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jsolberg
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Name: yonatan
Location: Tel Aviv, Israel
Gender: Male
Interests: in order of onset...food and shelter, catching bugs, farming, science, music (practice),girls, music (performing), drugs, organic synthesis,perpetual motion, kids, travel,computers (building), historic restoration
Expertise: apiculture, aviation, amateur radio, aromatic esters, agriculture, altezachen,aramaic, assembly language
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
4/3/2006
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| Yeah, what they won't think of. I've been toying with the thing for 12 hours here, and thought to file a first-impressions Xanga report. Enjoy.
Bottom-line: A worthy novelty-market offering, I suppose.
Ok, having put the bottom line at the top, I have no further duty to respect format, and so I'll just discuss Pluses and Minuses as I see fit, and sue me.
I had the Unit delivered last night. I was already in bed, but I do remember hearing engine noises, probably the crane. I'd asked 'Bruno', the fellow I bought it from on E-Bay, to put it somewhere near the house, like on the lawn, but this morning I saw the thing, all shiny, out there on the side of the street. Damn. It must weigh a ton. Literally, 2200 pounds. Oh well. One of the pictures in the Korean-language manual (the back half of it, which is all Bruno still had) shows a guy with his out in the middle of a street(!). I tried to push mine, to no avail. It does come with wheels for maneuverability, I'm guessing, but the lever in the Listening Booth, when you slide it to 'P' (obviously stands for 'Push' or 'Pull') kinda locks the wheels. So put 'Lack of Portability' in the Deficit column.
On the plus side, the sound is superb, state of the art for a 45 watt system with 4 speakers. The listening compartment is quiet and well padded, with two seats front and 2 more rear, I guess for parties. Says it has 'Air Bags', whatever that is. I guess if you get short of breath from the high-fidelity tunes. There's even a big wheel in the front of the cabin, but so far it doesn't seem to pan the audio at all. I may have to use Google translate.
Veracity: I must admit the likeness to a motor vehicle is un-canny. All they left out, obviously, is the un-necessary (?) clutch pedal and a gear-shift lever. In its place is the aforementioned slider. It's labeled with letters, 'N', 'R', and '1-2-3', whatever they mean. My current theory is 'Nothing', like with the Chinese sweat-shirts we see here with gibberish printed in English on the front.
Battery- life: No problem there, although it did take me a while to figure how to get to the compartment. Turns out there's a lever up in the front, duh. I pulled it finally and the front hatch opened. Lots of guts in there, in addition to a rugged 12 Volt 'battery to die-hard for'. Rated at like 100 Amps. What the rest of the stuff does is maybe in the book, although I suspect some of it is proprietary.
So there ya go. Oh price?
I paid about $2000 bucks for the thing, delivered. Yeah, you may be saying 'that's a lot for a lousy CD-Player', but Bruno assured me that I can always sell it for about that, if I find the right victim. And as long as I don't put too many miles on it. No problem there, I can't push it even ten feet, unless he means miles on the rotating CD Drive. Lots of stuff I don't know yet. Like even the name. The Hebrew Proof-of Purchase card says like 'Die Wu: New Birah'. When ya sound it out. Or 'Nu... Birah!' which is what you say here to a bartender who forgot to pour your Goldstar draft, so busy gawking at your girlfriend.
Speaking of romance, I do need to spill the news of this purchase to my Significant Digit; I can already hear her bitching: 'You paid too much, as usual, you sucker!'. So that's kinna why I decided to lay out the situation in a Review. And on the whole, yeah, it's a nifty enough gadget for the money. Just wish it were a little closer to the house. JS/ Tel Aviv
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| I grew up in the shadow of a THREAT. Thirty-foot high letters, built out of cypress 5 X 12's and bone-white like 'HOLLYWOOD', 'THREAT' was the only word left standing after the Sale. Put there supposedly for keeps, the thing dominated the landscape, up there at the treeline above the upper pasture. Some half-nuts millionaire in the early 50s had bought the strip of land and paid for the thing. No one could bitch about it...in public. The complete 'installation' said: 'STOP THE RED THREAT'. I remember sounding it out as soon as I'd mastered 'See Dick Run'.. my letters had colors already way back then, and the 'green'ish 'E' in the word 'RED' just felt so...well... dum.
But this was A-bomb Times. H-bombs, whatever it took. The other side had 'em too. Which explained the Civil Defense tests, the practice-hiding under the little wood desks in the one-room school, heads between our legs. Debbie Levitz was sure she could thereby survive an A-bomb or two, but the 'H'?
A screaming comes across the sky. No not a missile, just a flash-forward in the story. Sorry.
