Hello, beautiful wish makers and dream tenders. I have to tell you how much this loving, supportive community that's growing with Wishcasting means to me. Every week I am touched, inspired and joyful as I read your wishes and encouraging words. That's one of the reasons why I'm so excited to share with you that as of next week, Wishcasting will find a new home.
Many of you know that I'm currently nurturing a new website/blog. Today I realized it would be so special for me to launch it on a Wishcasting Wednesday. Then I'd just know it was going to be surrounded by and filled with magic and love. So here it is, I'm writing this publicly for the first time, next Wednesday, I'll be launching my new site. Stop by here for the address and an invitation to my online launch party. I'll look forward to seeing you there.
And in the meantime, as always, you can be a maker of magic and a tender of wishes. It’s easy. Answer the wish prompt above on your blog and then add a direct link to your post in the box below. Support wishes by visiting other participants, leaving a comment saying “As (insert name) wishes for her/himself, so I wish for her/him also.” It’s that simple. There is great power in wishing together.
I think McMurphy knew better than we did that our tough looks were all show, because he still wasn't able to get a real laugh out of anybody. Maybe he couldn't understand why we weren't able to laugh yet, but he knew you can't really be strong until you see a funny side to things. In fact, he worked so hard at pointing out the funny side of things that I was wondering a little if maybe he was blind to the other side, if maybe he wasn't able to see what it was that parched laughter deep inside your stomach. - (from One Flew Over Cuckoo's Nest)
Always comes the moment when it's time to take the Prankster circus further on toward Edge City. And always at this point some good souls are startled. Kesey can remember them all, people who thought he was great so long as his fantasy coincided with theirs. But every time he pushed on further -- and he always pushed on further -- they became confused and resentful. - (Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test)
And one day the King's most loyal servant came into the royal chambers and said, "Your Majesty, all of the kingdom's wheat has been infested with a fungus that turns the people crazy when they eat it!" The King sadly contemplated this news then replied, "If we are going to be able to understand the people, then you and I must consume the fungus and become crazy too. But before we partake of the grain, let us make a mark on each other's forehead so that later, when we see one another, we will know that we chose to become insane, while everybody else is just crazy." - (Ken Kesey's Twister)
One of these days you're going to have a visitation. You're going to be walking down the street and across the street you're going to see God standing over there on the corner motioning to you saying, 'Come here, come to me.' And you will know it's God, there will be no doubt in your mind -- he has slitty little eyes like Buddha, and he's got a long nice beard and blood on his hands. He's got a big Charlton Heston jaw like Moses, he's stacked like Venus, and he has a great jeweled scimitar like Mohammad. And God will tell you to come to him and sing his praises. And he will promise that if you do, all the muses that ever visited Shakespeare will fly in your ear and out of your mouth like golden pennies. It's the job of the writer in America to say, 'Fuck you God, fuck you and the Old Testament you rode in on, fuck you.' The job of the writer is to kiss no ass, no matter how big and holy and white and tempting and powerful. - (Kesey's Advice to Young Writers)
Ken Babbs, Zane, The Merry Pranksters, Skypilots, Hog Farmers, et al, had a great idea for commemorating September llth. They suggested taking a book you think has mind-expanding properties and leaving it somewhere in a public place where someone might find it and take it home to read. They even provided a little marker that you could print off their webpage and stick in the book so people would know to take it home and not leave it at a lost and found or something. The concept is that an occasion that is a real bummer, like remembering the horrors of September 11, may be alleviated in a positive way by people sharing books that would give each other a more enlightened and hopeful view of life.
Well, it was just whimsical enough an idea to convince me to try it, but then of course that posed the question of what book I should leave out for discovery. I'm not normally one for parting with books. I still have some I've had from childhood and my whole place is messy with books tucked in every cranny while my shelves are ready to collapse with the weight of them. Yet whenever I try to throw any of them away I get all nostalgic and remember the circumstances behind how I first read the book and the people and the places associated with it, some of them gone forever, and the next thing you know I feel like I'm betraying old friends and decide I can't throw the books away.
But this was for a good cause and besides I wasn't really throwing the book away. I was sharing it with a stranger who may need a kindly dose of consciousness raising on a sad anniversary. So not knowing who this stranger might be, or what his tastes are, I decided to go with the Norton Anthology of American Literature, a big fat doorstopper of a book with gossamer thin pages from my own college days, a book predating the revised politically correct version. None of the evil Dead White Males were censored from this edition to be replaced by inferior talents elevated by virtue of having neither a penis nor white skin. I figure that until the day when sanity returns to academia and the Dead White Males are returned to their rightful pedestals, than those of us left who still know the true masterpieces should share them with others.
So sure enough early on the morning of September 11 I went to the benches in front of St. Brigid's Roman Catholic Church in downtown Amherst and placed the big fat anthology with all the writings of the Dead White Males in it, and the Prankster/Skypilot marker with the picture of Ken Babbs on it sticking out the top and I put it on the bench and walked away.
When I came by about four o'clock that afternoon the book was gone without a trace. Now I wish I had sort of lurked around awhile, somewhere out of view, to see who took my book. Oh well, whoever you are, I hope you're enjoying it.
The Perfect High by Shel Silverstein
There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you. 'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked bananas -- which was then the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly, And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night, And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light. And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back, And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick, And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong, And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry, Till he heard of a cat named Baba Phats who knew of the perfect high.
Now, Baba Phats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall. "But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly, But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides Then sits -- and cries -- and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak, As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes -- sits the godlike Baba Phats.
