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Ode to My Own Quackness
Ugh. I haven't used coins and dollar bills in... like forever! I'm in China you all.
So the other day, my daughter comes up to me holding a one yuan coin. She carries it up to me, and says "Baba, look what I found. What is it?" Oh, Lordy. Then I had to explain to her that that was something that you used to buy things with. Try explaining that to a kid. Ugh!
I tell youse guys. It's a new world out there.
Today, lets look at some antiques that are going the way of the Dodo bird...
Today...
Ferdinand the Duck vs. the Singularity
Ah, the pond. On Martha’s farm, the pond was a place of quiet contemplation, a mirror for the sky, and, most days, a perfectly safe body of water. But today, the pond was hosting a tragedy of operatic proportions, and its star was Ferdinand the Duck, a creature whose sense of self-importance was so vast it could warp space-time.
Ferdinand, convinced he was the greatest tenor since the Golden Age of Feathered Bards, was rehearsing his newest composition, "Ode to My Own Quackness," an eight-movement solo designed to be performed entirely while floating. He stood on a lily pad, chest puffed out like a misplaced white balloon, his small, orange beak stretched wide.
"A-QUACK-QUACK-QUAAAAAAAAACK!" he roared, hitting a frequency that, according to Professor Quackenstein’s earlier, ignored warnings, was dangerously close to the molecular resonant frequency of existential dread.
The water didn't ripple. It tore.
In the center of the pond, where the water should have been a reflective blue, a shimmering, pitch-black sphere appeared. It wasn't a hole in the water; it was a hole in everything. It looked like a puddle of pure absence, ringed by a sickly purple halo, and it was spinning.
Ferdinand didn’t panic. He inhaled deeply and, with all the dramatic flair of a duck who believes he deserves a standing ovation from the celestial spheres, he pushed for the final, shattering note. "QUACK-A-DO-O-O-O!"
The black hole, instead of collapsing, pulsed. And then, quite distinctly, it began to hum.
"Listen!" Ferdinand declared, tilting his head. "It has a backup choir! A magnificent, low-register harmony! Clearly, the universe agrees I am ready for my debut at La Scala!"
The humming intensified, an ethereal bass-line accompanying Ferdinand's increasingly narcissistic aria. It was a beautiful, deep, resonant sound, but a sound that was starting to pull things—specifically, a rubber gardening boot, a startled grasshopper, and a Gnomeo’s favorite tiny fishing hat—into its infinite, gravitational maw.
Meanwhile, in a highly unstable temporal continuum about 300 years and five feet away, Slow Bob was having a terrible Tuesday. Slow Bob, a Sloth whose obsession with time travel was hampered by his average ground speed of 0.003 miles per hour, had detected the singularity.
"Must... warn... farm," he whispered, painstakingly turning the chrome crank on his personalized walnut-shell time machine. He needed to get to the exact moment before the Quack-Hole opened. He targeted 09:59 AM.
However, the singularity—a vortex of compressed vanity—was distorting the local timeline. Instead of 10:00 AM, Slow Bob’s little craft landed on the muddy bank at 1928 and two-tenths of a second.
A sepia-toned bubble briefly shimmered next to the pond. Inside, Slow Bob, somehow wearing a straw boater and a vest, was executing a near-perfect (but exquisitely slow) Charleston. His legs moved with the precision of a glacial retreat, arms flailing with a silent, deliberate enthusiasm. He looked directly at the modern farm.
"W-W-W-W-W-W..." he tried to say, the time distortion stretching his single word into a dozen frantic W’s. He tried to point at the black hole, but his arm got stuck mid-flail. "W-W-W-WA-WAIT! V-V-V-VA-VA... VANITY!"
Then, with the faint, melancholy wah-wah of a muted trumpet, the sepia bubble popped, and Slow Bob was gone, a relic of the Jazz Age swallowed by the continuum.
Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s self-appointed Arbiter of Calm and Unofficial Inspector of Strange Phenomena, arrived on the scene. He had been meticulously arranging his nine most comfortable napping spots in order of increasing sunniness when the whole barn began to vibrate to the tune of a duck-led, cosmic bass concert.
