"Millennium," yes; "pandemonium"!
Roy Campanella leaps high. Dodgerdom
crowned, had Johnny Podres on the mound.
- Marianne Moore, "Hometown Piece for Messrs Alston and Reese"
I've told before how and why the Brooklyn Dodgers became my first love in baseball, and that 1955 was my first remembered and defining World Series. So it's with particular sorrow that I read that Johnny Podres, winner of game seven of that Series, and of the Dodgers' first championship, and that over the hated Yankees, died today at seventy-five.
I'm glad, however, to see that Johnny's fellow pitcher from the '55 team, Don Newcombe, still lives, along with teammate Tommy Lasorda and former Dodger GM Buzzie Bavasi.
Update: Arch says Bob Gibson is for him what Podres was for me. I couldn't find a poem about Gibson, but I did find another blog with a link to an MP3 of my favorite baseball writer, Roger Angell, talking about Gibson. Anyway, Arch, I've got to admit: Gibson was simply the greatest pitcher of his era, and probably one of the five or so best of all time. Oh, yeah, and as I've said before, if I had to pick a team purely on aesthetics, the Cards would be my choice.
Original, over-exposed image from iSight camera in MacBook Pro:
Imaged sharpened and darkened by me in iPhoto:
Image tweaked by my brother in Photoshop (15 mins work):
I've been married to a flat iron for a few years now, but yesterday my stylist finally showed me what to do with my hair's natural curl. Wheee!
As a child I always looked forward to my father going deer hunting because it meant that I'd get to sleep with my Mom. There were four of us children but I was the lucky one who was given the honor of sleeping with Mama. She said she liked sleeping with me because I kept still when I slept and I was the best goochier [her term for cuddling]. When we would get into bed she'd say, "scoot over here, honey and let's goochie up." She would wrap her arms around me and I could feel her smell my hair and sigh. There was no better feeling in the world to my little girl's heart.
cold winter night
wrapped in
warmth and love
Walking out the door he says "we'll go at noon...I'll give you a call." I jump up and start getting dressed so I'll be ready when he calls. The dog gets excited because he senses we are getting out of the house today. Noon comes and goes...no call. I carry the phone around with me everywhere I go so I will not miss his call. 1:00, 2:00, 3:00...still no call. Thirty eight years of waiting for calls that will not come. One day I will learn his word means nothing.
icy wind
raking desolate fields
bitterness
Heavenly Haiku
Construction begins on Olympic Village.
I took this picture yesterday, looking west from Science World.
I have to admit I enjoy having "Benjamin" who hijacked fond adversaria, around.
He arrives with bland advice about food that I can't imagine anyone reading through. He asks for nothing, demands nothing, does not engage.
He doesn't know us, knows that we don't know him, but he writes in the first person about his personal preferences and reommendations. In his water post, he takes care to remind us not to substiture his advice for that of a doctor, and disclaims liability.
So far, we have been treated to his thoughts on coffee, radiation, water, and chocolate. What will be next. How will my diet change next week in response to his latest advice.
I wait....
This is my body, which is given up for you; do this in remembrance of me.
1 Corinthians 11:24
"A special team investigating the cases," reported the New York Times on Saturday, November 23, 2002, "arrived and found body parts in a freezer, as well as purses and other personal effects later linked to the missing.
Not one body has been found intact, and a wood chipper and Mr. Pickton's pigs are believed to have devoured much of the evidence."*
"The prosecution played a videotape in court of a conversation Mr. Pickton had with his cellmate after he was arrested on Feb. 22, 2002. Mr. Pickton did not know his cellmate was an undercover police officer. Mr. Pickton's cellmate, who said he is in jail on an attempted-murder charge, tells Mr. Pickton the best way to dispose of something is to take it to the ocean.
"I did better than that," Mr. Pickton says. "A rendering plant." * *
Lipstick, soap, animal feed, meat.
"It wasn't just the guests of Piggy's Palace who consumed Pickton's pigs. The unusable remains of the pigs Robert slaughtered and served to his friends and neighbors--pig entrails, brains, bones, nerve tissue, and gore--were taken by truck to a rendering plant near the DES called West Coast Reduction Ltd. Many are certain that the partial remains of the murdered sex workers were also trucked to West Coast Reduction Ltd." *
“[He said] that thousands of people had been to the place [“Piggy Palace”], and, though he had enjoyed some roasted pork, was certain it did not come from 953 Dominion Avenue, that is, from pigs that had been eating the women murdered on the Pickton farm.” *
"As well as beauty products, rendering plants also make food for farm animals that humans consume."
"[P]olice raided the farm in 2002, the property had become a horrific graveyard. Police testified they found Mr. Pickton's trailer strewn with women's clothing, makeup, sex toys, syringes and duct tape. "* *
Crack Whore Confessions in-depth review:
"The page is laid out just like the tour so you know exactly what you’ll be seeing. There is a row of links on top and then the thumbnailed pictures of all the crack heads that he has interviewed and banged . . . There are 73 current crack whores in Crack Whore Confessions. Cracker Jack updates weekly so there is always a new slut to see and hear . . . The videos are amazing. They are so in your face real that you’ll be sitting on the edge of your seat listening to these sluts discuss openly the horrible past that they have lived though . . . every one of these crack whore’s has a story to tell and each is more shocking then the next. It is no wonder these sluts turned to crack as an outlet . . . The videos are all in .wmv format. You can also save the ones you liked the best on your harddrive for watching later. The clarity is good and so is the sound. You almost feel like you are Cracker Jack."
In this brothel called America
She is on the blue path walks against the dawn
White powder her cursed solace
Thievery and lies her language
Needle her core
No judgment in this lake of fire
She is far away as stars
Her eyes small winters of death
Pray for her
She can’t keep warm without this spoon
Takes us on a journey of defeat
Her arms black with scars
Path which comes to silence and stays
Split in the lightning of red and white
Pierced with love for women
She falls to her knees hoarsely cries
I cannot live without oblivion
Pray for her
Let our voices lead her to another way
Pray with all our spirits
Lead her stumbling bruised ashamed
Away from this dark drowning in white
Stars give her strength
Sun turn her eyes
Moon guide her feet
Earth turning hold her
We pray for her
We sing for her
We drum for her
We pray
—Chrystos, 1988
Pickton convicted on six counts of second degree murder.
