“Guy made me nervous… so of course I had to hack him to death. What, I had a choice?”

One of the sick and annoying effects of having to speak only Hebrew 90% of the day is doing without the nuances built into English, among other ‘real tongues’.

Like, for today’s lesson: ‘being nervous, upset, flustered’ as opposed to ‘feeling enraged, yea unto ‘homicidal’
Us Mosaics, it seems, have one(1) word for both these kinds of snow: ‘Atz-ba-ni’. An adjective built from the root ‘Etzev’ meaning simply ‘nerve’ as in ‘the nervous system‘. To ‘become nervous’ is ‘le’heet-atz-ben’. An emotional state that, once having been stated aloud in the only vocab we have, promptly conflates fear… and loathing, so to speak.
I’m writing this with a loud crop-duster helicopter 100 feet over my head this early AM. In English, (still ‘legal’ for my inner discourse), I said to myself: “Dat guy makes me nervous!”   Fear, mainly, with a sizable worry for the pilot’s longevity mixed with worry that his detached rotor will destroy my precious lettuce when he crashes.
Yet, in pleasantries with my neighbor at the time, the implications of a simple ‘Hoo me’atz-ben oti’ (‘He maketh me nervous) conveyed an inseparable implication of my supposed dream to ‘shoot the bastard out of the sky!’
Why should this be so?
Well, it shouldn’t, and, beset this morning by a host of other, lower-altitude insults to decency by the local natives, I even explored a cheap (and false) alt-right explanation for the linguistic confusion:
It’s the Jews, dammit. Something bothers ’em, it’s automatic; go to ‘smite!’ Feel anxious and un-prepared at, say, a job interview? Well then, plan revenge. The gall of the guy demanding to know how many years I got on C++! I shall find his car in the lot and wreak vehicular revenge.

But, on second thought, (Yeah, as in: ‘on the other hand… I have…um.. different fingers’) I recall Jesus, of my early youth, and His Understanding: “Forgive them, for they haven’t even the words to know what they do-eth!”
Meanwhile the chopper has gone onto greener pastures to do his ‘Uncontrolled Inverted Impact into Terrain’.
And I’m left pondering how in the hell to say: ‘ I’m feeling anxious, conflicted, worried, yet not ipso facto malevolent.” in Hebrew, a language for which the Heb>Eng part of the dictionary generally inhabits less than a quarter of the heavy tome.
Other ‘gaps’, so no one should think this is an isolated incident:
“I like you” vs “I love you.” Makes it impossible to tell a girl at the Quickee-Mart that you appreciate her help, without risking incarceration.
‘Paint’ (the substance in a can) vs ‘Color/ shade’ Same word
‘Etz’, ‘Wood’ (the building material) vs ‘a tree’ Same dumb word; I built my house here with lumber… and they insist on calling it a ‘tree-house!’
‘Maf-te-ach’ both a wrench… and the key to your house.

Ok, all languages have their dual-meanings. So why do I feel so nervous’/’irritated’? by a simple helicopter? A: I can’t say… and that’s the reason.

A small Joke of the Day

Johnny made a funny
In a language not his own
Which reminds me of the doggie
Who, for a biscuit or a bone
Could walk up-right on hind legs
At least for a short enthrall
And the wonder’s not how well he does-it
But that he dun-it at all

Ok, thanks(?) to Duncan SWH, I’m now temporarily(?) obsessed with accents in the UK; including his own ‘to-die-for’ Scots of course.
However, working with wot I got lately, face to face daily; a wonderfully erudite Newcastle-on-Tyne native, I’m nuts on the ‘Geordie’ accent which my client spreads like honey over every sentence. Hours of research I’ve spent, on the history of the area and Northumberland in general, back to the Stone age. Oh, and fast-forward to Newcastle United, whom I’m now duty-bound to cheer on, despite my life-long conviction that enduring two hours of ‘scoreless-tie ‘fut-bol’ ranks up there with ‘watching a medium-quality latex paint dry’. On a muggy day.

