Author: fifteenkey (Page 90 of 95)

Recently, paintings by Congo the Chimpanzee were auctioned on the open market in London. In art circles, Congo was known as the “Cézanne of the Simian World.” Picasso owned a Congo.

Can you tell which of the pieces below was crafted by the chimp, and which by a descendant of chimps?

After you guess, find out which piece was produced from Congo’s pallette…

The soggy heat hung in heavy layers like grains of colored sand in a clear, long-necked bottle from the local fair. Each layer weighing on the one below and smothering all air. Silent. Stifling. Motionless. It’s presence makes everything more difficult. Mowing the lawn becomes an epic struggle for survival, like climbing a mountain. I made it.

It seeped into the gym to assist those seeking to work up a sweat. I was soaking in perspiration only ten minutes into a 30 minute climb on the Stairmaster. It was hard to hold the handles as they were slippery with sweat, and there was nary a dry inch of clothing to wipe my soaked hands.

The heat whispered sweetly, “just quit. A nice cool shower is waiting…” No. I was determined to complete 150 floors, or 150 reps of “the 12-step club.” The music helped. It doesn’t feel the heat. Green Day rocked. The E-Street Band plowed through the sweat. I wanted to wring out my shirt like the Boss, but thought, “now that’s just gross.”

The numbers of the timer read 24.59. Five minutes to go. Ryan Adams shrieked, “note to self: don’t dieeeeeeeeeeee.” The five minutes blew by. As I stepped off the descending pedals, I staggered a bit, just like Mike Tyson last night before he quit what should be his last fight. But won’t be.

In New England, whether it’s the heat, humidity, rain, cold or snow, we bitch. Megan just walked in the door and said, “It’s disgusting out. It’s heavy and wet. You can feel it.” Yeah, but what about the beach and the grill and the Drive-In (yep, we still have one) and golf and baseball? Baseball… Gotta go. Sox at Wrigley in 42 minutes…

A couple weeks ago, I began experiencing numbness in the tips of my pinky and ring finger of my right hand. I had been spending many hours manipulating a mouse on several Powerpoint presentations, and the repetitive motions had caused a flare-up of a long lived spasm in the rhumboid muscle on my right side. I thought that was the cause; that somehow the tension in my upper back was now affecting my right hand. It wasn’t painful, so I pressed on. As it got worse, spreading up the two fingers and into the outside of my wrist and forearm, I joked that if it began to affect my sex life, I’d go see a doctor… That was the joke that masked the fear. What the hell was this? Some had speculated arthritis in my spine was closing down on the nerve. MRI’s were discussed… Cortisone shots… Epidurals to the spine… Surgery??? I thought about how Lou Gehrig’s demise began with mild symptoms… ALS? I got a little freaked. What would happen to my children? I hadn’t gotten around to getting that Will done… I made a doctor’s appointment.

As I sat in the examination room, I reflected on the options again. The nurse broke a cuff on my arm, then said my blood pressure was “very good” at 118/86. I waited. It was hot and humid and the air conditioner must have called in sick. I could hear the roofers outside applying an new coat of grey shingles. The doctor entered the room and greeted each other with a traditional grasping of hands. I’ve now known George for almost 20 years. He is a decent man. Very much a “country doctor,” one of a shrinking tribe facing extinction. He checked my neck, arms and fingers. He said, “You have two options.” I cringed. “One,” he continued, “is that I can spend a bunch of your insurance company’s money and do more tests to confirm my thinking, or you can buy and wear an elbow pad for about a month.” “Hmmm… an elbow pad” I mused. “I’ll get one just like Big Papi.”

Constant pressure on my elbow from working the mouse and striking “The Thinker” pose had compressed the ulnar nerve and caused the numbness. The “nervis ulnaris,” as we say in the Latin Club, runs from the spinal cord down the arm all the way to the fingers. When you hit your “funny bone” and find how not funny it is, that’s Mr. Ulnar saying hello.

I’m relieved and trying to think a little less…

I was wrong. Hmmm… That’s refreshing, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the world be a better place if more people could simply say that instead of throwing up a flourescent green smokescreen of spin to obfuscate the truth?

In my June 1 post called “Dead Presidents,” I stated that Mark Felt, aka “Deep Throat” of the Watergate scandal, had uttered the famous line “follow the money.” In fact, he did not. Hal Holbrook, who played Felt in the movie “All the President’s Men,” did recite the line, but it was put in his mouth by Hollywood screenwriter William Goldman.

