Harry on air?

The highlight of Harry's week is the Wednesday afternoon meeting at the newspaper, where the stories for the next week are discussed and assigned. The quirkiest are always reserved for him.

Next week Harry will be eligible to start collecting social security. Has he gone down to the Social Security Office to sign up? No! He is too busy chasing after a French Canadian film crew doing a documentary on clowns on lawnmowers, or laying on his back photographing the GM of the local radio station with as much of a 500 foot antenna he can fit into the frame.

The station manager is thinking of having the newspaper reporters do 2 – 3 minutes on their stories for the week. Is this right up Harry’s alley, or what! Harry has an idea too: How about letting the reporters slip into first person/present tense on the radio?

Harry on air: So there I am following the crew of six, all wired together as one. Remember the tortoise shell formation form Julius Caesar in high school Latin? The clown is already mowing in the backyard. We start across the front lawn, filming all the way. Suddenly the front door flies open and a woman steps out. “May I help you?” she says.

Suffice it to say that Harry is having the time of his life. If only his body were a bit more flexible…

Photos from our Asia trip

On May 11, 2006, Harry and Mona embarked on a three week trip to the Far East. Harry has posted hundreds of photos on two Fotki sites. To see them, just click on the links below:

Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, a few from Beijing

Beijing

I recommend that you use the "slideshow" option for viewing the photographs.

Cosmic Uncertainty

There are certain things we can always rely on. The sky is up, the earth is down. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The moon, in its many phases, passes across the night sky. Even when it’s cloudy, we know it's there. There are nine planets circling the sun, always in a certain order.

Then the astronomers tell us that Pluto and Uranus have swapped orbits. A year or so later, they tell us that Pluto isn’t even a planet. I watch a TV show on seven ways all life on Earth can come to an end. If the sun even so much as flickers like a candle in a drafty room, all of human history will be no more than the lifecycle of a fruit fly.

I once wanted to be a novelist like Hemingway, a writer for the ages. But how will any of that matter, if eight feet of ash settles over us all, or we are flushed down a swirling black hole?

So we do what we can, find a little love, make someone laugh, try not to think about it too much. I have a blog with a potential of 50 million readers that no one visits. I write for a small town weekly with a circulation of 2000. That’s enough for me. Someday in some cosmic wormhole, Hemingway’s vapors will be mixed with mine.