"What's happening, Phats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz. I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is. For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die, So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Phats. "Here's one more burnt-out soul, Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold. But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, or on no druggist's shelf. Son, if you would seek the perfect high -- find it in yourself."
"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I've climbed through rain and sleet, I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet! I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this? My ears 'fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap, But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap. And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"
"Ok, OK," says Baba Phats, "you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli. A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree. And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky, And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun. And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high. With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime, Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by. And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea. As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me." And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy slips the guru a five, Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.
"Well, that is that," says Baba Phats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone. "It seems, Lord," says Phats, "it's always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth, It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."
Now Online
Former Northampton City Councilor and beloved curmudgeon Mike Kirby has released his sixth installment chronicling the Hamp banking scandals, focusing on a car business that may not be all it appears to be:
It was September 12, l997. Richard Egbert, lawyer for Irving Labovitz, had Mike Smith, former chief of commercial lending at Heritage Bank, on the stand. His intent that day, as it was most days, was to undercut Smith’s credibility. This day the spotlight was on the relationship between Smith and Northampton businessman Matthew Pitoniak. Pitoniak helped him get his condo in the Virgin Islands, and a grateful Mike Smith had made Matthew Pitoniak a millionaire virtually overnight, funneling money to trusts with winsome names out of “Lord of the Rings” such as Rivendell, Treebeard and Quickbeam.
He got $700,000 to acquire Splash Car Wash in Springfield, $610,000 for 180-182 Main Street, $1.1 million for Fitzwillys, $950,000 for 492 Pleasant Street, and $490,000 to acquire 19 Fulton Avenue. The last loan in this string enabled Matthew Pitoniak and Edmund Komansky (Quickbeam Realty Trust) to construct the building where the Northampton Pro-Lube facility is today.
According to the papers, Mike Smith was now managing an auto shop, earning about $250 a week and living up over the garage. An innocent juror or newspaper reader like me would probably think that this new career of his reflected credit on him. Bank executive starts life over again managing a garage. Puts past behind him, goes straight. Shows contrition for his sins, gets back to his working class roots.
Read the latest installment in this epic work of citizen journalism by clicking here:
There's also an interesting new blog about the old Paramount Building in Springfield.
The Paramount Theater was purchased in the summer of 1999. The Theater hadn't been opened for years, employed no one, and paid no taxes. We made a huge investment, saved a local landmark, employed over 150 people, and paid approximately $220,000 in back taxes to the city of Springfield. The Hippodrome opened in December of 2000 after a year of renovations.
I see that the Munson Hall Annex at UMass is fenced off and headed for demolition.
Unlike Munson Hall proper, the annex has no real architechtural or historic significance. Still, I feel a little sad when I see anything associated with my own time at UMass disappear.
Elsewhere on campus there have been small improvements made since the students left for the summer. They finally took down that ugly fence that was up while the Grad Research Center was being painted and are shown here removing the bushes and high grass that had grown behind it.
The grounds crew ripped out all that unattractive shrubbery in front of the Student Union and replaced it with lovely rows of roses.
In downtown Amherst the Black Sheep Deli has a fancy new chalkboard sign.
And Motown Bernie got himself a scooter to putter between panhandling spots.
The Bruce Cutler of the British Underworld, Anthony Herschel Blok, former senior partner of solicitors firm Sears Blok, was today found guilty on six charges under the Proceeds of Crime Act, the first three charges relating to the painting 'Girls on the Beach' by Sir William Orpen.
Prosecuting council Ms. Amanda Pinto QC, council for the defence Mr. Michael Wolkind QC.
Have you ever received negative messages about the things that you love? In my life there have been two things that I've received some real negative messages about: style and performance. I'll talk about performance another day but with my wardrobe consultation coming up Thursday, my mind's on style.
Ever since I was a little girl, I loved clothes. I remember my red shirt with the frills down the front, my pink blouse with the ballooning sleeves, my crazy yellow oxfords, my red skater dress with the twirling skirt - all of these I wore in public school. I remember spending hours pouring over pattern books my mom brought home, choosing from each page which sleeve I liked best, which collar, which length, expressing my preferences and honing my taste. Clothing was a daily act of creative self-expression.
I don't just remember how my clothes looked. I remember how I felt in them - both how outfits amped up a particular aspect of my personality and also how they sensually felt against my skin. The mood of a flouncy skirt and sandals was so different from a pencil skirt and heels - and I loved them both. Over time, my changing wardrobe expressed different periods of my life. They represented me as a dancer, as a student, as an artistic director, as a club chick.
It came as a shock to me in grade 7 when I discovered that clothes could also define your status, and that people could use clothes to pigeonhole you. That was antithetical to my take on fashion but it was certainly a popular view. Over time, it also became clear that in many people's view, being concerned with fashion meant that you were materialistic, superficial and quite likely, a snob. And if that wasn't bad enough, we all know the impact that a limited view of beauty has had on the self-esteem and confidence of countless women and girls!
How could I in good conscious love fashion?
I think the answer comes in taking a stand for love. It's crucial to our expression of ourselves that we be allowed to love what we love. Fashion can be a way of expressing our love for colour, for texture, for shape. With fashion we can celebrate our uniqueness, our sexiness, our sensibilities, our sense of humour. Where fashion turns against us is when we let someone else dictate what is loveable and what is not, the latter often being our poor, tender bodies.