Frank Rich reports in the New York Times, “journalists everywhere – from The New York Times to The Economist to The Washington Post itself – would soon start attributing this classic line of dialogue to the newly unmasked Deep Throat, W. Mark Felt.” No, wait. That’s spin. I screwed up. I recollected (something the President’s men didn’t do very well during the hearings…) the line from the movie and attributed it to Mr. Felt. My bad.

Mr. Goldman also wrote the screenplay for “Marathon Man,” and one of my all-time favorites, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

I’m sorry.

The Star Trek series defines CDD as “A disease which continually breaks down and destroys the cellular structure of humanoid bodies.” The trekkie definition goes on to state, “Can be controlled through a complex series of fissure induced particle beams that are focused on the infected areas. There is no known cure.”

I’m concerned my cellphone is afflicted and Verizon is not focusing enough “fissure induced particle beams” on the affected area. Maybe it’s just me, but very often when I flip open my cellphone to make a call, the signal strength indicator quickly changes from this: to this .
It sometimes seems all I have to do is look at those bars to make them shrink into oblivion. Maybe I intimidate them. Just like humans, cellphones talk, listen, and can be incredibly irritating.

Often during conversations on heavily traveled routes 2 or 495, calls drop. In those cases, the little darling shoots three loud high-pitched screeching beeps piercing into my eardrum to announce “CALL WAS LOST.” Thanks. It is during those instances when I feel the urge to fire the little silver devil skipping across a body of water until the ending of inertia allows a slow sinking death in a watery grave. A “high, hard one” into a brick wall would probably also work in this situation.

Those impulsive actions of course would be stupidity, for if you ever experience a lost, stolen or broken phone, your friendly carrier will charge you full retail price to replace it. The $19.99 specials are such only when you sign your life to them for one or two year agreements. Full-retail is likely $199.00 or more. The wireless companies sell razor blades, not razors.

J.D. Power & Associates reports approximately one out of three cellphone calls had quality problems of some kind in 2004, including no signal, dropped calls, interference, echoes and voice distortion. Most problems are due to an inadequate number of cell towers and radios connected to the towers. Of course there’s a balance between perfect service and the cost to provide it that the carriers must manage, but the fact that most of them don’t allow “roaming” onto competitors networks hinders better service.

“Can you hear me now?” Uh, no.

Although I enjoyed “Ellie-Mae” just like the next guy, and even was intrigued by Miss Hathaway, I now rue the day Jedd Clampett missed that little critter and struck oil. Sure, he and his kinfolk got a ce-ment pond in Beverly Hills, but you and I got the habit.

Recently, Boston’s WBUR and National Public Radio’s “The Connection,” hosted by Dick Gordon had a 3 part audio series called “Addicted to Oil.” Guests include Tom Friedman, foreign affairs columnist for The New York Times and Robert McFarlane, former National Security Advisor under President Reagan. It’s worth your time to listen.

Lying Down Oil by Gil Marosi

Obviously, any fan of rock music knows that a band formed while some of its members were studying at the Nova Scotia School of Art and Design should not be missed. Well, Sloan is one of those bands and they’re comin’ to getcha. For me, seeing Sloan live is a recharging experience, kinda like what an electric car feels like after a nice long rush of AC current. The music of this Canadian band has been described as “Beatlesque power pop” and is filled with devastating Joe Frazier-like left hooks. Amazon.com music editor, Peter Hilgendorf calls Sloan “God’s gift to rock and roll,” while comparing them to, “The Beatles, the Kinks, the Who, Led Zeppelin, Big Star, Kiss, Cheap Trick, the Clash, the Replacements, the Young Fresh Fellows, and the Beach Boys (when Mike Love was out at the dry cleaner’s).”

Last summer my daughter Megan caught a left hook or two from Sloan through their record, “Action Pact.” 2004 became the Summer of Sloan, and it peaked when she got to see them live at the Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom. It was a great day full of fun. I long for days like that to return…

One of the bands mega-hits (yeah, it sold like a billion…) is “If it Feels Good, Do It.” It does, so do it. Go See Sloan!

The New York Times reports the White House chief of staff for the Council on Environmental Quality (the folks who advise “Dubya” on environmental policy), edited government climate reports to minimize links between greenhouse gases and global warming. This guy, Philip A. Cooney, was an oil industry lobbyist who used to lead their fight against limits on greenhouse gases. No, wait. He still does.

