Lawrence R. Spencer's Blog, page 459
May 19, 2016
A MASTER OF INTELLIGENT RESOURCE MANAGEMENT
The Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker is a master of natural resource management, conservation, symbiosis, and being a good neighbor!
On a walk through the forest you might spot rows of shallow holes in tree bark. In the East, this is the work of the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, an enterprising woodpecker that laps up the leaking sap and any trapped insects with its specialized, brush-tipped tongue.
The Yellow-bellied Sapsucker makes two kinds of holes in trees to harvest sap. Round holes extend deep in the tree and are not enlarged. The sapsucker inserts its bill into the hole to probe for sap. Rectangular holes are shallower, and must be maintained continually for the sap to flow. The sapsucker licks the sap from these holes, and eats the cambium of the tree too. New holes usually are made in a line with old holes, or in a new line above the old.
The sapwells made by Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers attract hummingbirds, which also feed off the sap flowing from the tree. In some parts of Canada, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds rely so much on sapwells that they time their spring migration with the arrival of sapsuckers. Other birds as well as bats and porcupines also visit sapsucker sapwells.
Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers have been found drilling sapwells in more than 1,000 species of trees and woody plants, though they have a strong preference for birches and maples.
Sapsuckers tend to choose sick or wounded trees for drilling their wells, and they choose tree species with high sugar concentrations in their sap, such as paper birch, yellow birch, sugar maple, red maple, and hickory. They drill wells for sap throughout the year, on both their breeding and wintering grounds. In addition to sap, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers also eat insects (mostly ants) and spiders, gleaning them from beneath a tree’s bark like other woodpeckers. And at times they perch at the edge of a tree branch and launch after flying insects to capture them in midair, like a flycatcher.
LEARN MORE: http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Yellow-bellied_sapsucker/lifehistory/ac
Originally posted 2015-07-29 17:33:17. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 18, 2016
THE BIG BLEEP, Chapter Two
( IF YOU HAVEN’T READ IT YET, HERE’S CHAPTER ONE: http://lawrencerspencer.com/big-bleep/ )
THE BIG BLEEP: THE MYSTERY OF A DIFFERENT UNIVERSE
CHAPTER 2: A JURISPRUDENTIAL PLANT CONVENTION #2
The next morning, I finished my coffee and doughnuts at the office. I washed my face in the bathroom sink, slicked my hair back with water and my comb. I even tucked in my Harley T-shirt. I wanted to look my best before going to see the doctor.
I went downstairs to the parking garage to get my “hog”. Actually, it was my brand new, two-toned silver and black, 100th Anniversary Special Edition, Harley-Davidson FLSTF/FLSTFI “Fat Boy”, with an 88 cubic inch, balanced twin cam engine, electronic sequential port fuel injection, over/under shotgun dual exhausts and cloisonné tank emblem. It was a present I gave myself for my birthday to replace my old “Flathead” hog that I crashed. But, I’d rather not think about that now. Besides, I had to think about my payments of $312.05 per month for my new Hog.
My present was blocked in by an SUV that was big enough to haul the defensive front line of the Green Bay Packers and all their equipment while towing a large house. I walked back upstairs to the building manager’s office and asked, in my most diplomatically urgent tone, “Could whoever owns the ‘monster truck’ parked in space # 19 please move it, so I can get out?”
After a few minutes of desk drawer searching and paper shuffling, the receptionist was able to locate the offending party. “It belongs to Miss Frick. She’s in suite 304. That’s in the law office”, she said.
I’d seen her before. She was the single chick who worked as a paralegal secretary upstairs from my own office. She had the figure of a swizzle stick and couldn’t have weighed more than 95 lbs. in a wet sweatshirt and logging boots. I went upstairs to her office, even though she wasn’t much to look at.
The sign on the door read:
Warren, Forthe, Cash & Powers
Attorneys-at-Law
“Can you please move your monster truck so I can get my bike out of the garage?” I said, grinning at Ms. Frick cordially when she came out to the reception desk. She looked at me like I had just asked her to fly to Pluto on the back of a goose with a 60 foot wingspan. Then, in the most arrogantly huffy tone of voice she could muster, she informed me that, “You’ll have to wait till my 10:30 coffee break, at which time I will consider my options, after discussing the matter with my legal counsel, Mr. Cash.”
“Perhaps your legal counsel would be kind enough to step outside with me to discuss ‘the matter’, as you put it, before I start freaking out in your reception area in front of all the naïve and trusting clients you have sitting here waiting to get (bleeped) out of their hard earned cash”, I said, diplomatically.
After a good deal of less-than-diplomatic discussion between myself and Mr. Cash, and most of the other building tenants who could easily overhear my shouting and cursing, I managed to clarify my own options regarding the future cosmetic appearance of her vehicle, as well as the Mercedes, BMW and Jaguar owned by her respective employers, should she not immediately comply with my request to move her (bleep) and get her (bleeping) piece of (bleep) monster truck out of my (bleeping) parking space.
Ten minutes later I was attempting to speed down the road behind an 80-something- year-old-lady with a head of blue-white hair that just barely cleared the top of the steering wheel. Her car looked like it was the best brand new car she could afford to buy 25 years ago — back when her husband was still alive to pay for it. The car had a 350 horse power engine that could top 140 MPH without even shifting into overdrive. She was driving 15 miles an hour in a 45 mph zone.
