[This is the second time I've posted a "rerun" of this post, and the only one to ever be repeated at all. It's a post that is both a personal favorite, and is the closest I come to having a positive memory about September 11th, 2001. It was first posted on September 11, 2007.]
Those who know me know that I’m not a morning person. Getting up early is something I’ve avoided most of my life, dating back to when had to get up at 5AM to deliver the Chicago Tribune. I’m not proud of the fact that I have a reputation for avoiding early meetings and rolling into the office sometime a little after 9:30. So it was not unusual that on September 11th six years ago, I didn’t get out of bed until after Tom was gone and his clock radio had already turned itself off.
That particular morning, I ambled into the kitchen in search of coffee and then went to fetch the paper from the front porch. It was a beautiful day in Chicago, and I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. For whatever reason, I didn’t turn on the radio in the den as I read the paper. It wasn’t until around 8:30 when I returned to the kitchen for a refill that I first became aware something was not right.
Tom had left the kitchen radio tuned to the classical station. They didn’t really do news, just weather and a little bit of headlines. So it stopped me when the announcer, one of those dignified and measured voices, told his listeners that, “a plane… no, two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center in New York.” I remember the wording so clearly. While still retaining that classical music guy voice, that there was something very wrong was unmistakable.
I got my coffee and went back to the den to turn on CNN. The images, as we all know, were both horrifying and riveting. I was dumbfounded. Instead of sitting in one of the comfy club chairs across the small room, I dragged the ottoman right up to the TV. Maybe I thought if I sat closer to the screen I would understand better what the hell was happening. The images went back and forth from a live shot to the loop of the second aircraft’s impact. Memory of what the anchors were saying, as well as what I was muttering, is a little murky now. But what I remember so well was how I was not alone. A trusted and loyal friend sensed I was upset, that something was wrong and I needed support. So at some point, as I sat hunched in front to the television, Shadow came up and sat by my side.
Shadow was the older of our two Newfoundland dogs, our “dog in charge,” as I called her. She was an imposing figure, a presence that could not be ignored. But in this circumstance, she sat silently by my side. That’s what Newfoundlands do. The breed is known for this strong, silent self-assuredness. Their way of moderating a situation is to quietly but firmly insert themselves into the middle of what is going on.
For
an unknown number of minutes, I sat there with my arm around her,
rocking back and forth. “Oh, Shadow. This is bad. This is really bad.
Oh, man, Shadow.” Eventually, she got up and stood in the narrow space
between the television and me. I’m not sure, but I think she was
telling me we had seen enough.
We all can say where we were and what we were doing as the events of September 11, 2001 unfolded. I went on to prepare for work, check in with Tom, and try to reach a good friend whose partner worked in lower Manhattan. Seemingly oblivious to the possibility of a much wider threat, I drove to work only to be waved off by building security. I went to our friend’s place to sit with Evan while he tried to make contact with John, who was finally able to get a text message out that he was OK and heading uptown to stay with friends. Other friends came by and we walked through the Lincoln Park neighborhood to look for a place to eat. Store after store, even Starbucks, were closed. The one open restaurant was overwhelmed. Fighter jets flew overhead.
The world had, indeed, changed.
As time slips by, and the powerful mix of emotions is given perspective, the memories of that day remain strong. Shadow’s gone now; she died in February. But today as we all reflect in our own way about the horrors of 9/11, the memory that brings me the most comfort is of that intuitive action of a loyal and unconditionally loving friend. Is this odd: That among all the jagged and abrasive images and feelings I have of that day, the one that comes up first is the comfort provided by a dog?
I don’t think so.
From Public Policy Polling:
Michigan is looking more and more like it won't be in the swing state column this fall. PPP's newest poll there finds Barack Obama leading the entire Republican field by double digits.
The biggest surprise in the numbers might be how badly Obama is beating Mitt Romney- he leads him by 16 points at 54-38. That's a major departure from PPP's previous 3 Michigan President polls, which found Obama ahead by only 4-7 points. Romney's seen a major decline in his personal favorability in the state over the last 6 months from 39/43 to now 29/58. His numbers have dropped across the board but the most striking shift is with independents. He's gone from a +14 spread with them at 48/34 to a -20 one at 32/52.
