The Adventures of Bloggard

Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.

So Long — to the Ramen King

by // Leave a Comment

Instant Ramen was invented in this workshop by Ando Momofuku
The Invention of Instant Ramen

Osaka, Japan, January 6, 2007: A Hero of Our Time … In 2007, at the age of 96, Ando Momofuku, the inventor of Instant Ramen, passed away. While a student at Ritsumeikan University he learned to operate a clothing business, but on a cold night shortly after World War II, he came upon a long line of people who were waiting to buy fresh ramen (noodles) at a black-market food stall. In an epiphany, he came to believe that the world would have peace when people had enough to eat.

So in 1948 he began learning the food business, and ten years later developed instant Chicken Ramen, which he thought would provide better nutrition for soldiers in the field. His company grew and grew and grew. Two years ago, his company developed vacuum-packed noodles for Japanese astronaut Soichi Noguchi to eat on the U. S. space shuttle Discovery. When interviewed, Ando said, “I’m happy I’ve realized my dream that noodles can go into space.”

One small step for man, one giant leap for noodles. But perhaps more important is this: We don’t know who invented beans and rice, and we don’t know who invented spaghetti, but we do know who invented Instant Ramen. So for all the students of the world, and for those of us who once needed very affordable food for a simple meal, we thank you, Ando Momofuku.

In this simple way, you’ve changed the world.

So Long — Robert Moog to Infinity

by // Leave a Comment

Asheville, North Carolina, August 22, 2005: Robert Moog, 71, the inventor of the synthesizer, died today at his home, from an inoperable brain tumor. A childhood interest in the theremin
young bob builds the synthesizer led him to create sound modules, creating the first synthesizers used in early electronic recordings such as ‘The Nonesuch Guide to Electronic Music.’

Early recording artists such as Walter Carlos — later Wendy Carlos — and two musicians I met in a Los Angeles Warehouse, Paul Beaver and Bernie Krause — brought synthesized sound into the radio landscape, where it has become the background music for our lives today and into the future.

Despite hobnobbing with headliner musicians world-wide, Moog remained quite humble about his place in the world. For example … [Read more…]

The Bloggardian Credits

by // Leave a Comment

“A Tiny History of Hurnville” — most of this information comes from a written manuscript left in family papers, dated 1959, and written by my grandfather, Frank Hurn.

“A Tiny History of Henrietta, Texas” — Aside from personal memories, the bulk of historical fact was, in proper scholarly fashion, stolen from the Handbook of Texas Online website. The historical summary there was written by Lisa C. Maxwell, who cites the Katherine Douthitt book “Romance and Dim Trails,” (1938), the St. Clair book “Little Towns of Texas,” (1982), and the William Taylor book “A History of Clay County,” (1972). Much additional information can be found in my Uncle Eugene Hurn’s book “A Pictoral History of Clay County,” which can be found in the Henrietta library, or through the Henrietta/Clay County Historical Society.

Law 23 regarding Being, Doing, and Having. I first encountered the interesting concepts of Be – Do – Have in the writings of L. Ron Hubbard, of Scientology fame, although I have since found them and their analogues in several other places. In Hubbard’s writings I also found the developed concept of ‘Havingness’ described in How to Pick Up Girls (Part 1).

Sponging at the Girl’s Dorm

by // Leave a Comment

North Texas State University, Denton Texas, 1962: When several of us lived in a house in Shady Shores on Lake Dallas, there was kind of a “girl gang” who came to visit.

Jan was round and pretty, and she liked Hardy.

Jill was thin, clever, and funny, and I liked her.

Shayna was mature, beautiful, and she liked Paul, who was actually engaged to someone else, though that didn’t seem to interfere much.

They’d all show up at the lake house. We laughed a lot. I remember nights with a bonfire on the beach, a lot of beer. I remember driving to some dive up the road where, again, we drank a lot of beer. I grew sleepy and closed my eyes and pretended to be blind for a while.

“Come on, blind man!” Shayna said, “Stay with us!”

