Bulletin! One of the "Creature Capture" traps on my front lawn was sprung in the night and we've captured a creature, or at least I think we have. The trap doesn't have an open grill, but is like a plastic container, and though there are peep holes, I didn't want to get too close when I went out to get the newspaper at dawn, lest the creature inside is a skunk.
This was Andy, setting the traps several days ago. It is the trap in the foreground of the photo that now has something in it.
I had begun to suspect that the creature that has been rooting in my lawn may have made a nest up in the crawl space of my garage. The garage is enclosed, but creatures have ways of going in and out that we know not of.
Since the lawn-tearing-up activity--rooting for grubs the experts say--seems to take place when I've left the house or have snuggled by the fire with a book i.e. when the house is quiet; I made a point of taking an hour off to read quietly yesterday at about the time in the late afternoon when the lawn bandit attacks.
This is what a baited trap looks like, when it has not been sprung by a creature.
As I relaxed and read--I'm working on Dracula right now, a somehow appropriate book for a week of creature capturing-- I heard something make slight noises above me: either on the roof or in the attic. I didn't think there was a way into the attic for a creature, but creatures can sometimes find or make a way.
Anyway: when I finally started to make noises and went to the window, the lawn had suffered another attack. Sod had been tossed hither and thither and the pieces were really big: like double-sized divots on a golf course. But the creature had vanished.
Here is what the military calls my lawn BDA--or Bomb Damage Assessment--which in my case is a CDA or Creature Damage etc.
Sly fellow!
Last night, I left the garage door open a crack, in case the creature really does have a nest in there--in the rafters or eaves--I wanted to make it easier for the thing to get out. At dawn today one of the traps was sprung.
We await Andy, the great suburban hunter of irritating creatures, to come and check that trap. I haven't told him, but I'm still yearning for a cap like Davy Crockett.
Sarah Palin says she can see Russia from her backyard. I wish she would just go there and leave us all alone.
Of all her many gaffes, the gaffe-iest was her release--on the day of the memorial service for the Tucson shooting victims--of a video statement attacking others for blaming her, and then using a leaden phrase like "blood libel" in her discourse.
In the first place, if she wants to play in the big leagues, she is going to have to go to the ballpark. Phoning in the game on Skype won't cut it.
In the second place, and I must address Sarah directly here: Sarah--it isn't always about you. Especially not on the day of a memorial service devoted to the victims of a mass shooting that include a nine-year old child.
A good day to say nothing.
So far, there has been no such day for Ms. Palin.
When she accidentally created the new word "refudiate," she then called further attention to herself with a Tweet that read: "Refudiate,' 'misunderestimate,' 'wee-wee'd up.' English is a living language. Shakespeare liked to coin new words too. Got to celebrate it!"
I don't got to. If I don't want to. You wee-wee up. I've just gone.
The good news? Palin is so ill-informed and, at the same time, so egotistical, I think she will last a very short time in a presidential race. She'll flame out faster than Gary Hart with Donna Rice on his lap on the yacht Monkey Business in Bimini.
Faster than Dan Quayle at the chalkboard teaching children to misspell potato.
Faster than John Edwards getting a $300 haircut.
Faster than an escort service with Eliot Spitzer on the speed dial.
Faster than Governor Mark Sanford finding his soul mate in Argentina.
Sarah Palin knowing next to nothing about American foreign policy--nor having much interest in it! That will be a problem. Not caring about the English language. That could trip her up. Having the experience of being Governor of Alaska for just two years and then quitting to be a Fox News contributor. Everything she has said in her Fox job is on the record and will revisit Sarah like a bad meatloaf dinner.
Would you like me to go on? No. Neither would I like me to go on.
Her own words will be enough of an anchor for her to carry around, like those chains Marley's ghost had to drag through eternity in A Christmas Carol.
This is my opinion. And since I can see my opinion from my backyard, I'm entitled to it.
I don't want to compare her to a shooting star, because a shooting star is brief--but it is a joy.
Sarah Palin is more like a rash. Annoying but temporary. We hope.
Brooks and Shields on the PBS News Hour, discussing whether it was the "high level of violent discourse in America" that caused the shooting in Tucson.
What happened in Tucson was a terrible, terrible thing. What happened afterward was also very, very sad.
Like the murder of John Lennon, the attempted assassination of President Ronald Reagan, the slaughter at Virginia Tech, the mass murder at Columbine High School, and the deadly bombings by Ted Kaczynski--and so many other sadly similar cases--the perpetrator appears to have been a mentally disturbed young man.