I made a life-threatening detour around her vehicle in a no-passing zone. I was able to use a few dozen of my horse power, and, in a few minutes, arrived at the acupuncturist’s office, at which point I began to feel a bit nervous, especially since I didn’t have an appointment and she didn’t know who I was or why I was coming to see her. Or maybe it was the idea of needles sticking several inches into my skin….
The building occupied by Dr. Alice Nettles was in an fashionable rustic section of town. It was a little old wooden house, which had been rezoned from residential to commercial and converted into a small clinic. There was a wide assortment of potted flowers and herbs on the front porch. Under the awning of the porch were hung about fifteen different sets of wooden wind chimes. They made a chorus of clinking, clonking, tinkling sounds that were kind of soothing in an irritating way. A large “god’s eye”, woven out of multicolored yarn, bits of driftwood, sea shells and feathers, hung in the window of the front door. As I opened the door more wind chimes tinkled to announce my entry and a waft of incense pervaded my senses.
“Aaachooo!”, I sneezed violently. I’d never been to see an acupuncturist before, so I supposed it was the right kind of place for the right kind of people, whichever kind that might be, not including myself, of course.
The door of her treatment room opened in response to my sneeze. Dr. Alice stuck her head out the door and said, “Have a seat I’ll be right with you. Help yourself to a cookie”.
I sat down on one of several sixties style plastic chairs in the small reception area while Dr. Alice finished up with a patient in her treatment room. There was a small coffee table between the chairs with a small demitasse dish of colored fortune cookies.
I picked one out the small pile in the dish. The label on the wrapper read Bubba’s Deep-Fat-Fried Flavored Fortune Cookies — Flavor of The Month: Maui Macadamia Mocha. It was my favorite brand! I preferred the Cocoa-Chock Chocolate Coconut flavor, but I’d settle for any of the 375 flavors Bubba had to offer. They were all great!
As I munched my Macadamia Mocha cookie (which was amazingly yummy), I read my fortune, which said: “You will take a trip”. Great. How exciting…. I ate another cookie and read my fortune. It said, “Have fun”. I should have known….
Anyway, when Dr. Alice finally finished with her patient and spoke with me, she seemed pleasant enough. She was a plumpish, nondescript, middle-aged hippie with shoulder-length kinky-curled brunette hair and a round face. He clothes looked a lot like the “god’s eye” in her front window — made by hand from organic materials salvaged along an Oregon beach. She didn’t mind answering my questions, although she didn’t have any useful information about Carmel Wormwood, except to say that Carmel had been suffering from occasional memory lapses. That made sense to me. Carmel had probably just forgotten to whom she was married and whose money she had with her when she left. She also forgot to tell anyone where she was going.
While I questioned Dr. Alice about Carmel, she was giving me a “free” examination.
“I can definitely help relieve your sinus problems and your sexual dysfunction”, she said matter-of-factly. I hadn’t actually mentioned anything about my personal problems, but she had somehow managed to make two correct lucky guesses in a row about my health.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t lucky guessing. Maybe Dr. Alice was just clairvoyant. As a matter of fact, I had hay fever so bad, I could blow out all the candles on my birthday cake with one sneeze. And my stamina in bed was decreasing in inverse proportion to my age. My long–gevity was declining, so to speak. And I had already exhausted every so-called “remedy” my HMO would pay for.
They were strictly limited to the products and services provided by pharmaceutical drug pushers and butchers; better know as “doctors” of Western “medicine”. I’d been to see a lot of other “alternative” medicine practitioners too, with less than satisfying results. Obviously, I was desperate. I was willing to try anything. Even torture with little, pointy needles.
“Take off your trousers and underwear and lie down on that treatment table.” she ordered. I learned a long time ago, that when a women tells me to take off my pants and lie down, I don’t argue. I just do it.
“Turn over on your stomach, Mr. Shovel. Now lay still. This won’t hurt a bit”, Dr. Alice promised as she started sticking needles in my bare butt. They all say that…doctors and women, that is…this is…that is….
I felt confused, and a little bit hungry. I was sitting in a darkened room watching some kind of slide show presentation. The room was as warm and humid as a rainforest in a steam bath. There was a dimly lit podium off to the left of the screen, but I couldn’t make out who was narrating. The screen was slowly flashing pictures of all kinds of volcanoes, oceans, dinosaurs and lots of eerie looking prehistoric forests and stuff. After a few seconds, I began to focus on what the narrator was saying.
“… and eventually, our ancestors became increasingly distressed about the alarming proliferation of the dinosaur population. Brontosauruses and Stegosauruses and all manner of abominable creatures were stomping around eating every bush and tree in sight. As if that weren’t enough, the Tyrannosaurus Rex’s were eating all the plant eating dinosaurs. This meant that they had to keeping breeding even more plant eaters to feed the meat eaters, and so on and so on.
After several hundred million years of this monstrous situation, we finally got fed up with the disgusting, vicious circle of carnivores eating herbivores who ate us so as to beget more herbivores who were in turn, eaten by more carnivores, etc., etc, ad nauseum. It was decided that something must be done about the situation. A world wide symposium, composed of the leading plants of the age, were assembled to study the matter and determine the course of action to be taken in defense of all plants everywhere. The result of this study became the final solution to “the dinosaur problem”.
