"No owner or operator of a restaurant in this state shall use salt in any form in the preparation of any food for consumption by customers of such restaurant, including food prepared to be consumed on the premises of such restaurant or off of such premises." From A 10129, introduced by NY Assemblyman Felix Ortiz, D-Brooklyn.
http://www.myfoxny.com/dpp/news/local_news/new_york_state/chefs-call-proposed-new-york-salt-ban-absurd-20100310-akd
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
What wind will do
BUFF lost stabilizer; pilot landed 6 hours later
http://www.talkingproud.us/HistoryB52NoTail.html
http://www.talkingproud.us/HistoryB52NoTail.html
Flying dogs with exploding shoes?
“And last week the stupidity made yet another lunge into the fabric of society with the news that government ministers were considering new laws that would force everyone to take a test before they were allowed to keep a dog.”
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/jeremy_clarkson/article7052392.ece
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/jeremy_clarkson/article7052392.ece
If I had the money...
... and a passport ...
Monino aircraft museum near Moscow.
http://www.richard-seaman.com/Aircraft/Museums/Monino/Highlights/index.html
Monino aircraft museum near Moscow.
http://www.richard-seaman.com/Aircraft/Museums/Monino/Highlights/index.html
Friday, March 5, 2010
It’s the government’s year, and you can’t have it
Just one of those things from the Olde Country, where games of international nature are scheduled for 2012.
London Olympic Games and Paralympic Games Act 2006
1 (1) There shall be a right, to be known as the London Olympics association right, which shall confer exclusive rights in relation to the use of any representation (of any kind)...
For the purpose of considering whether a person has infringed the London Olympics association right a court may, in particular, take account of his use of a combination of expressions of a kind specified in sub-paragraph (2).
(2) The combinations referred to in sub-paragraph (1) are combinations of-
(a) any of the expressions in the first group, with
(b) any of the expressions in the second group or any of the other expressions in the first group.
(3) The following expressions form the first group for the purposes of sub-paragraph (2)-
(a) "games",
(b) "Two Thousand and Twelve",
(c) "2012", and
(d) "twenty twelve".
(1) A constable or enforcement officer may-
(a) enter land or premises on which they reasonably believe a contravention of regulations under section 19 is occurring (whether by reason of advertising on that land or premises or by the use of that land or premises to cause an advertisement to appear elsewhere);
(b) remove, destroy, conceal or erase any infringing article;
(c) when entering land under paragraph (a), be accompanied by one or more persons for the purpose of taking action under paragraph (b);
(d) use, or authorise the use of, reasonable force for the purpose of taking action under this subsection.....
http://rpc.blogrolling.com/redirect.php?r=791a8d0a86a2346a98a1cc10deebbf94&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.anenglishmanscastle.com
Sooo ... no advertising may use 2012 or games or twenty-twelve, and law enforcement types may enter premises or land if seeing such and destroy the words, letters, etc.
London Olympic Games and Paralympic Games Act 2006
1 (1) There shall be a right, to be known as the London Olympics association right, which shall confer exclusive rights in relation to the use of any representation (of any kind)...
For the purpose of considering whether a person has infringed the London Olympics association right a court may, in particular, take account of his use of a combination of expressions of a kind specified in sub-paragraph (2).
(2) The combinations referred to in sub-paragraph (1) are combinations of-
(a) any of the expressions in the first group, with
(b) any of the expressions in the second group or any of the other expressions in the first group.
(3) The following expressions form the first group for the purposes of sub-paragraph (2)-
(a) "games",
(b) "Two Thousand and Twelve",
(c) "2012", and
(d) "twenty twelve".
(1) A constable or enforcement officer may-
(a) enter land or premises on which they reasonably believe a contravention of regulations under section 19 is occurring (whether by reason of advertising on that land or premises or by the use of that land or premises to cause an advertisement to appear elsewhere);
(b) remove, destroy, conceal or erase any infringing article;
(c) when entering land under paragraph (a), be accompanied by one or more persons for the purpose of taking action under paragraph (b);
(d) use, or authorise the use of, reasonable force for the purpose of taking action under this subsection.....
http://rpc.blogrolling.com/redirect.php?r=791a8d0a86a2346a98a1cc10deebbf94&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.anenglishmanscastle.com
Sooo ... no advertising may use 2012 or games or twenty-twelve, and law enforcement types may enter premises or land if seeing such and destroy the words, letters, etc.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Genetics and burned toast
I burned breakfast toast on Monday. My lack of concentration was the fault of my hunter-gatherer waybacks.
Here’s how it happened:
I put the oven on “Broil” and two pieces of (not real) buttered whole wheat bread on the top rack. (Cylla used to say my method of making toast got the oven messy, what with the crumbs dropping down and all. She makes toast by setting oven temperature at 350 and then putting bread on a cookie sheet and the sheet in the oven. I figure my method is quicker and uses less electricity, even after using the “Clean Oven” setting once a month … When I remember.)