From the blather that followed the Tucson case, one might never know that. On every news program I have watched since the shooting--most especially the News Hour on PBS--there were long discussions about the "political discourse in this country" and "whether it has become too violent."
Poppycock is the nicest thing I can say about analysis like that.
I'm not a medical person. But I was a minor public figure who appeared on television for more than two decades. During those years, I got hundreds of disturbing letters from disturbed people.
I came to recognize that some mentally ill people, with certain specific kinds of symptoms, focus their illness on people they see on television and in other media. No matter what the person in the media says.
Imagine a Congresswoman or a rock star or a President of the United States and you can multiply the weird letters and threats I received by a huge number.
I received so many letters from people with these illnesses, I kept a file of them for many years in the "just in case" department of my desk drawer. The letters had many things in common though they were written by unrelated individuals.
The letters were almost always hand printed. In very small printing on both sides of the paper. And they were almost always many, many, many pages long.
In them, the writers told me of plots by the CIA and the government to cause mind control through the things I, and other public figures, were saying to them on television.
The writers frequently told me they knew this because they were getting signals from me or from others via the fillings in their teeth.
I'm not writing these things to you, so that you will laugh: though, it is true, when I write them now, this material does seem that it might be good material for a farce.
But the people who wrote them then and write and think these things now, were and are not farcical. They were and are very serious and believe what they write. Evidence? Tuscon, Arizona.
In my case--and this was some years ago--one young man who wrote me these things made an attempt on my life and was incarcerated for it. He later escaped, threatening, once again, to kill me. After I had a very sleepless weekend, while he remained at large, I returned to work, relieved to be alive.
But shortly after I walked in the door of the television newsroom where I worked, he called me on the telephone and said he was in the lobby of the TV station and would I come down and see him. I told him I would be right down.
Then I called the police. As they took him away, he screamed again that he would kill me. I had never met him.
What distrubs me now, about the Tucson shooting, is that the discussions about this particular horror, seem to be taking place among people who have been living on the moon.
These shootings are not about politics. Or the CIA, or John Lennon, or Ronald Reagan, or anything polticial or news related at all.
These terrible eruptions of violence are about mental illness and about our treatment of those who are mentally ill. Somehow--and I don't know whether this is due to legal or medical decisions--we, as a society, have accepted that the way to treat people with these often dangerous illnesses is to give them a prescription and send them home. Period.
I have heard not one discussion following any of these incidents about how we might better diagnose and treat--and possibly institutionalize, for their own safety and ours--the dangerous mentally ill, so that these murderous rampages might be avoided.
That would be a worthwhile discussion to come out of this devastating case. I'm looking forward to the day that Mr. Brooks and Mr. Shields of the PBS News Hour--who are both honorable, intelligent men--will enlighten us with their thoughts on this truly important issue.
Not talking about the mental health aspect of these deadly shootings is the least humane thing we can do. Both for the victims and for those who struggle with their terrible delusions.
Robin writes: Dr. K. is an American citizen who is currently living in Ramat Beit Shemesh, Israel, teaching Mental Health First Response. He was asked to do this in order to introduce Israeli citizens to the world of mental health and encourage them to gain the power to act in the event of a crisis. He is a Licensed Mental Health Counselor from the Orlando, Florida area, who has been board certified in General Counseling by the National Board of Certified Counselors for more than fifteen years. He has a Masters Degree and a PhD in his field. I asked him to tell us about his life in Israel. For the safety of his family, we identify him only by a pen name:
This is a neighborhood of Ramat Beit Shemesh, Israel, where the writer of this post has been living and working for six months.
An American Living and Working in Isarel a Guest Post by Dr. K
"“Hamas asks Gaza groups to stop attacking Israel” reads the headline in today’s Jerusalem Post. Every day we read something like this; yet, another Kassam missile has struck the Western border of Israel. Last week, a nursery school was hit during the time that parents were dropping their children off in the morning. So even the terrorist group Hamas, which has called for the destruction of Israel, is asking for this to cease, because they fear retaliation from the Israeli Defense Force.
It is Monday morning; the second day of the work week in Israel. (RC note: in Israel the work week runs Sunday to Thursday.) On Sunday, the streets were busy with little vans that pick up children for school--including my three children--and cars and buses driving to work.