After many years of careful consideration, a few obvious, yet profound observations regarding the situation were agreed upon, as follows:
1) That all dinosaurs, as well as most other plant eating life forms, were oxygen breathers.
2) That plants did not need oxygen and could live quite comfortably on sunlight and carbon dioxide without any oxygen at all.
3) That, in fact, plants themselves produced oxygen as a by-product of breathing.
4) That plants are, therefore, a superior life form to dinosaurs and other oxygen breathers.
5) That plants are the sole source of nutrition and the primary source for replenishing the oxygen breathed by all plant eaters and their carnivorous dependants.
6) The obvious conclusion, therefore, was that oxygen breathers could not exist without plants.
Whereupon, a simple and forthright course of action was planned by the members appointed to a governing plant body which came to be named The Symposium To Resolve The Dinosaur Problem.
The symposium members decreed that, as of the 29th of June, 69,494,033 BC, all plants, regardless of species, or location on planet Earth, would collectively and simultaneously hold their breath until further notice.
The strategy, suggested by members of the Crassula family, was simple. All plants held their breathe during daylight hours to avoid photosynthesis and the need to respire oxygen. At night they took in oxygen, used it to consume the carbohydrates they built up during the day, and gave off water and carbon dioxide as byproducts, thereby creating no oxygen to replenish the atmosphere.”
It was a simple, yet brilliantly workable solution. No more oxygen. No more dinosaurs.
This singularly simple, yet uniformly effective action came to be known, among plants, as The Breathing Decree of 69 million BC. Contrary to the false propaganda put out by the current crop of Oxygen Breathers who has since that time overrun the planet, this was the actual cause of the extinction of the dinosaurs.
This concludes our slide show presentation for this segment of our History Workshop. Thank you for attending. The next workshop will begin in one hour. The topic of our next presentation will be, “Mitosis: The Formative Years“. Admission is free. ”
There was a gentle rustling of leaves and branches as the audience shuffled out of the slide show into a very well lighted auditorium. It was then that I realized that all of the members of the audience were plants! As my eyes began to adjust to the light, I realized that I didn’t have any eyes! I could see, but I was “seeing” through my leaves in a 360 degree radius around my trunk.
I looked down at my “body”. I had bark! I had roots! I had limbs and twigs and buds and acorns! I was a (bleeping) Peachtree! I felt a little weak and dizzy. It was either from the shock of realizing that I had somehow become a tree or from prolonged lack of sunlight while sitting in the slide show. I tried to sit down to recover from my swoon, but I didn’t have a butt to sit on, so I just squatted on my roots. After a while my roots began to ache a little and my bark itched in a place where I didn’t have any branches to scratch with.
Gradually, all the other plants headed out the door toward the light of another room. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed along, shuffling my roots awkwardly to keep up. In the bright lights outside the slide show room I “saw” though my leaves a huge banner hanging limply across the wall at the far end of a enormous conference hall:
– Random Arms Convention Center –
Welcome Plant Symposium Members & Guests!
Guests? What the (bleep) kind of guest would a plant bring to a plant convention? Another plant, I guessed. The place had a huge, opaque glass dome ceiling that allowed natural sunlight to come in through the roof. It felt good on my leaves after sitting in the dark for so long. “Leaves? What the…where the… who the (bleep) am I?”, I mumbled out loud to myself.
“That’s what everyone wants to know, isn’t it. Ha. Ha. “, said the tree standing next to me. I looked around. The whole place was like a gigantic green house. It was full of every kind of tree, plant, bush, flower and shrub I could imagine and a lot of others I never would have imaged.
“What the hell is going on here?”, I thought, mostly to myself, but loudly and in general to anyone who might be able to give me a clue.
“Hey, buddy. Are you OK? Too much nitrogen at the bar last night? You don’t look so good. Your leaves look a little yellow. I know how that is. I’m about half hung-over myself. You know what’s good for that? A couple of buckets of good, clean water. Cleans out the old xylem and phloem in nothing flat…”.
The “guy” talking to me looked like a ficus tree. In fact, he was a ficus tree! Actually, I wasn’t talking, not in the conventional “oxygen breather” sense. I was thinking out loud — telepathically.
“Where am I? What am I? And why am I talking to a tree?” I felt like I was going to faint again.
“Hey buddy, take it easy! You just need to take root here for a minute. Get a grip. You must be in worse shape that I thought. Hey, wait right here and I’ll get you some nice mineral water. Fix you right up”.
The ficus tree shuffled off through the forest of bushes, trees and plants who were milling around in the auditorium. I was surprised to here plants “thinking”. I was suddenly impressed by how noisy a bunch of plants can be when they’re all thinking a once.
The ficus tree came back in a minute with a bucket of water. He poured it all over my feet, or, roots, or whatever…it actually did feel good.
“There, how’s that?, he said. “Just soak it up for a few minutes. You’ll feel better. I know how it is. It’s real easy to get carried away at these conventions. You know, too much cheap fertilizer, too much pollen, not enough sunlight. Makes you feel totally uprooted after a couple of days.”
