there was at the Wedding at Cana (courtesy of Jesus). I hope that prostitutes, tax collectors and lepers will be welcome at your conference, as well.<br />
<br />
You see, too many Christians nowadays profess to believe and adhere to the tenets of Jesus Christ, when in fact they do not.<br />
<br />
Jesus healed the sick and the lame free of charge. So, no doubt you'll be advocating for free, universal health care for all Americans.<br />
<br />
Jesus forgave his enemies, even those who crucified him. So, no doubt you'll be advocating for a swift and complete end to all of America's wars.<br />
<br />
And because Jesus' greatest single oratorical work was the Sermon on the Mount, you will no doubt be advocating for the weak and for the poor, for the mistreated in America, for the ignored and marginalized.<br />
<br />
I somehow have a feeling you won't be doing any of these things at your conference. Jesus Christ's name is "public domain", so I guess you can slap it on anything you like to draw a crowd.<br />
<br />
If you do happen to charge money for the food served at your conference. If you happen to believe that only those who can afford to pay for health care deserve it. If you are not advocating for the poor and the weak, I hope you'll have a second look at who you call Lord and Savior. Because it's not Jesus Christ. It's more like his younger brother, <a href="http://hotdogfactory.blogspot.ca/2005/08/jesse-of-nazareth.html" target="_blank">Jesse of Nazareth</a>.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-30289145632496992312012-07-23T10:49:00.001-04:002012-07-23T11:03:48.155-04:00When Dealing with the Police -- Canadian Edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/7aSfu.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i.imgur.com/7aSfu.gif" width="131" /></a></div>
<h3>
You have the Right . . .</h3>
To laugh. <br />
<br />
Chances are, you’ll get a “Promise to Appear” citation. <br />
<br />
If you <i>are </i>arrested, even better. That means you’ll go before a Canadian judge. Canadian judges love raggamuffin people who appear before them. <br />
<br />
At best they’ll let you go. At worst, they’ll give you a tongue-lashing that sounds like something from an <i>Andy Hardy</i> movie . . . and then they’ll let you go.<br />
<br />
<h3>
If the Police Stop Anyone . . .</h3>
Know that Canadian street cops are very frustrated with Canadian courts because the judges let everyone go. Recently, a man who pleaded guilty to possessing child pornography was sentenced to 14 days in jail. A guy found guilty of stabbing two people was sentenced to 30 months in jail. <br />
<br />
Unless the person stopped by the cops stabbed someone or was caught with CP, they’re home free. <br />
<br />
The cops might be grouchy with you because they know you’re going to walk, no matter what they caught you with. Be polite and feel secure that their fate -- at worst -- will be in the hands.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<a name='more'></a>If the Police Stop You . . .</h3>
Ditto.<br />
<br />
<h3>
If the Police Arrest You . . .</h3>
If you're arrested in Canada -- congratulations on choosing the greatest country in the world in which to be arrested!<br />
<br />
If you're a murderer, child molester, drug dealer, and have the outlandishly bad luck of being found guilty of your crime, fear not. You're looking at a maximum prison sentence of five years, probably a lot less.<br />
<br />
Get your sob story together. Canadian judges are cultivated on specialty farms where, until well into adulthood, they've never heard of the concept of lying. Tell them your story -- true or not -- and they will <i>believe</i> you.<br />
<br />
Canadian judges also love placing people under house arrest. Jurisprudence doesn't get any better than this -- punishing a person by making them stay at home. Most people call that "vacation", but Canadian judges -- reared in ways similar to the raising of veal calves -- believe this is "punishment". No shit!<br />
<br />
And if you do end up serving time, getting a record -- no problem! In five years' time, get a pardon . . . though your sins should be like crimson, the bleeding heart of the National Parole Board will make them as white as snow.<br />
<br />
<b>Remember</b><br />
Be cool. Nothing's going to happen to you. Canada believes that "being civilized" means allowing people the freedom to work out their personality issues, in their own way time, at their own speed, in whatever way helps them learn from the experience. If you need do steal cars or sell drugs to work out your issues, no sweat. Canadian jurisprudence is there for you.<br />
<br />
Your self-esteem is all that matters.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-56443761214461416682012-07-22T10:04:00.001-04:002012-07-22T10:15:04.533-04:00Motivational speaker's character-building exercise goes awry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/wkGo0.jpg?2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://i.imgur.com/wkGo0.jpg?2" width="320" /></a></div>
Motivational speaker, Herm Kaleidoscope, is facing tough questions this morning after a character-building exercise in his popular "Align Your Inner Anaconda" weekend retreat went tragically wrong.<br />
<br />
