The value of hair; Cat photo shoot; On preventable owl run-in; She'd never say get off my back; Felix

[YIBAWE = Yes I'm Bald And What Else?]

:(

SEE:

http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com.es/2011/05/yibaweans-eschew-cranial-rugs.html

^,^

KD Cat

KD CAT


prepares for her photo shoot
giving her Santa beard disguise
a lick and a polish

before posing with it under her chin.

This beard was previously grown by the
SRN Editor and saved in a 'waste not want not'
moment.

It is now a favorite amusement of the cat's.


to be cont'd


^,^

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0ffwDYo00Q


^,^

Cat-Ass-Trophy

How many times must one say no

To a cat begging to go out

after hours?

My reckoning of how many

times I’ve leaned down to advise her

sours

my disposition.  For heaven’s sake

do you want to hear those mighty descending wings

from the nocturnal sky?  She glowers

having no imagination, I guess

and continues her pitiful begging to go out

and take her chances during the darkened hours.

An owl will, believe me, WILL swoop down

and pick you, you tasty morsel, as if

you were nothing heftier than one of our flowers

growing outside the door, in whose midst you slink and creep.

These owls are big with talons sinking deep,

They’ll carry you to a treetop;  disembowelers

these owls are;  your nemeses;

you don’t want to find yourself with great ease flying upward

by surprise, my pussy, to be sliced, diced, and devoured!

Like talking to a catter -wall;

At night a different creature;

She persists!  “ Mee-ow,  Mee-OW, MEE-OW!”  hers

to learn the hard beak way, but not on this watch!

Her bones and parts shan't be reduced to pellets, trophies

Dropped under the Tamarack’s peaceable bowers!

No is NO, my furry friend, reckon thyself lucky;

Yea, and compose and confine thyself;

Not to be an owl’s, your howls and bowels are ours!

[DZD]

^,^

Ragtime rides on Dee's back

Arcadian Ave time,  pre-KD

^,^

We celebrated our 33rd anniversary 11/11/16

In previous years a symbolic time-piece has been given.

This year a new kitchen clock was the present:

Felix the cat, a historic motif.

The eyes turn left to right

and the tail wags likewise.

SEE https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felix_the_Cat

Purchased at Tin Toy Arcade

^,^

Yibawean Coda:

http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2016/07/and-what-else-yibawean-society-son.html

A work table; Black coral; Smith Corona; The fish; Kitchen tips; Welding tips; Marriage-related; One time; A little mercy now

HANDS ACROSS THE SEA

^,^


It's coming:

BLACK CORAL

The snow that falls so white and fresh

is quickly pushed to the sides of

the already salted streets

and more salt is spread behind the blades

The snow no matter how persevering

can't win a temporary victory

because it's not allowed to repose there

delaying commerce anymore

Snowbound in the city is an anachronism

The big blizzard of 1947, though, closed

businesses and schools, everything for days

in Waukesha Wisconsin

until the handful of plow-equipped trucks

could get around to opening all the streets,

and  the Inter-Urban electric train did not run 

into Milwaukee,  so Daddy was home five days

The snow was dominant then, keeping everyone blessedly

at home, happy captives of unanticipated pass-times, 

 skiing to the grocers or to the post office, drinking

 cocoa and digging tunnels outside, dawns to dusks

During cribbage games and radio shows, the wind blew

unending heavy snow all around town

And the ice-blinkered Fox Dairy horses struggled

to pull their milk wagons until they couldn't

negotiate the drifted valleys formerly known

to them as their street routes

And everything was rounded off white

for many deepening days

But now, when there is a forecast of snow

heavy or slight

armadas of municipal plows and reinforcements

of free-lancers idle their engines everywhere

loaded with tons of salt, waiting at checkpoints, ready

to make short work of any white that quietly comes

and to make the trains, trucks and everything else

run on time

The esthete dreaming of snow having dominion

over him for a just a little while

loses to technology and industry

but loses no precious time at work or school

thanks to economies dedicated to rumbling 

street-clearing machines

and salt, lots of salt

and fervent salty neighbors

keeping their sidewalks absolutely clear

of Old Devil Snow, running neck and neck

toward the inevitable loss against the plowers

 who fill and re-fill the grumblers' driveways

Over clear but gray-skied days, whizzing traffic splatters

more salt onto the salt-laced drifts and the sun melts

and re-freezes the mounds into darkened, pitted reefs

of dingy black coral 

And you wish for another snow, as in 1947

[d. Zep d.]