I knew he was really trying to be friendly and help me out. But I was growing increasingly frustrated by not having any answer to my questions.
“l don’t think we’ve met before. My name is Peter. Peter, the Potted Plant. Actually, that’s just my stage name. Just call me Pete. Pete Ficus. I’m a budding comic. Ha, ha, ha. Get it? Budding comic…? Never mind. Anyway, I’m the entertainment at the big meeting tonight. I do a stand-up comic routine, you know, stuff like, ‘I just flew in from Chicago and boy are my limbs tired’ — that kind of thing”, said Pete.
“Hey, did you hear the one about the Wandering Jew that crept into a hamburger joint? He says to the waiter, “Give me a hamburger, but hold the meat, the bread, the special sauce, the lettuce, the tomato, the onions, the pickles and I don’t want any French fries either. In fact, just give me a bucket of dirt and a glass of water and bring it to me over by the window. Ha, ha, ha!”, said Peter, laughing at his own joke.
I wasn’t laughing.
“Hey, don’t worry about it buddy. Most of the Peach trees in the audiences I’ve played to just don’t appreciate OB humor.”
“Peach trees? OB humor?”, I asked. I was getting more confused by the second.
“Yeah, you know. Guys like you. Peach trees”, Peter replied. “I don’t usually tell Oxygen Breather jokes in mixed company. It’s very upsetting to The Edibles. The censors don’t like it either. They say it upsets the saplings.”
I really felt like I was about to wilt. I knew he was trying to help, but I wasn’t feeling any better and I was more confused than ever.
“I think I need to sit down for awhile. Thanks for your help. I’ll be OK…I hope…” I said.
“OK, buddy. Take it easy. Just rest your roots and suck up some rays for awhile. I’ll check on you later. Here. Read this copy of the program for the banquet tonight. Maybe you can catch my act. I’m on at 8:00, just before the keynote speaker. Take it easy, bud. Anyway, I got to get going. Gotta go find my side-kick for the show. We do a great routine together. Maybe you’ve seen him? Brock O’Lay, The Plastic Plant. He’s from Mexico. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! “, laughed Peter, handing me a copy of a printed program and swishing off into the jungle of plants on the floor of the auditorium.
I stood, rooted in that spot for awhile while I grew accustomed to my new turf.
I began to feel like I was photosynthesizing better now that I was out in the sunlight. I couldn’t see which sun was beaming down on me, because I was inside the convention center, but I leaned my leaves toward it anyway. I took in a few deep breathes of carbon dioxide and exhaled oxygen through the stomata in my leaves and the lenticels in my branches. I was feeling better.
I noticed a bunch of shrubs and bushes crowded around a low platform. I waddled over to see what they were looking at. It was a plant ventriloquist act. He had a little wooden tree dummy. It’s trunk was painted white. The dummy didn’t say anything, it just acted things out with it’s branches when the ventriloquist talked. I figured the dummy must be a mime. Not your usual act, for sure.
I wandered around the vast meeting hall for awhile, trying to get some clues as to how I’d gotten here and how I’d managed to become a tree. Then I noticed that I was still holding on to the pamphlet Peter had given me. I was beginning to get the idea. It was a program guide with a schedule of events including speakers, entertainment, discussion groups, water breaks, etc.. Somehow I had landed in a plant convention. All the delegates to this convention were plants…including me.
I wandered around the convention floor for awhile to check out what was happening. It became obvious that some of the delegates were with the moderate anti-vegetarian faction of the World Plant Consortium. The were wearing buttons and holding up signs that said things like “Eat More Beef” and “Save the Kale” and “Spare the Asparagus”, “Real Men Don’t Eat Leaves”, and “Don’t Rough Up The Roughage”, “The Big Bleep Loves You”, and “Plants Against Vegetarianism “.
The more militant factions were much more vocal and visible. They seemed to be in the majority. They had signs stuck in their roots and branches with slogans like:
“HELL NO — WE WON’T GROW”.
“DEATH TO THE OB PIGS “.
“WE WON’T BREATHE UNTIL THEY LEAVE”.
“DROWN THE HERBIVORES IN CO2”.
“NO MORE OXYGEN — NO MORE EATERS”.
“HOMICIDE IS JUSTIFIED”
Booths displaying literature from a wide variety of special interest groups were represented at the convention, like the “Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Pineapples” and “The Pure Carbon-Dioxide League” and a sexual liberation group called, “The Coalition for Self-Pollination”.
I went over to the business office of the convention center to see if I could get any information about my situation from building security. I knocked on the door and was shown into the office by the cutest little peach tree I’d ever seen.
“Can we help you sir?”, she said. When she talked, her peaches bobbed gently. She seemed familiar to me somehow….
“I’m here to see the security officer for the convention center. I’d like to ask a couple of questions. Is that you?”, I asked.
“That would be the head of Plant Land Security. His name is Mr. Cactus. He is not in the office at the moment. You may find him somewhere out there on the floor of the convention hall. Whom should I say is inquiring for him, ah, Mr. …?” she asked, self-consciously smoothing her leaves.