Anyway, the joke. No worry, I’ll explain why it’s funny..

A ‘Geordie’ hears on the radio about a ‘Name that Tune’ contest. Confident that he knows every little village in the area, he none-the-less studies geography and maps all night.
Gets to the venue and is dismayed to learn that “All they did was play bloody songs!”

Explanation:  OK, I today confirmed with my client that, as I suspected, (and the only point of the joke), the Geordie pronunciation of ‘town’ (TUUN) is almost indistinguishable from that of ‘Tune’ (a musical melody) which the contest-producers intended.

Hey, like the above doggie-tale, it’s not that I do it so well; it’s that,  after a short week of exposure, I can  do it at all.

Beware of cheap imitation Palindromes!

By now everyone has probably heard some ‘genius-in-his-own-imagination’ PAL-st proudly crow, ten times an hour: ‘MADAM, I’M ADAM‘. I’m just hoping
chicks these days are hip enuff to tell him to go sit on the bench with the rest of the lamech crowd. ‘You call that a Palindrome?!’ the women who still care enough to help the loser ask him. Rhetorically. Sure, he might, like Trump trying to wring ‘victory’ out of a decisive popular-vote defeat, claim credit for ‘A MAN A PLAN A CANAL PANAMA’ The fact-checkers, (today’s sadly ‘in-demand’ job with a future) quickly check and pre-date the ‘Panama’ creation to before that sad-ass child-reality-star was even born. Back before abortion was an option in cases like his, dammit.

I’m reminded (from last night’s ‘try to fall asleep-session‘) of an ancient-er precedent:
King Minos of Crete runs into his long-lost kid, tells the guy
‘SON, I’M MINOS!’
The child, dressed in pure-gold T-shirt and cut-offs, says, dismissively:
‘SAD.. I’M MIDAS!’

So yes, ‘mine are bigger (and golder) than theirs’, I blog into the Word-Press Vacuum. You don’t get to my level, Adam, by ‘Copy+Paste.
The really extra-supportive’ women whose whatever you thought you could just grab, might actually hand out pad-and-pencil to the ‘ADAM’s sitting there on the third-string bench. Advise them to start out, minimum, with ‘LISA BONET ATE NO BASIL’, from Weird Al’s Dylan parody, and work up from there.
Or…. try to match this one: (While I fight off an army of suave, svelte, sweating and swooning girls, trying to grab my ‘P’. Oh, AND DNA:

NOT WE NOT WE, NEGRO ‘G’, DIRT UP ANI’S EVIL BUT TANGY GNAT TUB; LIVES IN A PUTRID GORGE, NEW TO NEWTON.

This from a trip I done with my younger son to the Amazon, where we came upon a long- abandoned nature-research station; ‘Ani’ somebody’; she’d left in a hurry, leaving entomology tables overgrown with foliage. Just when we were carefully leaving we were accosted by a pair of hapless and lost surveyors. ‘Newton’, grey-haired and friendly enough, and his rod-holder, a dark-skinned fellow, called himself only ‘G’, who accused us of muddying the lab trays(!) The gall!  In the end they needed us to guide them out of that un-charted valley. Me an’ my kid chanted this PAL the whole way back to Georgetown, thence to Philly. I have a four-part harmony version of it here somewhere on one of the 39 hard-drives I’m currently ‘slaving and saving’. I’ll post the tune when/if I find it.

But the point is: Adam, like fucked-up Trump, needs to realize that writing killer PALs, (and the Presidency) ain’t a job for poseurs. Not that I’d make a good president; I still mix up Guinea and Guiana.

Cell phone-ics got his goat…then Killed his U-Goat! A tirade..