^,^

 Old Smith Corona portable

I've dusted off the manual typewriter

having read enough feature articles

in papers like the NY Times

to convince me once again of the

clacking beauty of typing on a non-

electronic keyboard.

I found a local typewriter repair company

and will after an initial cleaning up of my own

take it in for an overhaul.

Many an earlier clack and ding tract

were logged on this too long dormant

machine

and will be joined at the fingertips -

hip, and as with it  

~ down with it

can't quit it ~

they'll will ride across pages of history,
again.

^,^

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TyKnoaD8q30


^,^

Recommendation:

Enlarge to 175% + or  -


^,^

Kitchen tips

https://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=23qMd90xcaY


You'll find a wealth of good ideas here.

On the 'finding fresh egg' video, this method can be used for finding
less fresh eggs that will be easier to peel when hard-boiled.








^,^

Welding tips

^,^

We're related to these goats by marriage

Pictured:

Apple-culling goats at Ela Orchard, Rochester WI;
Ben Willard and Erin Dix, wed 7-3-16


^,^


One Time
by William Stafford

Listen Online


When evening had flowed between houses
and paused on the school ground, I met
Hilary’s blind little sister following
the gray smooth railing still warm from the sun
with her hand; and she stood by the edge
holding her face upward waiting
while the last light found her cheek
and her hair, and then on over the trees.
You could hear the great sprinkler arm
of water find and then leave the pavement,
and pigeons telling each other their dreams
or the dreams they would have. We were
deep in the well of shadow by then, and I
held out my hand, saying, “Tina, it’s me—
Hilary says I should tell you it’s dark,
and, oh, Tina, it is. Together now—”
And I reached, our hands touched,
and we found our way home.

"One Time" by William Stafford from The Way It Is. © Graywolf Press, 1998

^,^


A little mercy now

HTTPS://VIMEO.COM/79412569

FORWARDED BY TOM BENTZ

Get your glider; To be or not to be; Why we grieve; An Oregonian writes; Friends; A requiem

Get your Tin Toy Arcade

~  glider  ~

Need to get over a hump?

Write for a free balsa wood old-fashioned glider

and we will send one, freight pre-paid.

Caveat:

To obtain your free glider

you must WRITE for one
- Snail only -

(one to a customer)

c/o

Waukesha Sewer Raccoon News

308 South St. 311

Waukesha WI 53186

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aE47I6V-J28



^,^

2BORNOT2B

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjuZq-8PUw0

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, 
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay, 
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all.

(Etc.

       

^,^

Here’s Why We Grieve Today

NOVEMBER 9, 2016 / JOHN PAVLOVITZ

I don’t think you understand us right now.

I think you think this is about politics. 

I think you believe this is all just sour grapes; the crocodile tears of the losing locker room with the scoreboard going against us at the buzzer.

I can only tell you that you’re wrong. This is not about losing an election.This isn’t about not winning a contest. This is about two very different ways of seeing the world.

Hillary supporters believe in a diverse America; one where religion or skin color or sexual orientation or place of birth aren’t liabilities or deficiencies or moral defects. Her campaign was one of inclusion and connection and interdependency. It was about building bridges and breaking ceilings. It was about going high. 

Trump supporters believe in a very selective America; one that is largely white and straight and Christian, and the voting verified this. Donald Trump has never made any assertions otherwise. He ran a campaign of fear and exclusion and isolation—and that’s the vision of the world those who voted for him have endorsed.