So many wonderful things in this world can turn into cages when they're accompanied by 'shoulds.' Fashion, work and life can all become oppressive when we feel we must follow rules that someone else prescribes. And fashion, work and life can be fulfilling and expressive when we define for ourself what is beautiful, what expresses our sensibilities and our spirit.
So, don't be afraid to have style...
Your style.
By the way, the site I used to come up with my wardrobe inspiration board is Polyvore and it could be a fun way to create a dreamboard. Full Moon Dreamboards are coming up on July 7th. If you're in Toronto, I'm hosting a live Dreamboard Circle on Sunday, July 5th. You can find out more here. You can email me at jamie(at)openthedoor(dot)ca for details or to RSVP.
This morning at 4:42AM, I awoke to sirens blaring, strobe lights flashing, and the direction from my husband, "Let's get out--Let's go!"
The hotel fire alarm had been ... detonated, and I was like a hamster trapped in a plastic ball, scurrying like mad but really going nowhere because it took a couple of seconds to remember where in the world I was.
Then I said, "Where's Kristin?!" over the sensory torture because even in the bright blinking lights, I couldn't see her. So I turned again to pull her out of bed, when
our foreheads conked.
We scrambled outside the hotel, where I realized that I was in a long (to the knees) striped nightshirt instead of what I ALWAYS wear to sleep in in hotels because I'm afraid I'll have to go out in the event of a fire and people will see me--exercise pants and a t-shirt.
Except this ONE time in my entire life, of course.
So Jorge ran back in the room (we had a first floor room which had a door to the outside) and brought back my shorts, purse, and Kristin's glasses because the poor thing can't see worth squat on her own.
We waited for a while and were told it was a false alarm. Somehow the phone system in the hotel is connected to the alarm system, and when the phones shorted out, the alarm went off. I'm just glad the sprinklers didn't go off, too. Then I would've been a wet hamster in horizontal stripes.
So we all reentered our rooms and tried to go back to sleep. That is when I realized that my head, where I beat it against Kristin's head like laundry on a river rock, was throbbing.
I went back to sleep for about an hour, and then it was no use to keep trying.
Thus began our day. It's a bummer to realize you've probably had the most exciting event of your day by 4:45AM.
But later we went on a hike in Smoky Mountain National Park to see Laurel Falls and the thing that everyone on the trail but me wants to see: bears.
Yes, I am afraid of bears. And alligators. I have said more than once, "I wish they were dead." Meaning bears and alligators.
Sorry, nature lovers.
Where was I. Oh yes, I wish they were dead.
So, of course, immediately, when we approached the beginning of the trail, a family randomly volunteered to ME, not Jorge or Kristin, "There are lots of bears out there today. We saw triplets and twins and ...."
I stopped listening because I started composing a blog post in my head: "Oh yes, it's another 'I Know You Think I Make This Stuff Up' moment."
But I am not making this up; they pinpointed me to report all of their sightings to in detail.
So I rehearsed again with Jorge what to do if a bear jumps out in front of you on a path and yells, "Turf Warrrr!"
All along the trek, I watched every peripheral movement and listened for rustling, crackling branches.
But I needn't have because three times, we came up on a group of people looking up into the hills, pointing, and telling us we just missed the bears.
I did see a doe and nursing fawn, which is more my speed.
By the end of the hike, I can't believe this, but I was actually a little disappointed that we didn't see the bears. I mean, it's quite a let down to be on five-alarm high alert for just a doe, fawn and tiny little lizard.
But I did end up getting a picture of A bear, which I will post upon my return home.
Home--where if fire alarms go off, it's for a good reason, like I have set it at night and then forgot to turn it off when I open the door for Zoe one last time.
Have you ever had an alarm go off in a hotel or similar situation before?
In the spring of 2002 I had the pleasure of attending a lecture at the University of Houston by the world-famous historian and best-selling author David McCullough. If forced to describe McCullough's lecture in a single word, the term I would choose is "inspiring." I don't mean that flippantly, as in the manner in which the word is thrown out by self-help gurus who "inspire" you to quit smoking or lose weight. I mean inspirational with a capital I, with the concept linked to Big Ideas and the Highest Idealism.
When I arrived at the lecture with my uncle, retired Professor John E. Devine, it appeared as though we wouldn't be able to see McCullough in the flesh. Despite having reserved tickets in advance, we discovered when we went to pick them up at the box office shortly before the lecture was to start that our tickets were for an "overflow" room. That meant that we would have to watch and listen to the lecture on a giant TV screen in another room, since so many people had reserved tickets ahead of us that there were no seats available in the Lecture Hall.
Actually sometimes seeing a lecture that way can be an advantage, since you can usually see and hear better over the closed circuit TV than you can from a lousy seat in the actual Lecture Hall itself. The major disadvantage of seeing it on TV, however, is that you miss out on some of the more subtle aspects of the experience, in particular the interplay of energy between the speaker and audience.
After taking our seats before the giant TV screen, McCullough himself completely unexpectedly appeared in the overflow room. He thanked us for coming and apologized for the lack of space for us in the main hall, then promised to keep our presence in mind as he gave his talk. As it turned out, shortly after he left we were all invited into the Lecture Hall anyway, since many people who had reserved seats failed to show up, thereby making the overflow room unnecessary. Yet I would estimate that by the time the lecture began the hall was still 99% full.