For the past three years, Republicans have mostly worked to defeat anything and everything the President touched. That's their choice. And it's their strategy... a very cynical strategy. Rather than work together with Democrats for the good of the nation, they set aside things (a lot of them) they used to support purely for a cold, calculated push to regain power so as to reward the top one percent. Seems like working class Americans are starting to get it, especially as the economy continues to improve.
In the most general sense, I guess the answer to that question is: Hardly fucking any.
It's been bugging me that the last Kerfuffle post I put up was almost a month ago, and it was one that took a month for me to write (with a few lay-ups tossed in as filler). While I was wondering what to put up next, I happened to notice that I started this blog in March of 2007... nearly five years ago. Activity has run hot and cold. Sometimes it's been more thoughtful, and other times it's been goofy.
The fact is, though, I am posting stuff all over the place all the time. It gets posted on sites and platforms and apps that didn't exist when I began Kerfuffle (at least in their current forms). I'm dropping stuff on Facebook every day, and on Twitter even more frequently than that. Many of those posts are link-driven, but usually with some kind of added intellectual contribution. Well, perhaps the contribution isn't all that chocked full of intellect. But it is a contribution none the less. Add to those the activity I frequently post on sites sites that are more visual, such as my Tumblr page (called Wait, What?) and Instagram feed.
I can post on any of these from my iPhone, but not all from my laptop (Instagram is totally iOS-based). Maybe that's one reason why Kerfuffle doesn't see as much activity as it once did. Posting is so often an in-the-moment thing, and the phone is always with me. Sure, the laptop isn't usually too far away and wifi is all but ubiquitous these days. But the phone is so damn easy and, well, now. That explains why the first two screens on my phone contain a combined five social networking apps.
Further into the screens are more apps that feed these platforms with even more content. Music apps like Spotify, Shazam and SoundHound; rating apps like Yelp, Where, and urbanspoon; and travel apps like Expedia an d Travelocity all are willing to push content if I enable them. Same for YouTube, of course. Hell, I have whole screen of nothing but Google apps, another with all the social networks that I rarely use like FourSquare and LinkedIn, and still another with a bunch of Twitter clients I don't even use. I don't lack for channel space.
Sometimes -- often, actually -- I cheat. Most of these apps/sites cross-post content to each other. Anything that goes on Instagram is likely to show up on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. But hardly any of that stuff makes it to Kerfuffle unless it flies through the Twitter feed. (That's it, up in the upper left column.)
It's kind of funny to me that I use all these, and yet I freely admit that most of the content would hardly be missed by anyone at all. So what does that mean? I have to try this shit out, since I am studying social media as part of my research at UW, right? At least that's what I tell myself (and others). But how does that explain my driving need to live-tweet any Badger hockey game I attend? I have no idea. I guess I do it because (a) I'm a techno-geek, (b) I'm a media nerd and (c) because its fun. Oh, right, and (d), of course: research. Yes. Research.
So, for research of course, why do you read this stuff? You can tell me in the comments... which I will probably access and read from my phone.
This post is long overdue. I've been writing it in my head since December 8, the day we had to put Trinket down after she seriously injured her remaining front leg somehow.
Trinket was about eleven and a half years old when we said goodbye. She managed to get through the last five years missing her front left leg, having lost the limb to osteo sarcoma. A brave and patient dog, she endured months of chemotherapy and two years of follow-up medical treatments and tests to be sure the cancer didn't come back. The fact that she did survive well past the expected year following the diagnosis was simply amazing, and placed her in the rare 5% of dogs that enjoyed longtime survival.
We first came to know this wonderful Newfoundland dog when I brought her home on a "trial" basis. She was three years old, and belonged to a distant relative that loved her very much but was unable to devote the time and attention to her that any dog deserved. It was an act of love on Marci's part to give Trinket to us, and I know it was a hard decision on her part. Knowing I didn't have full buy-in from Tom, I went and got her anyway.
Things didn't get off to a great start. We were living in Frankfort, Illinois at the time, with our original two Newfies, Shadow and her daughter Savvy. Shadow was a very apparent alpha dog, and Savvy didn't take kindly to Trinket's apparently play for "beta" status. Within minutes of her arrival, Savvy and Trinket were going at it in a major way. It actually took both Shadow and me together to break up the fight. Over time, all three dogs learned to get along, although for months it was an uneasy peace between Trinket and Savvy.