They have aligned with the wall-builder and the professed p*ssy-grabber, and they have co-signed his body of work, regardless of the reasons they give for their vote:

Every horrible thing Donald Trump ever said about women or Muslims or people of color has now been validated.
Every profanity-laced press conference and every call to bully protestors and every ignorant diatribe has been endorsed.
Every piece of anti-LGBTQ legislation Mike Pence has championed has been signed-off on.

Half of our country has declared these things acceptable, noble,American. 

This is the disconnect and the source of our grief today. It isn’t a political defeat that we’re lamenting, it’s a defeat for Humanity.

We’re not angry that our candidate lost. We’re angry because our candidate’s losing means this country will be less safe, less kind, and less available to a huge segment of its population, and that’s just the truth.

Those who have always felt vulnerable are now left more so. Those whose voices have been silenced will be further quieted. Those who always felt marginalized will be pushed further to the periphery. Those who feared they were seen as inferior now have confirmation in actual percentages.

Those things have essentially been campaign promises of Donald Trump, and so many of our fellow citizens have said this is what they want too.  

This has never been about politics.
This is not about one candidate over the other.
It’s not about one’s ideas over another’s.
It is not blue vs. red.
It’s not her emails vs. his bad language.
It’s not her dishonesty vs. his indecency.

It’s about overt racism and hostility toward minorities.
It’s about religion being weaponized.
It’s about crassness and vulgarity and disregard for women.
It’s about a barricaded, militarized, bully nation.
It’s about an unapologetic, open-faced ugliness.

And it is not only that these things have been ratified by our nation that grieve us; all this hatred, fear, racism, bigotry, and intolerance—it’s knowing that these things have been amen-ed by our neighbors, our families, our friends, those we work with and worship alongside. That is the most horrific thing of all. We now know how close this is.

It feels like living in enemy territory being here now, and there’s no way around that. We wake up today in a home we no longer recognize. We are grieving the loss of a place we used to love but no longer do. This may be America today but it is not the America we believe in or recognize or want.

This is not about a difference of political opinion, as that’s far too small to mourn over. It’s about a fundamental difference in how we view the worth of all people—not just those who look or talk or think or vote the way we do.

Grief always laments what might have been, the future we were robbed of, the tomorrow that we won’t get to see, and that is what we walk through today. As a nation we had an opportunity to affirm the beauty of our diversity this day, to choose ideas over sound bytes, to let everyone know they had a place at the table, to be the beacon of goodness and decency we imagine that we are—and we said no.

The Scriptures say that weeping endures for a night but joy comes in the morning. We can’t see that dawn coming any time soon.

And this is why we grieve.

from a forward to Rev. John Helt, DD, Colgate WI

^,^

An Oregonian writes

From: Kate O'Neil [mailto: onmywy@yahoo.com ]
Sent: Thursday, November 10, 2016 10:25 AM
To: David Dix
Subject: Re: Today

Fire up the Citroen, gotta go...

In truth, though, probably gotta stay and fight for the country and the rights of all.

As Toni Morrison so aptly said:

"This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal."

And that is my personal pledge to this election, to call out deplorable actions,to write to our leadership and hold them accountable. And to work for the vote in 2018. Yes I am frightened. I am doubly vulnerable, but I won't be silenced. 

^,^

Friends

by William Stafford

Listen Online

How far friends are! They forget you,
most days. They have to, I know; but still,
it’s lonely just being far and a friend.
I put my hand out—this chair, this table—
So near: touch, that’s how to live.
Call up a friend? All right, but the phone
itself is what loves you, warm on your ear,
on your hand. Or, you lift a pen
to write—it’s not that far person
but this familiar pen that comforts.
Near things: Friend, here’s my hand.

"Friends" by William Stafford from The Way It Is. © Graywolf Press, 1998

^,^

A 'requiem' redux

The Highland Cathedral

with bagpipes

dirgelike, determined,

and a little drummer boy shall lead them.

