unless you can carry it away with your teeth…
and “hide” in the trees….
unless you can carry it away with your teeth…
and “hide” in the trees….
out in the forest…here in an out of the way part of America..
sure now there probably was a building here at one time, but what were they doing organizing these large stones in such a way. Were they fans of Stonehenge? Or, was there a barn here?
what do you think?
for a tiger…
for a brown bear….
for a leopard…
and even for a bobcat…
but someone had to stay awake…to watch out for any monkey business…
In the course of human events, the ancient world was rife with conflicting schedules for the unit we call “the week,” from five days to ten days, with some societies choosing alternating numbers of days in the week to balance the year. In the so-called “West,” it was a Roman Emperor, Constantine, who endowed us with a much more reliable measurement, standardizing the week into seven days….which, of course, made him look like a super genius. Constantine, who appears to have been a wee bit of a super narcissist, stole the idea from the ancient Hebrews, Babylonians, and other empires….and God.
The average man or woman in 322AD, in the area influenced by the Roman Empire, went to work on “A” and might go shopping on “H.” The Romans were less original with their days of the week than just about any other civilization ever to wake up from a bed in the morning. This might explain why there were so many murders among the imperial family, who must have taken the blame for not exciting workers into more production on “Day E,” and for the shopping day fiasco “Black F,” our predecessor to “Black Flag,” which is always a nasty surprise to insects, infidels, and 16 year old Snowflakes…
And while everyone- including the Hobbits, elves, unicorns, My Little Ponies, Democrats and Cybermen- could rationally argue which day Christ was born in Bethlehem, and which calendar should be consulted for that….and which day is the true seventh day…and which element should be used to calculate when a day is officially over…and which calendar is the most accurate for predicting the end of the world…there is enough history revealing how corrupted and inaccurate ancient time-keeping was that it is simply a waste of time in the end.
What does not make sense is that the names used for the days of the week in much of the western world is still attached to long forgotten pagan mythology that makes little sense to use in the 21st century. And while there have been mostly forgotten attempts, like those by Pope Sylvester, to change the names to more reasonable and useful references, none has shaken, nor officially changed the days of the Western World.
Strangely enough, Sunday, the first day of the week now, is closest to some semblance of usefulness. Sunday, like Son-Day, the day celebrated as the day when Christ rose from the grave, at least makes a bit of sense. Monday, on the other hand, sounds like “Mun-day,” the Day of The Mundane.
Many of us have to get up early and go to work on this Monday, Mundane Day, not nearly as happy as Son-Day, because it is most likely to be the least exciting day of the week. Hence, it is more appropriate to rename it “Munday,” short for “Mundane Day.”
Tuesday…well, who knows what in the world that refers to, other than it is “Twos Day.” On Twos Days, we know that it is the second day of the standard Western workweek, still so far from the weekend. Twos Days are good days for Two For One specials because we…those of us who must take time to stop into a restaurant to eat our meals while working in our fields…are more likely to succumb to this two-for-one deal as it is early in the week, and we are still hungry from the terrible day we had on Munday (Mundane Day).
The third Day of the week, sometimes called Hump Day, which is not helpful for the chronically single, is Wednesday, which makes absolutely no sense. No one I know says “Wed-ness.” Can I get a Wed-ness that it is Wed-ness-day? Wind, yes. Winds-day- that I hear all the time. Of course, this Winds-Day is the day when it can go either way- good or bad- being the third day of the work week, and the day when you do not know which way the wind blows, nor which way the week will blow…
The fourth day of the week is Thursday, or “Turzday.” I prefer those who pronounce it in the latter form, as it reminds me of just how frustrating the day can be. Turz is like Turds, and while it is not Friday, you can certainly smell it from here…
Back in the day, I remember the lads talking about “getting fried.” Well, if you have a really terrific job, you don’t have such pathetic days. But if your job is a pile of Turds, Fry-day is the day you either eat all the fried chicken, chickfry (deep fried breaded anything fried in the same grease as fried fish), or some other ghastly grease-enriched gastrointestinal adventure…or….because your brain is so “fried,”you need to go do something stupid like watch every season of Deep Space Nine until your eyeballs bug out, or you collapse like a three-toed sloth on the bedroom floor…
And then, there is Saturday. What can you say about Saturday? Nothing bad, surely. It is a good day to relax from all the hectic work days. Some of us do have to work on Saturdays, but even then, there is something uniquely pleasing about Saturday that says to us that it is a good day to sit at some time. So, Saturday is not too far off from Sat-ur-day, or sit down and do nothing so stressful as what was done the previous five days. But then again, some of us do not have this freedom.