Ok, new descriptive style here, reader-friendly. Let’s see if it makes seeing the point, and the course of the Palindrome both-of-’em more graspable.
This one is truly a tirade. You’d be tiradian too if you’d spent what he did on a 40 foot partly submersible tourist water-craft shaped like an anatomically-correct Goat, and complete with observation decks inside the head and neck. The main photo on the brochure shows it mostly submerged, looking like a Loch Ness monster, but with horns. Cell-phone antennas, but that’s water under the dam now…

We’re talking about an acquaintance of mine from the UK. Sidney Hawker, of Newcastle-upon Tyne.
(And no, I have no idea why they feel a need to append the name of the nearest river to the town. Guess I should just be happy not to have to call myself Yonatan Solberg from Conestoga-upon-Susquehanna.)
Anyway, I innocently emailed him just to ask, you know ‘How’s it hanging, mate?’  He briefed me on the doomed project, and added this blow-by-blow:

Ok, the first (and last) passengers were a (loud) 15-person group of New-Agers from the University of South Derry.
U-SD RATS! I was pissed even before we left the harbor. ABUSE! I called it, but I guess for them, full-time babel on a phone is kinda what keeps the body alive. ‘OH, CELLULAR! I said in mock-forgiveness and understanding. But added “EVEN ON A U-GOAT!?” I was hurt, thinking that the ride should have been enough by itself. ‘TILL A CUT!’ I added, swiping my hand across my throat. A threat to push that one magic button and kill service.
The gang started up with some holy-modal-mystical hoo-about ‘Being here now, but in touch as One. ‘U CALL IT ‘TAO?’ I pretended to care.”GUANO! I kinda spit, if some of the crowd didn’t know from bloody bat-shit.
I guess I should have ‘noise-attenuated’ the steel hull, looking back. Woulda added another 10 K Euro to the price, big deal.
‘NEVER A LULL!’ I ranted on. ‘ECHOES, U BASTARDS!’

And that was that” he finished. “She does look canny these days standing tall on dry land. And I did remove the cell antennae a couple weeks later, and added ‘No Cell-phones! to the new brochures. But the market’s gone totally dry ever since. This generation of twitters, selfiers, and Insta-whatevahs ain’t got time for a ‘Run silent, run deep’ experience.”

ME: I couldn’t help but notice that he’s obviously been infected by palindrome-itus:
Here’s the ‘transcript’ complete and uninterrupted:

USD RATS! ABUSE! OH, CELLULAR? EVEN ON A U-GOAT? .. TILL A ‘CUT!’: U CALL IT ‘TAO’? GUANO! NEVER A LULL. ECHOES, U BASTARDS, U!
Like this style?? (I mean my WP Post-style.) Sidney’s customer-relations style could obviously benefit from a lesson or two. Or diazepam. Or both.

No Fries with that! Emergency Report

“What’s the difference between Ignorance and Arogance?”

A: “I don’t know, but who cares; I won.”
Fucking Drumpf. Barely a month in office and he not only shut down (chained the doors, for God’s sake!) NASA, NOAA, and the EPA, but also, for good(?) measure another agency, little known, which shared its acronym: Exo-Planet Alert!   ‘FEMA’s EPA’ those few who even knew it existed called it, since it was quietly funded by that parent organization.

And that’s why I’m sitting here in MacDonalds watching CNN on the hastily lashed-up TV and staring at the ‘No Fries!’ sign.

Fucking Drummpf! He had as much chance of ‘making America Great again’  (it already was, and with fries!) as one(1) drunken monkey at a broken typewriter typing the whole of Shakespeare.
The POS didn’t want aliens? Great, now they’re landing another shiny ship every fifteen minutes out near Boisie, Idaho, the ‘Home base’, I guess, but only till the potatoes run out.
Didn’t like NASA’s approach to space travel? Just great! Now he’s got his own space travel, but in the wrong direction for Humanity: Um, ‘Incoming!’
See, the ‘little-EPA’ boys knew about the threat. Some insiders even contend that the Perseid menace was clearly mentioned at a top-level security briefing which this short-attention-span POS attended, took no notes (except for bra sizes of two female staffers) and left dumber than he’d been before, if that is possible.

