Tag Archives: orchids

Up to No Good

Mrs. N. was out and about yesterday… Up the Rockfish Valley and over the Blue Ridge…  Down into the Shanandoah Valley she went in the hope of observing a yearly cultural event that takes place just a bit up the road.  Like the swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano, or, great sea turtles returning in their multitudes to the very beaches where they themselves began as eggs, the Mennonites come together in an orgy of Capitalism known as The Virginia Mennonite Relief Sale… once a year.

Welcome!  (the advertisement said)
Each year, thousands of volunteers come together to raise money at Relief Sales for Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) for the relief of suffering in the world. MCC works at home and with people around the world to ease oppression, poverty, and conflict. They lead natural disaster relief efforts, community development and peace work in more than 50 countries.  
Relief Sales offer a little bit of everything—quilts, artwork, homemade food, antiques, crafts, music and activities for the whole family. We hope you’ll join us!

As Mrs. N. expected the place was crawling with pick-pockets, Gypsies and fortune tellers of every stripe.  The donuts were superb.  In the Big tent, quilts, hand sewn by women held prisoner and forced to wear dull dresses and bonnets covering all but a few square inches of their flesh, were auctioned off at enormous prices.  Was it just Mrs. N. that perceived vaguely pornographic outlines and motifs in the patterns and the intricate stitching?  We don’t think so.

Organ trafficking, obvious to those of us trained in spotting it, by knowing where and when to look… was rampant!  All the bruised and sour spots of just what it means to be human were there, festering in the early Autumn sun, at the Fair Grounds, just outside of Harrisonburg, in the valley long known as “The Breadbasket of the Confederacy”.   By the end of the day enormous amounts of money were taken in and turned over to the MCC.  The Mennonite “Central Committee”…  Now, where have we heard THAT term before?

Starving children will be given Bibles to read and the unfortunate and wretched of this earth will be comforted with nonsense.  The rich will be rewarded with lower taxes and even more of what they already have too much of… for this is pleasant and pleasing in the sight of The Lord.

God spelled backwards, as we all know, is dog…

This very morning, while giving her orchid friends a “tubby” to enable them to soak up enough water to face another week of life on this doomed planet, Mrs. N. came upon an article in the Sunday New York TIMES that… well..

It was called    Dogs Are People, Too

If you don’t want to be bothered, or, don’t have the time to read it yourself, I will give you the beginning…  

FOR the past two years, my colleagues and I have been training dogs to go in an M.R.I. scanner — completely awake and unrestrained. Our goal has been to determine how dogs’ brains work and, even more important, what they think of us humans.  Now, after training and scanning a dozen dogs, my one inescapable conclusion is this: dogs are people, too.

You see?  This is what poor old Mrs. N. gets for reading the paper.  Now I have to live with the knowledge that highly educated people thought they could look inside a dogs head with a MRI and learn what that dog was thinking.   The article goes on to say…  “The ability to experience positive emotions, like love and attachment, would mean that dogs have a level of sentience comparable to that of a human child. And this ability suggests a rethinking of how we treat dogs.”  The article ends by saying…  “Perhaps someday we may see a case arguing for a dog’s rights based on brain-imaging findings.”

OK… Mrs. N. has come to accept the idea that the acquisition of language is what provided human beings with the ability to think.  What is thinking, after all, but a conversation we have with ourselves within our heads?  Without language that conversation could not begin, let alone end in something meaningful.

Mrs. N. found herself, while reading this article, wishing that she could have been there, at the very start, before all the time and money was wasted on MRI’s and the training of dogs to be still, and not afraid of the noises made in the process of “looking” inside their hairy little heads at “what” they might be thinking with a MRI machine.   Mrs. N. can’t help but think that the “scientists” performing this research must be terribly unfamiliar with the creature we call the dog.  If not, I ask you, why oh why would they choose to study, when looking for what dogs think, what was going on at… the WRONG fucking END of the animal?  When a dog is happy it wags it’s tail.  When a dog is sad, or afraid, it puts it’s tail down to a degree dependent upon the level of anxiety it is experiencing.

This is what a dog looks like when it is happy!  Who doesn’t know this?

Fucking crazy stupid people “think” that you can look inside a head to see what is being thought in there.  The whole idea is ridiculous, and the so called “scientists” who ran this absurd bit of neurological folderol KNEW IT from the very start.

Now, those of you who take the time to read the musings of Mrs. N. found on this blog know full well that you have to get up pretty early in the morning to pull the wool over this Old Girl’s eyes.   Have you spotted the flaw in this baloney science yet yourselves?

Let me help you out.

Any real scientist worth a dime, “IF” they thought they could “REALLY” look inside a dog’s head and see what they were thinking would NEVER waste time and energy trying to find out what they were thinking when their owner entered the room.  Why would they care?  Who gives a shit?  How is that interesting?

If these “so called” scientists had the one indispensable attribute common to all TRUE men and women of science (real science) they would have done what scientists do and attempted to answer an IMPORTANT question.  They would have sought the answer to the one and only question worth asking when it comes to man’s best friend.

Not IF…… but WHAT is a dog thinking when he is licking his ass?

The fact that they did not is proof positive that they were not really scientists at all, but jerks, who found themselves with the opportunity to fuck around with dogs & a MRI machine.

Between you and Old Mrs. N.  I’m betting there was beer involved too.

Kiss, kiss

Mrs. N.



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Nobody minds being dead you know?

Does this look like octopus to you?  I was pretty sure the chef was full of shit when he told me it was.  I have always had a kind of sixth sense when it comes to detecting when someone is full of shit.   Sea-Food Deluxe Platter my ass.

"MA!  the dog threw up again.