When I took a job in Madison, and moved to a temporary apartment while we were deciding whether to make the full move to Wisconsin, Trinket came with me. She often accompanied me to the little ad agency where I was working, and she became an office celebrity. She was so gentle, and had such a great disposition, that even people who didn't really like dogs seemed to like her. She and I walked Madison's State Street at lunch, and hung out at the Memorial Union terrace at the University of Wisconsin on Friday afternoons in the summer. I'm not sure which one of us loved that more.
Unlike Savvy, who also lost a leg to bone cancer, Trinket was diagnosed early. That probably saved her and allowed her to live a full life, albeit one missing a leg. She adapted quickly, and in a lot of ways it seemed as if she didn't know she was missing anything. She could move pretty fast when she felt she had to (like when she knew she would be getting a bath, or she was offered a ride in the car). She even caught the occasional mouse, something I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't seen it on more than one occasion.
As Trinket got older, and slowed down like any old dog, we continued to make accommodations for her as necessary. When she could no longer jump into the car, we'd give her a boost. When she could no longer get up on to the bed, I'd lift her. Every night, without fail, she asked for -- well, demanded -- a pig's ear treat. Her sidekick, Bosco the mutt, would stick by her side, knowing he'd get some of whatever she was able to cajole from us. He looked after her, cleaned her ears, played with her, and would come running whenever he heard her bark.
Trinket was inspirational. That's the best single word I can think of to describe her. She adapted well to being abruptly removed from her original family, and after a few skirmishes with Savvy, fit so well into our Newfie pack that most people figured she was one of Shadow's puppies. When she lost the leg, she just soldiered on as if nothing was different. When Shadow and Savvy were both gone, and Bosco joined the family, she didn't bother with any alpha behavior; she just rolled with it.
It's been an odd month around here since she died. Her passing was totally unexpected, as she was fine at 4pm and in a world of hurt at 6pm. We can only guess that she either did something to the remaining front leg in a fall, or that maybe the cancer had come back and weakened the leg to the point something broke. Either way, we knew we owed her a quick and pain-free end. Our wonderful vet, Elaine, was here at 5:30 the next morning and shortly after, Trinket was gone. We buried her at sunrise next to Shadow and Savvy.
Independent from Trinket's death, through an odd set of coincidental circumstances, Gracie joined our family just two days after Trinket died. A month earlier, I had set up a visit with someone who was trying to place an adult Newfoundland. Tom was rightly reluctant to bring another dog into the house while Trinket was still with us, but he agreed that we could at least meet Gracie. Suddenly, Trinket was gone. After some soul searching, we decided to go ahead with the visit. Sappy as it sounds, we wondered, "What would Trinket do?" We decided Trinket would like us to pay it forward. We should give her spot in the family to another Newfie who needed a new forever home, just like we did for her eight years earlier.
I'm not sure if this is an upside or downside to adding Gracie to the mix just two days after Trinket died, but doing so left us little time to mourn and to dwell on the loss. Make no mistake; the loss was huge. But we had a new dog to socialize into the pack. Gracie was not and is not a replacement for Trinket, but in some ways she is kind of a tribute to how important a place Trinket held in our hearts.
I miss Trinket. I especially miss her late at night when I am in the den reading. That's the time she'd look at me, waiting for her opportunity. As soon as we'd make eye contact, she'd bark. I'd try to ignore her. She'd keep it up, knowing eventually I'd cave and give her a pig's ear. She loved those things. And I loved her.
[Photos, from top: This spring, pausing before chasing some chickens out of the hedge. Christmas 2010. My study buddies, Bosco and Trinket. Trinket with Gigger, our miniature donkey, in one of my favorite pictures. Gracie on the study buddy couch. Video, below: Trinket loved to go for rides in our old convertible. This happens to be from what I believe was her last ride this past summer.]
Lt. John Pike, the UC Davis campus policeman who so casually pepper sprayed peaceful protesters, has earned himself a whole lot of Internet attention. And that means PhotoShop is working overtime...
A whole lot more after the jump...
Continue reading "Congratulations, Lt. John Pike! You're now an asshat AND a viral Internet meme!" »
Art imitates life... and not in a good way.