He did not rush. Rushing was for squirrels and bad decisions. He trotted with the dignified pace of a feline who knows that most problems, if ignored long enough, will resolve themselves, or, in this case, become interesting enough to require his direct, minimal effort.
He observed the scene:
- Ferdinand: Singing an increasingly elaborate, self-congratulatory high note.
- The Black Hole: Growing, looking about the size of a very large, hungry pumpkin. It was currently inhaling a prize-winning cabbage, which seemed to protest with a muffled, leafy screech.
- The Soundtrack: The cosmic humming was indeed maintaining a perfect, mournful harmony with the duck.
"Ferdinand," Sir Whiskerton called, his voice the very antithesis of opera: dry, measured, and requiring no applause. "That is not a harmonious chorus. That is a space-time anomaly attempting to achieve a better melody by swallowing the source of its distress."
Ferdinand blinked. "Nonsense, Sir Whiskerton! It’s an Ode to My Own Quackness! This is the sound of the universe applauding my high-Q!" He turned his back on the black hole, focusing on his final, soaring note. "Look at the density of that applause! It’s so dense, it's black!"
It was then Sir Whiskerton had his realization, a flash of insight as clear as the polished pewter bowl he occasionally drank from. The theme wasn't space-time physics; it was ego. The singularity wasn’t being fueled by mass, but by Vanity, the one force in the universe that is truly without limit. The hole grew larger with every one of Ferdinand's self-important quacks because, as the old Chinese proverb on the farm often said (translated badly by Rufus), "Vanity is the densest force in the universe."
Sir Whiskerton knew he couldn't stop Ferdinand's voice with shouting. That would only validate the attention the duck craved. He needed an antidote of equal and opposite philosophical weight. He needed an emotional vacuum. He needed to destroy the core of the problem: Ferdinand’s impossibly dense ego.
Sir Whiskerton acted with the speed of a cat realizing it has been slightly inconvenienced. He stalked to the water's edge and took out the tiniest item he carried: a half-inch piece of chalk, meant for emergencies (like labeling which mouse was 'the good one').
He carefully wrote three words on a nearby stone: "Quack. Quack. Quack." Then he looked at Ferdinand, who was building up to a dramatic, farm-swallowing crescendo.
"Ferdinand," Sir Whiskerton said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was barely audible above the cosmic thrumming. The black hole seemed to lean in, curious about the lack of volume.
"You have been singing that piece for exactly forty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds," the cat stated, utterly devoid of judgment or drama. "And in all that time, you have only managed three different notes. You did not write an aria. You wrote a jingle for pond scum."
Ferdinand froze. His beak was wide open, ready to deliver the note that would have consumed the tractor, but the words, so quiet and so utterly mundane, went straight to the core of his self-delusion.
"A... a jingle?" Ferdinand’s voice cracked.
"Yes," Sir Whiskerton confirmed, adjusting his tail with a small, quiet swish. "A tedious, rhythmically repetitive jingle. The black hole is not applauding, my dear duck. It is merely a cosmic tuning fork, attempting to find a key that is not so aggressively fluffy."
The truth, delivered with such an absolute lack of fanfare, was the emotional equivalent of a feather falling onto a hydrogen bomb. Ferdinand’s massive ego, that dense, self-generating core of false confidence, suddenly collapsed.
"A jingle," Ferdinand whispered, sinking slightly into the pond. His chest deflated. "I am just... a jingle duck."
The moment the vanity collapsed, the universal equation balanced. The fuel source for the singularity—the concentrated density of the duck’s pride—vanished. The black hole did not explode. It did not tear apart. It simply imploded, not with a bang, but with a quiet, satisfying pop that smelled faintly of ozone and humility.
The cabbage reappeared, perfectly fine, and the gnome's fishing hat plopped back onto the water. The only thing left in the pond’s center was a single, perfectly ordinary lily pad, untouched by the drama.
Ferdinand, humbled, swam quietly to the shore.