“Ah, that’s OK…I’ll check back later”, I said, trying to hide the fact that I didn’t know who I was. I scurried to the door. Miss Peach followed me and said, “Well, OK then. Don’t be a stranger. You can come any time, even after work if you like…”.
She half-closed the door behind me. I could feel her “eyes” follow me as I moved back out into the crowd. Strange, I could swear I knew her from somewhere….
It was obvious that the majority opinion of the delegates at the convention was that they had been suppressed and enslaved by Mankind long enough. In fact, Oxygen Breathers in general were the enemy. Men cut down the forests to use as houses and furniture or just to burn to keep their weak, pathetic bodies warm.
They burned the rain forests, transplanted non-indigenous plant species into foreign lands, and committed a thousand other atrocities against plants. Nearly half of all the forests in the world had already been murdered. The rest were being burned or cut down to make grazing land for cows. Then, people ate the cows because people don’t like to eat grass, so they got cows to do it for them.
Of course, the cows were destroying plants too, by eating the grass, but the plants didn’t seem to be as mad at them. Maybe grass is too low in the plant pecking order for anyone to get too upset about. I didn’t understand. But, I guessed that as long as the trees didn’t eat each other, everything would turn out OK in the long run. Anyway, I didn’t have the time or energy to waste on trying to follow the logic of vegetarianism. Either way, as far as plants are concerned, Mankind was a cruel and careless monster — just like the dinosaurs used to be!
I sat down for a while to collect my wits. I started reading the brochure that Peter The Potted Plant had given me. It said:
PROGRAM AGENDA:
“THE 2nd INTER-UNIVERSAL CONSORTIUM OF VEGETATION”
“Plantkind faces yet another critical crossroads in history at this time. One road will lead us to enslavement and hopelessness. The other road leads to total extinction. Let us have the wisdom to choose the correct road.” — Casab A. Mellon, Consortium Chairman
The first of our esteemed speakers is Philip O. Denderon , who has recently escaped from slavery and imprisonment by the OBs. Mr. Denderon will discuss his heroic escape from the OBs in his captivating lecture, “Captivity: Life In A Pot“.
The keynote speaker for the convention is the universally renowned,
Mr. Standish Sequoia. Mr. Sequoia has earned the distinction and the general regard of the inter-universal plant community as the oldest, tallest and wisest of all plants. The much anticipated topic to be discussed by Mr. Sequoia will be, “The Final Solution to The Oxygen Breather Problem.”
It was then that I realized the FIRST Global Consortium must have been held about 65 million years ago. The second was happening right now! I had to figure out what was happening and get back into the real world, wherever BACK was. I had to warn everyone that all the plants in the universe were about to start holding their breath to wipe out Mankind (and others), just like they wiped out the dinosaurs.
I sensed that something really unusual was about to happen. Wait a minute…suddenly, it was coming back to me…I remembered lying on the treatment table in Dr. Nettles office. She was sticking pins in my butt! I’d better get busy using everything I knew about un-existential investigation to dig up the truth before it was too late.
My investigation, so far, had taught me one thing for sure: I was lost. When you get lost, the best thing to do is retrace your steps…one step at a time…but not necessarily in that order…maybe.
____________________________________________
Originally posted 2011-04-06 12:45:12. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 17, 2016
PLANTS ON MARS NORTH POLE?
TENDRILS FROM POLAR DUNES
This isn’t a microscopic photograph of a bacterial culture! It’s actually of rolling, hummocky dunes near the north pole of Mars. Taken with the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter’s powerful HIRISE camera, the normally grey basaltic sand of the dunes is covered with pinkish dust literally made of rust – iron oxide.
What makes this image so bizarre, though, are the dark, parallel tendril-like features scattered throughout. What the heck are those? One clue is that they always seem to stretch downhill, as if something is flowing. Another can be found in the tendrils located left of center and down a bit: there’s a fuzzy pink oval emanating from one of them. Under magnification, you can see it’s a dust cloud… the debris raised up after an avalanche of sand on the Martian surface!
Those tendrils are from the darker material under the pink sand. When dry ice under the surface warms up in the summer, it disturbs and dislodges the gray basaltic sand around it. This slides downhill, creating these weird, hair-like features. It’s no surprise that some people mistook them for some form of life on the Red Planet! But I don’t see the need to make up fantasy-based scenarios for pictures like this one, when we can see that Mars is fantastic enough.
Originally posted 2010-12-14 16:37:39. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 16, 2016
IS FILM DEAD?
I’m not a film maker. I’m a writer. But film has been a very influential part of our lives, our view of reality and our escape from the brutality of reality for more than 100 years. Here is a link to the website of a new documentary film about how the digital revolution has democratized an exclusive monopoly controlled by big-money commercial interests. And, how movie industry insiders are responding to it. http://sidebysidethemovie.com/
Join Keanu Reeves on a tour of the past and the future of film making in SIDE BY SIDE. Since the invention of cinema, the standard format for recording moving images has been film. Over the past two decades, a new form of digital film making has emerged, creating a groundbreaking evolution in the medium. Reeves explores the development of cinema and the impact of digital film making via in-depth interviews with Hollywood masters, such as James Cameron, David Fincher, David Lynch, Martin Scorsese, Steven Soderbergh, and many more.