In this particular piece of visual satire, the artist(s) comment on the way one presents oneself in a leadership role as part of the UC Davis Campus Police Department. Perhaps you recognize Lt. Pike. He's been all over the internets ever since his video went viral. [h/t John Roach for the art find]
Unfortunately, Lt. John Pike is a real person, who really used a chemical weapon, spraying it into the faces of non-violent student protesters because the protesters were a threat to him and to fellow officers. That would be the fellow officers in riot gear, who stood passively by and let their leader do this, as the photo below so unfortunately illustrates. Look! Look how threatened they appear. Those kids on the sidewalk: so violent and threatening!
What kind of man does it take to pepper spray students sitting on the sidewalk because they were a threat to you as you strutted by. It takes an asshat. And this asshat's name is Lt. John Pike.
What an embarrassing display. It's no wonder students, faculty and alumni of UC Davis are completely dismayed, and are seeking the resignation of the school's chancellor, Linda P.B. Katehi. The chancellor saw no need to criticize the actions of Pike and his officers... until photos and videos of his shameful display went viral, giving the rest of the nation -- the whole world -- a chance to see how badly she and her team managed this relatively low wattage protest action. Chancellor? You, ma'am, are an asshat as well. Congratulations.
The Los Angeles Times reports the president of the University of California System, Mark G. Yudof, said he was "appalled" at what took place on the UC David campus... and he wasn't talking about the students sitting on the sidewalk, either.
“Free speech is part of the DNA of this university, and non-violent protest has long been central to our history,”Yudof said. “It is a value we must protect with vigilance. I implore students who wish to demonstrate to do so in a peaceful and lawful fashion. I expect campus authorities to honor that right.”
If anything good comes of this (aside from the officers' suspensions and perhaps the resignation or firing of the chancellor), it is that this fiasco has brought forward questions about the role of police who introduce violence into otherwise non-violent protest actions. As Phillip Kennicott of the Washington Post writes, it's not just the use of chemical weapons... it's the seemingly indifferent attitude of the offending officers and their disregard for the victims.
It looks as though he’s spraying weeds in the garden or coating the oven with caustic cleanser. It’s not just the casual, dispassionate manner in which the University of California at Davis police officer [Lt. John Pike] pepper-sprays a line of passive students sitting on the ground. It’s the way the can becomes merely a tool, an implement that diminishes the humanity of the students and widens a terrifying gulf between the police and the people whom they are entrusted to protect.
This is the American way of life that the members of our armed forces fight to preserve? No. No it is not.
When we moved to Cambridge, the couple who sold us our farm was great about telling us about the idiosyncrasies of the house and barn. They made sure we had a Rolodex full of contact information for any of the contractors and other service people who they used over the years. They left us the stools that looked so great with the breakfast bar. And they told us about the yellow cat.
"There's this feral yellow cat that lives in the barn. We put food out for him, but he's not too friendly and he won't let anyone get within 20 feet before he'll run away," said Jennifer Miller. "But he's part of the farm, and so be on the lookout for him. He's been here for at least two years."
Sure enough, we spotted the yellow cat a few times a week. Usually he was cutting across the yard, or eating from the community cat bowl we put out for our own cats, Laverne, Shirley and Lucy. As soon as he sensed the presence of a human, he'd bolt. But I started trying to talk to him. His name simply became the formalized Yellow Cat, as in "I saw Yellow Cat today hiding in the hay loft." One horrible winter day, when it was snowing and the wind chill was well below zero, I saw him fighting his way into the wind to the shelter he chose in a drain pipe that ran under the driveway. The next morning, the snow plow had effectively blocked both entrances to the pipe. We ran out to dig out the openings, but couldn't see whether he was in there. He showed up a few days later in the barn, proving he had some of his nine of lives left.
Before we ever had dog doors in the house, we had a cat door into the garage. We put it in so our own cats would have somewhere to go if they were left outdoors while we were away. Yellow Cat figured out the cat door and took up residence amidst the boxes in the garage. He found on open box with an old packing blanket and made it his bed. I began putting food out there for him, and we began working on trust.
The breakthrough came when we thought he was a goner. We found blood all over, including where he was sleeping. He apparently had a serious leg wound, though we couldn't get close enough enough to do anything about it. But we did start putting antibiotics in his food. He got better... another of the nine lives used. Tom built him a box, and we set up a heated bed and water bowl in the garage for him. He moved in. We still couldn't get too close, but he no longer would run away.