As far as I can tell, there are no weekends in this country. No one mows lawns, because there is no grass. No one washes their cars, because there are tight water restrictions. The neighborhood here in Ramat Beit Shemesh has no single dwelling house like my home town of Longwood, Florida; rather, the buildings are usually five to six stories high, and are all the color of sand, made with Jerusalem stone.
All buildings are made with thick cement walls, so you can forget about ever using a hammer and nail to put up a picture. Oh, there are plenty of homes that have plenty of beautiful pictures on the walls, but they were put up using drills. You see, the beauty of the houses are all combined with the functionality of safety.
This is a necessity in Israel. My two young boys share a room (painted blue) which doubles as our bomb shelter. It has thick cement walls, a huge metal door, and no air vents; but to them, it’s the “boys room,” because the “girl’s room” is pink, and it belongs to their four-year-old sister.
I am preparing for a morning class and an evening class this month, since I am wrapping up the last class on Mental Health First Response, a twelve-week course I designed, in order to teach lay people exactly what mental illness is, and how to react when there is an unexpected crisis. I am equipping them with the capacity to act, and, I hope, helping them to have the courage to be able to assist their friends and family in a time of crisis. Fortunately, for me, there is a huge interest in the class.
People care about each other very much here. A teenager knocked on my door on Saturday, going house to house with a sad-eyed little girl, trying to find which house her family lived in. A couple of months ago, my seven-year-old son did not come home from school on the van with the other children. He apparently got carried away in his play, and had no cognizance that the van was even there to pick him up.
I was livid, and I called the van driver on his cell phone and yelled at him. “That’s it! My son is standing on some street corner lost in the in the Middle East, and I need to call the police”. Hell, I don’t even know the phone number for the police, and they may not understand my language. The van driver tells me in his broken English: “Relax. This is Israel. We will find your son.”
Then, a taxi driver, who knows me from the neighborhood, suddenly beeps his horn outside my dwelling. He recognized my son from the neighborhood, and gave him a ride home.
That is something that would not have happened in Orlando. It is one lesson I will take home with me, when I return to America."
Detail from a scarf called "Persepolis" from the French firm Hermes.
"When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'" John Keats May 1819 Ode on a Grecian Urn
I've heard such bad news this week. A friend of mine lost his brother. Another friend lost her son. The government seems to be spending America into poverty. Our military bickers among itself while facing enemies abroad and budget cutters at home. I don't know what to do about any of this: so I retreat into triviality.
I began to research a collection of mine that seems to have been born on its own, grown without my knowledge, and come to full bloom in my scarf drawer.
Opening the drawer and taking out these works of art has been a joy. Joy is something one must treasure. And a scarf made by the French firm Hermes is a treasure indeed.
I bought my first scarf because it was pink and I thought it might go with a jacket I had. I was in television then and always looked for ways to make the same clothes look different, so that I wouldn't have to have 365 new outfits to wear every year. Hermes scarves had a great reputation for quality.
This is my very first Hermes scarf, called "Tsubas." A tsubas is the handle guard of a Japanese sword.
Here is another: called "Paris Modiste" which is covered with a variety of French hats and has a hat box in its center.
This is another scarf in my collection, called "A Propos de Bottes" and is covered with riding boots. The first Mr. Hermes was a saddle maker so many of the themes on the scarves have to do with horses.
If a person buys only one or two of something each year, and the thing itself is not harmful to one's health, can one be called an addict?
Another of my early Hermes scarves. It is covered with dolls in a variety of styles, and has an English, not a French, name. The scarf is called "Hello Dolly."
That is Robin on the press plane, going to Kuwait to cover the end of the first Gulf War. I'm speaking to the Kuwaiti Ambassador Prince Saud al Sabah, and I'm wearing "Hello Dolly" with my obligatory war correspondents' jacket.
Very few of each scarf pattern are produced each year; though similar ones can be found in a variety of colors. When I first started buying them, each one cost about $200. That is not a small amount of money; but it was much less expensive than buying an entirely new outfit of clothing. So, I felt the expense was professionally justified. The scarf colors are vivid and they look great on television.
HRH Princess Grace of Monaco in an Hermes scarf, bending down to speak to one of her children. I don't suppose Princess Grace was constrained by a clothing allowance.
There was something else that drew me to Hermes scarves. The silk used to make them was softer and yet stronger than anything I had ever seen. The designs of the scarves were unusual and the colors rich. I've since learned that each scarf is silk-screened by hand, and one screening is required for each color in the scarf. Each scarf is then hemmed by hand.
I began to think an Hermes scarf was an astounding piece of art to sell for $200.