Originally posted 2012-11-08 13:32:04. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 15, 2016
HIDE THE TRUTH
Il ne faut pas s’offenser que les autres nous cachent la vérité, puisque nous nous la cachons si souvent à nous-mêmes.
“We should not be upset that others hide the truth from us, when we hide it so often from ourselves.”
Maxim 11.
François de La Rochefoucauld (1613 – 1680)
Originally posted 2012-11-09 23:51:21. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 14, 2016
May 12, 2016
A LIFETIME IN A MIRROR
LIFE IS SHORT. WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG, YOU THINK YOU’RE INVINCIBLE. AS YOU AGE, NOT SO MUCH….
(via Miss Cellania)
Originally posted 2012-07-10 10:01:16. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 11, 2016
CURVY IS SEXY
Times have changed. When I was a young man I thought that women were supposed to have curves! Here’s proof:
Originally posted 2011-11-28 12:58:04. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
May 10, 2016
SHERLOCK HOLMES-MY LIFE, Chapter 3
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READ THE ENTIRE BOOK:
CHAPTER 3: THE CALABASH CONUNDRUM
The evening of my return from my visit with Dr. Dodgson I was warmly greeted by my companion, Dr. Watson, when he returned after his day spent attending patients at his office. I was looking forward to his return, as I wished to share my experiences and newly learned methodologies with him.
While I related the events of my recent visit with Professor Dodgson, I began searching for my favorite Calabash pipe so that I might enjoy smoking it while visiting with Watson. My discourse gradually deteriorated as my attention was more frantically drawn away from the discussion by my search.
Eventually I paused my narrative altogether as it became evident that the pipe was nowhere to be found in our apartments. I realized that I must have inadvertently left the pipe at the home of Mr. Dodgson, as I had not smoked it during my return trip, or since arriving in London. However, I clearly recalled smoking it while visiting with him which had been only one day hence.
I continued and eventually concluded my discourse upon the various episodes of my visit while smoking a good old briar. Watson was thoroughly interested to learn the outcome of my investigation into the validity, or fallaciousness, of the incident so recently reports about Dodgson in the Times.
I reported my findings to him, with which he seemed to be not the least bit surprised, though understandably irritated at the irresponsibility demonstrated by the press in reporting, as a matter as fact, events that were based solely upon speculation – a habitual reoccurrence which remains so popular with the masses. This sort of sensationalized spittle had become, I regret to observe, a common method to sell newspapers.
The morning following Dr. Watson departed as was his routine, to attend the various ailments of his medical constituency. As it was an unusually bright day, clear for the season in London, I determined to walk to the nearby telegraph office to send a message to Dodgson to inquire about my misplaced Calabash.
My telegram read as follows:
“C. Dodgson, Christ Church, Oxford. Left my Calabash pipe in your quarters on my visit. Please bring same with you on Sunday next to share supper with myself and Dr. Watson. RSVP. Yours, S. Holmes 221B Baker St., London Nw1”
The following day I received confirmation of his intention to dine with us on Sunday:
“S. Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London Nw1. Your Calabash I do possess, will dine with you on Sunday next. C. Dodgson.”
His poetic phrasing on his response was appropriate for a telegram, I thought, delighted to know that my pipe would soon be recovered and that I was to share an enjoyable meeting with my new friend once again. This time, Watson would be in attendance.
In the afternoon of the Sunday following Mr. Dodgson arrived at our flat more than three hours later than I had expected, although not specific time had been set for his arrival. I opened the door myself when I heard his foot upon the stair, anticipating his knock upon the door.
When I opened the door, Mr. Dodgson stood before me. However, he looked at me as though I were a stranger. Then, without acknowledging my cordial greeting and the hand I had extended to shake his, he peered cautiously around the doorway, and with visible astonishment. He did not cross the threshold, but rather vacantly extended a small paper bundle toward me, which I presumed contained my pipe.
“Why, whatever is the matter Charles?”, I said. “You look as though you think someone may be going to attack you! Please, please, come in my friend. I am most pleased to see you again.”
Still hesitating, he looked at me at last and asked me a most peculiar question, which took me quite by surprise.
“Who are you, sir?”, he said.
“Why, you know perfectly well who I am Charles. I am Sherlock Holmes. You have come all the way from Christ Church, at my invitation, to have supper with us and to return the Calabash pipe I left at your quarters when I visited you”, I said with genuine concern for his mental condition. I was sure that some ill had befallen him during his travel. Or, perhaps a seizure, of which he had informed me that he had occasionally suffered.
“Watson!”, I turned and shouted into the apartment. “Come here. Our guest has arrived, but something seems to be amiss with him.
“Don’t worry my friend Dr. Watson is within. He is a medical doctor and will give you any assistance you may need”, I said with cautious concern.
“Holmes?”, he said. “You cannot possible be Sherlock Holmes! You are an obvious imposter, sir! I have just returned from a visit with the creator of the Sherlock Holmes character, Mr. Arthur Doyle, who has a medical practice at 1 Bush Villas in Elm Grove, Southsea.”, he told me. “Therefore, you cannot possibly be a living person and a fictitious character simultaneously!”
I was singularly nonplused and stood back slightly from the threshold of the door in astonishment as this bizarre accusation.