Yellow Cat began to be more friendly toward our other cats. He also began sunning himself out in the open, either on the deck or in a chair. He'd hang around and wait for us to give him some food. And eventually he discovered the dog door into the porch, where we had a water bowl. He was a smart cat, and a brave one. When we were out of town, according to the neighbor who would take in the mail, he used the other dog door to come into the house. Eventually, he even came in when we -- and our dogs -- were home. He was not intimidated in the least by Trinket or Bosco, and was more than willing to let them know that with a swat to the face.
As he became more comfortable being in the house, he began letting us pick him up. He'd purr loudly, and let us pick the burrs out of his coat. He was pretty ratty looking, didn't smell too good, and always seemed to have a few scrapes or scratches, ear mites or some other malady. But he worked his way into being almost a house cat, and worked his way into my heart in the process. He knew that all he needed do was ask and I'd give him a slurp of half and half. He loved half and half. He became relentless in asking for it. And then he'd purr so loud as he lapped it up.
About two months ago, he started looking more sickly than he generally looked (he definitely looked like he'd had a hard life, even though he was now cared for and loved). He was losing weight, and didn't have as much energy. The last week of September, he stopped eating. He would only sniff his half and half, and sip some water. He was failing. On a rainy Sunday, I saw him just standing awkwardly in the front lawn. I brought him in and dried him off. He didn't look too good. I took him down to the warmth of the basement and put him on the bed we have down there. But he climbed back up the stairs, and walked with an unsteady gait to the dog doors and outside. He sat upon the woodpile in the rain. I decided that the next morning I would take him to the vet and send him over the rainbow bridge. As I left to go to campus, I looked at him sitting there, called his name, and he looked back at me. It was the last time I saw him.
When I came home, I asked Tom about him. "Oh, he's on the chair in the living room. I tried to feed him, but he didn't eat." We looked in the living room, but he was gone. I think he knew I what I was thinking. Being put down, though, was not part of Yellow Cat's exit strategy. He took his leave, went outside, and essentially faded into the landscape. No one has seen him since, and I have to guess he just went out to one of his many spots, fell asleep, and never woke up.
This is a post I've been meaning to write for a month now. After he was gone for a week, I pulled together a few pictures of him. But I also kept looking out for him. There was a part of me that thought he'd prove us wrong, rally once more, and be back looking for half and half some morning... yet I knew that was rather unlikely. I truly hope I don't come across his remains... and have been mindful of not looking too hard around the grounds for that reason. Instead, I look at the places he would often be found... the garage, the rug in the kitchen, a chair in the dining room, the front porch. But I know he's gone, and he's not coming back.
It's hard to win the trust, let alone the love, of a feral cat. Yellow Cat taught me it's possible. Close to four years ago, a big gray tomcat showed up. Two years ago, a mouthy and assertive black cat took up residence in the barn, then left the following summer only to return that fall and stick around permanently. Only Yellow Cat had the distinction of being named for his color. Bob (gray) and Betty (black) have also let us befriend them. Both they and I have Yellow Cat to thank for that, for I knew if I could make friends with him, and I was really patient, I could be pals with Bob and Betty too.
Yellow Cat will forever be a part of our farm, and forever be in my heart. Godspeed, my little yellow friend. I'll neither forget you, nor forget the lessons you taught me.
When I started working at Needham, Harper & Steers in 1982, the agency had just lost the McDonald's account. The fast food giant was such a big part of the agency's culture that there was even a McDonald's right in the lower level of the building, part of the massive Illinois Center development at Michigan and Wacker in Chicago.
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| The McRib with food stylist help |
Having this franchise an elevator ride away was a mixed blessing. We were kind of pissed off at them, but it sure was convenient. So we ate there, but we also made fun of them. A lot. And one thing we found especially amusing was the introduction of the McRib.
It was definitely an oddity in the fast food business: a sandwich made from chopped pork, pressed into a patty shaped like ribs but boneless, drenched in sugary (well, high-fructose corn syrup) BBQ sauce. Yum.
 |
| The McRib, naked |
One a particularly slow day, we decided to get a McRib and do a little taste experiment. We took the pork patty and ran it for several minutes under warm water to rinse off the sauce best as possible. Our suspicions were confirmed: the meat itself -- grey in color and amazingly well bonded so as not to come apart -- had absolutely no flavor, and standing alone and naked it looked nothing short of disgusting.