She was Jewish, daughter of a well-to-do Dallas family who owned a milk company. I didn’t know much about being Jewish and asked questions. She said they didn’t believe in the Devil, and so I asked if she would sell me her soul.

She said she would.

We wrote up a contract

So I bought her soul, for five pieces of silver, writing up the contract on my typewriter, an impressive red IBM Selectric I’d inherited from my stepfather’s office.

She took the five dimes and signed the contract. So I have owned Shayna’s soul for many, many years, because I kept the contract safe in my red box of important stuff.

The red box stayed with me through college, Dallas, St. Louis, England, Los Angeles, Texas, and San Francisco. There were a lot of documents in there, transcripts, and government cards, and drawings, and other stuff, including Shayna’s soul.

Meanwhile, back in those college times, I turned to crime

But this is getting ahead of myself. Back at North Texas, the next year I got a tiny apartment across from the English building, and I rarely saw the girl gang. There was always a blitz of study right before Christmas Holiday, and unlike my friends, often I didn’t go home right away, but rather stayed in my quiet apartment.

The campus was empty and thoughtful, the weather clear and chill. Restful, it was, though I had no money. One night I spent the last of my cash on cigarettes rather than supper, and in the morning, I woke up hungry.

Down on the corner in the early morning light, I saw the bread truck, parking to deliver to the Hob Nob. As the driver went inside, I crept from the bushes, jumped into the back of the truck, stole a loaf of bread, and ran.

As I glanced behind me, I saw Larry Burns, the young man who operated the Hob Nob, standing in the back doorway. He was watching me and laughing. Damn!

Pondering starvation

Holed up with coffee and bread and cigarettes, pondering starvation, I remembered that, during the holiday vacations, the cafeterias of all the dorms closed, except for one. The same dorm where the girl gang lived.

So I called on them about lunchtime, and then discovered that any dorm students stranded on campus over the holiday took meals there in the girls’ dorm. I walked into the dining room between Jill and Jan. Lunch!

Free lunch! Lots of lunch! Plenty! Free!

The cafeteria ladies, seeing so many unfamiliar faces, just assumed I lived in one of the dorms, and fed me along with everyone else.

I went back every day.

Ah, those good times …

That was the last time I saw the girl gang. Things happened, and you lose track.

And twenty years later, in a flat overlooking Geary Boulevard in San Francisco, where I lived in a small room at the back of Network Answering Service, I found Shayna’s soul stored carefully in the red box.

Through her family’s milk company in Dallas, I located her, married long since and living on the coast north of Los Angeles. I called her.

She didn’t remember that I owned her soul. She hadn’t missed it. We hadn’t much to talk about. Things had changed.

After the phone conversation, since I had her address, I mailed her soul back to her.

It was the least I could do.

Cowardice Won’t Work

by // Leave a Comment

New York Times, August 22, 2004: Writer Stephen Johnson reports on an almond-shaped part of the brain called the amygdala (pronounced “uh MIG’ dulluh”), which is part of the primitive limbic system, which relates to emotions.

Do liberals ‘think’ with their emotions?

“Studies of stroke victims and scans of normal brains,” he reports, “have shown that the amygdala plays a key role in the creation of emotions like fear or empathy.”

If amygdala activity is a reliable indication of emotional response, it raises the interesting question: Do liberals ‘think’ with their limbic system (emotions) more than conservatives do?

And the answer appears to be: Yes, they do.

Not long ago, U.C.L.A. researchers analyzed neural activity of Republicans and Democrats viewing images from campaign ads. It turns out that ‘violent’ images — such as pictures of the 9/11 attack on New York’s World Trade Center towers — produce different effects in Republicans and Democrats.

In fact, you could predict which are the Democrats just by observing the brain scans, because the Democrats had much stronger activity in the amygdala region. Note that this is a reading on a ‘gut response’, operating below the person’s conscious control.

So we learn that liberal brains have generally more active amygdalas than conservative ones. So what?

It’s a plausible explanation that matches some of our stereotypes about liberal values:

* an aversion to human suffering
* an unwillingness to accept capital punishment
* an unwillingness to accept military force
* a fondness for candidates who like to feel our pain.