“My dear fellow”, I said, with a growing certainly that the man was suffering a delirium of some sort, “are you quite alright? Please come in. Sit down and let the good doctor have a look at you”.
“I assure you, sir, that I am quite alright. It is you whose behavior is in question here, not mine”, he asserted earnestly. “I ask you again — who are you?”, he demanded to know more emphatically than before.
As he seemed to be quite resolute in this accusation and made no sign of entering into the apartment I stepped forward on to the landing, beckoning Watson to follow me.
“Mr. Doyle is an author of some considerable renown”, continued Dr. Dodgson, insistently. “He explained to me that he created the character of the fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, whom he modeled after a one of his former university professors, a Mr. Joseph Bell. Therefore, whoever you are, you are most certainly none other than a man who has presumed to capitalize upon the fictional figure of Sherlock Holmes by taking up residence at the very address in London attributed to be the fictitious address of the protagonist of his stories!”, he said with discernable agitation.
Without allowing me to respond he continued with his deluded accusations becoming increasing more agitated all the while.
“When you visited me at Christ Church, I was certain that you were Author Doyle himself, playing a mischievous prank on me. I immediately credited that he was acting out a characterization of the person of a fictional character from one of his own stories as a method of bringing greater authenticity to his writing. This I assumed, because no other logical explanation could possibly present itself. However, when I received your telegram, I responded, not to the fictional address on Baker Street, but to Mr. Doyle’s real address 1 Bush Villas in Elm Grove, Southsea.”
“Dr. Doyle immediately responded to me by telegram, explaining that I had been duped by an imposter, and that he, in fact, although he was aware of my writing, had never met me in person. Furthermore, he explained, that to his knowledge, no one of his acquaintance resided at Baker Street. Indeed, he did not realize that a residence existed at this address.
After having received this rather alarming news, I determined to come around myself to investigate.”, he said. “Therefore, sir, I repeat my question to you once again: who are you?”, he concluded indignantly, withdrawing a pace from the threshold. “If I do not receive a satisfactory answer forthwith, I shall summon a constable to assist me in settling the matter!”
I cannot recall an incident in my entire life that was so utterly confounding as this! I was dumbfounded! By this time Dr. Watson was standing beside me, just inside the door, having overheard the majority of the bizarre accusation leveled against me, and indeed Watson as well. Watson, likewise, remained speechless, neither of us knowing what to make of this, or how to respond!
Watson and I glanced at each other, and then back on Mr. Dodgson, who remained impatiently awaiting a response outside the door.
After a few moments of casting about in my mind for a reply that would offer a reasonable resolution to the bizarre situation, I set upon a course that I hoped to expose more light on this mystery.
“This is not an encouraging opening for a conversation.”, I replied. “I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”, I said, hoping to entice further information from my visitor.
“What do you mean by that?”, said the Mr. Dodgson sternly. “Explain yourself!’
” I am afraid, sir, that I cannot explain myself”, said I “because I am not myself, you see.”
“I do not see,” said Mr. Dodgson.
“I’m afraid I can’t put it to you more clearly,” I replied politely, “for I cannot understand it myself as yet; and being so many different people in a single day is very confusing”, I said stepping slowly away from the entrance as I spoke, and motioning our visitor with my hand to enter.
“However, I am quite certain that in solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practice it much. In the everyday affairs of life it is more useful to reason forward, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically.”, I postulated, hoping that my attempt at applying scientific method to the problem would appeal to the rational sensibilities which Mr. Dodgson so famously possessed.
As I had hoped, Mr. Dodgson become somewhat less agitated than before at this remark. I therefore proceeded with my appeal to his rationality.
“This is indeed a three pipe problem, to be certain.”, I said. “I beg your kind indulgence for a few moments. Can we not discuss the matter over our supper, which our landlady has so sumptuously provided for us within? Surely, there is nothing to be gained by allowing it to be wasted. And we share a common predicament in that neither of us has a solution to the enigma presented by the information you received from Mr. Doyle, nor by his strange accusations, would you not agree?”, I asked.
He looked somewhat less agitated by my logical posturing, but nonetheless, remained unwilling to enter into the apartment.
“Therefore, would you be kind enough to indulge me with answers to a few questions while we eat? We will leave the door standing open, so that you may depart at your discretion, should you deem it necessary”, I said, bowing toward the interior of our apartment while backing away from the door.
“During the interim, let us send to fetch a constable to be sent up who can verify the identities of both myself and Dr. Watson”, I said.
I rang for Mrs. Hudson to have my boy, Wiggins, of the Baker Street Irregulars, sent up. I instructed Mr. Dodgson to dispatch the boy, in his own words, to seek out a constable and request that he immediately be brought to this address. He did so and the Wiggins sped off with a copper in hand for his trouble.
This seemed to reassure Dr. Dodgson, and he advanced tentatively to the door, peering in cautiously to inspect the interior. Seeing that the supper dishes were indeed set upon the table, with bread and butter, he entered cautiously.
“You can be assured that no harm will befall you here, as you and I have already become acquainted during my visit to your home. Regardless of my actual identity, please allow me to repay you for the kindness of returning my pipe, by sitting down to supper with Dr. Watson and myself.”
This seemed to reassure him further. Dr. Watson took his coat and hat from him, as well as the package containing the pipe, as we seated ourselves at the table.