Actors Alain Delon and Romy Schneider. She is wearing a Hermes scarf called "Les Becanes," which means it is covered with bicycles. Photo courtesy of The Hermes Scarf by Nadine Coleno.
After more than two decades, I opened my scarf drawer one day and a large collection of Hermes scarves appeared to have reproduced themselves in there. They looked like a cheerful and beautiful extended family. It made me smile.
I tried to research the designs and the designers of this wearable art, but found little information. Hermes, on its web site, will sometimes explain the theme or design of a scarf, and sometimes will not. Some designers sign the scarves. Some do not. Hermes seemed to keep no public record of its annual styles or a list of its designers.
Grace Kelly and her sister at a racetrack in New Jersey, both wearing Hermes scarves.
Then, I read that a book was coming out about Hermes scarves and I put in an early order for a copy.
The Hermes Scarf: History & Mystique, a book by Nadine Coleno.
Like the House of Hermes, the book was gorgeous, full of beautiful designs and exquisite colors. But it included much "mystique" and very little "history." I did learn that the company's designers put the scarves on the floor of their workshop in order to review their designs, which seemed like a very French thing to do with such valuable stuff.
From The Hermes Scarf by Nadine Coleno.
The scarves have risen in price in the last few years and I have much less excuse to buy them now than I once did. But thanks to the Internet, there is a man in Switzerland who is collecting a database of the Hermes designs by name, by designer, by colorway, and by years of issue. He has over a thousand entries so far, and he has a small list of vintage scarves for sale.
This picture from the Hermes book, shows four of the colorways of the scarf I own called "A Propos des Bottes," which I've learned was first issued in 1967 and then reissued, when I bought it, in the 1990s.
I'm delighted that someone is finally trying to build an accurate historical record of these objects d'art while they are still being made in their historic way.
With the French protesting cutbacks in their retirement age, and hand work of almost all kinds fading away in the industrialized nations, I'm afraid the scarves will one day soon be shipped out to Asia to be printed and hemmed.
Nothing against globalization. But if and or when this happens, my scarf drawer will hold a small wake, and announce that it has closed its borders forever.
This scarf is being worn by an Hermes model. The scarf's name is "Jungle Love." Very French, a name like that, for a scarf which shows two leopards nuzzling.
Minutes of the Last Meeting by Gene Fowler. This is a non-fiction book about some of smartest and most talented men in 1930s Hollywood. They started a group called the "Bundy Drive Boys," where they discussed important issues of the day, exchanged news and information about their business, and always got totally snockered.
There has been an enormous buzz this week--in conversations, in print, and on the Internet--about the recent demotion of the Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, who was removed from his post after videos surfaced that he had made and shown to his sailors several years ago, when he served as Executive Officer of the Enterprise. The videos were such that, even under modern liberal broadcasting standards, they can not, in their entirety, be shown on television.
Admiral John C. Harvey, Jr. , Commander, U.S. Fleet Forces, made the announcement of his decision to relieve the unfortunately named Honors. Most interesting? The bulk of the Internet chatter supports Commander Honors, not the Admiral.
The occasional voices in the wilderness, from horrified civilians and members of other services who support Admiral Harvey's decision, have been shouted down and in several cases have been told they didn't have a right to comment, "not having served on a US military ship at sea."
That kind of thinking brings to mind a story directly relating to this subject: it will also explain the book cover at the beginning of this post, because the protagonist of the tale was a sprightly member of the "Bundy Drive Boys" in this fascinating and somewhat poignant book ...
Way back in 1930s Los Angeles, there was a screenwriter. He was a member of an informal group that included actors John Barrymore and W.C. Fields, artist John Decker, poet Sadakichi Hartmann and several other talented and successful people. They called themselves the"Bundy Drive Boys" and loved to gather in fellowship to exchange gossips and bon mots and, in the course of their chats, get plastered on adult beverages.
Before working in films, the screenwriter in question had been writing for a newspaper in New York. When he got his first Hollywood contract in 1932, he and his wife decided she would remain in the East with their children, since they weren't sure whether his screenwriting would job would last.
After he had been gone some months, his wife grew concerned. He was a writer by trade; but, he had written very little to her.
Trundling her children off to stay with relatives, she caught a train for the Coast, as California was called back in those ancient days. The scenery, as she headed West, was gorgeous. The service on the train--superb. She began to relax and felt her fears drift off into the sunlit skies of Arizona--or whatever state she happened to be passing through at the time.