Which suggests how we may become Republicans or Democrats in the first place.

“Say you’re inclined to form strong emotional responses to images of violence or human suffering,” said the Times article, “and over the course of your formative years, most of the people you meet who respond to these images with comparable affect turn out to be Democrats. That’s a commonality of experience that exists beneath conscious political affiliation — it’s closer to a gut instinct than a rational choice — but if you meet enough Democrats who share that experience, sooner or later you start carrying the card yourself.”

Some of the pundits elsewhere were generalizing from these experiments to suggest that liberals would be more emotional and less rational, using “emotional thinking” more heavily, and that they would be generally more fearful. And that conservatives would tend to be more analytical and more courageous.

Last night, watching Vice-President Dick Cheney debating John Edwards, it seems to me that’s exactly what I saw. Cheney seemed to be more analytical and cited a “braver” course of finding and stomping terrorists around the world till it’s done. Attorney John Edwards seemed more like a car salesman, hitting on the emotional buttons, and glossing over inconsistencies of the past anti-war voting records of himself and Mr. Kerry.

I’m not a political expert, but with a fair amount of past experience in language de-construction and training in counseling and reading body language, I personally would trust Dick Cheney over John Edwards. I caught John Edwards in too many sophistic devices (trickery in using the language) to believe him very much.

I’ve also noticed two things in life.

One is that if you experience a friend or employee or anyone who’s attempting to ‘blackmail’ you, it never pays off to pay them off.

For example, your pal is using emotional blackmail like “If you don’t loan me this money, I’ll feel awful and it will be all your fault!” Or for example, your employee says “I need to have a raise immediately or I’ll quit.” In that case, no matter how awkward it is to let them quit, you’d better just let them quit. Because if you give a raise for this reason (instead of giving a raise because their work has earned one), they’ll just wait till another awkward time to spring the same ruse again. (I had this experience with a bookkeeper named Kathy. The first time I paid up. The second time I paid up. The third time I bid my fond adieus.)

As regards terrorists, if we follow Spain or the Philippines in a pattern of appeasement, we’ll just get more of the same. I’m no political analyst, but it seems like the USA did that very thing under Clinton, with no consequences for the bombing of the USS Cole, no consequences for the Oklahoma government building bombing, no consequences toward Saddam Hussein’s defiance of the United Nations. And we got more of the same. Just like Kathy, they’ll be back.

Till we kill them.

That takes courage. That takes guts.

I don’t like war. But even less do I like our kindergartens in Oklahoma being bombed by fertilizer-filled trucks, discos blown apart during bar mitzvas, dirty bombs in our cities, and seeing people leap from flaming skyscrapers to fall, and fall, and fall.

Some “humans” are not quite human. Some are still barbarians. Some will knife you in a ghetto for your sneakers. Some will bomb your children’s kindergarten and call it religion. They aren’t like me and you.

Being nice won’t work.

Pulling out of the war, on a certain date, won’t work.

This is a new face of war, and there are no Marquis of Queensbury Rules in a knifefight. The bad guys aren’t just the soldiers inside a certain country. You can’t just go there and they’ll come out and fight. Yet, to avoid barbarians murdering those we love, we must fight. And we have to go about fighting differently.

The second thing I’ve learned in life is that, if you must fight, what wins is the use of excessive force.

For example if you just block the incoming blows, sooner or later, you’ll miss and you’ll lose. This reminds me of President Bush debating Senator Kerry last week. Kerry continually attacked, and Bush continued defending against the attacks, and that’s not an effective way to win such a debate.

Similarly, once we have the fact that these subhumans called terrorists do intend to kill us and our children, it will not be enough to just block them. They won’t go away. In fact, our refusal to viciously fight will be interpreted by them as weakness, and will encourage them to escalate. In their eyes, we the enemy are running away and so it’s time to mow us down ha ha ha! Look at the funny bleeding infidels! Ha ha ha.

Empathy, a “more sensitive” war, holding “summits”, issuing “directives”, or “withdrawing in six months” — none of these are courageous. None of these will work.

Cowardice won’t work.