The popular author and retreat leader went into the Arizona desert on Friday evening with twenty-four adherents and came out Saturday afternoon with only five of them.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>"Herm walked us from our camp site before sunrise on Saturday morning," says one adherent who asked not to be quoted by name, "and led us out to a cliff, about three hundred feet above the floor of the desert. He asked us to line up and put on blindfolds, which we did. Then he said, 'Walk.' And we did."<br />
<br />
Nineteen retreat attendees walked to their deaths off that cliff. The question this morning is, Why? <br />
<br />
"The exercises and strategies of the 'Align Your Inner Anaconda' are rooted in the science of meta-faith-Believe-Meology, a field of study created by Mr. Kaleidoscope," read a statement issued by Kaleidoscope Will-of-Iron, LLC. "The practices of these retreat weekends are the result of decades of travel and first-hand experience by Mr. Kaleidoscope and are intended for entertainment purposes only, make no claim to heal, change or alter participants in any way, and are entered into at the participants' own risk, each of whom sign documents ahead of time stipulating Mr. Kaleidoscope and/or his company cannot be found at fault for the events of a given retreat weekend."<br />
<br />
Mr. Kaleidoscope has been incommunicado since Arizona desert tragedy, but a former staffer has come forward, answering questions about the motivational speakers tactics.<br />
<br />
"Our society is so deeply narcissistic that the cliff walking exercise was created to get people to stop thinking about themselves," says the former staffer who asked not to be named. "It's a very powerful experience to walk off a cliff blindfolded."<br />
<br />
When asked how many times she had walked blindfolded off a cliff, the former staffer replied, "I've never done it."<br />
<br />
When asked how many people have performed this feat and survived, the former staffer said, "None. Actually, I'm not sure why this retreat is getting so much attention. Herm Kaleidscope has been walking people off of cliffs for years, and it's never been an issue. Maybe the fact that a few people returned with him this time is the difference."<br />
<br />
Now, people around the country who have pre-paid to attend "Align Your Inner Anaconda" retreat weekends are up in the air as to whether their retreats will happen, if there will be refunds in the event of cancellations or if walking off of cliffs will help them perform better at work and/or in their personal relationships.<br />
<br />
At this early point in the story, there appears only to be questions and very few answers. One thing is sure, this story is taking much of the heat off of motival speaker <span id="goog_1504025231"></span><a href="http://news.yahoo.com/21-burned-walk-over-hot-coals-robbins-event-202003508.html" target="_blank">Tony Robbins' fire-walking debacle</a>.<span id="goog_1504025232"></span>Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-7516929612292446932012-07-21T07:34:00.001-04:002012-07-21T08:11:22.126-04:00The NRA comments on the deadly Aurora, Colorado cineplex shooting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/kHECA.jpg?1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/kHECA.jpg?1" /></a></div>
Wayne LaPierre, executive vice president of the National Rifle Association, eyed the reporters gathered at the NRA press conference with his steely, patriot's gaze.<br />
<br />
The question that was already causing so much outrage and angst in the NRA was the first to be asked of LaPierre. Some jellyfish from a New York news bureau asked, "When will the NRA acknowledge that some level of gun contol is needed in this country, given the sorts of preventable tragedies like the shooting at the Aurora, Colorado cineplex?"<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>LaPierre felt -- as everyone in the NRA, Republican Party and toothless, barmy-eyed mountainmen -- the question didn't merit an answer. LaPierre would have preferred biting a chunk out of the jellyfish's face. But, no doubt, the lamestream media would spin <i>that</i> into some anti-NRA commentary, so LaPierre was left to play ball with the jellyfish.<br />
<br />
"The NRA has commissioned numerous scientific studies on the subject," LaPierre began, "and we find, time and time again, that there is absolutely no correlation between guns and shooting deaths. Zero. None."<br />
<br />
The reporters texted and typed the response with librarian quietude.<br />
<br />
"The real question," LaPierre went on, "is the madness of showing violent, imaginary movies -- <i>with absolutely no patriotic value</i> -- in multi-screen cineplexes. The NRA has said for years that multi-plexes are death traps. We've cried out on this subject, time and time again, but our cries fell on deaf ears. Well, I'm here today to say, 'We told you so.'"<br />
<br />
In a single, inarticulate roar, the reporters began shouting questions at the executive vice president of the NRA. LaPierre raised his hand and quieted them like Jesus Christ calming the tumultuous sea.<br />
<br />
"Guns don't kill," LaPierre said, "<i>Batman</i> kills. Had someone in the audience been armed, this tragedy could have been averted."<br />
<br />
"But if an audience member had started shooting," a female reporter piped up, "couldn't there have been <i>more</i> casualties and deaths?"<br />
<br />
<i>I will have Eric Cantor deport you to North Korea, wench!</i> LaPierre thought.<br />
<br />
