Bush administration seeks $245B for wars AP - 2/2/07
WASHINGTON - The Bush administration will ask for another $100 billion for military and diplomatic operations in Iraq and Afghanistan this year and seek $145 billion for 2008, a senior administration official said Friday.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The rural life
(for Jim Harrison)
Well, I have fed the chickens,
and more than that.
I’ve cleaned the coop
and brought them warm
water on wintry days.
Come summer
I've carried them under my arm
to the neighbor’s place
to pick bugs from his yard,
while we sat on his porch
and shared cold beer
and long stories.
Well, I have fed the chickens,
and more than that.
I’ve cleaned the coop
and brought them warm
water on wintry days.
Come summer
I've carried them under my arm
to the neighbor’s place
to pick bugs from his yard,
while we sat on his porch
and shared cold beer
and long stories.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Smoke-free Ohio
Harry is doing a story on the "Smoke-free Ohio" legislation that just passed in the November election. His research requires him to visit all three bars in town to get owner, bartender, and customer reaction.
Harry enters the Gulch at dusk. It's happy hour and there are only two or three stools left at the bar. The air is blue with smoke. Virtually everyone at the bar has a cigarette going. The jukebox is blasting 70s rock. He sets his note pad on the bar and takes a stool next to a guy who could be Prince's little brother.
The bartender is a tall, well-built black woman with short hair. It only takes a minute or so to get her attention. Harry looks down the bar to see what others are drinking and orders a Bud Light. When she brings his bottle, he tells her why he is there. Her name is Debbie and she is willing to cooperate, but the place is busy and she runs off to get someone else a drink.
Harry feels a hand on his back. He is surprised when he turns to see that the man behind him is a stranger. The older man looks benign enough, so Harry relaxes.
"What's your name," the man asks.
Harry reacts like the New Yorker he is. "What's yours?"
He looks around to gauge the reaction in his immediate area. He senses nothing but goodwill.
"I'm Harry, Harry Kresge," he says, "and you?"
"John Pitstick. I don't know you, do I?" the man says. "Do you know me?"
"No I don't," Harry says. "But I know the Pitstick name - long-time farmers around here."
After the man confirms that he is indeed a part of that lineage, Harry tries to engage him in converstation about the upcoming smoking ban. But Pitstick only wants to talk about the Ohio State - Michigan game that was played a few weeks before. Harry finally gets it, when the man points to Harry's hat. It's red, with the letters "OH" in bold white relief. Pitstick finally tires of the conversation and returns to his seat.
The man on Harry's left asks him if he is a reporter. Harry says he is and asks the man his name, but he won't give it.
"Don't want anyone to know you were in a bar?" Harry asks.
The man readily admits to it. He also reveals that although he is a regular at the Gulch, he neither smokes nor drinks. Harry finally notices the Shirley Temple on the bar in front of him.
"Well then, what the hell are you doing here?" Harry asks.
"The women," the man says.
Debbie returns. She has a few minutes to talk. Although she herself does not smoke, she feels that secondhand smoke is not a problem for her.
"We have very good ventilation in here," she says, pointing to the large duct system directly above the bar. "The smoke never reaches me. And when I go home at night, my clothes and hair don't even smell of smoke."
She is convincing, but Harry is dubious. After some more intelligent insights, she spies some friends who have come in and are standing at the other end of the bar. She excuses herself.
Harry's bottle is only half empty. He considers leaving it, but that runs against a lifetime of beer drinking. He cautiously turns to the thin young black man on his right, who has been trying to get his attention all the while he was talking to Debbie.
"So you're a reporter, eh?" The young Prince seems friendly enough.
Harry has seen this guy around town before. His dreads, tight leather pants, and the long leather sheaths, tied with thongs, on each arm are memorable.
"Yeah, I'm doing a story about the new Smoke-free Ohio law."
The man hasn't heard about it, because he was in San Francisco during the election campaign.
"I don't really smoke, myself," he says. Then, looking at the cigarette in his hand, he adds, "Only when I'm in bars."
After a short rambling conversation, Harry finishes his beer and starts to excuse himself.
The man extends his hand. "My mother named me Eros," he says.
"I'm Harry. I have to go now," Kresge says and grabs his note pad.
It has gotten dark. The rain that started while he was in the bar is like a fine Irish lace on his face. Harry is glad for the fresh air. He feels as if he has shortened his life by the half-hour or so he spent in the Gulch.
As he comes to his car, he looks across the street at Peach's, thinks better of it, and goes home.
Harry enters the Gulch at dusk. It's happy hour and there are only two or three stools left at the bar. The air is blue with smoke. Virtually everyone at the bar has a cigarette going. The jukebox is blasting 70s rock. He sets his note pad on the bar and takes a stool next to a guy who could be Prince's little brother.
The bartender is a tall, well-built black woman with short hair. It only takes a minute or so to get her attention. Harry looks down the bar to see what others are drinking and orders a Bud Light. When she brings his bottle, he tells her why he is there. Her name is Debbie and she is willing to cooperate, but the place is busy and she runs off to get someone else a drink.
Harry feels a hand on his back. He is surprised when he turns to see that the man behind him is a stranger. The older man looks benign enough, so Harry relaxes.
"What's your name," the man asks.
Harry reacts like the New Yorker he is. "What's yours?"
He looks around to gauge the reaction in his immediate area. He senses nothing but goodwill.
"I'm Harry, Harry Kresge," he says, "and you?"
"John Pitstick. I don't know you, do I?" the man says. "Do you know me?"
"No I don't," Harry says. "But I know the Pitstick name - long-time farmers around here."