We may not like it, but we’re in it. Relentless effort on our part, unreasonable effort on our part, deadly effort on our part, toward terrorists and their allies like Mr. Hussein … that’s the only thing which will work.

Liberals, with gut-instinct aversion to war, too bad.

Fight or die.

Ozymandias

by // Leave a Comment

Tomb of Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
— Percy Bysshe Shelley

Henrietta, Texas, Spring 1962: As seniors, when the fresh air of Spring energized our blood, our thoughts turned lightly to painting our name on the town’s water tower, as is proper.

The culprits were the usual suspects, that is, Eddy Frank, David Gee, Billy Eugene, myself, and as I recall, also Donny Burkman, and Billy Ray. Two cars of us, so we parked in the next block so as not to arouse suspicion.

Earlier in the day, at Moore’s Hardware I’d found a spray can with paint of a delightful orange color. “King George,” I muttered to myself, “will be able to read that without his spectacles.”

We’d driven around first. In theory this was to see where the town cop was. In actual fact, we’d mostly sat in our cars in the bright lights of the Lo’ Boy Drive In, where we drank cokes. However, the cop did drive by, heading out on Highway 287. He’d probably turn around in a mile or so, but that was our chance, so we peeled out from the drive in and sped to the north of town, and parking in the next block, we eased our quiet selves through the darkness, as stealthy as buffaloes.

The water tower sat on a city block all by itself, on a huge bare lot. No fence, just grass and weeds. In the dark, looking up, it looked much larger. And much higher.

“Well,” said mild-mannered Billy Eugene, “Let’s go.”

“Pretty tall,” said David Gee.

“It certainly is tall. Yes it sure is,” said Donny Burkman.

“Well,” said Billy Eugene, “Let’s go.”

So we did.

On the south side, the metal ladder ended some distance from the ground, but with a leg-up from David Gee, and a bit of scramble, up we went, in single file. At first it wasn’t so bad. Kind of neat. You could see over the roofs of the houses! Things looked completely different.

About halfway up, it seemed … not quite so fun.

Looking up, past the boys ahead, the top seemed far away. Looking down, past the boys below, the ground seemed even farther. What if the ladder is weak? What if it came loose? What if Eddy Frank fell on me? What if …

But there was nothing to do, except to keep climbing. The spray can of paint, stuck in my belt, was poking my stomach. My hands began to ache. I whined to myself quietly.

But in a while, the top grew nearer, then close, and then some boys were over the edge onto the catwalk. I came to the edge and carefully clambered onto the catwalk, with hands grabbing my arms and belt. “Whoa!” I said.

The metal catwalk ran around the cylinder of the water tower, with a three-foot rail attached. With any sense at all, a person wouldn’t fall off the catwalk. I said this to myself several times. “Hang onto the rail,” said Billy Eugene. He was normally far less an outlaw than the rest of us, but perhaps this was just his type of crime.

About then, someone spotted the cop car coming up the road, and we all scuttled around to the far side of the tower. There in the dark we hid till he’d passed by. We knew that he’d likely continue north, past the last few houses and past the rodeo grounds, past Petticoat Hill, and past the reservoir, before turning around. “We’ve got ten or twelve minutes,” said Billy Eugene.

So we got busy.

Arraying ourselves on the two sides of the tower most visible from the main road, we began our work. Oddly, nobody had given much thought to what to paint. “Seniors of 62!” someone yelled. “Seniors of 1962!” I cried.

I popped the top from the spray can, held onto the rail behind me, aimed the can, and pressed the button.

A cold spray covered my nose and chin.

Oops.

In the dark, I peered to see which direction the spray thing pointed, but couldn’t see a thing. I turned the can about half way, tried again, got it sideways and felt the cool spray going off the the right. “Jesus, watch out!” someone growled. I tried turning the can, felt it slippery, felt it slip and spin, heard it clatter and roll, and then a long silence. It was gone.

OK, then. That went pretty well.

In the meantime, other boys had better luck, and it was time to skedaddle.