McCullough's impromptu visit to those of us who had been originally exiled to the overflow room was one of the classiest gestures of respect for an audience I've ever seen a public speaker perform. A literary prima donna would have taken the news of an overflow crowd as food for his ego, not as cause for concern and a personal display of gratitude. That kind of endearing humility simply cannot be faked.
The emminent historian was introduced by U of H President Arthur K. Smith, who did a solid job of summarizing McCullough's mind-boggling list of accomplishments, stretching from his Yale graduation in 1955 through virtually every literary award you can imagine, ending finally with a humorous counterpoint to his highbrow resume by stating that McCullough "likes to cook spagetti on Sunday nights."
McCullough began his talk, entitled "First Principles," by observing that since the tragic events of September 11 it has become commonplace to hear people say that, "everything is different, everything has changed." While conceding that "we are probably changed in more ways than we realize," he dismissed the notion that this is a time of special hardship for the United States.
Instead he urged us to regard current events from a historical perspective. He pointed out that even in the lives of people still living there were such extreme trials as the Great Depression and World War II. In a particularly apt and original example, McCullough referred to the great influenza epidemic of 1918, which took over 500,000 lives, a death toll that completely dwarfs the 3000 people who lost their lives on September 11. Of course history is not a contest where challenges are rated on a scale defined by body counts, but the point he made was that America has faced many hard challenges, and that our current threats are not unique in either size or severity.
McCullough compellingly made the case that the most difficult period in our nation's history was at the very beginning. In bringing this point home McCullough proved to be a virtual fountainhead of facts, figures and anecdotes which vividly brought to life the Revolutionary War era. I doubt that I was unique among those present in feeling as the talk progressed that I really don't know enough about our Founding Fathers and Mothers, and should probably begin reading up on them, perhaps beginning with McCullough's famous books. Of course part of the reason authors such as McCullough make lecture tours is to generate interest, and thereby sales, in their own writings. But there was no hint of the huckster in McCullough's talk and it was very apparent that he believed - and passionately - in everything he said.
That sincerity was the quality that elevated McCullough's speech above the usual fare one encounters from the literary lecture circuit. As he recounted the terrible hardships, the steely determination, and the unflagging idealism of the heroes of the American revolution, McCullough effectively brought to life the commitment required of the revolutionaries noble vision of "the life of the mind without boundaries."
For example, he read this electrifying passage from the correspondence of Abigail Adams: "These are the times in which a genius would wish to live. It is not in the still calm of life or the repose of a pacific station that great characters are formed. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties. Great necessities call out great virtues. When a mind is raised and animated by scenes that engage the heart, then those qualities which would otherwise lay dormant, waken to life and form the character of the hero and the statesman."
This is heavy stuff, which McCullough presented with a motivational sense of historical drama, made all the more compelling because he made clear the extent to which we moderns who were sitting in the audience are a part of that same dramatic and historic heritage. It would've been a person with a very cynical heart who could've left that lecture without a renewed sense of patriotism and civic responsibility. Indeed the lecture was on one level the kind of intellectual scolding that leaves one feeling somewhat like a shmuck for all that we take for granted. Fortunately the wisest people, such as McCullough, recognize the need for such scoldings.
Receiving a more than deserved standing ovation at the conclusion of his speech, McCullough entertained a half-dozen questions from the audience. Among them:
-The incongruence between the fight for American liberty and the institution of slavery was raised in the context of John Adams, to which McCullough responded by pointing out that Adams was the only Founding Father who refused to own slaves on principle, and that Adams supported public education for blacks.
-McCullough was also asked what he thought of the literary scandals involving plagerism surrounding his fellow best-selling historians Stephen Ambrose and Doris Kearns Goodwin. Describing both of them as personal friends, he refused to comment.
-Someone asked McCullough to compare the father and son presidencies of John and John Quincy Adams with George and George W. Bush. At first hesitant to reply, McCullough, who is notoriously proud of his Yale pedigree, drew laughter by declaring that the Yale graduated Bushes were superior because "the Adamses only had a Harvard education."
-He dismissed as inaccurate the suggestion that Adams and Benjamin Franklin did not get along, insisting that they had enormous respect for one another. He also humorously pointed out that Franklin, author of the maxim, "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise," was himself rarely out of bed before eleven o'clock!
If the role of a historian is to give the public a useful perspective on the present by examining the past, then David McCullough perfomed that role beautifully at the University of Houston. In all it was an unusually entertaining and informative evening which provided much sincerely felt inspiration.
Nostalgia Trip
Here's some hijinks by the Subway on King Street in Northampton in 1990. I used to work in the convenience store across the street.
Jim Neill shares this picture of himself and a friend playing the Ted Nugent pinball machine at UMass around 1980. I remember that game as well as the Evil Kneival one next to it. People have forgotten what big stars Nugent and Kneival were at one time.
I ruled the pinball machines at UMass, which was just a natural progression from my lordship over the machines at the Two Guys snack bar on Boston Road in Springfield. Eventually the pinball machines at UMass were replaced by computer games, but now there are no games at all, since everyone can play them for free at home or on their laptops. Here's the gaming area after the games were removed forever in 2007.
Pictures of Lilly
Ya gotta hand it to the Florence section of Northampton, it's got attitude.
Of course what exactly one is supposed to be resisting is not clear. Florence has a great library named after someone named Lilly.
Lilly is a He, and the bewhiskered Mr. Lilly gazes down upon the patrons from his golden frame.
The children's area has a cool starship section.
How come the kids get to have all the fun?
Saturday Night
I stopped in at the Yellow Sofa Cafe in downtown Hamp.