Ok, a bunch of just-plain folks sworn to secrecy developed a plan to deal with it. No, not the Bomb, the Big Sign. They hadn't learned to stop worrying and love the pesky Thunder of Armageddon, no, they just didn't want to have to think about it nineteen times a day. So one wise guy who my Dad knew found a 'fellow-traveler' who owned a Bar & Grille called The Red Spot up in Campbeltown somewhere, and convinced him, with quiet contributions from us all, to buy the sign, and give it new life re-arranged as 'THE RED SPOT'. Nifty, huh?
Ross MacArthur, the wing-nut who'd put the sign up, had a sudden conversion upon seeing the greenbacks, and agreed! All was well.
Well, except for the 'THREAT'. Sure, the tavern-guy coulda made 'EAT' out of it but then he'd need an AT, right? For 'EAT AT...' And try making 'em from a 'THR'.
So anyway, the 'THREAT' stayed. We all got used to it I guess. Could be anything; alfalfa weevil, a downpour just after you'd raked the hay, gas buildup in the silo. Stuff happens, we were used to that. Least it wasn't radioactive.
Another flash cuts the sky: Forward to fourth grade. Me 'n Debby going steady, as it were, played after school up there by the letters. Hide and seek. Skinny as a string of spit, I'd be found standing behind the 'T', mostly, and she, on her turns, usually lying flat (supine?) behind the foot of the 'E' in the brush. Hell there weren't a lot of choices. And maybe it was the supine, but one day I told her, all Bogart-at-nine-and-a-half,
"Someday, honey, we gonna get the 'H' outta heah."
"You mean the Farmall 'H'?" she asked, dodging the innuendo.
I looked skyward ominously. Seemed like a thing guys did in the movies. Debbie was a quick learn:
"Oh, that 'H', the bomb." she offered.
But I couldn't just let her win.
"No, the damn Letter, duh. You dense or what?"
She couldn't just let me win.
"Sure, that's what I thought you meant, kid. Then it'd be 'T-REAT', right?"
I drew a blank. (no air-quotes in those days). I did get it though, but not before a certain look of pity crossed her face.
"Yeah, a treat, Debby, nobody be watching us from across the fields...", I steered back to my original course, "cuz we'll be in Utah or somewhere. married, even..."
We sat on the flat rock, the one that MacArthur had bulldozed up there back in the day, to add permanence to the sign. Debbie looked stunning in the late-afternoon sun. I felt, I don't know, 'inert'. She must've sensed something:
"So, what's the deal with noble gasses? I need names." she asked me, just like that, no intro. We were learning the Elements in our primitive school. I hoped that was what triggered it.
"Um, helium?" I suggested, lamely, to another dismissive look.
"Boring." she shot back, "just like your dumb Utah. No... higher:" she motioned upwards with her hand.
"Crypt-on?"
"It's K r y p t o n, and no!" Debbie, again with the hand signals, this time downward. I was tiring of feeling dumb. but with her, you get used to it.
"Argon!" Somehow I thought of that one.
"Bingo. And that makes it TEAT."
I quickly looked over her head, to down there in the valley, to make sure no one had overheard.
"How's that make teat?" I asked cautiously.
"Simple: 'R' gone, silly." Debbie laughed at her own wit... or at me. Hard to tell. I was just glad we'd gotten onto another subject worth pursuing; TREAT to TEAT.
"We could lose a 'T' then." she was back to moving letters, the slick chick, but I was ready:
"Left or right?" I asked, all grade-school lascivious, lowering my gaze till she caught on and blushed.
"Depends on if you wanna EAT or just drink TEA?" Debbie kinda spit over her shoulder on the word 'tea'.
Folks like us didn't drink tea, you need to unnerstand. I'd only ever done it once, when my Mom was in the hospital for my younger brother, and my Dad took us to an actual restaurant and, I don't know, probably wanted to show off. Tasted horrible. People in England drank tea. That's why they talk funny and look that way.
"So 'EAT', it's a deal." Debbie put her hands in her jacket pockets, probably like some businessman she'd seen on TV once.
"How about 'AT'?" I re-opened the negotiations, and she shrugged.
"A proposition? That's a lot of tear-down work for a proposition."
I didn't even consider correcting her. Mainly, I didn't even know she was wrong, but even if...
"Just 'A' then?" And that's my final offer."
"Oof, we're back to bombs, dummy-head. Ain't that why we killed the 'H'?"
"Good point." I told her, meaning it, "Yeah, let's just get the 'H' out of here, and be done with it." This time it wuz me with the hands-in-the-pockets.