Scrapping Environmental Protection! Great Again, asshole! Idaho, as we speak,  HAS NO ENVIRONMENT to Protect. The Ape-men, or whatever term settles out for the ‘hairy’ (feathered?) creatures in the Main Stream Press, have turned the entire area, including parts of southern Canada, into a landscape resembling the Sahara desert on a bad hair day. Credit the ISS crew for that lone assessment; most of the other ‘eye-in-the-sky sats have gone either blind, deaf, dumb, or all three, either from de-funding or alien hacks. We’ll only know ‘when it’s over over there’. (More on that later)
No one’s even gotten a close-up look at ’em. The loop on CNN keeps re-playing the single fuzzy photo uploaded to Snapchat by a luckless motorist. He lost his life, car, and I-phone seconds later on I-84 when all three devices were melted into a pile of roadway scum.
Jim Holloway, ex-head of the now-dead Exo-planet Alert agency, tries but fails to keep his composure with the CNN anchor, explaining one moment where the stars in the constellation Perseus can been seen, reveals what was known, and when, about the obvious signs of an ETI civilization there, and then almost breaks down in grief and disgust on-camera.
Cut to commercial: MacD’s still showing the happy meal ‘au ‘pomme de terre’. French for ‘comes with fries’. Might as well say now ‘pomme de extra-terre’. And sources in the preposterous loony-bin called the ‘Trump administration’ are now reassuring the panicked low-infos that, um, not to worry, we’ll have our own ‘freedom-fries’ up and running real soon. Made from what? She swatted away the question; said they’ll be ‘great’.

When it’s Over Over here?
Um.. like, never? See, Idaho, and potatoes, are ‘appetizers for these hungry invaders from Perseus, the ‘radiant’ of the famous annual ‘Perseids’ meteor shower. Idaho is only a beach-head for them, and with the free world currently ‘led’ by an empty-headed moron withe the nutritional value of Diet Fresca (Remember: ‘An artificially-sweetened, artifically-flavored imitation fruit-drink beverage’.) we are headed for much worse than a shortage of ‘au gratin’.
Ex-President Barack Obama is reported to be somewhere between ‘livid’ and ‘inconsolable’. All his careful, discreet management of this threat, the contingency plans, his knowing awareness of the dangers from premature disclosure to the public, is now just waste-water over the dam.
Damn him to hell, that fucking Drumpf. And the sick little deplorables who dragged this dog-shit into the house stuck to their shoes.
I do have 3 potatoes in the fridge though. But I’ll scan the sky before I dare to open the door. So, worst case; ‘I got some groceries, some peanut butter,
oughta last a couple of days…
Yeah, and PALS:

OH, A DIET?… AS EPA DIES, REPORTS ‘ASTRO-PERSEID’ APES ATE IDAHO.’

‘PAN’: A BOT IN A MANITOBAN ‘AP’!!!

Mystery Solved!! Nice detective work, Johnny.
Oh, and credit to ‘Networx’, (Tm) the nifty up/down-load monitor, plus a generic ‘connections’ viewer.
I guess I should have known better than to download an ‘AP’, even one which simply sends (‘sent‘) me weekly reports on Arctic sea-ice and reindeer populations, etc. The site had a ‘dot-ca’ address; if ya cain’t trust Canadians, well, who can ya trust?