Sir Whiskerton simply turned, trotted back towards the barn, and resumed arranging his nap spots. After all, the farm was back to normal. The crisis had been resolved. All it took was one quiet truth to defeat the densest force in the universe.
The End.
Story Summaries
Moral:
Vanity is the densest force in the universe, and the only thing that can collapse a singularity of ego is the quiet, devastating truth of pure, unvarnished reality.
Best Lines:
- "Ferdinand the Duck, a creature whose sense of self-importance was so vast it could warp space-time."
- "That is not a harmonious chorus. That is a space-time anomaly attempting to achieve a better melody by swallowing the source of its distress."
- "The black hole is not applauding, my dear duck. It is merely a cosmic tuning fork, attempting to find a key that is not so aggressively fluffy."
- "Rushing was for squirrels and bad decisions."
Post-Credit Scene:
Slow Bob, the Time-Travelling Sloth, eventually lands safely back on the farm two weeks later, wearing a faded boater hat and humming a jazzy, anachronistic tune. He tries to warn them about the black hole, but Sir Whiskerton, having long since forgotten the incident, simply nudges him toward a bowl of quiet, artisanal lettuce. Slow Bob shrugs, muttering, "Nobody warned me about the 1920s. The pacing was exhausting."
Key Jokes:
- Ferdinand's operatic quack, "Ode to My Own Quackness," accidentally opens a black hole.
- The black hole hums along to Ferdinand’s aria, giving his vanity "a richer, more resonant backing track."
- Slow Bob time-travels to warn them but gets stuck in a sepia-toned pocket of the 1920s doing a flawless, but excruciatingly slow, Charleston.
- The black hole is defeated not by a scientific device, but by the quiet collapse of Ferdinand's ego after Sir Whiskerton calls his work a "jingle for pond scum."
Starring:
- Sir Whiskerton as The Cat Who Solved a Universal Paradox with Understatement.
- Ferdinand the Duck as The Tenor Whose High-Q Was Also a High-Density Cosmic Threat.
- Slow Bob as The Sloth Who Found the Flapper Era Too Fast-Paced.
- Gnomeo as The Victim of Extraterrestrial Hat-Theft.
P.S.:
If you ever find your art generating a black hole, take a moment to ask yourself: Is this true artistic expression, or am I just creating a universal vacuum of self-regard? (Pro-tip: If you're wearing a tiny cape, it's probably the second one.)
Welcome Sign Stealth Camping
It's an "American thing".
Why do IPOs attract so much attention from retail investors?
Why is there a queue for the latest iphone?
Why do people stand in line for hours to get the phone when they could do it in a more relaxed manner after ten days?
The price of the phone isn't likely to change
Why do people queue for hours to watch the first show of a movie, when they could come again in a week and watch the same movie in a far more relaxed surrounding?
Indians would have experienced the release of the latest Rajinikanth movie Coolie where prices rose unnaturally to as high as four thousand rupees just to watch the first show or second show of the movie
When in just a few days, these crowds could be watching the same movie by paying the regular ticket price
It is the same psychology that drives people to Initial Public Offerings (IPOs)
A Few retail investors do hope to cash in on the price rise in the days following an IPO and hope to make a quick profit
However a majority of the retail investors don't belong to this class simply because the allotment is restricted and profits are unlikely to be large enough
—
This psychology is known as FOMO - Fear of missing out
In the states, in the mid 1970s, a group of con men once posted an advertisement in a newspaper stating
Last date 30th June to pay your $ 10 subscription to Cash at PO Box 5991, Vermont
They didn't mention what the subscription was for
They didn't mention who they were
They wanted $ 10 Checks in Cash
Yet almost 6,000 people posted checks or cash to that post box
When something is promoted enough - people have this irresistible urge to ‘want' it immediately and believe that immediate acquisition gives them a win
The impression, given through slick marketing is that they should not miss out on the opportunity to watch the first screening of a movie or the first batch of iphones
—
IPOs are notoriously volatile
They could dip downward within a week or two of listing
Like a movie which attracts a crowd for the first few screenings but then loses steam, if it is a bad movie
They could rise to a premium and then flatten out to a corrected market value within a week or two of listing
In extremely rare cases, they could be undersubscribed and subsequently rise in value due to the underlying quality of the company
Unless the company has solid fundamentals, the IPO is bound to be on crutches, propped up by manipulated buys & sells by institutional investors until they recoup their premiums
—
So most oversubscribed IPOs are a marketing gimmick that help an allottee with a 10 - 20 per cent profit in the days following the IPO
I prefer undersubscribed IPOs with great fundamentals or a strong technology base. That's something that has long term prospects.