She arrived in Los Angeles with the address of her husband's studio and asked a cab driver to take her there. At his office, his secretary said, Oh, I'm sorry: he's not here. You'll find him at his apartment--that is where he likes to work.
The wife hailed another cab and headed down to Santa Monica, to the address the secretary had given her. I think I'll go to lunch with him, she said to herself--and told the cab driver to wait.
She knocked on the door of her husband's apartment.
After a long-ish delay, he opened the door a tiny crack, peeked out and said: "Yes?" and then, "Oh my God, Agnes! You're here! Oh my God!!!" Then he flung the door open to give her an enormous hug.
Unfortunately, he had no clothes on at the time. Behind him, on the edge of the bed, sat a beautiful blonde in the same state of undress. She smiled. In a sort of a wan way.
Mrs. Screenwriter turned and headed back to her cab.
Her husband after consulting briefly with his briefly-dressed guest, followed his wife and behind her she could hear him calling: "Wait! Wait! I can explain!" This was not a happy moment for her, but the scene began to look very funny to those observing it, since her husband was still not wearing any clothes.
By the time she reached the sidewalk and took hold of the door handle of the cab, the driver was trying very hard to keep a straight face, so he would be understood when he said: "Where to, lady?"
As the husband caught up with his wife, she leaned forward in the cab and said: "Get the hell out of here."
"But wait!" said the screenwriter: "I can explain!"
As the cab pulled away, this stalwart wife reached into her handbag for her handkerchief. Above the traffic noise, she could still hear her husband's voice calling after her.
"But honey! You don't understand! This is HOLLYWOOD!"
The Deep Space Communications Network's first transmission of messages to outer space. The sun was setting as they worked, hence the spectacular image.
Businessman Jim Lewis has been a friend of mine for two decades, ever since he asked me if I would be interested in doing some freelance work for his production company--Communications Concepts Inc.--in Cape Canaveral, Florida. Most of his work comes from military and space related corporations, so producing videos and television broadcasts of space launches and other scientific enterprises has become his speciality.
Jim also writes movie scripts and television shows; so he's a creative guy. What I didn't realize until this week, was that his interest in broadcasting has now gone much father afield.
Farther afield than planet earth, that is.
He has formed a second company, in addition to CCI, called the Deep Space Communications Network. The Deep Space Network will sell you the opportunity to send messages into outer space. Messages to anything that might be within hearing distance Out There. Like aliens, for instance. And lest you think this is not taken seriously: Craig of Craig's List was one of his first customers.
Jim Lewis in his office with a model of the Korean satellite launched for KARI, the Korean Aerospace Research Institute. He produced television coverage of the launch from Vandenberg AFB which was seen worldwide.
Now, he is advertising on eBay as well. And on eBay he is encouraging people all over the planet to bid on the opportunity to send a "virtual self" into the galaxies, so it can float around there and meet up, one day, with anything or anyone of some form or another who/which might be able to decode what you send. Like the double helixes of your DNA, for instance. Scans of your photos.
DNA is one thing: but I, for one, would exclude a scan of my driver's license photo.
And, for the record, the price is not inconsiderable. Think five figures.
Jim's company will also store your "virtual self" in a safe place here on earth; just in case somebody wants to clone or reincarnate you prior to the Second Coming when, presumably, you'll have to account for the behavior of both your first and any additional selves on Judgment Day.
Jim Lewis' Deep Space Network satellite truck in action outside the Planetarium of Brevard Community College.
My sister says she is having enough trouble trying to keep up with her correspondence and email right here on earth, so she has decided not to take advantage of Jim's technology. Her inbox overfloweth. But, Jim and his Deep Space Network may find they have plenty of takers. As one gets older one does ask oneself: what, on earth, am I doing here?
So, what with that and the popularity of Science Fiction books, the Star Wars saga and the Star Trek phenomenon: it probably isn't only Buzz Lightyear who yearns to head off into " ... infinity and beyond!"
It would, at least, be a good escape from spam. I hope they don't have that in outer space too. Otherwise, they might put our messages in their spam file and we'd have to start this thing all over again.
For more information on Jim Lewis and the Deep Space Network check out his ad on eBay:
The sprung trap. Is there a creature inside?
This was Andy, setting the traps several days ago. It is the trap in the foreground of the photo that now has something in it.
This is what a baited trap looks like, when it has not been sprung by a creature.
Here is what the military calls my lawn BDA--or Bomb Damage Assessment--which in my case is a CDA or Creature Damage etc. 