I went to the laundry room to see if the washer still contained (not my) clothes. It did not. So, I put in soap and started the water running. Just about the time I would have begun adding clothes, I remembered: Toast.
Well, shucks, I said. I went back to the kitchen just as the first smoke began seeping from the oven door and just as the smoke alarm went off. “Weeeeeeeee” at a pitch high enough the dogs came to see what the man had done this time.
The toast was black. Like a tire black. After taking the burnt offering from the oven, I turned on the stove ventilator and then opened two windows. Air began coming in from the outside, so I upped the thermostat to get air blowing in the opposite direction. All this time, the smoke alarm continued “Weeeeeeeeee!”
I went back to the laundry room and put clothes in the washer and then returned to the kitchen and (not real) buttered two more pieces of bread and stood beside the stove and turned the toast at the proper time.
I mentioned all that to Cylla. She said, “I took my clothes out of the laundry last night.”
I said, “I didn’t know.”
She said, “I walked right past you. I guess you were ignoring me.”
“No,” I said, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was probably watching TV, and my single-focus male mind did not hear or see anything else.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“Really,” I said. “A man has a single-focus mind. Leave cave, kill caribou. Or buffalo.”
The difference between men and women is not the Mars-Venus thing, but hunter vs. cave keeper. Buying vs. shopping.
Think about it. A group of men leaves the cave to shoot some food. The men go to a place where they’ve found food animals before. The group uses strategy and tactics and kills a food animal. The group does all the butchering and cutting up and takes the food back to the cave.
If women had been the primary hunters, we might not be here. Someone in the women’s group would have said, “We went to the north valley last time. Let’s see what’s in the south valley.” And the other women would have said, “Cool,” or something similar.
In the south valley, maybe the women spotted a food animal. But before the launching of the spears, one woman would have said, “That’s a food animal, but maybe we can find a bigger one farther on. Besides, that hide doesn’t go with the décor of the cave.” And the other women would say, “Cool.”
It’s single focus vs. multi-tasking. Man hunts. Woman keeps the cave clean, makes sure no little cave people fall in the fire, keeps the water skins full, sweeps out the place now and then, maybe picks some yellow flowers for certain niches in the rock.
Simple.
Maybe I should buy a toaster.
Here’s how it happened:
I put the oven on “Broil” and two pieces of (not real) buttered whole wheat bread on the top rack. (Cylla used to say my method of making toast got the oven messy, what with the crumbs dropping down and all. She makes toast by setting oven temperature at 350 and then putting bread on a cookie sheet and the sheet in the oven. I figure my method is quicker and uses less electricity, even after using the “Clean Oven” setting once a month … When I remember.)
I went to the laundry room to see if the washer still contained (not my) clothes. It did not. So, I put in soap and started the water running. Just about the time I would have begun adding clothes, I remembered: Toast.
Well, shucks, I said. I went back to the kitchen just as the first smoke began seeping from the oven door and just as the smoke alarm went off. “Weeeeeeeee” at a pitch high enough the dogs came to see what the man had done this time.
The toast was black. Like a tire black. After taking the burnt offering from the oven, I turned on the stove ventilator and then opened two windows. Air began coming in from the outside, so I upped the thermostat to get air blowing in the opposite direction. All this time, the smoke alarm continued “Weeeeeeeeee!”
I went back to the laundry room and put clothes in the washer and then returned to the kitchen and (not real) buttered two more pieces of bread and stood beside the stove and turned the toast at the proper time.
I mentioned all that to Cylla. She said, “I took my clothes out of the laundry last night.”
I said, “I didn’t know.”
She said, “I walked right past you. I guess you were ignoring me.”
“No,” I said, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was probably watching TV, and my single-focus male mind did not hear or see anything else.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“Really,” I said. “A man has a single-focus mind. Leave cave, kill caribou. Or buffalo.”
The difference between men and women is not the Mars-Venus thing, but hunter vs. cave keeper. Buying vs. shopping.
Think about it. A group of men leaves the cave to shoot some food. The men go to a place where they’ve found food animals before. The group uses strategy and tactics and kills a food animal. The group does all the butchering and cutting up and takes the food back to the cave.
If women had been the primary hunters, we might not be here. Someone in the women’s group would have said, “We went to the north valley last time. Let’s see what’s in the south valley.” And the other women would have said, “Cool,” or something similar.
In the south valley, maybe the women spotted a food animal. But before the launching of the spears, one woman would have said, “That’s a food animal, but maybe we can find a bigger one farther on. Besides, that hide doesn’t go with the décor of the cave.” And the other women would say, “Cool.”