Your government looking out for the people…

They call it “the Starbucks experience.” Yesterday I visited the a new local Starbucks while waiting for a diagnosis of my Volvo air-conditioning problems. The folks at Starbucks strive to manage every detail of the customer experience; from lighting to layout to light jazz… The pendants hanging from the gold spraypainted exposed ductwork looked like egg-shaped Alien pods missing the bottom third so the stellar rays could emerge. The pods hung precicely by carefully choreographed electron transporters. The lighting, artwork and focus-group color schemes are all part of the “set” that is Starbucks.

However, on any stage, it’s the players that are the big challenge…the human element of the production requiring direction. As this once aspiring actor stepped into the spotlight, he felt an odd, but familiar glance from a woman in her late 50’s in the corner. She was waiting for her “date,” a similarly aged man decked out in jeans and a grey Red Sox tee shirt. I wondered if I’d still be doing the “meeting for coffee” thing ten years from now.

Taken right out of Starbucks Central Casting, the 20-something hipsters were busy behind the counter doing their cool Starbucks schtick. Nearby, one apprentice was meticulously cleaning, oblivious to the Splenda wrappers beneath his feet… I was so overwhelmed with the brilliance of the theatre, I didn’t hesitate to buy a $3.89 “Venti” (that’s “large” for those of you playing at home) Iced Latte.

I took my seat for the rest of the show. Mysteriously, both soft, green velour upholstered chairs seemed occipied. Not with people, but with some stuff… an application, a large steaming coffee, a pen… some rolled up paper. Maybe their owner was in the bathroom. Several minutes passed. The couple to my left continued their nervous dialogue. Traffic flowed onto Route 2 in front of me like a relentless river into the sea. To my right, a man about 60 sat alone. His hair was askew, but not on purpose like so many wear today. I sat. I sipped. Slowly, the older thespian rose and slowly walked to center stage. He wore a white t-shirt with a credit card ad and chinos. He picked up the large coffee that was no longer steaming. He took a sip, or maybe just acted like he did. He put the coffee down and began his silent, solo performance. He wore an “American Tourister” bag tag around his neck on a black shoe lace. His hands gestured adeptly and toward the State Police barracks 150 yards in front of us. He slowly stopped for another small, phantom sip. He then leisurely spun around, almost like dancing. He bowed down and picked up the Splenda wrappers. He was at an age that he knew what clean meant. He flailed some more. Then he put his coat on…a navy blue windbreaker, and walked outside with his coffee. The application stayed on the table with its partner, the pen. It was nearly 90 degrees out, but the man seemed to have no perception of the heat. Maybe he was preoccupied with the demons in his head. He sat. I wondered what happened to this poor soul to thrust him into this … solitary… lonely… state of mental illness. A divorce? The death of a loved one? Unemployment? I wondered just how far from that are any of us?

So said the “English as a second language” guide at Heather Gardens. What we were looking for was Grange Hall, an old restored post & beam hall in the village of West Tisbury where a collection of “Jaws” memorablia was on display. So off we went, expecting the booty of buoy’s, spear guns and other cool props to be “just around the bend.” Well, after several bends, a couple long straightaways and a few hills, we were nowhere. This particular journey kept my interest with extraordinary old trees and the occasional outdoor sculpture, but Kyle wasn’t feeling the love. Not the the trek was all mellow for me either. Most of it was spent worried about Kyle’s positioning within the 18” walking path on the side of the “State Road” as cars and trucks whizzed by.

Finally we reached a bus stop and decided to wait for the next one. We waited for about 15 minutes, chatting with a couple brothers who had also come over for the “JawsFest.” Well, I chatted. Kyle was just clutching his Boston Magazine, wondering how this adventure had gone so horribly wrong. As the bus sped toward us, Kyle muttered, “Finally” as the bus whooshed by us with a big gust of wind. We were back to walking… After forty-five more minutes of silent trudging, we arrived at the village. Maybe that guy meant 500 kilometers… We darted into a little general store for pizza, a tuna wrap and some lemonade. We ate in slience, sitting on the wood bench in front of the place. We’d walked about three miles and weren’t too happy about it. The tuna was good. Just like I remember at the beach as a kid. Kyle erased two slices in ten minutes. The lemonade evaporated at a furious pace. Now, it was time to face the music.

The Grange Hall exhibit had everything. Well, they didn’t have the severed torso of Robert Shaw’s “Quint,” but what do you want for ten bucks…each? Hey, they had just about everything else, including “Ben Gardner’s” head, and Kyle was in Great White Heaven. Later, as we smoothly glided back to New Bedford on the awesome high-speed ferry, Kyle still had his Boston Magazine on his lap. He said quietly, “Thanks Dad. That was fun. I like Martha’s Vineyard.” Me too, Kyle. Me too.