Cinnamon Rice
Yield: 4 servings
Ingredients
- 2 cups water
- 1 (1-inch) piece cinnamon stick
- 1 cardamom pod or 1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom
- 1 whole clove
- 1 cup long-grain rice, preferably basmati
Instructions
- Combine the water, cinnamon, cardamom, and clove in a saucepan and bring to a boil over high heat.
- Add the rice and stir once. Cover and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook, covered, for 15 to 20 minutes, until all the water is absorbed.
- Remove the cinnamon stick, cardamom pod, and clove before serving.
$20 Billion Bailout Backfires: China Wins Trade War While American Farmers Go BROKE!
Ocean of Time
Written in response to: "Center your story around someone who has (or is given) the ability to time travel."
Kristi Gott
"It's the egg of an ancient creature. I found it. I was there." Her voice bubbled with wonder and joy.
Wet and panting, the four-legged shadow that followed her everywhere, jumped around her, playing and twisting, wagging its tail.
“Kakahiaka Noe, Foggy Morning, good dog, come here, silly thing.” The young girl's high pitched voice mingled with the sound of the waves.
Back at the village many serious eyes watched from the hill.
"What is this nonsense? Something needs to be done about this odd child. She is not like one of us. Where is her mother?"
One of the women spoke and several people nodded.
The mother stood a distance away, smiling, but her ears picked up their words.
She shrugged and continued with her own different thoughts.
"Oh, my delightful explorer, how I adore your curious nature, your stories of strange creatures, your playful visions, and your dancing mind."
"You have inherited great, great, great-grandmother's personality. She was a different one, and the legends about her tell of wondrous things."
"They say she would disappear into morning sea mists and spiral through time to other worlds, then return to tell us about it."
"We thought she was a gifted storyteller, but there were some who secretly whispered the tales were so detailed they must be true."
"My mother and her mother, generations of mothers, believed the stories were real."
Years ago, the girl began dragging branches on the beach to make designs. She created spirals in the sand at low tide, and they were washed away by the next high tide.
The mother saw it was time to give her child a new name.
“Daughter, your artwork is washed away, like time itself, and the ocean takes it to the deep seas. Your new name will be Kai o ka Manawa, “Ocean of Time.” We can call you Kai for short.”
Today ten year old Kai o ka Manawa, Ocean of Time, ran, leaping and splashing, across the bay's tidepools near the towering rock mountain of the sleeping volcano.
Millions of years ago, ancient ancestors of the creatures living there now roamed.
A rare few people in later times got to visit, see, and experience the ancients.
Only those whose natural abilities still survived early childhood cultural pressures could see the visions, follow them, and glide through the spirals of time.
Kai o ka Manawa, Ocean of Time, was born with the ability to move through the tides of time, seeing other creatures and worlds, and experiencing ancient life that others only heard about in legends.
Kai’s uncut hair flew behind her like dark clouds in the night, the strands trailing in the ocean's gusty wind, and her toes sprang and bounced across the sand.
The creature she first saw from her hut at breakfast now moved in and out of the morning marine layer, near the pale edge of the waves creeping up the beach.
Kai’s four-legged companion’s pointed ears stood up like sharp mountain peaks. His tail streamed behind him. The eyes flashed. The grayish tan fur rippled.
When Kai's mother spoke about Kai she would say, "She's always been extra sensitive...to loud sounds and bright light...she has strong reactions…her mind is not like ours."
"I love that child more than anything...but her ways make my days go up and down...I try to think of her as part rascal and part beautiful wild thing."