This thing has been a perennial "special limited time only" menu item for going on 30 years now. I cannot for the life of me understand why, except to speculate that there are a lot of people in the country who have never had real BBQ in their lives, and somehow think the McRib is the real deal. Philistines.
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| The McRib as actually served |
I never thought of the McRib as anything else but a crappy fast food sandwich until I read a piece this week by a blogger named Willy Staley, who posts at The Awl, a site with the motto "Be less stupid." His article, A Conspiracy of Hogs: The McRib as Arbitrage, suggests in a rather humorous but astute way that the relatively random appearance of the McRib on McDonald's menus is actually arbitrage at work...
Arbitrage is a risk-free way of making money by exploiting the difference between the price of a given good on two different markets—it’s the proverbial free lunch you were told doesn’t exist. In this equation, the undervalued good in question is hog meat, and McDonald’s exploits the value differential between pork’s cash price on the commodities market and in the Quick-Service Restaurant market. If you ignore the fact that this is, by definition, not arbitrage because the McRib is a value-added product, and that there is risk all over the place, this can lead to some interesting conclusions. (If you don’t want to do something so reckless, then stop here.)
I'm not sure if Staley is correct, but it sure makes more sense than the counter argument that this is a delicious offering for people who love BBQ pork, given that I think my coworkers and I proved that wrong in our warm water McRib experiment way back in 1982.
Read the who article here... it's worth ten minutes.
[cross-posted on my course blog, J646 Overtime]
[Naperville, Ill.] When my mother died, years and years ago, a family friend gave me a book by Harold Kushner called, “When Bad Things Happen to Good People.” It was first published in 1981, with subsequent editions coming as recently as 2004. Kushner, a rabbi, wrote the book after dealing with his own personal tragedy involving his son’s illness. The book’s jacket offers it as a “…straightforward, elegant contemplation of the doubts and fears that arise when tragedy strikes. Kushner shares his wisdom as a rabbi, a parent, a reader, and a human being.”
Perhaps one of the best things the book has to offer is the affirmation found in the title. Bad things do sometimes happen to good people. Sometimes they are really bad things. And sometimes they happen to really good people. People like our friend, Patricia Maddi Doane.
We buried Patti today. She died this past Sunday at the much-too-young age of 51. She leaves behind three great kids, Jimmy (17), Maddi (16) and Patrick (14) in addition to her husband of 18 years, Jim.
Patti lost her own father when she was in high school, and lost her mother several years ago as well. Both her parents died of cancer. Since she was considered at risk for breast cancer given family history, she took the unusual step three years ago to undergo a prophylactic double mastectomy. It proved to be a wise move, since biopsy work found two different types of cancer in the removed tissue. Doctors were confident they got it all.
A year or so later, it was discovered the doctors were wrong. And at this point, the cancer had already been doing what cancer does… spreading. Patti underwent various kinds of treatment over the past few years. There were good periods and not so good periods. A few months ago it became apparent the cancer was winning, and winning big.
When I would refer to Patti, I would say she was my partner Tom’s bestest best friend… and that if things were different (if he liked girls... in that way) he’d have married Patti long, long ago. She was, indeed, his closest friend. They shared a relationship that spanned decades, and was that rare type of friendship so few of us ever get to experience. I suppose I could have been jealous, but I loved Patti way too much for that. She became one of my best friends too.
As friends and family gathered for her funeral services this morning, I was reminded that she wasn’t the only good person to have something really bad happen when she got sick… when she died. Her children, her husband, her siblings, extended family and her freinds all had a really bad thing happen to them too. They lost a wonderful, huge part of their lives.
To know Patti was to know she was a planner… an organizer… a doer. She was very good about making and preserving memories. She thought ahead. One of the things she did early this year was to sit down with a few of us with some recording equipment to read children’s books for the grandchildren she knew she would never see. As part of the eulogy he delivered, Tom drew wisdom from one of those books…
“One of Patti’s favorite books was The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams. This is the story of a toy given as a Christmas gift to a young boy. The Velveteen Rabbit lives in the nursery with all of the other toys, waiting for the day when the boy will choose him as a playmate. In time, the shy rabbit befriends the tattered Skin Horse, the wisest resident of the nursery, who reveals the goal of all nursery toys: to be made real through the love of a human. 'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'
“As Patti progressed through the stages of her dreadful sickness, we talked about what her fears were about the disease. She told us that she was not afraid to die – she had actually always pictured herself dying early. What she feared most was what would happen to those she left behind, especially her children who she loved so much. Sometimes in classic literature we can find messages through metaphor and philosophy. Sometimes though the meaning may be right in front of you. As the wise tattered skin horse told us, when someone REALLY loves you, then you become REAL. Then if that is the case, Patti will remain as real in all our lives in her death, as she did in her life.”