March on!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oieFS785QPk

^,^

This just in from Bentz

in time for this issue about to be launched:

Done. Over. He's here. Goodbye.

by Garrison Keillor

So he won. The nation takes a deep breath. Raw ego and proud illiteracy have won out and a severely learning-disabled man with a real character problem will be president. We are so exhausted from thinking about this election, millions of people will take up leaf-raking and garage cleaning with intense pleasure. We liberal elitists are wrecks. The Trumpers had a whale of a good time, waving their signs, jeering at the media, beating up protesters, chanting "Lock her up" — we elitists just stood and clapped. Nobody chanted "Stronger Together." It just doesn't chant.

The Trumpers never expected their guy to actually win the thing, and that's their problem now. They only wanted to whoop and yell, boo at the H-word, wear profane T-shirts, maybe grab a crotch or two, jump in the RV with a couple six-packs and go out and shoot some spotted owls. It was pleasure enough for them just to know that they were driving us wild with dismay — by "us," I mean librarians, children's authors, yoga practitioners, Unitarians, birdwatchers, people who make their own pasta, opera goers, the grammar police, people who keep books on their shelves, that bunch. The Trumpers exulted in knowing we were tearing our hair out. They had our number, like a bratty kid who knows exactly how to make you grit your teeth and froth at the mouth.

Alas for the Trump voters, the disasters he will bring on this country will fall more heavily on them than anyone else. The uneducated white males who elected him are the vulnerable ones and they will not like what happens next.

To all the patronizing b.s. we've read about Trump expressing the white working class's displacement and loss of the American Dream, I say, "Feh!" — go put your head under cold water. Resentment is no excuse for bald-faced stupidity. America is still the land where the waitress' kids can grow up to become physicists and novelists and pediatricians, but it helps a lot if the waitress and her husband encourage good habits and the ambition to use your God-given talents and the kids aren't plugged into electronics day and night. Whooping it up for the candidate of cruelty and ignorance does less than nothing for your kids.

We liberal elitists are now completely in the clear. The government is in Republican hands. Let them deal with him. Democrats can spend four years raising heirloom tomatoes, meditating, reading Jane Austen, traveling around the country, tasting artisan beers, and let the Republicans build the wall and carry on the trade war with China and deport the undocumented and deal with opioids and we Democrats can go for a long brisk walk and smell the roses.

I like Republicans. I used to spend Sunday afternoons with a bunch of them, drinking Scotch and soda and trying to care about NFL football. It was fun. I tried to think like them. (Life is what you make it. People are people. When the going gets tough, tough noogies.) But I came back to liberal elitism.

Bottom of Form

Don't be cruel. Elvis said it and it's true. We all experienced cruelty back in our playground days, boys who beat up on the timid, girls who made fun of the homely and naive, and most of us, to our shame, went along with it, afraid to defend the victims lest we become one of them. But by your 20s, you should be done with cruelty. Mr. Trump was the cruelest candidate since George Wallace. How he won on fear and bile is for political pathologists to study. The country is already tired of his noise, even his own voters. He is likely to become the most intensely disliked president since Hoover. His children will carry the burden of his name. He will never be happy in his own skin. But the damage he will do to our country — who knows? His supporters voted for change, and boy, are they going to get it.

Back to real life. I went up to my hometown the other day and ran into my gym teacher, Stan Nelson, looking good at 96. He commanded a landing craft at Normandy on June 6, 1944, and never said a word about it back then, just made us do chin-ups whether we wanted to or not. I saw my biology teacher Lyle Bradley, a Marine pilot in the Korean War, still going birdwatching in his 90s. I was not a good student then, but I am studying both of them now. They have seen it all and are still optimistic. The past year of politics has taught us absolutely nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nada. The future is scary. Let the uneducated have their day. I am now going to pay more attention to teachers.