"Yeah right... to Utah. 'Morons' live there." She scoffed; a final pitying look, but with a coy smile this time.
I like Debby. Always did. She's great fun.
WU: True story?
ME: Sure. 'Cept for the sign... and some of the the dialogue...
WU: What's that leave?
ME: The THREAT. Look, Wuzie, she turned 63 this weekend; I'm a week behind her. You try dealing wid dat someday...
WU: Got ya.
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| Ah, I knew thee well, Brother. Your head-bobbing was the pride of the neighborhood. I'll overlook the hours you spent trying fruitlessly to climb up a newly-stuccoed wall, failing more embarrassingly with each repetition, and still convinced it could be done, for hours upon hours.
Cause of Death will likely remain a mystery for the ages.
Any living creature, in a Universe which makes self-replicating Life immensely difficult to achieve, deserves a Requiem when it returns to the great Unknown.
"And so today, we are all lizards, I suppose." I said at the little ceremony in the gardens. Went on to quote Leo Szilard, mentioned in that famous note to FDR, which after a bit of work in Manhattan somewhere, brought a kind of peace to a weary world. For a couple years. But that's a full lifetime for a lizard, I reminded the crowd of flying ants and poppies.
Xanga Question, of course:
Is lying in state always on your back? Cause no one had ever really seen this guy on his back much, 'cept the day he fell off the wall a hundred times. I laid him out on his belly, which seemed right, although it'd look silly on, like, Lenin, just saying.
And I do have both poses on file, for tomorrow's papers; one is guaranteed to be kosher that way.
RIP. U were a contenda.
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| Well, maybe not everyone's dream... Some would prefer 'Brad Putz', whoever, these days. But I don't claim to write my own dreams, and this one lasted all night. And I feel a need to document it, for the amusement of Xangans everywhere.
Folding tables and paper table-cloths stretched to the dream-horizon in both directions, and I was seated directly across from, obviously, Henry Kissinger. Though not obviously to every guest, as you will see.
The Players:
Me: Most of my dreams seem to explore some emotional challenge. This one was a test of my ability to finesse the presence of a Household-Name, to his satisfaction, and that of the random crowd.
Mr. Henry Kissinger; Looking worried the whole time. I can only surmise that he was weighing the pluses of an edible meal versus the down-side of having to re-enunciate his whole historical Geschicte to a gang of unpredictable strangers.
Son/brother: Yes, my younger brother, 'D' and my oldest surviving son, 'I' are always a confused amalgam/mess in my dreams. Even in real life, if not careful, I call them by each other's names. No idea why. Perhaps they are both Jungian competitors for my plan to kill my Dad and mate with my Mom? Speaking of which:
Mama: Oblivious to geo-politics as always, her role was to put an acceptable chicken on the table. Along with the 'help', equally aloof, and for whom recognizing a key player from the world's negotiating history was about as comprehensible as a Modem to a Duck.
And so my dream-jobs were as follows:
1) Ascertain, not in so many words, whether Son/Mom recognized the Guest. I don't recall my skillful challenge-questions, only that it became quickly clear that, to them, the Guy was just some random 'hairy-eyebrow' fellow with a German accent... and a suit he probably hadn't bought at Sears. Onward...
2) To do my sound-asleep best to help this man, whom I genuinely respect, to feel comfortable. I think I led off with: "Probably not the first 'Vielicht-Vogel' (possibly-chicken?') you've had the pleasure of giving eine Augenblick?" (an eye-blink')" Thus re-assuring him that quasi-faux-Deutch wouldn't be a problem, in extremis. Hey, it's a dream. Sue me.
He smiled, which was a good sign. I adjusted the pillow for the long haul.
And yes, I have No-Idea' why I dream this stuff. I had e-mailed my brother the night before that our negotiations for a sibling division of a communal property reminded me of the Geneva disputes over the shape of the table. Perhaps that was the cue. Gehe vays?
Anyway, with all the other ear-shot guests at a loss as to what small-talk to exchange with this foreigner, I launched into a Complex Question, which I'd estimate took about two hours, dream-time, to express. I asked the veteran diplomat across the table, while he tried to feign love for the cole-slaw, about his thoughts regarding our current 'peace-partners'. Specifically, to what extent, (or not), they hold themselves to some 'duh' basic Socratic mantra, where when the facts are obviously not in their favor, they maturely admit such and accept the Truth.
Mister 'K' seemed to appreciate the question, but at the same time glanced side-wise before answering, Any hint of some previous expertise in the matter might telegraph to the feast-goers
that he was 'special'.