There was a band playing consisting primarily of juveniles.
Again, kids having all the fun!
Today's Video
Tony in England sends along this evidence that the Brits are keeping a stiff upper lip over the Michael tragedy.
Tony also shares this video of Neil Young performing at London's Hyde Park on Saturday night. Although not included here, I'm told that Paul McCartney made an appearance.
This game is free, however it is only to be used for classroom and personal use. It may not be published on any websites or other electronic media, or distributed in newsletters, bulletins, or any other form or sold for profit.
Name That Parable Game: The first player to complete their puzzle and tell what parable the puzzle depicts, wins.
Heather Plett likes to play with words, paint, and photos over at her blog (www.fumblingforwords.blogspot.com). In her day job, she leads a national team of fundraisers and public relations professionals, some of whom like to get down on the floor with scissors and glue and others who do not. She has used dreamboarding in a variety of leadership roles to help teams explore possibilities and dreams.
“Okay, now push away from the table, take your scissors and glue and get down on the floor.”
I don’t think they’d ever heard those words before at a business meeting. Some of them looked at me reluctantly (“you want me to do WHAT?), and others jumped up eagerly (“you mean I get to PLAY?). Once I’d convinced even the resisters to get down on the floor, I passed around large sheets of construction paper and stacks of old magazines.
This was an annual planning meeting for my team. Instead of facilitating a traditional strategic planning exercise, where-in we spend tedious hours coming up with carefully worded (and dreadfully boring and uninspiring) goals, objectives, and action plans, I decided to try something a little different. “Flip through the magazines,” I said. “There are no rules for this exercise. Just start cutting out pictures and words that inspire you. Try to imagine the possibilities for our team for the coming year. What do you dream of? What do you hope for? What things get you passionate? In the end, put together a picture of where you feel our team (and you as a contributor to this team) should be a year from now.”
After about an hour and a half of cutting, pasting, and creating, the group shared what they’d created. Some had used mostly words, others had only pictures. Some had very organized categorized boards, others had random scattered images. One of the artists in our group had embellished hers with coloured pens. Each board was unique and each said something important about where our team was going. The common themes we found running through most of the dreamboards became the basis for our annual plan for the coming year. The ideas that were not common between boards were tested with other team members before being added to the whole.
Dreamboarding at work. Have you ever tired it? Why not consider it next time your team needs to gather for strategic planning/visioning/etc.?
Here are a few of the things I’ve learned after doing this a number of times with different teams:
When individuals have completed their dreamboards, you may want to combine them all into a large collage. Another option would be to work on one common dreamboard from the start, where everyone contributes to a large board with their own ideas. If you do a common board, make sure everyone feels like an equal and honoured participant.
Draw out some of the surprising, unusual, or risky pieces you see in the boards that some people might be reluctant to share. Sometimes the best ideas are the ones that are the most hidden. Create a space where team-members are safe to be vulnerable.
People will respond very differently to this exercise. Some will jump in eagerly, and some will offer a great deal of resistance. If you anticipate that more than half of your team will be resisters and you’ll have a hard time getting anything meaningful out of it, you may want to consider small steps to work up to this. For example, the first time you step away from more traditional strategic planning exercises, you may want to start with word play - write down all the words that come to your mind when you think of where your team should be next year. (It’s a little less threatening than getting down on the floor.)
Watch for negative energy and try to stem the tide. A few resisters can ruin it for the more eager participants. Find a way to respect their fear or blockage and then help them work past it toward a place of possibilities.
When it comes time to explain what they have created, some people may need some prompting to get to the heart of what they’re dreaming about. Some of the greatest “a-ha” moments happen after a person has put the pieces together and sees the final product.
Consider posting the dreamboards in a shared space in your work place (lunch room, hallway, etc.) to remind people of their visions and possibilities. (Be sure you clear this with the team first, in case they’re embarrassed about having other people outside of the team see their creations.)
In my experience, sometimes the greatest epiphanies can come when a team is getting lost in creative play. I’ve seen some wonderful ideas that have emerged from dreamboarding that I suspect never would have emerged if we’d taken the more traditional strategic planning route. It may not be for everyone (would a team of auditors or accountants get into this? Hmmm…), but if you have a creative group that needs an extra little boost, it’s worth a try.
I'm in Sevierville (near Gatlinburng) for a couple of days for my daughter's national dance competition.
We arrived last night (in the new CRV, no less, very smooth ride, ahhh) and began our adventure this morning with Jorge and Kristin enjoying a morning run while I slept in, which is the first time I've done that in ... days. Ha. Just kidding. I rarely sleep in because I'm more of a morning person than a late night one. So it felt really weird, like a sin or something.
For relaxation pleasure, I brought a plethora of magazines and one novel because I had big plans for the pool, which materialized due to an additional plethora of Tennessee sunshine. I was in non-office heaven.
A couple hours later a restaurant, Kristin, sitting across from me, said, "Mom, how did you get all of those mosquito bites or hives or whatever?"
Looking down, I saw that I appeared to have leprosy.
It took me a second to figure out what was going on. I had used, for the first time, a spray-on sunscreen which turned out not to be a good idea because in spraying my shoulders, I didn't realize that the fine mist I was feeling was actually not fine at all, and indeed left white spots all over me the size of peas. Perhaps there is a river around here in which I can go dip 7 times or something.
You wouldn't think it would be all that noticeable, but during the checkout at a CVS, the cashier asked me, and I quote: "Now how did you get that funky sunburn?"
