E.T. learns Pittstonese...

The Fourth Kind...

...Nice day, turtlehead, heyna? Or no? Gimmee a coupla-two-tree lottery tickets, a roll of al-u-ni-num foil, and a pack of Ding Dongs. And hurry. I'm going up the mall to get my pitcher taken.

Okay...that's it....

...enough of this nonsense...

God has a sense of humor...

...can I have my global warming back?

God has a sense of humor...

...who says the Lord doesn't have a wicked sense of humor?

So the morning after I post the Fall Color Crappy Camera Bonanza, I wake up to this. Snow. Folks in parts of the county without power because of an early 1-2 punch by winter. White stuff everywhere, especially in the higher elevations. Slippery roads. And it was still October.

I'm going back to bed...wake me in April, when the trees start budding...

* * *

I'll probably regret this...but I'm loosening up the restrictions on posting comments again.

Recently, the only way to post comments was to log-in, and I know folks hate that. In addition, comments didn't appear immediately...they had to be "approved." That smacked of "censorship" when it was actually just self-defense against spambots. I know most folks would rather just read this site and post the occasional comment without having to remember yet another website account and password.

The Official Dynamo Crappy Camera Fall Color Bonanza

In search of Fall Colors...

In search of Fall Colors...

A little rainbow, just to get things started...

No Cognitive Defect - Part VI

No Cognitive Defect - Part VI

By James M. O'Meara, © 2008

(Need to catch up on NCD,? Just click here!)

Chatting with Betty...

"Glennon Police Department."

The woman's voice was crisp and unhurried.

"I'm trying to reach Chief Ingersol," said Evan. "It's urgent."

"Gary Ingersol retired last year. Would you like to speak with Chief Magoon?"

Evan frowned.

"Elmer Magoon?"

"Yes, sir. Chief Magoon."

Dear God help me…Mr. Magoo is the Chief of Police.

"Yes, fine," said Evan, closing his eyes a moment and shaking his head. "Tell him it's urgent."

"Well, he's not here. He's out plowing."

"Why is he plowing?"

"Bernie's sick. Ate some bad spinach."

Oh, this wasn't good.

"Then let me speak to another policeman."

"Well, there's only the Chief and Officer Reed. Would you like to speak with Officer Reed?"

"Yes, please."

"Oh, but he's not here either. He's plowing, too."

"Well is anyone there?" Evan asked, exasperated.

"Of course."


"Can I speak to them, please?"

"Well, you are."

Short note on a long project....

...there is another segment of "No Cognitive Defect" coming soon (I've had a number of inquiries about the project). This part of the story is set in the present, where I left Wilson and Anita at the mercy of a blizzard. If you've been sitting on the very edge of your seat, sit back a won't be much longer. (Plus, I don't want you falling off and break your tushie!)


From The Sky - Part II

From the Sky - Part II

By James M. O'Meara, © 2008

(Did you miss From the Sky, Part I? Just click here!)

Contorni - Finocchio


I know I said I didn't want to mention my mother, but I guess I do need to fill in a few blanks. Don't worry, it won't take long; there's not much to say.

My mother's name was Darla. Dad met her at a funeral. The deceased was her husband, a childhood friend of my father's who drank half a bottle of whiskey and wrapped his car around a telephone pole. Darla wasn't in the car. I suppose that's a mixed blessing for my father, seeing as he adores me. He says I'm the only good thing that came out of his marriage.

My aunts say we have to take the bad with the good. Well, the bad and my Dad got to talking at the funeral brunch and she slipped her number into his suit jacket. That would have been a big red flag to most folks, but my father is one of those crazy fool men whose brain seizes up in the presence of a beautiful woman. It's an inherited flaw with the males on my side of the family.

Dad fell madly in love with his Darla. Two weeks after they met, she moved in with him. Aunt Sal says Darla barely tolerated him, but needed a place to stay and someone to pay her bills. She thinks my mother enchanted my father somehow. My Aunt Rae goes a step further. She calls Darla a sorceress, an Irish Strega. "She cast a spell, I'm certain," Aunt Rae told me often over the years.