"Absolutely not," LaPierre said. "Guns are what make us safe. The more guns you have in a movie theatre, in a supermarket, in a shopping mall, the safer everyone is. That's a proven fact. The NRA has proven it time and time again."<br />
<br />
The reporters exploded with more questions. LaPierre quieted them with raised hands. "It was guns that settled this country and made us free!" he shouted in his masculine stentorian voice. "Not <i>Batman</i>!"<br />
<br />
LaPierre then walked away from the podium leaving the lamestream media reporters in a pandemonium of ridiculous, leftist questions. <br />
<br />
The lamesteam media proceeded to put an anti-NRA spin on the news conference.Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-54418398619868103792012-07-19T16:31:00.000-04:002012-07-19T16:40:05.713-04:00HSBC compliance chief, David Bagely, steps down amid Mexican drug cartel scandal<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ya8I-kmdQKQ/UAhuYE05oxI/AAAAAAAAAbA/x-HB7M_BNyg/s1600/david.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ya8I-kmdQKQ/UAhuYE05oxI/AAAAAAAAAbA/x-HB7M_BNyg/s320/david.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
In a brief statement before U.S. Congressional investigators, Mr. Bagley said, "After bonding with my Mexican bros, I saw how meaningless banking was and decided to follow my bliss to the Choix mountains."<br />
<br />
When asked what he would be doing in the Choix mountains, Mr. Bagley said, "I'll be Chief Operating Officer of the Beltrán Leyva Cartel's dog fighting division. I've always had a soft spot for animals."Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-8318886242528819152012-07-13T15:28:00.001-04:002012-07-13T15:30:07.983-04:00Outrage Over eBikes in Automotive City<img align="right" border="0" height="227" src="http://i.imgur.com/5WHCH.jpg" width="300" />Windsor, Ontario -- known the world over for its contributions to the auto industry and for being one of the most automobile-centric societies on earth.<br />
<br />
Much as Windsorites enjoy their motorized, mechanized transportation vehicles, there's a new breed on the road that's causing fear, loathing and outrage.<br />
<br />
As though springing from some malevolent alien pod, "eBikes" -- some hellish, moped hybrid of unnatural origin -- have taken to the streets like a plague in Windsor, Ontario .<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>What is so odious about this new form of personal transportation?<br />
<br />
"For one, they're really slow," says Otto Carmichael, president of Advocates for Automobile Autonomy, Safety and Fairness.<br />
<br />
"Second, they're really cheap, so low income people can afford them.<br />
<br />
"Worse, though," Carmichael continues, "is that most eBike riders travel to the side of the street because they're too anemic to take part in traffic. Pathetic!<br />
<br />
"Worst of all," Carmichael opines, "is that eBikes are <i>silent</i>. What do they have to hide? That also raises safety concerns on a noisy road. How are pedestrians to know an eBike is within their vicinity if eBikes make no sound? It's ridiculous.<br />
<br />
"And even worse yet," Carmichael explains, red-faced, wielding his index finger like a switchblade, "is that people say eBikes are great because they have zero emissions. They don't pollute. That's a lie. They pollute my consciousness with their very existence."<br />
<br />
From <a href="http://www.windsorstar.com/news/WITH+bike+debate+picks+speed+Windsor/6873167/story.html#ixzz20VrMlg9l" target="_blank">The Windsor Star</a>: <br />
<blockquote>
City council has received a recommendation by the city’s Environment and Transportation Committee to change existing traffic bylaws to ban e-bikes from all sidewalks and multi-use trails.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
"I think it’s bull crap because, I mean, if it’s a bike path, you should be able to ride on it on your bike, and they classify these as bikes," said Chris Belcher, who has owned several e-bikes for the past four years and was riding on Windsor’s waterfront paths on the weekend.</blockquote>
Bull crap or not, if these revelations about the "eBike" weren't troubling enough, a month-long <em>Inside the Hotdog Factory</em> investigation has uncovered the existence of yet another heretofore unknown "zero emissions" abomination, which some call "the bicycle".<br />
<br />
"There have been rumors for years about such devices as bicycles," says Eli Izod, editor of <i>Automotive Exuberance</i>. "But, like the Sasquatch or the Yeti, we've never found droppings, or dead bodies -- only grainy photographs, hearsay evidence and the odd plaster cast of tracks."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/8xXi2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i.imgur.com/8xXi2.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
As an <i>Inside the Hotdog Factory</i> film crew staked out a nature trail, hoping to get footage of an eBike mangling a nature walker, we captured a clear, incontrovertible photograph of a <i>bi-cycle</i>.<br />
<br />
The bi-cyclist didn't respond to shouts to stop, nor even appeared to hear these shouts.<br />
<br />
Although this new evidence of other zero emissions vehicles has been found -- one that appears to provide exercise, as well -- is not all bad. Now that we know it exists, Windsorites can unite and storm City Council demanding something be done about them.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, at this point, the rarity and scarcity of this new vehicular form may well backfire on adherents of automotive exuberance and see this bi-cycle put on some kind of endangered species list or be otherwise protected by the Nanny State.<br />