Turns out that the ‘AP’, with all its animated graphs of Eskimo ice-cube prices, is just a cover for ‘PAN’, the bot which takes up more than half the file-size. ‘Palindrome-Attack-Net’ is what the pros call it, I now know.
Just now typed a dumb throwaway Pal: ‘MT PINATUBA- A BUT,A NIP. TM.’ into freaking Ms-Notepad, while watching the meters. Sure enough, an instant connection established to, you guessed it, New Zealand. That’d be my nemesis, Julie-Anne, of KIWI LEEKS fame. She don’t respect my privacy, my right to original creations, and worse. That ‘Tm‘ in the Pinatuba Pal means ‘Trademarked! Which makes her guilty of a federal crime now. ‘Lock her up!’ I say.
So that’s about it. I deleted the AP, and of course wanted to warn anyone else not to click on it.
Feeling kinda thrilled after killing this dragon, I’ll admit. Just typed:
TORONTO: ROT? / NO-ROT? and the meters just sat there flat-lined. Yippie.

We flew by mistake to Saratoga.. and all my Ma got was a rash.

Ok, my Mum’s arguably senile. But reflexively, I trusted her, y’know, after twenty years of ‘Eat yer vegetables, son!’
The ‘iffy’ DeHavilland Twin Otter turbo-prop we dutifully boarded for our ‘Florida Getaway to Sarasota’ did look a bit small for a trip of that import, but I followed her to our seats like an obedient lemming.

Excited about the trip (I’d brought along my favorite shorts, a gift from Beth Seedsower of Xanga fame), I only started to feel mildly puzzled, like any self-respecting lemming, when it dawned om me that the late-afternoon Sun was shining through the cabin windows from the left(!) Headed south, it shoulda been from the right; i.e. the West!
Above the low-level clouds I had no ground reference, but at least I wasn’t kept in suspense for too long. We landed, bumpily, taxied to the terminal and, as I scanned the scene for palm trees to no great avail, it all became clear.

No, not ‘pilot-error’… ‘Mommy-error’. I should have asked how she managed a $59 round-trip flight to Sarasota.
Ha, easy; click instead on ‘Saratoga’!
Here’s the Terminal.

saratoga_county_airportNo aligators, coral beaches, bikini girls, In fact, no sign at all. Done on purpose, I’m guessing, to delay the let-down.
Now don’t think I haven’t a soft spot for Saratoga Springs, NY. In my youth I went through a series of deep and formative romances with Skidmore Girls. They are by now all grown up, still gorgeous and outrageously smart, and probably hammering that ‘glass ceiling’ as well as any woman can. Liz Reston, ‘niece-of’ a NYT writer I wish I was the equal of comes especially to mind.
But they weren’t waiting for me at the airport though. Just me, and my Mom, who’d been scratching and itching herself since we got to cruise altitude (probably from the cheap ‘non-genuine-Naugahyde seats’ in the Otter. The fever and chills only started the first night.
After I’d decided, assessing all my powers of restraint, not to mention, or , even to hint, that we ‘weren’t in Florida anymore, Mamma‘.
Sadly, I still have no idea where she thought she was headed; we did our best to enjoy the crisp fall weather, walked a full 100 meters of a nature trail near the hotel, and, while she rested, I got to wistfully pass by the old ‘Annendale Road’ off-campus Housing-for-theAlluring’ I remembered well. Jeez, girls these days look so ‘little’, so ‘young’. Mebbe it wuz the LSD back then?
 Anyway, to finish here, we’re both now back home, safe, happy, and blissfully confused.
I decided to post this, as a ‘Memo’. A ‘Warning’?
Note-to Me: I’ve driven PA to Sarasota (FLA!) and back a half-dozen times. Twenty-three hours, including two(2) rest stops to piss. Next time I’ll be sure to take my Ma along. Maybe drugged, in the trunk. Unlock and say “Surprise, Verna! And welcome to New Jersey! Hot out, ain’t it?”

Oh, and here’s ‘Julie-the Kiwi-leeks’s hacked version of the story; sucks to be you, kid.

HOW WE DO ‘GULF’? AH, ‘SARATOGA'(?!) MEMO:’ HOW-TO’: ‘TWO HOME, MA GOT A RASH, A FLU. GOD! EWW! OH.