"What is she seeing that we cannot see?" Another villager tilted his head, drew his eyebrows together, and squinted into the dawn mists.
Earlier, the girl ate dried fish and broth made of ground acorns, shellfish, and hand-picked herbs for breakfast.
In the dark before dawn, hints of brightening changed the sky above the huts near the beach.
To the west, near the shore, rose the living being made of rock in the shape of a six hundred foot tall dome.
Morning stars and a half moon still shed some light on the giant rock mountain. The moisture-laden mists moved in shapes floating around it.
"I see something! There it is again!" The young girl cried out. She set down her tightly woven reed basket of warm broth. Then she jumped up from the orange embers of the low fire in the sandy soil.
"What? I don't see anything. Child, what is it?" Her mother's calls were lost in the salty air breezes, and the girl disappeared into the dim light and wispy fog.
"I must be losing my sight in this dawn light. Seeing things that cannot be," the mother's voice muttered.
"First I see her running...then she seems to be two figures, a row of figures...then she disappears."
"And...here is her cloak left on the ground...but where did she go?"
The girl chased the creature she had seen in the distance on the estuary beach.
The bulky animal shape was taller than three or four people and had four tusks. It was a Mastodon from millions of years ago.
It all started when the child was very young.
Grabbing a piece of driftwood, the tiny child began making pictures in the sand when she could barely walk.
Then, growing larger and more steady, she dragged branches with twigs attached across the wet sand at low tide.
Circles and spirals with paths connecting them appeared.
"It looks like our spirals of time," said the village grandmothers and grandfathers. "Like our paintings in the caves."
"It is in spirals because the seasons circle from the darkest, shortest day to the brightest, longest day of sun, going round and round."
"Yes," said one grandfather. "And...always going forward like a moving spirals.
"But what puzzles me are the creatures she draws. They are so vivid and detailed." One young woman's pierced the morning air.
"I have seen her sleeping and dreaming at night, tossing, turning. Who knows what she is seeing." One person added another observation.
Now the villagers looked at the heavy, smooth egg shape the girl carried when she staggered back to the huts.
“Mama. A giant egg, from an ancient creature. I went through the mists of time and brought this back with me."
The villagers chuckled, but they also rolled their eyes.
“We need to expel this odd child before she influences the other children,” said one of the other mothers. “I don’t want my children playing with her.”
One week the villager’s mutterings got worse. They were planning a way to drive away Kai o ka Manawa, Ocean of Time, and her mother.
Kai’s mother packed bags of clothing, dried food and herbs.
“Who knows what we will find when we get where we are going,” she thought.
The next morning Kai and Kakahiaka Noe, Foggy Morning the dog, looked toward the misty beach.
“I’m going with you, Kai, and we are not coming back.” Her mother spoke quietly.
Kai looked with wide eyes at her mother.
“I have heard what they are saying, Mother. Yes, we will go. To another time and place. But all will be well. I already have friends there.”
The villagers were too busy to notice Kai, her mother, and her dog, Foggy Morning, disappearing into the marine layer where the sea met the sand.
That night, they did not return.
But sometimes the villagers thought they saw pale silhouettes dancing and playing joyfully on the beach in the early dawn, with a dog leaping and twisting.
Evan Dando - My Drug Buddy (Live MTV Brazil 2004)
Why is it not possible to cut a single level canal through the Panama cut? The Greeks did it with primitive tools.
Two Barriers That Nearly killed the Panama Canal.
The construction of the Panama Canal was never going to be a straight line that would cut across the map. The thought of a sea-level route had a pleasing sound, and the terrestrial and marine physical features of Panama had other designs.
1. The Ridge in the Middle
Panama is virtually a squeeze point of hills and mountains. To cut a straight canal was to cut through the Gaillard Cut--a deep trench which was to cut open the land. The problem? The ground wasn’t firm rock. It was compact, crumbly earth, which fell away each time it was excavated. Each landslide covered weeks of labor, equipment and even people. It was a battle which retold itself.