<br />
More to come . . .Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-60069844217512667982012-06-26T14:52:00.001-04:002012-06-26T14:57:33.204-04:00The Making of Mediocrity<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/nqrzp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="http://i.imgur.com/nqrzp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
How else are we going to manufacture a generation of mediocre citizens, lazy, ineffective thinkers, obedient worker bees, citizens who opt not to vote than by <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/edmonton/story/2012/06/25/edmonton-teacher-no-zero-policy-letter-termination.html?cmp=rss" target="_blank">penalizing teachers who hand out zeroes</a> to students who don't hand in assignments?<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Why would we want to prepare our young people for the world?<br />
<br />
We're in a perfect position to pull a world-class <i>gotcha</i> on our children: raise them to believe everything they do is exceptional, give trophies -- <i>trophies!</i> -- to everyone who participates in sporting events, and lull kids into a false sense of security that the world will accept assignments left unfinished, unattempted, not handed in.<br />
<br />
Then, if these young people are lucky enough not to die before entering the workforce -- <i>gotcha!</i> Everything we taught you was wrong!<br />
<br />
Dear children, when your boss gives you an assignment, he expects it to be completed -- on time, on budget, to specification. But what a great and hearty laugh will be had at your expense when you have no ability to produce such work because the period that should have been spent teaching you how was spent laying the foundation for this wonderful, elaborate joke!<br />
<br />
It's like a generation of parents is hazing its children. It's like a generation of parents sees its children as fraternity and sorority pledges who must be treated with outlandish exaggeration in order to initiate them.<br />
<br />
This generation of "helicopter"-trophies-for-everyone parents is dead set to raise an entire population of basement dwellers; pale, pasty, video-game-suckling drones with the intellectual physiques of veal calves.<br />
<br />
Yes, penalize teachers who hand out zeroes! Zeroes hurt your child's self esteem. Your child is only expressing himself when he doesn't do his homework or hand in assignments. You don't want to thwart that kind of natural self-expression.<br />
<br />
Hopefully these parents will take their warped sense of child-rearing to its logical extreme -- teaching their kids to drive on the wrong side of the road, to disobey traffic signals, cut lines, walk out of stores without paying for merchandise. After all, rules are for idiots.<br />
<br />
And everyone gets a trophy just for showing up!<br />
<br />
How could this philosophy possibly go wrong?Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-69911167662443575932012-06-20T16:51:00.002-04:002012-06-20T16:52:43.497-04:00Threat To Israel Is Threat To Canada, Defence Minister Peter MacKay Tells Israeli Military Commander<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/CZGjH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/CZGjH.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">To my Member of Parliament after reading </span><span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/2012/06/19/israel-threat-canada-mackay_n_1610360.html?utm_hp_ref=canada" target="_blank">Threat To Israel Is Threat To Canada, Defence Minister Peter MacKay Tells Israeli Military Commander</a>:</span><br />
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
So, the transformation of Canada into a Franksteined version of George W. Bush's America continues.</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Who are the Conservatives trying to impress with such rhetoric, with Peter MacKay saying "A threat to Israel is a threat to Canada"?</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Are you trying to impress the US? I thought that was covered by the Harper Government handing Canadian sovereignty over to the Yanks piecemeal.</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Are we showing England and the rest of Europe that we can be as stupid as the United States?</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Are we trying to antagonize Arab countries that ordinarily wouldn't give Canada a second thought?</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
MacKay's statement sounds like the first volley in what America does so well: manufacturing an enemy.</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
How else to justify the purchase of new and more military equipment? How else to justify increased intrusion into the privacy of Canadians? </div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Manufacture and enemy and tell Canadians its all in the name of keeping Stephen Harper's citizens safe.</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
For the record, many of us know can see MacKay's provocative words for what they are. On your best day, you've never hard more than 30-some percent of the country supporting you. On your <i>best </i>day.</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can't blame the Harper Government, though, for being so smug and smarmy. After all, winning a majority government when it was so sorely undeserved, how could you not view the Canadian citizenry with such contempt? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
