Category Archives: blather

Know your Presidents!

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Martin Van Buren

Image by carljohnson via Flickr

In honor of Presidents’ Day, our generation’s way of efficiently ignoring our country’s heritage of leadership by lumping two national heroes together, I thought I’d share with you some little-known presidential facts.

  • James A. Garfield never wore a tie. His assassination, often ascribed to a crazed anarchist, was in fact a calculated commission by the cravat cabal.
  • William Howard Taft was the only William Howard Taft ever to become president.
  • Franklin Pierce, although he came from New Hampshire, was the first future U.S. president to be born in the nineteenth century.
  • Chester Alan Arthur, buried right here in Menands, despised Martin Van Buren for being buried right here in Kinderhook. He also never hugged his mother.
  • Benjamin Franklin was the only president of the United States who was never president of the United States.
  • Millard Fillmore ran a small tailoring shop in the East Wing of the White House to supplement his income and, as he put it, “to keep my hand in.”
  • James Buchanan, who allowed the Confederate secession and the loss of Federal arsenals, forts and troops, often referred to himself as “the worst president in history.”
  • Calvin Coolidge enjoyed riding with the top down.
  • William Henry Harrison had no idea who “Tippecanoe” was, and John Tyler flatly refused to tell him.
  • Although historians and academics rarely acknowledge it, both Washington and Lincoln traditionally bought new bedding on their birthdays. Combining their birhdays into a single Federal holiday was meant to put an end to the Mattress Wars and ease the consciences of loyal Americans who fretted over which president to honor with a new mattress purchase.
  • There was no 24th president.
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This looks horrible!

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And I had it so stylin’, too. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to get that funky fresh look back, get the pieces I wanted where I wanted them, and all that stuff. Also, there were a couple of new comments in the last day or two, which I have to import over here, but don’t worry, I’ll get them and answer the questions.

You tube

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You ain’t seen nothin’. You and I will stick together. You and your symptoms. You are my girl. You are my sunshine. You are not needed now. You baby. You be my baby. You belong to me. You belong to me. You better watch out. You bowed down. You came along. You can bring your dog. You can close your eye. You can do it. You can run. You can’t always get what you want. You can’t blame that on me. You can’t catch me. You can’t catch me. You can’t catch me. You can’t do that. You can’t get what you want (till you know what you want). You can’t make me. You can’t resist it. You can’t sit down. You could make a killing. You didn’t have to. You didn’t mean anything to me. You do. You do. You do something to me. You don’t love me. You don’t bring me flowers. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to walk in the rain. You don’t know. You don’t know what love is (you just do as you’re told). You don’t love me. You don’t love me anymore. You don’t mess around with Jim. You don’t miss your water. You don’t satisfy. You don’t wanna know. You don’t know like I know.

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I Tunes

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I knew. I (heart) metal buildings. I ain’t done wrong. I ain’t gonna suffer no more. I ain’t got you. I ain’t the one. I alone. I am a grocery bag. I am a man of constant sorrow. I am a rock. I am a rock. I am a rock. I am a tangerine. I am history. I am not your broom. I am sincere. I am sincere. I am the law. I am the lucky one. I am the sea. I am the walrus. I am the walrus. I am weary (let me rest). I been burning bad gasoline. I believe. I believe. I believe. I believe in miracles. I believe to my soul. I call out her name. I can hear music. I can make it if you can. I can make it with you. I can see clearly now. I can see for miles. I can take or leave your loving. I can taste it. I can wait. I can’t be satisfied.

I can’t believe it. I can’t breathe. I can’t control myself. I can’t explain. I can’t figure you out. I can’t forget you. I can’t get behind that. I can’t get my head around it. I can’t get next to you. (I can’t get no) satisfaction. I can’t get over you. I can’t get you out of my mind. I can’t give you anything. I can’t help you anymore. I can’t hold on. I can’t hold on. I can’t hold on. I can’t hold on. I can’t let go. I can’t let go. I can’t let go. I can’t make it. I can’t make it. I can’t make it on time. I can’t pretend. I can’t reach you. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand up for falling down. I can’t talk anymore. I can’t tell the bottom from the top. I can’t think about dancing. I can’t turn you loose. I can’t win. I can’t turn you loose.

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When I have nothing to say

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When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again?

My resemblance to “Psycho Killer” ends there (I hope), but as we venture into the unpredictable days of summer, when the weather forecasters should just admit they have no idea what’s going to happen (chance of 25-degree swings, violent thunderstorms, cloudbursts, blazing sun, overcast skies, and short periods of time when it is raining on the front of the truck but not the back). It’s the ridiculous and constantly debunked belief that they know what’s going to happen that keeps setting me back. I look up at the sky and it doesn’t even match what they say is happening now.

So despite uncertainty we’ve been getting out there and doing the summer things, not the least of which is spending several hours a day harvesting the black raspberries (it becomes a relief when they finally run out, but we do have a new pie recipe that is fantastic). Some light kayaking (in a heavy kayak) on Sunday, a fantastic new ride up Dunham Hollow Road yesterday (grateful for the cooling influence of an unpronounceable creek that wasn’t Tsatsawassa Creek), spending time weeding the garden, and interrupting the rare blog posting with another violent thunderstorm and lightning that’s too close for my computer’s comfort. Yesterday I took an afternoon nap in the hammock, one of those things I always think of and never do, and one of those things life is simply too short not to do. There was even time to chase fireflies, an activity that wins out in hazy memory over the reality of being chawed by skeeters as you try to relate the blinking of lightning bugs to quantum physics and wondering whether Heisenberg spent his evenings in the yard with a jar.

Kirsten come home!

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All is forgiven. Seriously, where the hell is Kirsten Gum these days? After her disappearance from OLN TV, about the only reference I can find to her is this allegation that as a participant in a Primal Quest race, she may have used her panties as a water filter. And somebody’s squatting on her domain name. It’s not that I’m the biggest Kirsten Gum fan in the world, though I thought she was fine covering the Tour de France (mustn’t . . . start . . . anti-Trautwig . . . rant!). But every single day I get hits from desperate fans looking for Kirsten Gum (actually, more often, “kirsten gum killer rack”), and it seems like in the age of the internet even a minor figure from an obscure sports channel would have a greater presence on the web than just a snapshot flashing a peace sign.

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