It’s single focus vs. multi-tasking. Man hunts. Woman keeps the cave clean, makes sure no little cave people fall in the fire, keeps the water skins full, sweeps out the place now and then, maybe picks some yellow flowers for certain niches in the rock.
Simple.
Maybe I should buy a toaster.
Charley
Somebody said the superintendent’s house was on fire, so the five of us walked down the hill from school to watch it burn.
Larry, James, Jimmy and I were juniors that spring. Charley was the fifth member of our group. He was a sophomore, and we let him run around with us as long as he didn't do anything stupid.
The day was chilly. Larry, James, Jimmy and I had on coats; Charley wore a short-sleeved shirt. His family didn't have much. None of us did, but Charley's family had even less than the rest of us.
Charley's father was a pulp wood cutter. Charley's family lived back in the woods, the deep woods, down a dirt road somewhere.
Charley was a bright kid, quick and intelligent. Everybody has known a kid like Charley, known that somewhere behind those quick remarks and comic attitude was an ability to do more than he did. Charley could have made excellent grades, but he chose not to. Teachers wouldn't have known what to do with him if he had. Besides, in Charley's life there was reality, then everything else. And the reality was that Charley was the son of a pulp wood cutter. Barring some great miracle, he would always be the son of a pulp wood cutter.
The superintendent's house was really burning by the time we got to the bottom of the hill. The fire had burned through the roof. The five of us just stood around for a minute or so, watching the house burn. Then Charley said, "Maybe we can save some of their stuff," and before we could stop him, Charley opened a window and crawled inside the burning house.
Larry and I stood beside the window. Jimmy yelled, “Charley, get out of there!” Jimmy’s comment was more of a social order than a concern for Charley’s safety. Jimmy’s mother was a teacher, and if she was somewhere lower than the superintendent in societal pecking order, Charley wasn’t in the same town, let alone in the same neighborhood.
James didn’t say anything, nor did he join Larry and me at the window; he just hung back, waiting to see how things developed.
Charley appeared from the smoke and handed a coffee table through the window. He went back into the smoke. Pretty soon we had a pile of chairs, small tables and books stacked beside a pecan tree.
Charley had just started on a closet when the fireman arrived. The school was between two towns, each four miles away, and it took the volunteer fireman a little while to get there. Charley was handing out a pile of clothes when one of the firemen ran up to us yelling. "What do you boys think your doing? You're giving the fire more oxygen! Shut that window!" Grownups knew more than us kids, so we got Charley out of the house, shut the window and watched the fireman spray water on the house.
After the fire was out, we went inside the house. Everything was burned; nothing usable was left. We went back outside.
The basketball coach came up and said, "I hear you boys saved a lot of stuff from the house." One of us said, "Yes sir, but it was Charley's idea. He went inside. All we did was take what he handed out the window."
The coach turned to Charley, who stood there with his hands in his pockets. The day had turned colder. Charley was shivering. The coach said, "You look cold. Where's your coat?" Charley replied, "I don't have it with me." The coach just nodded. He said, "You did a good job. I think you've done enough for today. Why don't I drive you home." Charley said, "It's only one o'clock." The coach laughed. "I know. But I don't think the superintendent will mind."
No one at school ever said anything about what Charley did that day.
Larry, James, Jimmy and I graduated the next year. Larry went to work for a telephone company. In September, James and Jimmy went off to college. I joined the Army.
In August 1967 I met up with Larry at Camp Martin Cox in Bear Cat, base camp of the 9th Infantry Division. Larry had been drafted in 1966. We sat around in his hooch for a while, drank beer, talked about people back home.
After I got back home, I learned that James had graduated from college and had a job with NASA in Houston. I ran into Jimmy at a high school football game in 1970. He had put on a few pounds, didn't look like the all-district tackle from high school. Jimmy was married, had a kid, taught at a junior high. Jimmy said, “You were in Vietnam.” I wore my field jacket, with the CIB and Blackhorse patch. I said I was. Jimmy said, “Were doing the right thing in Vietnam. We’ve got to stop the Communists somewhere. But I've got a wife and kid, Bob. I can't become involved in a war thousands of miles from home." I left the stadium.
That takes care of everybody but Charley.
See, the thing is, Charley didn't have to go in that burning house. He could have been just like the rest of us, stayed outside and watched it burn. But Charley wasn't like that. Peoples' things would be lost if somebody didn't do something. And although Charley had absolutely nothing in common with the superintendent, he went inside the burning house. Charley knew what had to be done, what he had to do. “Maybe we can save some of their stuff.”
In 1965, Charley enlisted in the Army. He went to Vietnam and he died there.
In April 1988, I was in Dallas on Army business. I went to Fair Park. There's a monument there, lists the names of Texans who died in Vietnam. There were a few names I wanted to see; one in particular. I found him.