You're like the batterer in an abusive relationship; driven by anger, but equally driven to cause harm for the disdain and disrespect you feel for Canadians. And the abuse continues because too few Canadians educate themselves about what the Harper Government is really all about. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's about becoming America Lite, a Police State where you're either on the side of the government or the child pornographers. You should replace the maple leaf on the Canadian flag with a 1 and a 0 to represent the Harper Government's ingrained, unbudging binary thinking.</div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
What an aberrant and disgusting vision of Canada the Harper Government has. Absolutely contemptible on every level.</div>Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-12835796607613342212012-06-07T20:12:00.000-04:002012-06-07T20:12:29.079-04:00Message to Kerry Cassidy of Project Camelot<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;">
<img height="320" src="http://i.imgur.com/UgWsj.jpg" width="316" />
</div>
At the 12:38 minute mark of this <a href="http://youtu.be/hzqDVOjtNhg" target="_blank">2009 interview with Dr. Stephen Greer</a>, Kerry
Cassidy says that a "secret witness" told her that the world would run
out of food in 10 months and that we had 4 years of air left in the
world.
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Clearly, the first prediction about the food
was completely wrong. It's now 2012 and I've been overeating with
abandon right through the deadline Kerry stated.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As for the world running out of air, I'm going to bet that prediction will prove as accurate as the food prediction.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My
question is -- why repeat such obviously asinine testimony such as
this? All it does is hurt your credibility, makes you look like
wingnuts, and actually sabotages everything else you have to say because
the casual, uninformed viewer sits back and thinks, "Well, everything
else they're talking about is probably just as loopy as the food and air
predictions."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For people who present
themselves as "researchers" who are digging for the truth, where's the
research? Actually, where's the educated skepticism?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Art
Bell torpedoed himself in much the same way. He explored many
interesting topics on his show, had many interesting guests, but the
fact that he believed and gave credence to some of the most laughable
and easily disproven theories hurt him -- not the least of which was his
ridiculously serious introduction to the "screams from hell" as <a href="http://youtu.be/bvnxeX2SQso" target="_blank">recorded from a deep hole in Siberia</a>.
Really? Hell is in the center of the earth? The Russians dug a 9 km
hole and then went and found a microphone with a 9 km cord, lowered it
into the center of the earth without it melting, and were able to record
these sounds, which everyone instantly deduces are the screams of hell?
Really? That's school-yard apocryphal-tale-telling, not anything
approaching responsible research.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In a time
when secret operations need exposure. In a time when so many
conspiracies are active, and are damaging our democracy and our planet.
In a time when we <i>could</i> be using the Internet to disseminate
actual true information about these conspiracies, why in the world would
you torpedo your interview with Dr. Greer by sharing such an
outlandishly foolish prediction as the world running out of food in 10
months and running out of air in 4 years?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Why would you negate everything else you've done with statement such as this?<br />
<br />
<div>
Before I'm viewed as merely a crank raining on your parade, I
wanted to share a quick anecdote about how misinformation sinks the
whole ship.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was a kid, I was home sick one day in November 1983 and was watching <i>Donahue</i>
or one of those talk shows. They were discussing the assassination of
President John F. Kennedy. At that time in my life, all I knew was that
Lee Harvey Oswald killed him, and that was that. Obviously, I know
better now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, with that scant knowledge, I
watched a panel of researchers, which I believe included Mark Lane and
Robert Groden, both of whose work I have come to respect.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Among
the panel was one man who said, "If you watch the Zapruder film
closely, you'll see the Secret Service driver of the limousine turn
around and fire the fatal shot at JFK."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even as
a child, I thought this was ridiculous and I've always remembered that
statement and the effect it had on the studio audience: After that man
put forth his ridiculous theory, the rest of the panel was painted with
the same brush by the audience. Everyone on the panel was taken down
with the ship, as it were. Suddenly, everyone's theories seemed silly.