Nice.
This afternoon, I sat on the 2nd floor balcony of the hotel trying to write my column for the paper which will be printed July 4, with the ground-level pool to my left and the foothills of the Smokies to my right. It would have been quite picturesque except helicopter tours kept flying overhead which reminded me of giant bumblebees because they were yellow and black and "buzzed" menacingly. So I gave up and came in here.
Right now I'm in the lobby where I'm allowed 15 minutes on this computer, but so far, since no one else is around, I have broken that law already. Apparently, with sleeping in and hogging time on the computer, I am having a wild first day of vacation.
This hotel is supposed to have an antebellum feel. Directly to my left are large portraits of Clark Gable and Vivienne Leigh as Rhett and Scarlett beside an old-timey hutch filled with GWTW memorabilia, plus two glass-encased large sets of Rhett and Scarlett dolls on each side of the hutch, about 24" tall each. Very kitschy.
The two ladies behind the desk are having a LENGTHY and boisterous discussion about whether "swapped" is a real word. They have spelled it about 6 times, used it in different sentences, decided "changed out" sounds classier, and then revisited the whole conundrum again. I just want to yell out, "Yes. Yes it IS a word. It is the past tense of 'swap.' Please use it without further consternation and/or discussion." But then I would just be a rude Yankee, and there's no need for that because they are lovely women. Just really vocabulary-conscious lovely women. Like the bumblebee helicopters, buzzing around me.
The highlight of today, though, was eating at The Islamorada Fish Company restaurant, situated smack dab in the middle of a 130,000 sq. ft. Pro Bass megalo-store complete with stuffed (taxidermied?) wild animals, indoor waterfalls and a 13,00 gallon aquarium. Sounds strange, I know, but when I get home, I'll post pics, and you will see that it is stranger than you thought.
Since we're here with friends whose daughter is also dancing, we are planning a wild game of Farkle tonight, so if I don't post early in the morning, you know the partying just got out of hand here tonight at "Tara."
Formed in the wilds of Balkans bandit country in the aftermath of the Yugoslav civil war, an elite gang of jewel thieves have become a target for Interpol, reports Colin Freeman
Ribboned with limestone peaks and glistening lakes, the wooded valleys of Montenegro are well known as the setting for the remake of James Bond film Casino Royale. But for Vladimir Lekic, a well-known face in local gambling joints, it seemed the local roulette wheel may not have provided enough of a jackpot.
The jobless 34-year-old was arrested two weeks ago near his home in the 15th century town of Cetinje, suspected of stealing watches worth EU 1 million from a jeweller in Germany in 2003. Neighbours describe him as an unremarkable character who usually lost more than he won - yet if detectives are to be believed, he was just the kind of shady, well-heeled gambler that 007 might meet at the blackjack table.
He stands accused of belonging to the Pink Panthers - an elite Balkans robbery crew suspected of stealing around £100 million in daring jewellery store raids worldwide.
Operating from London through to Tokyo, the Panthers' exploits read like a compendium of heist-movie scripts, combining the ingenuity of Oceans 11, the ruthlessness of Reservoir Dogs, and the snazzy Riviera locations of Inspector Clouseau's crime capers.
Believed to have been formed by smugglers and militiamen from the Balkan civil wars, they have used every trick in the jewel thief's handbook - and added several new ones.
In Paris in 2004, they waited until store staff were distracted by a visit from the French prime minister's wife before sneaking gems worth 11m euros from an unguarded safe. In Cannes, meanwhile, they put fresh paint on a public bench opposite the jewellery store to deter potential witnesses from sitting there. No less spectacular have been their getaways. In St Tropez, they headed to a waiting speedboat, while pursuing police cars remained stuck in traffic.
"I hate using the term 'professional', but you have to give them some grudging respect," said John Shaw, of Paris-based loss adjusters SW Associates, which is involved in asset recovery efforts for stolen jewellery. "We have seen some robberies where they have certainly shown some skill."
Now, though, after a decade in which they have notched up some of the biggest robberies on record - their 2003 raid on Graffs in London's New Bond Street was Britain's biggest successful diamond heist - the net finally seems to be closing in.
Mr Lekic's arrest was followed by another raid a week ago, when a 30-strong squad of armed police pounced on three suspected Panthers as they sat in a black Audi 4x4 outside Monaco's Monte Carlo Casino. "They were hard-looking men, but dressed in designer casual wear and sunglasses," said a source in the principality. ""The square is full of jewellery shops, and it seemed they were planning an armed raid."
The trio are now in Monaco's Maison d'Arrêt prison, where they are being held in the "Category A" unit. French officials are mindful of how a previous Panther, ex-soldier Dragan Mikic, escaped from a Lyon jail in 2005 after accomplices raked a watchtower with machinegun fire. While the guards' attention was turned, Mikic fled out of a window using a fold-up ladder.
The Sunday Telegraph understands that the Monaco swoop was launched on a tip-off from gang members arrested elsewhere and intelligence pooled by detectives Europe-wide. Just days before, a Russian suspected of "casing" Monaco targets for the Panthers was arrested on the roof of Zegg et Cerlati, another jewellers in the main Monte Carlo square.
And last month, two more suspected gang members, Zoran Kostic, 38, and Nicolai Ivanovic, 36, were arrested at a cheap hotel in Paris's Pigalle red-light district. Mr Kostic, whose "wanted" photo shows him dressed as a businessman, is described by police as a "big fish" in the organisation. He too, hails from Cetinje, as did the men convicted of the New Bond Street raid.