My son gave me a 'WTF?' look. Ditto my Mom, for whom the Chicken, its flavour, et. al, was, hands-down, the only 'uber-alles' on this occasion.
Finally, he opined, conspiratorialy:
"Ja,natürlich. Sie hab'n keine Ahnung!" ('Of course. They haven't a clue.')
My Mom, no stranger to German, overheard and thought only about her poultry: over-cooked/under-cooked?
All in all, I decided that I'd done my part for Peace in the Middle East for one night. It was going on 4:30 AM. A quick break, to piss, and I forgot the whole escapade. Until just now.
Henry is already on a flight to Frankfurt, or Dulles. I may learn more tomorrow night. Thanks, meanwhile, for your attention./JS/ Tel Aviv
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| Astronauts are training for the mission to Mars as we speak, but take it from 'someone in the know', their major worry is not 'being there'. That part will be 'piss-your-pants exciting', for anyone who loves visiting new travel destinations.
No the big problem is in-flight-boredom. Our current propulsion technologies give cabin-time estimates of over a year, spent mainly watching the planet Earth grown teenier.
And 'Ain't it a small world?' jokes among the crew will only kill so many months of mute tedium.
And therefore, without much media fanfare, NASA initiated the 'EPIC' program about a year ago. And I am proud, if that's the word, to be a part of it.
Short for 'Extreme Poetry Immersion Chamber', I now know quite a bit more about the training module, there in the spacious compound at Huntsville. A mock-up of the crew-compartment, it is totally sound-proof, as befits the deadening silence of inter-planetary space. In fact, that was the reason they gave to fly me to their own studios to record my poetry and commentary. I'd offered to save the government money, but you know, $1000 toilet seats and all, they insisted on their perfect zero background noise.
Dick Thorenson, veteran audio engineer with the US space agency, sat me down in the booth. A Sennheiser, a wind-screen, a pair of headphones a bit more serious than my Radio shack version at home, and a cue from the console, and we were On the Air.
I finished the poems, and Dick stopped the taping for a moment to tell me to, like, 'talk about 'em, explain 'em...' in his words.
Talk about a compliment! I tried to kinda summarize my poetic theories in succinct sentences, but he kept waving his hand; 'More'. And so, an hour and a half later, I'd estimate, in the middle of a particularly complex sentence, Dick finally gave me the hand-across the throat 'Cut' sign.
He told me to wait a second, while he opened the door to the room with the recording console and shut off the machines, waking up the Sound Engineer in the process. Groggy, the fellow gave me a thumbs-up, and I was led to the office to get a check. Three-hundred bucks + airfare, and a chance to be a small part of history. I felt like a million bucks on the flight home.
I just wish I hadn't Googled 'EPIC/ NASA'(!)
My verses, and even more-so, the attendant explanatory blah-blah, were chosen by a panel, according to Wiki, for their 'soporific, mind-numbing character' (!) I quote:
"The Module's task is to acclimatize the personnel to repetitious, essentially meaningless noises, to attempt to explore their capacity to remain alert and functional in the face of this unavoidable aspect of inter-planetary..." I quit reading at that point, a broken man. I'm not sure I even want to cash the check. Somebody will know. Tellers will talk. My career is shot.
Dick did email me a week or so ago, since we promised to stay in touch, that at least one astronaut-trainee, a combat veteran ex-USAF, had quit/resigned from the program as a result of my 'significant contribution to the selection regieme.' Yeah, they probably woke him up to tell him he wuz 'outta there'.
"I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here with a digital thermometer up my ass listening to this idiot drone on about vowels!" were his last words as he collected his things and left, on his way back home to Kansas. At least that part's not in the Wiki. Yet.
Poem 714
An over-eager ogre bought an
auger at a sale
Drank Little-leager Lager®, watched his
logger data fail
A less-than meagre cougar got Pete
Seeger out on bail
'An overt egret yogurt' gets thumbs-up
in The Daily Mail
Excerpt from my commentary:
".. and so, yeah, like, you know, with the Kiki and the Bouba, the sounds of the words, their vowels especially, have this kind of primal essence of their own. I mean, 'Lloyd leads a load of loud, lewd lads from Leeds to Lodz' just say it out loud, or even "Luke likes to look at the leak in the lake, but he's out of luck; lacks the key to the lock." And sometimes they even happen in order, AEIOU, long and short, like in
For the sake of some saki, I seek just one second
My psyche is sick, and I can't soak my socks
There's no succor in a sucker
So for the flavour I savour
Just fill up my sack and I'm gone
Now, I'm not sure why this should all be so intensely fascinating. The Greeks, beginning in the third century..."
ZZZZZ
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