Aunt Zia has an Occam's Razor take on my father's failed marriage: "Your Dad was young, and men are stupid when they're young. They're brainless walking sacks of testosterone. Why do you think they used to draft eighteen year-olds? It's because they are fearless and can't foresee the consequences of bad decisions. A man's brain doesn't fully engage until he's past the quarter-century mark, and your father was several years short of the quarter-post. So there you have it, Renata: Darla was bad news. Paulie was young, stupid, and made a decision with the wrong head." Aunt Zia says that when Dad fell for Darla it was like watching a monkey play with a box of hand grenades: You step back a safe distance and wait, because sooner or later you have to scrape monkey fur off the walls. Well, I have to admit hers is the least-complicated explanation, and it does have precedent. As I've said, the men on my father's side have a history of behaving stupidly in the presence of beauty.

Is 13 really an unlucky number??

It sure is for poor O.J. Simpson!

Thirteen years to the day after his acquittal in the killings of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman, O.J. was found guilty on all charges...12 counts in his robbery trial.

The big house...where I hope and pray he moves from running back to someone's personal tight end...finally beckons.

The number 13...unlucky for O.J. perhaps, but just dandy for the rest of us.

Now I'll never find the real killers...

"What have they done! Now I'll never find the real killers..."

God Bless...Warren Buffett?

He's betting on America...

He's betting on America...

Over the summer, I found a book I thought I'd lost long ago in a box stuffed under my bed: A Sense of History - The Best Writing from the Pages of American Heritage.

I never subscribed to American Heritage. (Shame on me.) But back in the 1980's, I was in a book club and ordered this collection of writings because I enjoy reading history on occasion. There are roughly fifty articles between its covers. Many of them are magnificent pieces of work. All are interesting. I've lately kept the book within easy reach every night at bedtime.

A few weeks back, just before the wheels started flying off Wall Street, I found myself reading a piece called: "You'll Have To See Morgan" by Andy Logan. ("Andy," born Isabel Ann Logan in 1920, wrote for the New Yorker. She died in November, 1980. Her obituary in the New York Times called her, "…Dean of the City Hall press corps.")

Logan's article focuses on the panic of 1895. The U.S. gold reserves were dwindling, and the nation faced bankruptcy. Disaster was narrowly averted when President Grover Cleveland met with J. Pierpont Morgan and worked out a plan to replenish the nation's gold reserve with an influx of gold, at least half of which would come from overseas. The gold would be paid for through the sale of bonds, and Morgan personally guaranteed that a minimum of $100 million dollars in gold would be maintained in the Treasury. What government seemed incapable of doing, Morgan accomplished. He was reviled for it by many, but we veered away from the abyss.

A Devil Cat, a Satanic Mouse and a Walrus

Diet Time for Dynamo's Cat?

Devil Cat...

Devil Cat? No...he's just a big mushball. A big, big, mucho fatty mushball...but he's harmless. Yes, his eyes glow. But only when he sees food.

* * *

Why do I like John McCain? Politics aside...he's remarkably brave. Consider this: He parachuted deep into enemy territory. He was savaged by his hosts. He remained unbroken. And this was just last week on The View.

Oh, yeah. He also spent years as a prisoner of war in Hanoi. From what I've read, they were better hosts.

* * *

Islamic militants want Paul McCartney dead. They're not happy he's playing a gig celebrating Israel's 60th birthday, so they're threatening to send suicide bombers to kill him. (The jokes on them, ain't it? The real Paul McCartney was killed in the 60's, leaving us with album after album of silly love songs.)

These folks are not to be taken lightly. Just the other day, a Muslim cleric said that Mickey Mouse must die.

Yes, the world's gone nuts.

September 2: Signs that Autumn is on its way...

...a few snapshots from my walk home from the bus stop. I will not miss the colors of Autumn this year!

Fall colors...

A tree with full autumn spendor in Plains Township...

Autumn is coming...

The autumn colors are starting to arrive...a bit of gold amidst the green along the railroad tracks near my house...

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