And that is a shame. There should be some kind of freedom to call a day what you will, as long as somebody out there relates to the idea. So, Turds Day might be more popular in Ireland than in the USA, where it is more like to be The Day After Hump Day, or Humpless Day, which is not good for just about anyone.
While there is currently no mass movement to change the names of the days of the week…this post should inspire you to come up with your own ideas for new names for the days of the week. After all, how long is the western world going to be writing “Wednesday,” when practically nobody pronounces it that way?
My Blog Speaks, on His 5th Birthday…
“Momma says I am a Big Boy now and I should go clean my room. It is my birthday. I am five years old. I don’t want to clean my room. If I clean my room I won’t be able to find my toys. Momma says I can have cake- if I clean my room. Will you clean my room?”
But seriously folks…
If my blog was a child, he would be a rather precocious five year old. Today is his birthday, so it is a really, really special day for him. It is one of the days you might even remember when you are 86 years old and all you can remember about being five is your kitty cat birthday cake with the gum drop eyes, nose, and mouth. But blogs are not people…you have to re-post, quote, feature, or summarize a post to bring back a blog memory.
Some of your favorite posts (apart from Google’s obsession with Mister Fritter) came when I was living deep in the mountains, and had serious snow days to compose posts at odd hours like 11:30PM or 2 AM when I could not sleep because the wind was howling outside the windows and doors of my little house…and no one would be at work in the morning because no one was going anywhere in 6…to…36 inches of snow.
It was a particularly healing time for me in my life, even though I was isolated, and quite possibly because I was so isolated. Pouring out thoughts a few fingers at a time, at all hours of the day and night, can be refreshing to the spirit.
It began with a memory I had of climbing one of Ireland’s highest mountains in County Kerry with my cousins…ending with our Cork cousin leading the party out of a fog so thick I felt blinded and therefore lost…but the Corkman did not lead us astray, and we were back in a pub later, me at the crisps, and the other lads at the beer…but a rather humorous journey because we had been humoring him about the possibility of the white mist coming down and how he’d be lost and everything…and sure, we’d lead him out of there all right…
and so The Lost Kerryman (at wordpress) was born. and I determined to bring to it a bit of that same humor that has prevailed in my family. along the way, I discovered some special friends on wordpress, kindred spirits, most of whom have gone on to another plane of communication that does not include wordpress.
To them, and to you, my dear reader, I do appreciate your interest.
For those who have stuck by all these years, thank you. Some of you have inspired me to write similar posts, to explore similar subjects, or to boldly go where no blogger has gone before.
For those of you who have not known me, nor my blog, since I began….I thank you, and I ask you to share with me your thoughts about posts or the blog itself.
Looking forward to the next five years…
she’s a bit stiff around the edges….a bit pale, pasty, and tender…but I love her. her aroma sets her apart from the others. when I walk by, I cannot but stop and stare. she’s a looker, that’s for sure.
sure, she’s had her ups and downs. some says she’s a bit twisted. but I like her that way. she’s genuine, never pretentious.
I met her in a restaurant. I sat down, she sat down. we became acquainted. she was so inviting, I could not resist.
maybe I should not have invited her to sit at the table. maybe I should have behaved. but life is short, and sometimes you can miss love as it passes by.
but now I dream of her in the night, and sometimes, I can feel myself smiling at the thought…the two of us together again…until I wake up and realize she is gone forever…
Nearly 5 years ago…the first post
Winter in the mountains is not for wimps. It is for those, accustomed to indoor intellectual pursuit, who know how to weather a storm. Those with sense accumulate a magazine of loaded books and other low-tech learning materials. One might even say, they burrow in, content to hibernate inside, while the swirls of snow blow fiercely upon the face of the earth. And that would be just what we all normally prepare to do as winter’s icy fingers grasp the edges of our calendars…until this year.
For in the midst of solar flares from the sun, and global hot air inside various parliaments and congresses, winter failed to meet us…she ditched us for another date. Yes, she exhibited some signs of love, spitting flakes here and there, but nothing any wimp could not handle. You could say, she abandoned “tough love.” That was, until Friday night.