The Paris arrests came just two months after detectives from 16 different countries met in Monaco as part of "Project Pink Panthers", a working group set up by Interpol in 2007.
"The criminal gang is a transnational crime group believed to include at least 200 individuals responsible for more than 90 robberies in 19 countries since 1999, with the value of stolen jewellery estimated at well over 100 million Euros," said an Interpol spokesman.
While Mr Kostic and Mr Ivanovic are being quizzed over raids in Monte Carlo, Le Touquet and Geneva, police also hope they may also be to shed light on alleged Panther robberies in Dubai, the US and Japan.
Among the detectives' priorities is locating the Panther's most spectacular prize to date, the Comtesse de Vendome, a 125-carat necklace of 116 diamonds worth around £20 million. It was stolen from a Tokyo jewellers in 2004, where raiders arrived on bicycles and disguised themselves with anti-pollution masks, using tear-gas to subdue store staff.
The Panthers got their nickname after a £500,000 diamond stolen during the New Bond Street raid was later found hidden in a jar of face cream, copying a tactic used in the original 1963 Pink Panther film, starring Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau. Legend has it that the robbers liked the comparison, and have occasionally carryied out raids dressed in trademark pink shirts.
Admittedly, as with most good crime capers, this is where the fact begins to blur with fiction. Indeed, some claim that the Pink Panther gang as such exists purely in the minds of Flying Squads who have watched too many heist movies, and suspect it is nothing more than individual Balkans criminals acting entirely alone.
Yet frequently, the trail seems to lead back to Cetinje, which, for a town with a population of only 17.000, appears to have a surprisingly large alumni of armed robbers.
Some investigators believe that up to 30 of the original gang members hailed from Cetinje, having turned to armed robberies after the demise of smuggling rackets during the United Nations embargo on neighbouring Serbia. The area has long had a reputation as bandit country, with Robin Hood figures revered in local folklore.
In the 1990s there was even a local expression coined for them. A "saner" (pronounced "shaner") was a thief who only robbed abroad, returning home to spend his booty and take advantage of Montenegro's lack of extradition treaties.
"Certainly the first Panthers I knew were from Montenegro," said Mr Shaw. "I would guess they got into it because they had some experience of firearms and were ballsy. Now, though, I think it has spread across the Balkans, rather than just being a particular gang."
All the same, as more Panthers end up behind bars, there may be one consolation. Russia's gangster and nouveau riche class, whose tattoed forearms and necks once provided much of the market for Panther booty, can no longer afford the stuff. "We suspect some pieces ended up being sold in Russian nightclubs," said Mr Shaw. "But now that Russia is suffering from the economic crash, that market is drying up rather."
Art Hostage Comments:
This writing off, declaring victory over the Pink Panthers reminds me of the premature ejaculation President George Bush exclaimed when he ejaculated the war in Iraq was won and it was "Mission Accomplished"
Whilst some corks have been suppressed in the barrel of water, others will pop up, such as those nearing the end of prison sentences.
Remember, the prison sentences handed out over the last few years to Pink Panthers range from a few years to the fifteen years given to Dragan Mikic in absentia.
Whilst those on point within the Pink Panthers take the hits and serve jail time, those behind the curtain remain untouched.
So, whilst these latest arrests may provide a lull, the Doldrums will not last forever, unless of course some of the potential EU membership loans given to Montenegro and Serbia are slipped sideways to the Pink Panthers, via their political paymasters as a deliciously dishonest payment of Danegeld.
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Or put another way by Butch Cassidy in film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid:
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"It would be cheaper for the Railway to pay me not to rob their trains"
Back around 1968, if you were to have asked serious rock fans who the best three guitar players were, you would probably hear most suggest Jimi Hendrix (many would still say that today) Eric Clapton (a bigger star today than he was then) and probably a third name far less well known today, Jorma Kaukonen of the Jefferson Airplane.
In their heyday Jefferson Airplane was dominated by its three prolific singer songwriters, Grace Slick, Marty Balin and Paul Kantner, who mostly overshadowed the extraordinarily creative and complex lead guitar playing of Kaukonen and the band's bass player Jack Cassady. But if you listen to the Airplane today, the 60's "Up Against the Wall" credo of the Slick/Balin/Kantner axis often sounds dated, while Kaukonen and Cassady's wonderful guitar playing has passed the test of time beautifully. Kaukonen and Cassady quit the Airplane in disgust when the Airplane morphed into the commercial hit-machine Starship, voluntarily exiling themselves to their side project Hot Tuna, whom Rolling Stone magazine once called "America's longest lived cult band."
Hot Tuna never had any hit records and never wanted any. Kaukonen rejected the record industry's star-making machinery, touring and recording only when he felt like it and strictly on his own terms. So while tragedy transformed Hendrix into a permanent icon, forever frozen at his peak by death; and Clapton aggressively pursued and obtained mainstream megastardom, Kaukonen remained on the fringes of the music industry. Yet Hot Tuna won a hard-earned reputation as one of the ultimate guitar bands, despite never being widely recognized by the general public. Kaukonen always had a following here in the Valley however, performing at places like the Iron Horse and the old Quonset Hut on Rte. 9. Hot Tuna played in Springfield several times, most memorably at the Civic Center with Bob Weir and at the Paramount (now Hippodrome) with Taj Mahal.