2. The River That Refused to Hear.
Next there was the Chagres River. Dry but in the wet months it became a flood machine. Mud, filth and water would rip through the canal route obliterating gains over night. The sea-level ditch here would not have a chance of success.
The Breakthrough
With a single dig and re-building, engineers made the issue the solution. They flooded the Chagres to form Gatun Lake- a very large artificial lake, very high above the sea level. Freighters were able to transit it as though it were a highway through naturally occurring water. Massive locks were constructed to raise and lower ships like lifts, to establish the connection between the oceans and the lake.
The Outcome
Re-planning the canal not only led to the construction of the canal, but also a masterpiece of a canal. The river and land, which used to appear impregnable, were transformed into the same instruments which enabled the canal to be made.
What was the most ill-prepared hiker you ever saw equipped with, and what happened to them?
Me.
I was in Camden, Maine looking for a place to set up my easel and paint a landscape. I pulled off at a trailhead and saw a group coming out. One of them was a morbidly obese woman. I asked one of them if there was a nice view and he said yes. The trail got a little steep at times, but not too bad.
I thought, if that woman can do it, I certainly can too. And so I headed off, my french easel strapped to a backpack frame on my back, my bag of gear in one hand and my painting box (I was painting on gessoed etching paper at the time) in the other. Like this:
I was wearing flip flops.
Halfway up the mountain I realized what a huge mistake I’d made, but I soldiered on. I reached the top, set up my easel, and realized that a) I hadn’t brought any properly formatted paper for the painting I wanted to do and b) I hadn’t brought any water. I ended up putting two smaller pieces of paper together to paint this:
It was so hot I took off my shirt and proceeded to burn the living snot out of myself. I stumbled back down the mountainside, drank five boiling hot tiny water bottles out of the trunk, and headed back to home base where I spent the next two days shivering with sun stroke.
I went back a few days later and continued down the road another 150 feet, where I saw this view:
I was standing atop the mountain at far right.
Pictures
What impact would a permanent shift away from American goods have on the Canadian economy, and who would fill the gap?
It is already happening.
One example: I used to buy Florida oranges pretty much every weekly shop. My grocery store started bringing in Australian oranges. Wow, what a change. A much nicer orange at about a 0.10 per pound difference. Last weekend I looked at the US oranges They are now more expensive. Why would I buy a woody orange for more money when I could have juicy tasty Australian orange for less money. I won’t go back. I am eating an Australian orange as I write. The only better orange I can remember was right off the tree in Jamaica. I let the manager of my store know that I thought the Australian oranges were much better.
There are literally millions of these kind of changes happening right now. We used to buy from the US because it was easy. Now we are finding that we can get a good product from elsewhere for pretty much the same price.
3.4K views
How to Stealth Camp Like a Pro | Urban Vanlife Survival Guide
God's Time
Written in response to: "Center your story around someone who has (or is given) the ability to time travel."
Brutus Clement
“Charlie, what the hell you doing just standing there? You look lost. Are you wasted?” It’s Brad at the open door beyond the porch. Not Brad, because Brad died last year, but someone who looks and sounds an awful lot like him when he was young. How does he know my name, anyway? I’m totally confused and more than a little scared. What the hell is going on?
“Sorry to disturb you, I’ll just move on.” But my voice sounds different and my body is not the same. I look at my hands and the wrinkles and sun damage are gone. What the hell? No pain in my ankles. I could walk for miles.
Now the person who looks like Brad is coming down the porch steps towards me. “Charlie, you’re freaking me out man. You on a bad trip? I’m here to help you bud.”
My young heart is pounding in my chest out of fear, but I’ve got to maintain myself. Just go with the flow, I tell myself. I’ll figure things out yet. Calm down. Besides if this is a dream, it isn’t that bad to be young again. So, I paste a goofy smile on my face. “No Brad, I’m cool. Had a little too much smoke but nothing I can’t handle.”
Brad’s right up next to me now and patting me on the back in his typical Brad way. “Good to hear that buddy. You have a reputation to maintain around here as Captain Cosmic who can handle any drug without freaking. Don’t want you blowing that on my watch.”