After the man confirms that he is indeed a part of that lineage, Harry tries to engage him in converstation about the upcoming smoking ban. But Pitstick only wants to talk about the Ohio State - Michigan game that was played a few weeks before. Harry finally gets it, when the man points to Harry's hat. It's red, with the letters "OH" in bold white relief. Pitstick finally tires of the conversation and returns to his seat.
The man on Harry's left asks him if he is a reporter. Harry says he is and asks the man his name, but he won't give it.
"Don't want anyone to know you were in a bar?" Harry asks.
The man readily admits to it. He also reveals that although he is a regular at the Gulch, he neither smokes nor drinks. Harry finally notices the Shirley Temple on the bar in front of him.
"Well then, what the hell are you doing here?" Harry asks.
"The women," the man says.
Debbie returns. She has a few minutes to talk. Although she herself does not smoke, she feels that secondhand smoke is not a problem for her.
"We have very good ventilation in here," she says, pointing to the large duct system directly above the bar. "The smoke never reaches me. And when I go home at night, my clothes and hair don't even smell of smoke."
She is convincing, but Harry is dubious. After some more intelligent insights, she spies some friends who have come in and are standing at the other end of the bar. She excuses herself.
Harry's bottle is only half empty. He considers leaving it, but that runs against a lifetime of beer drinking. He cautiously turns to the thin young black man on his right, who has been trying to get his attention all the while he was talking to Debbie.
"So you're a reporter, eh?" The young Prince seems friendly enough.
Harry has seen this guy around town before. His dreads, tight leather pants, and the long leather sheaths, tied with thongs, on each arm are memorable.
"Yeah, I'm doing a story about the new Smoke-free Ohio law."
The man hasn't heard about it, because he was in San Francisco during the election campaign.
"I don't really smoke, myself," he says. Then, looking at the cigarette in his hand, he adds, "Only when I'm in bars."
After a short rambling conversation, Harry finishes his beer and starts to excuse himself.
The man extends his hand. "My mother named me Eros," he says.
"I'm Harry. I have to go now," Kresge says and grabs his note pad.
It has gotten dark. The rain that started while he was in the bar is like a fine Irish lace on his face. Harry is glad for the fresh air. He feels as if he has shortened his life by the half-hour or so he spent in the Gulch.
As he comes to his car, he looks across the street at Peach's, thinks better of it, and goes home.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
This is the story of Allen Street Al
Harry Kresge and his friend Lazaro Rodillo watched as Allen Street Al loped off through the tall grass on Lazaro's farm. The groundhog stopped for a second to look back at them, then turned and ran off toward the road.
"I hope he doesn't get hit," Lazaro said.
"Yeah, me too," said Harry. "I kinda like the little fella. That's why I couldn't shoot him."
Harry had been trying to trap the young groundhog for weeks, but kept catching the same racoon. By the time he caught Al, the racoon was so tame that he would have to wake him up in order to get him out of the catch-and-release trap. First he had tried apples as bait, but raccoons love apples. The he tried cantaloupe, something he picked up from the internet. By the time he tried that, the trap wasn't working too good and Al ate the melon and left.
The bait that finally sealed Al's fate was chicken feed. He had become accustomed to going into the chicken coop and helping himself. The chickens didn't seem to mind. They would even stay in their boxes and lay, while he was dining. Harry would watch him from the house. Al was comfortable but cautious. He would take a few mouthfuls, then look out the door to see if anyone was coming. Whenever Harry would step out onto the back deck, Al would head for the bushes.
The problem was that Al had tunneled down next to the foundation of Harry's house. Harry tried several times to fill in the holes, but the next day they would either be reopened or reappear a few feet away. They were right near the laundry room window. Many was the time that Al and Harry stared at each other through the double pane glass. And Harry watched the little guy grow, bigger and fatter all the time, on his chicken feed.
Harry had asked Lazaro for permission to drop him off at his place, should he ever catch him. Lazaro was delighted to play a role in the illegal relocation of the wild beast, but when he heard that Harry had caught a racoon, he said, "Oh, no! Not around here. Not a racoon. Before you know it, he will be in my garbage."
Harry feared that this meant that he had withdrawn his offer to let him release the groundhog on his property. But when he called to announce the capture Lazaro was gleeful at the prospect being part of his release. "Bring him over!" he shouted through the phone.
Harry was nervous driving through town with his illegal catch in the back of the old station wagon. With my luck, I'll get stopped for failing to signal or something, he thought. He drove carefully, hoping that no one would look into the back of the Green Hornet, while he was stopped at a light or backed up in traffic.
His heart sank as he arrived at Lazaro's driveway. It seemed that his friend had invited half the town to watch the show. Lazaro was holding court. "Here he is now," he announced, "the illegal trapper of animals!" Al was put on display, and soon the audience had had enough and drove off. Then Lazaro's troublesome neighbor pulled in, but soon she was gone and they drove the wagon out to the back of the farm and got ready to open the trap.
"Which way do they generally go when released?" Lazaro asked. "Toward us or away?"
"Don't worry. They don't want any part of us," Harry assured him.
And sure enough, once the door was opened, Al stuck his nose out as if to taste freedom, then stepped out and trotted off, away from his tormentors.
When Mona got home that night she seemed subdued, because she could no longer tease Harry about being outwitted by a groundhog.
"The guy at Tractor Supply told me you've got to take them at least five miles," Harry said.
"But it's not five miles to Lazaro's," she said. "Is it?"
"Nah, about a mile and a half or two at the most. But I read on the Internet that a mile is enough."
"What are you going to do if he comes back?" she asked.
"If he comes back, he can stay," Harry said. And he meant it. He missed the little fella already.
"Do you think we're going to have a warm night, tonight?" he asked.
Mona groaned.
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Thursday, September 07, 2006
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…
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…
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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.
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