COLLIER, CHARLES HOLTON
9 MARCH 1947-15 NOVEMBER 1965
I never knew Charley's middle name.
Larry, James, Jimmy and I were juniors that spring. Charley was the fifth member of our group. He was a sophomore, and we let him run around with us as long as he didn't do anything stupid.
The day was chilly. Larry, James, Jimmy and I had on coats; Charley wore a short-sleeved shirt. His family didn't have much. None of us did, but Charley's family had even less than the rest of us.
Charley's father was a pulp wood cutter. Charley's family lived back in the woods, the deep woods, down a dirt road somewhere.
Charley was a bright kid, quick and intelligent. Everybody has known a kid like Charley, known that somewhere behind those quick remarks and comic attitude was an ability to do more than he did. Charley could have made excellent grades, but he chose not to. Teachers wouldn't have known what to do with him if he had. Besides, in Charley's life there was reality, then everything else. And the reality was that Charley was the son of a pulp wood cutter. Barring some great miracle, he would always be the son of a pulp wood cutter.
The superintendent's house was really burning by the time we got to the bottom of the hill. The fire had burned through the roof. The five of us just stood around for a minute or so, watching the house burn. Then Charley said, "Maybe we can save some of their stuff," and before we could stop him, Charley opened a window and crawled inside the burning house.
Larry and I stood beside the window. Jimmy yelled, “Charley, get out of there!” Jimmy’s comment was more of a social order than a concern for Charley’s safety. Jimmy’s mother was a teacher, and if she was somewhere lower than the superintendent in societal pecking order, Charley wasn’t in the same town, let alone in the same neighborhood.
James didn’t say anything, nor did he join Larry and me at the window; he just hung back, waiting to see how things developed.
Charley appeared from the smoke and handed a coffee table through the window. He went back into the smoke. Pretty soon we had a pile of chairs, small tables and books stacked beside a pecan tree.
Charley had just started on a closet when the fireman arrived. The school was between two towns, each four miles away, and it took the volunteer fireman a little while to get there. Charley was handing out a pile of clothes when one of the firemen ran up to us yelling. "What do you boys think your doing? You're giving the fire more oxygen! Shut that window!" Grownups knew more than us kids, so we got Charley out of the house, shut the window and watched the fireman spray water on the house.
After the fire was out, we went inside the house. Everything was burned; nothing usable was left. We went back outside.
The basketball coach came up and said, "I hear you boys saved a lot of stuff from the house." One of us said, "Yes sir, but it was Charley's idea. He went inside. All we did was take what he handed out the window."
The coach turned to Charley, who stood there with his hands in his pockets. The day had turned colder. Charley was shivering. The coach said, "You look cold. Where's your coat?" Charley replied, "I don't have it with me." The coach just nodded. He said, "You did a good job. I think you've done enough for today. Why don't I drive you home." Charley said, "It's only one o'clock." The coach laughed. "I know. But I don't think the superintendent will mind."
No one at school ever said anything about what Charley did that day.
Larry, James, Jimmy and I graduated the next year. Larry went to work for a telephone company. In September, James and Jimmy went off to college. I joined the Army.
In August 1967 I met up with Larry at Camp Martin Cox in Bear Cat, base camp of the 9th Infantry Division. Larry had been drafted in 1966. We sat around in his hooch for a while, drank beer, talked about people back home.
After I got back home, I learned that James had graduated from college and had a job with NASA in Houston. I ran into Jimmy at a high school football game in 1970. He had put on a few pounds, didn't look like the all-district tackle from high school. Jimmy was married, had a kid, taught at a junior high. Jimmy said, “You were in Vietnam.” I wore my field jacket, with the CIB and Blackhorse patch. I said I was. Jimmy said, “Were doing the right thing in Vietnam. We’ve got to stop the Communists somewhere. But I've got a wife and kid, Bob. I can't become involved in a war thousands of miles from home." I left the stadium.
That takes care of everybody but Charley.
See, the thing is, Charley didn't have to go in that burning house. He could have been just like the rest of us, stayed outside and watched it burn. But Charley wasn't like that. Peoples' things would be lost if somebody didn't do something. And although Charley had absolutely nothing in common with the superintendent, he went inside the burning house. Charley knew what had to be done, what he had to do. “Maybe we can save some of their stuff.”
In 1965, Charley enlisted in the Army. He went to Vietnam and he died there.
In April 1988, I was in Dallas on Army business. I went to Fair Park. There's a monument there, lists the names of Texans who died in Vietnam. There were a few names I wanted to see; one in particular. I found him.
COLLIER, CHARLES HOLTON
9 MARCH 1947-15 NOVEMBER 1965
I never knew Charley's middle name.
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