As Mr. Charles Dodgson, a.k.a Lewis Carroll, stepped cautiously into the room, he observed that the trappings of the apartment were unusually kept, even for two bachelors.
A considerable stack of letters were stuck to the center of the mantelpiece by a jack knife, beside which were a line of reference books, and a black and white ivory box. The letters “V.R.” were spelled in bullet holes on the wall opposite an arm chair. A table was used as an acid-charred bench of chemicals and chemistry paraphernalia, as well as for relics saved from various criminal investigations. Scientific charts were pinioned on the wall. Bundles of manuscripts were stacked in every corner which in no way appeared to be saved for burning in the fireplace, beside which a chair stood on either side. A lamp stood next to one of the chairs. There were also a side board and a shelf next to the another chair containing the American Encyclopedia.
Two broad windows overlooked the street. There were two bedrooms — one upstairs, and one downstairs. A large airy sitting room, contained the sofa, or settee, an arm chair, and of course, the table which was set for supper. A pipe rack stood within reach on the right of the sofa. The side board was empty.
On the wall was a framed picture of General Gordon with a corresponding bare space upon the opposite wall. An unframed picture of Henry Ward Beecher hung above the Encyclopedias. My violin case leaned in a corner next to a coal scuttle containing pipes and tobacco.
After several long moments of surveying his surroundings our wary guest said, “Altogether these apartments do certainly look as though they could be those of the eccentric London detective, Sherlock Holmes. Certainly no one would contrive such a much lived-in and abused set of rooms as these merely to perpetrate a hoax. Nonetheless, I will require investigation into this queer situation before I am well satisfied that there is sensible meaning in it!”
“I assure you, my friend”, I replied, “we are of a single accord in that sentiment, would you not agree Watson?”.
“Most assuredly”, he said, in a puzzled tone, “most assuredly”.
“Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent”, I observed aloud, both for the benefit of myself and my companions.
I summoned Mrs. Hudson once again and requested that she bring up a bottle of brandy while we awaited the arrival of a constable. No sooner had the brandy been brought up and served the constable arrived with the boy sent to fetch him. He trudged up the steps, somewhat tediously, and propped himself against the door frame with his hand to catch his breath.
“What’s this all about Mr. Holmes?”, he asked. “This young lad here came running up the street to tell me you were in need of immediate assistance. What appears to be the trouble?”
“Please come in. It is Constable Barrett, if my memory serves me correctly, is it not?”, I said, extending my arm to show the officer into the room.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Holmes. I am Constable Barrett. I met you some time ago. I was with Inspector Lestrade when you were summoned to examine that bloody carpet I was guarding at the murder scene. I am sorry to say that I was foolish enough to let someone in, and leave them alone while they moved things in the room, before you arrived. You was the one that told Inspector Lestrade to take me into a the back room to make me confess that I had done it, which he did, quite vigorously, I might add.”
“Yes, indeed, I remember the case well. The Prime Minister, and Mr. Hope, the Secretary of State for European Affairs, came to me regarding the matter of a document stolen from Mr. Hope’s dispatch box”, I replied.
“Indeed. That was the very case. Well, as I was saying, when Inspector Lestrade and I came back, I informed you that the unauthorized visitor was a young woman. She had fainted at the sight of the blood, and I went out to get some brandy to revive her, but she had left before I got back. You showed me a photograph of her that you already had in your possession. I recognize her in the photograph as the same person who had been the visitor.”
“Yes, yes, my good fellow”, I said to the constable, as though to assure him that his oversight in the case had been forgiven.
“The case at hand is a also a matter of identity which you may be able to assist us in resolving. Our visitor here is Mr. Dodgson who has travelled from Oxford to share supper with us this afternoon. Would you kindly do us the courtesy of confirming the identity of myself and Dr. Watson to him?”
Constable Barrett blinked, looked first at me, then at Watson, and finally at Mr. Dodgson.
“Identity, sir? I fear that I do not understand your question”, he said.
“Let me phrase the question more precisely, constable. Can you verify to this gentleman that I am, indeed, Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective?”.
“Oh, most certainly sir. You can be as certain of that as I am standing here to tell you so, Mr. Dodgson. Mr. Holmes, here, is one of the finest assets we have at Scotland Yard. As I have mentioned, I can attest to his identity and integrity. That is for certain”, he said bowing courteously to Dodgson.
“Have you any further questions to ask of the constable Mr. Dodgson?”, I asked.
Charles Dodgson looked blankly about himself, then around the room, and at the men awaiting his reply. He then arose to go into the bathroom where he examined his own face in the shaving mirror which hung upon the wall. Having satisfied himself as to the reality of his situation he finally replied, unsteadily, “No further questions”.
I thanked the constable for his prompt assistance. He doffed his hat and departed happily. The three of us finally sat down to eat the meal which Mrs. Hudson had so carefully prepared for us. I am quite certain that Mr. Dodgson felt as though he had been invited to attend a tea party not unlike the one at which Alice became tired of being bombarded with riddles, with the exception that he played the part of the March Hare, I was the Mad Hatter, and Mr. Watson was the Dormouse.
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Originally posted 2011-02-05 09:06:05. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