In the tradition of…
View original post 138 more words
When I met my wife- the original- she could cook a steak in a frying pan without adding butter or cooking oil. She simply lit the burner and watched the blue flames heat the skillet until the steak was nicely browned on both sides….the consistency of a shoe insert.
In my own endearing way, I expressed great pleasure with her inedible creations by shoving pieces under the table for her cat, while wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. It took me months before even revealing that I actually knew the secret to making an edible steak. Of course, this would come at a price- the price was that she would have to relinquish the job of chef if I was to share this wonderful revelation.
I do not recall her making me any more steaks…ever…
When she got pregnant with our first, she had a craving for steak. This is not necessarily a good thing for a struggling new husband, who worked like a dog for The Man….I mean, who labored for hours doing menial work that older men would not do. But, life was a bit more fair in those days when it came to getting a meal at a restaurant, especially one with a buffet.
One buffet was all the rage- all you can eat steak, with salad bar, for $4.99 a piece. These were not ordinary steaks, these were juicy ribeyes, sirloins, New York Strips, all cooked to perfection and brought to your table. The servers would explain in detail what each preparation method would entail…by showing us sample glossy photos of steaks with different strips of red, or no red at all, which must be adhered to, in order to get one’s steak.
The now familiar scale of rare, medium rare, medium, and so on was shown the customer, as if the customer were going to take a written test on the material after the meal. One could not, at that time, order a “lightly rare,” or “extremely well-done” steak. You could not “have it your way.” You could not order “a 4 inch wide red streak” in your steak or any other deviations from the photo list.
Now, some of those restaurants are closed…gone forever…and their salad bar heavens have gone the way of the Cabbage Patch Doll or the one-stringed ukulele from Odd Lots. Now, we have choices, so many choices. So many choices that one can create choices and claim they have always been choices. Like the choice to mate with furniture…or live life as a life-size Raggedy Ann Doll. So, it should not come as a surprise that food choice has entered a new frontier, where “rare” and “medium” are rarely mentioned, and new ideas of steak-readiness have invented a whole new series of phrases.
For, just like the newly discovered symptoms that appear from taking a newly advertised drug on TV, the newly prepared steak comes in a wide range of philosophically friendly cooking choices, from “lightly killed,” to “murdered in wine sauce.”
The pharmaceutical world, which rules the life of average American adults, has slipped into the food preparatory culture and brought us more than nine steak grades, from “Raw” to “Fatal.” The raw steak is organically pure with only Himalayan Pink Salt rubbed into the surface structure of the meat, while the “Fatal” is blackened on all sides, including the ends, to seal in the “taste of black death.” “Fatal” can be cooked with “Rare and Fatal Bleeding,” which is an episode that may or may not occur, if the steak is slashed at just the right angle. The purpose is to create “in cold blood” on a plate, an artistic arrangement of the finest charred yet rare steak to ever be created, mixing both ends of the flaming spectrum.
To say it will not be your father’s steak world is an understatement; refining the steak preparation philosophy to include such choices should create a niche of steak culture the world has never seen.
As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.
pardon my astonishment, but it never ceases to amaze me…when a woman I have known well…who, in her flowering youth, speaks boldly about what she will do in the world….seeking to escape the degradation she has endured….begins her post-adolescence running from job to job, and man to man, burning through them like fire through grass and leaves….like a fireball…destroying lives and the hopes and goals of others…until sometime after menopause, crash landing a few blocks away from where she started, a reflective lesson of a life wasted on selfish ambitions, only to collapse into a state of uselessness.
no woman…nor man…should land in middle age like that. if, after 50 years, you have no legacy of love that lasts, that changes lives for the better, that reflects your creator…what in the world is your purpose in life? i am appalled at how many people i meet…who could care less what happens to their children, their wives, or their husbands…who, in their selfishness see only their own flippant desires- which sometimes are the opposite of love, hope, and peace- as their gods, their reasons for existence.
you were not created to wallow in stupidity, nor to throw sense to the wind and live with no focus on what life is all about. Nor were you meant to love half-heartedly, wounding lives in the process, while claiming that you are the one having been injured. To live in such selfishness is to live like a dog who returns to his vomit…it lacks all reasonable sense.
I am not God, so I do not know if there is any more hope for her. I pray there is. But, it does appear that there comes a time when a selfish person is given over to what will destroy them, because their minds have been so warped that they literally rage against God.
So, while there is still daylight in this world, pray for….and confront those…headed down the road to destruction, that somehow they will come to their senses before it is too late.