I hadn’t heard that moniker for myself in years and it’s starting to dawn on me that somehow the impossible was possible. I remembered hearing about this concept called non-linear time where the past, present, and future all co-exist in the same moment. The guy who told me about it called it “God’s time” and said that in deep space, linear time didn’t exist. Man, I was in some deep space now. My longing must have pushed me over the line.
Brad’s smiling and leading me towards the steps up to the door. “Come on in, we been waiting for you. Where you been, man? You were supposed to buy some beer but here you ae empty handed. What’s up with that?”
“Well Brad, I got a tale to tell”
We go through the door, and they’re all there just as I remember all those years ago. Sitting on couches and chairs in the huge front room. Drinking, smoking, talking, listening to music, and doing all the things that hippies do. They’re all glad to see me, and pause briefly in whatever they were doing to acknowledge my empty-handed return.
“Look what the cat dragged in. Where’s the beer you went out to get?” Mary Murphy says although she prefers the name Sunshine that most of us avoid.
“Glad you asked Mary. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way to the liquor store.”
Brad chimes in, all excited. “Hey guys, I saw Charlie standing out in front like forever and looking all discombobulated if you know what I mean. He’s says he’s got a story to tell and we all know about Charlie’s stories.”
The room’s getting quieter in expectation of one of my tall tales. They really aren’t that special. I usually just make them up as I go. However, you have to consider that the audience is often in altered states of mind and love live entertainment and someone who’s not afraid to sometimes make a fool of themselves.
“OK, OK I feel a story, a real epic, coming through soon now. First though, I need my own personal sugar magnolia here as inspiration. Where’s Rachael?”
Suddenly they’re calling her name and are laughing up a storm. It’s a kind of running joke in the house and everyone likes to get in on it. God, I missed this in all the years I was growing old. The spontaneity, fun, and just plain craziness of youth. She’s in the back kitchen and quickly appears in the room to run over and hug me to the mocking applause of our stoned audience. It was a hug I’d remembered and missed so often. We both take a mock bow and sit together where a space had been cleared on one of the numerous couches. Furniture is being moved around so that most of the people in the house can see us. She’s squeezing my hand and smiling. This is so real.
I’m passed a joint and a beer. It is old times. I’m relaxed with thoughts of who I was before this fading. Becoming the Charlie I was years ago. Then I start the promised story.
I tell of how I was starting to go in to the liquor store a few blocks away and got sucked in to a “time vortex”. There is some laughter at this because they know my penchant for talking about strange and weird things. After some jokes from the audience I go on to say that while in this portal, I had lived an entire lifetime and grown to be an old man. I give them real details on my post hippie life and all the things I had done. I leave out the parts about which of them died and when because I didn’t want to depress anyone. No one wants to be told when and where they will meet the “grim reaper”. I then say that I had just arrived on the sidewalk in front of the house and was transformed back in to the good looking guy they see before them. All this right before Brad opened the door. The story was totally true, yet how could they see it as other than the type of elaborate fantasy I was known for? It was perfect.
“Yeah, Charlie, anything to get out of paying for a little beer, you cheapskate.” Lonnie says to peals of laughter.
“Where do you come up with this stuff Charlie and where’s that beer money I gave you?” Jack asks.
“Sorry bud, It got spent while in the vortex. Did I tell you guys that a six pack of beer cost more than twelve bucks in my old age?”
“No way man, impossible. You can buy a case now for five. What a crappy future” Lonnie laughs and I’m laughing with him. Feeling like I’ve finally come home. As people start to go back to what they were doing before I showed, Rachael and I are snuggling together.
“Charlie, that was a great story but you should have made up a part about you and I getting married and having a little swarm of cute rug rats.” Rachael smiles at me.
Looking in her eyes, I don’t have the heart to tell her that in real life we drifted apart and I have no idea of her fate, although I had thought about her constantly over the years. Losing her was always a huge regret. So I wing it now.
“Of course, you are right. I’m sorry. That would have been an even better story than the one I came up with, What can I do to make up for it?”