Listening to Tom work hard to maintain his composure made my heart ache. To lose his best friend is a huge tragedy. To take this loss less than two months after losing his mother has been simply horrible. Yet he perseveres.
Bad things happen to good people. Cancer sucks. For those of us who remain, of course, life goes on.
Do me a favor, if you will. Set this aside, go to someone who you care about, and give him or her a hug. Do it for Patti. Do it for Tom. Do it for all of us.
I am fascinated with advertising history. I especially like old magazine ads, as they are very accurate representations not only of advertising technique from various eras but also offer great cultural insights. That said, I'm not sure I like them enough to want to spend money to buy and collect them. But apparently some people do.
Recognizing that wit the Internet there is a market for virtually everything, the people who run AdClassics.com are ready to sell you ad pages from old magazines. Seriously.
I have to give this seller credit, though. They do see a market. For example, they target people who own or just love old automobiles. From their web site...
Vintage ads offer a fascinating glimpse of history and represent the archival documents of our consumer driven society. If you own a vintage or show vehicle, a print of its original publicity advertisement is the finishing touch to your investment.
Ready to frame or laminate, our authentic classic car ads provide a unique decor to your home, business or showroom. All our ads are guaranteed authentic, carefully cropped from original publications. Our collection consists of over 1,000,000+ vintage ads so visit often to view our constantly updated selection. Click here to view all our ads.
It seems like they really do have an extensive inventory of car ads. They even have one for the obscure Datsun F10 coupe (1976)... the car my parents got for me when I was a high school senior. Yeah, I was stylin'...
But they have more than cars. For around $20, you too can own gems like these...
I have to wonder about this Marlboro ad. Does this guy look happy? It looks like he's holding a martini glass in his hand. A little gin, a cigarette, and the look of regret... hmmm... interesting lifestyle emulation. Oh, yeah: nice tattoo. (1957)
I kind of doubt I'd ever spend money on any old ads. But I could spend a lot of time just looking through the archives on this site.
[cross-posted on my course blog, J646 Overtime]
Always the multi-tasker, I was looking at my MacBookPro whiie simultaneously presiding over the monthly meeting of our local library's board of trustees. For reasons totally random, I opened Firefox and clicked on the Daily Kos bookmark. It was on DK, of all things, that I lerned Steve Jobs had died.
Knowing I would be admitting to the rest of the people in the meeting that I was not looking at library circulation spreadsheets, but rather was surfing the internet, still I felt I had to say something.
"This has nothing to do with anything, but Steve Jobs died."
It brought the meeting to a halt.
After a little bit of Apple talk, the meeting resumed, and I went back to multi-tasking. Google+ was alive with thoughts about Jobs and expressions of sadness. My Twitter feed was ripping by, and I noticed a lot of these: . Once I remembered how to find the (shift+option+k) I tweeted :(
Steve Jobs died. Fuck. The meeting dragged on, and I found myself thinking of how many hundreds of millions of lives this man had impacted. How much this this guy impacted my life. (Not to mention how much money he cost me. All worth it.)
I just did a quick mental inventory of Apple stuff at our house:
A MacBook.
Two MacBookPros.
Two iPod Nanos.
An original 64GB version iPod Video.
An original iPhone.
An iPhone 4.
An original iPad.
Two Airport Extremes.
One Airport Express.
Additionally...
I leave the house most every day with a MacBookPro, an iPad and an iPhone.
My iPhone spends the night on my nightstand.
I have over 36 days of music stored on iTunes.
My email address ends in @mac.com
I subscribe to MacWorld, MacLife and iPhoneLife (really)
Yes, I suppose one could describe me as a fanboy. But a more accurate description would be that I am someone who appreciates the confluence of form, function, style, quality, integration, innovation, imagination and magic that is found in nearly every Apple product. Simple as that.
It's more than fair to say that Steve Jobs had and will continue to have an impact on my life.
Godspeed, Steve Jobs.