No doubt, the man who put forth the limo-driver-as-assassin idea was a
misinformation agent whose job was to do precisely that -- torpedo the
entire panel. Mission accomplished, at least on that day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And
so, I find similarly silly, ridiculous, easily disproven theories have
the same effect on conversations. Pardon the indelicate image, but such
theories are like a turd in the swimming pool -- they contaminate
everything within their reach.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, ideas that we're going to run out of food in 10 months and run out of air in 4 years are turds in the swimming pool.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Responsible
researchers should eshew such statements and people who put forth such
ideas without voluminous evidence. The emphasis should be on the
evidence not the theories. The Internet is chockful of whacky theories.
I can get my fill on there all day. I want evidence.</div>Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10000498.post-3607527141956936412012-06-05T11:28:00.003-04:002012-06-05T11:30:00.731-04:00Big week in Canadian law & order<img align="right" src="http://imgur.com/VkMDD" /><a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/calgary/story/2012/06/04/edmonton-mcconnell-sentencing.html?cmp=rss" target="_blank">Alberta mom who drowned sons to serve 15 more months</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/eaton-centre-suspect-under-house-arrest-at-time-of-shooting/article4231006/" target="_blank">Eaton Centre suspect under house arrest at time of shooting</a>.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/manitoba/story/2012/05/14/mb-bus-beheading-li-review-manitoba.html" target="_blank">Bus beheader seeks passes from hospital</a>.<br />
<br />
I understand the Canadian "justice" system isn't about vengeance and I'm glad for that. I cannot, however, abide the attitude in our courts that looks upon a person who has committed murder and looks to see, "How can we get this poor soul back on his/her feet?"<br />
<br />
Where is the recognition of injury done to the victim and/or the victims family in Canadian courts? Isn't that a part of justice? Not in Canada, of course, but isn't it part of most people's sense of what justice is all about?<br />
<br />
I'm all too familiar with the hand-wringing do-gooders of Canada who will lament, for instance, about the Alberta mom/muderer, "Sentencing her to 40 years in jail isn't going to bring back the children she murdered."<br />
<br />
No, it won't, but I would posit, a lengthy prison sentence is merited, just the same. The woman cold-bloodedly murdered two children. What's worse -- they were her own children. That's not a mitigating factor, it's an <i>exacerbating</i> factor!<br />
<br />
Of all the crime stories I've ever read about -- and I've read thousands -- never have I heard of a family member of a murder victim say, imply, infer or otherwise communicate: "If only the murderer got a life sentence, my loved one would come back."<br />
<br />
I've never heard such a thing said because I'm sure it's never been said. Nobody believes it. So, the hand-wringing criminal-embracing bleeding hearts ought to stop using that as a point of argument.<br />
<br />
For some reason, human life has little meaning or value to Canadian courts. <br />
<br />
Murder someone and Canadian courts act like American retailers on double coupon day: "OK, are you a member of CARP? That will get you a few years off. Any mental illness? That'll save you a few years. Are you of aboriginal ancestry? There's a few more years shaved off. How about extenuating circumstances, like, you just didn't mean it? That'll save you a few years. How about, you're sorry? Right -- good -- that'll get you a few more years shaved off . . ." <br />
<br />
This bizarre, macabre bargaining goes on until the convicted murderer is sentenced to mere months in prison and <i>then</i> given two-for-one credit for time served.<br />
<br />
Why? Because the only thing that matters in Canadian courts is the accused. Murder someone in Canada and you become Special Person on the next installment of <i>This Is Your Life</i>. And then all the guilt-ridden do-gooders who think the world just needs more hugs and sweaters have their chance to perform a personality make-over on murderers, rapists, child molesters, what have you. Like these wretches are the do-gooders ragamuffin Barbie dolls.<br />
<br />
This is no more in evidence than the case of Vincent Li, Canadian's beloved cannibal, for whom so many people are pulling, cheering the coming of his day passes.<br />
<br />
I've been told my views are outmoded, unsophisticated and not inline with Canadian justice. That may be so, but I believe that when the act is heinous enough, the reasons behind the act become irrelevant and the perpetrator of the heinous act must simply be locked up forever.<br />
<br />
In these isolated cases -- the mother/murderer, the alleged Eaton Centre shooter, the Canadian cannibal -- yes, when found guilty of such crimes, these people should be locked up until they die.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Whetam Gnauckweirsthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06038247522187261808noreply@blogger.com4