With that, Rachael smiles and says. “You can marry me now, Charlie.” She laughs and gives me one of her impish looks.
I know she is not fully serious, but even if she was, I would not hesitate. “Sure, lets’ do it.” I give her a big hug. And announce it to the room.
“Today’s entertainment is not yet over. Who wants to marry Rachael and I?”
There are many who volunteer. We love weird ceremonies and putting on little skits and plays all while in altered realities. No television is allowed in the house. Too square. So, we have our music, stories, and games to entertain us. What better game than a mock wedding.
Brad will officiate but everyone takes a role and puts together some sort of costume. There are the bridesmaids, the best man, the ushers, the father of the bride, and whatever other roles you could imagine. We even have a “visiting alien” and President Nixon attend. It is all great fun and everyone is really getting in to it. I borrow a ring from Lonnie and use it as the wedding ring. It doesn’t really fit Rachael’s finger but that doesn’t matter. Eventually Brad pronounces us “man and wife” and I kiss the bride. The crowd is cheering, Rachael is beaming, and I’m starting to get a little wasted from all the marijuana. The room is spinning, I feel like I’m going to pass out.
When I open my eyes, I’m on the sidewalk in front of the house. There is a crowd around me and the paramedics are there. They tell me they are taking me to the hospital for observation. All the old man pains are back and I see my wrinkled, sun damaged hands. At the hospital the tests are performed and I’m given a room. Later, they tell me my wife is here. I try to tell them I’m not married, but the words don’t come out quite right. Then she is right beside me and I hear the voice that hasn’t changed over all these years.
“Hi, Charlie, I’m here. Hang in there, it’s all going to be alright. I love you.” She squeezes my hand.
Afghan Chicken Kabobs
Yield: 4 servings
Ingredients
- 1 cup yogurt
- 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
- 1/2 teaspoon ground red or black pepper
- 3 tablespoons garlic, finely minced
- 1 1/2 pounds chicken breasts, boneless, skinless, cut into chunks
- Flatbread such as lavash, pita or flour tortillas
- 3 tomatoes, sliced
- 2 onions, sliced
- Cilantro to taste
- 2 lemons or 4 limes, quartered
Instructions
- Mix yogurt, salt, pepper and garlic in a bowl. Mix chicken with yogurt and marinate 1 to 2 hours at room temperature, up to 2 days refrigerated.
- Thread chicken on skewers and grill over medium hot coals.
- Place warmed pita bread on plates (if using tortillas, toast briefly over flame), divide meat among them, top with tomato and onion slices and cilantro and fold bread over. Serve with lemon or lime quarters for squeezing.
Nutrition
Per serving (excluding unknown items): 87 Calories; 2g Fat (23.2% calories from fat); 4g Protein; 14g Carbohydrate; 2g Dietary Fiber; 8mg Cholesterol; 839mg Sodium
Exchanges: 2 Vegetable; 0 Non-Fat Milk; 1/2 Fat; 0 Other Carbohydrates
What makes carbureted bikes appealing to some riders, even with the lack of modern tech features?
A predictable semi linear power response both on AND off the throttle. This makes you more connected with the bike power.
You twist the throttle progressively? The revs increase as more air is let into the engine (along with fuel). It is predictable and reliable. When you roll off the throttle air/fuel still flows into the engine meaning the revs die down comparatively slowly.
Fuel injection had it’s benefits (doesn’t care about altitude, low octane fuel and was more efficient on fuel), BUT there was always a flat spot at 4300RPM-4600RPM to cheat emissions testing standards.
There were also numerous other things that were and are wrong with Fuel Injection and ECUs.
When you roll off the throttle? Fuel instantly stops causing harsh snap back. This again to meet emissions standards.
The throttle on post 2009 machines was fly by wire, very similar to cars. The computer decided how much power you needed. So, if you suddenly decided to twist the throttle to maximum. It would increase revs but then the computer programme would sense wait a sec… I don’t need to rev so high and it would reduce the amount of fuel. So you could have the throttle pinned and it wouldn’t be revving very high. It would literally override your input at times.