Carefully we circled to the ladder, and with lots of helping hands getting in the way, each of us climbed over the lip of the catwalk onto the ladder, and in hasty caution, climbed down the ladder, in a stifled horror that any minute the cop could show up with his searchlight.

But he didn’t, and we skulked through the darkness, climbed into cars, and made our getaway. They’d never catch us now, we laughed. Then the others caught sight of my chin.

Haw haw haw haw haw!

I peered into the mirror, and saw in the shifting light of the passing streetlights that my chin was now a bright orange. After riotous laughter at my expense, the others soon became concerned. This orange paint was a definite clue. And my chin was kind of a liability. “You got to clean that off,” said Billy Eugene. “We’ll go to Mitchell’s.”

Mitchell’s Truck Stop, out at the west edge of town, sold gas throughout the night, had bunks and showers for truckers, and ran an all-night cafe. There, after a Saturday Night date, after you’d taken your girl home, you were supposed to go to Mitchell’s Cafe and order Chicken Fried Steak. I know I did. It was always the perfect ending for a perfect evening. It was the spot to be.

Now just in case you ever find yourself at Mitchell’s Truck Stop Cafe, let me make a suggestion: Order the Chicken Fried Steak. You will first receive a bowl of salad, consisting of iceberg lettuce and tomato wedges, and an orange squeeze container. This is garlicky French dressing. Then you’ll get a plate with chicken fried steak, covered with white cream gravy splashed over french fries, and a red squeeze container of ketchup. Squeeze both ketchup and more French dressing over the gravy. Now you’re set. Man oh man!

However, on that night, for the first time, I headed for the gas station instead of the cafe. For the first time, I saw the bathroom in the gas station. Smelled it, too. Whoah!

I tried to wash off the orange paint with soap and water. No good. That was real good orange paint. The night attendant looked at me oddly, but found me some Ajax cleanser. There, with paper towels from the dispenser, water, and generous doses of the abrasive cleanser, I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed.

My face grew redder and redder, and began to burn, but the orange paint finally showed signs of giving up the battle. After another twenty minutes of painful scrubbing, I resembled a burn victim, but my skin was merely red, not orange.

Now that my fellow criminals no longer feared my being seen, they were in an expansive mood.

“Wanna get some Chicken Fried Steak?” asked Billy Eugene.

This sounded swell.

Next door we trooped, and filled the great big round booth in the corner, and ordered up, laughing and recounting our adventure. The food, when it came, was somehow even better than on other nights. The perfect ending to a perfect evening.

We thought about tomorrow, and how people driving by the north road would look up. They’d see “Seniors of 62” and “Seniors 1962” painted in big letters. Haw haw haw haw haw!

We had made our mark.

Forever.

On This Day: Bay to Breakers

by // Leave a Comment

San Francisco, May 7, 2004: Once again, today is the famous Bay to Breakers race where thousands of runners run from the San Francisco Bay to the ocean. That is from way downtown, up Market Street, and then out past the Panhandle Park and through Golden Gate park to the beach.

In years past, I’d wake in my fourth-floor garrett at Lyon and Oak, fuzzily wondering what was the hubbub. Peering down from my kitchen windows, I’d see the runners — many in oddball costumes — pouring up the street and through the skinny park. There, watching them and drinking my coffee, I would ponder life and experience the gratitude that comes of not being among them.

This year, there’s bad news about running naked.

It seems that every year more and more people run the 7.5 mile race without clothes, and let me tell you some of these folks are way too floppy, but in the main, skinny people run, and so it generally works out, if you follow me.

Last year, more than 200 skinny-dippers trundled through the streets, sort of like very late streakers joining the party twenty years later. However, this year the police have decided to issue citations to naked runners.

In fine San Francisco doughnut shop fashion, however, the police have announced that they will only issue citations to the folks who fail to clothe themselves after the finish line. After all, a tradition is a tradition, right?

And of course, when interviewed, it came out that the policemen felt that running into the race, demanding a driver’s licence, and writing up a ticket while trotting alongside the nudie runner … well, it’s just not their thing.

 
 

reviews

[wprevpro_usetemplate tid=”1″]