But no one as good as Jorma Kaukonen could remain underground forever, and in fact a Jorma revival is now underway, led by a new generation delighted to rediscover what an older generation forgot. Now all of Jorma's old solo albums, most of which have never been available on CD, are finally being re-released in order to blow the minds of modern listeners.
The latest re-release is 1974's QUAH, which was Jorma's first solo effort following the crash of the Jefferson Airplane. It is one the few records Jorma made without Jack Cassady, featuring instead the late San Francisco folk legend Tom Hobson. It also includes wonderfully erzatz album cover art by Jorma's late wife, psychedelic poster artist Margareta.
The oddness of the album cover art matches the eclectic music of the record itself. The opening song "Genesis" is as fine an acoustic love ballad you could want and it's worth buying the CD for that song alone.
But there is so, so much more. The rest of the record is an amazing blend of styles and sounds ranging from the primal blues of Rev. Gary Davis covers to stoner songs like "Flying Clouds" and "Hamar Promenade," to the outright daffy guitar showpiece "Sweet Hawaiian Sunshine." There are also previously unreleased songs from the original recording sessions, including an instrumental that later appeared with lyrics on Hot Tuna's The Phosphorescent Rat and a deeply weird but profound cowboy tune called "Barrier." There is even an unintentionally corny hidden track that I'll let you discover for yourself.
No date for the following photos of Hot Tuna, but I do know that they were taken at the Music Inn in Lenox in the mid-70's. I kid you not, but the show was so loud that the surrounding farmers complained in the paper that the next day their cows wouldn't give milk. Guess cows don't like Hot Tuna. I admit it was a show that probably damaged my hearing, but if so it was worth it. I don't think I've ever had as much fun at a concert since.
Here's an old review of a concert I went to where Hot Tuna was the back-up band for the Allman Brothers.
Damn, I was hoping to produce for you a big ol’ concert review, but frankly I’m not much prepared to write it. The truth is I really didn’t act much like a music reviewer at this concert. I talked to people, walked around and at times just plain ignored what was happening on stage. Therefore the best I can do is offer you these handful of observations, and I hope you can get something out of that.
I’m no expert on these things, but security in the parking lot seemed tighter than it needed to be.
I thought there might be a lot of drunken yahoos running around, but the vibe was more Grateful Dead than Molly Hatchet.
Shame on the people who lingered outside and missed Hot Tuna.
Hot Tuna’s Mike Falzarano is a good vocalist, but personally I prefer that all songs be sung by Jorma.
The Meadows is a great place to see shows, even if you have lawn seats. God bless the giant overhead TV screen. Sound quality was also excellent.
Unfortunately, the person running the TV seemed not to know what to show in relation to what was happening on stage. Sometimes the camera was on drummers during a guitar solo or similar mismatch of image and sound.
Hate to say it, but the absence of Dicky Betts was not as profoundly felt as you might have expected.
When did the Allman Brothers get so psychedelic? That was not their original image. A band for bikers maybe, or for good ol’ boys for sure, but flower power acid heads? No, that's something new, a transparent attempt to cash in on the void left by the demise of the Dead. Still, the Allman Brothers is such a great band, I forgive them for whatever they've had to do commercially to survive. Besides, their light show was as trippy as anything the Dead used to do, so even though the Allman’s may be guilty of copying a trend, they are not lowering their standards.
"Whipping Post" was an obvious and perfect encore.
Therefore, let me close by simply saying that a good time appeared to be had by all.
Below is a ticket stub from a very, very loud show in Springfield, Massachusetts. I actually feared afterwards that I had damaged my hearing, but it returned to normal within a few days.
Houttuynia is a plant that tastes nothing like hot tuna; the botanical name merely resembles the words "hot tuna." It's a lot easier to remember and say than houttuynia.
Although hot tuna doesn't taste like hot tuna, it is, in fact, edible. The plant is native from Japan down to Java, and across Asia to Nepal, and people in those regions eat the boiled leaves or use them as flavoring. Some people find the flavor to be citrus-y; to others, it is more reminiscent of cheap perfume laced with diesel fuel.
Some cautions must be exercised in planting hot tuna. The plant can be invasive. It spreads vigorously by underground suckers, and although growing only about a half a foot high, it can climb over and engulf a dwarf shrub. Also, hot tuna's wild colors would not be welcome everywhere -- it's not a visually sedate plant.
With these two cautions in mind, you might want to give hot tuna a try, mostly for its looks and maybe even to eat.
Here's the musical Hot Tuna.
Tragic
Have you seen Brendan Fraser lately?
Undressed for Success
Mugshot of a woman arrested this week in Springfield for drug dealing.
Signs
Somebody got obscene with this crosswalk sign in Northampton.
MassBike had a table set up this morning at the Hamp Farmer's Market.
I'm stunned by the closing of the Aurora Borealis store in downtown Hamp.
Thus the Obama Depression claims another victim. Rolando's in downtown Amherst has been closed for some time.
But I notice that inside it still has this poster hanging up of what I assume is an imaginary farm.
Actually I may have known a few dealers who worked on that farm. Of course still open is the nearby Pub, which boasts of being open since 1968.
Despite the 60's pedigree, The Pub has always had the reputation of being a rowdy fratboy bar. Here signs of peace in several languages hang beneath the gay pride flag at Amherst's Unitarian Church.
At Amherst's Newbury Comix a poster advertizes the new Dinosaur Jr. CD in the band's hometown.
Haymarket Scenes
A Cape Cod Grateful Dead shirt in Northampton's Haymarket Cafe yesterday.
What do you wish to nurture?