My neighbors tell me that this is delicious.  They call it “Biscuits & Gravy” here in Dixie.  Anyone can see that it is dog puke.  The dog has gotten into something he shouldn’t have again and it has made him sick.  In the geographical areas of The Plutocratic States of America where people spend the least money on education and the most time in church they are convinced that viewing dog puke like this is a mouth watering experience.  Tip of the iceberg…  Tip of the iceberg…

Everybody has a different opinion concerning “What’s going on”.  When you get right down to the finer details of being human you find that it is impossible for any two people to agree on anything at all… one hundred percent.   This makes it exceedingly difficult to put together a civilization, form long standing relationships with other members of our species and  refrain from destructive and vindictive quarreling.   It all works for a while.  People need each other for specific periods of time, for differing reasons.  Then, the moment circumstances permit, they are at each others throats over something they see differently.   To one degree or another there is always disagreement.  It seems to be inherent in a biology that relies upon different eyes, ears, tastes and neurological wiring … that grows itself from different DNA.   Why would we expect anything less than Bedlam from such a fiasco?  It’s a fucking miracle that anything works at all.  Social insects like ants and termites put on a good show with regard to working together, selflessly, toward a common goal, but, they share the same DNA, so, it doesn’t count.

In the end it seems that a universe that extends to, and makes use of the term “infinity”, must, by definition, contain absolutely everything including this… and us… just like this.

They say that you can find all kinds of possibilities in books.   It’s true.  I have found truckloads of possibilities in books.  I know lots of other people who have too.   If something exists in a book, or, just in someone’s imagination, does that mean an infinite universe need do no more to be truly infinite?  Is that kind of a half-assed manifestation enough to count?   Is that real enough?  Next Question please…

Where can a person with a degree in Ancient Egyptian literature get a job?  If you hear of anything, would you let me know?

It’s a rainy morning here in Dixie and I have finished my Sunday morning watering of the orchids.  I find that, at this time of year, when everything seems to be going to seed, life in matter “feels” a lot more absurd than usual.  I don’t know why that is and if the truth be known… I don’t care.  August has always been like that for me.  I think there is less gravity in August.

Respectfully, or, disrespectfully… take your pick

Mrs. N.





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Sex, Chlorophyl & Rock-N-Roll

It is barely 20 degrees outside the whorehouse this morning as the sun peeks through the brittle fingers of the trees on the horizon.  Winter crept into the neighborhood last night on tip-toes as unwelcome guests often do.  The east flank of The Blue Ridge is quiet and cold, but, the whorehouse is hopping and warm.  “Mott the Hopple” plays loud on the sound system and more Glam Rock will follow as the day progresses because if there ever was a type music that fit with orchids… Glam Rock is it.

We call the orchid room the whorehouse because, at this time of year, it reeks of sexual exhibitionism and flagrant displays of sexual anatomy.  This is Angie.  Her real name is Angraecum sesquipedale and she is the most brazen of all the hussies in the place.  To satisfy her it takes a customer armed with something at least a foot long… 16 inches would be better. Her kind was discovered in 1796 on the island of Madagascar, hanging around trees in the damp lowlands. Charles Darwin, after being sent several flowers of A. sesquipedale noted the defining characteristic of the species, its extremely long spur.  Darwin surmised, in his 1862 publication On the various contrivances by which British and foreign orchids are fertilized by insects, and on the good effects of intercrossing,  (and what a page turner THAT is),  that there must be a pollinator moth with some kind of a “thingy” long enough to reach the nectar at the end of the spur.

Well, as you can imagine, for some time after this prediction the notion of a pollinator with a 35 cm long “thingy” was ridiculed and generally not believed to exist.   After Darwin’s publication, George Campbell published a book in 1867 titled, The Reign of Law, in which he argued that the complexity of this species implied that it was created by a “supernatural being”.  (They never give up, do they?)   However, in 1903, such a moth was discovered in Madagascar by Lionel Walter Rothschild and Karl Jordan.  This confirmed Darwin’s prediction. The moth, and a randy little bastard it turned out to be, was named Xanthopan morganii praedicta.  To this day many moths of this species make a very comfortable living starring in pornographic “Whorticultural Movies” marketed mostly to florists and lonely greenhouse workers.

David Bowie is now singing “Changes” and the lyrics certainly suit what’s going on down the other end of the whorehouse.  “Time may change me, but I can’t change time” blasts from the speakers as the Phalaenopsis Boys proudly show off their erections.  No Viagra… No Levitra… Pure Solar Power all the way!

I swear you can almost watch them grow.  In another month they will explode into flower and their true colors will be apparent.  They are sissy boys, glamor queens, all made up for saturday night and out for a good time.

Ian Hunter is singing now:

“Well billy rapped all night about his suicide 
How he kick it in the head when he was twenty-five 
Speed jive don’t want to stay alive 
When you’re twenty-five 
And wendy’s stealing clothes from marks and sparks 
And freedy’s got spots from ripping off the stars from his face 
Funky little boat race 
Television man is crazy saying we’re juvenile delinquent wrecks 
Oh man I need tv when I got t rex…”

Now T-Rex is singing what I like to think of as “Our Song”.  For years I have told people, whenever this particular song plays, that this was the song we selected to dance to as a newly married couple at our wedding, 44 years ago.  Of course it isn’t true, but, it pisses my sweetie-pie off to no end.  Then again, so does the smell of all the orchids.  I have observed that men seem to like the scent while women find it to be… just too much.

“Well you’re dirty and sweet, clad in black
Don’t look back and I love you
You’re dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well you’re slim and you’re weak
You’ve got the teeth of a hydra upon you
You’re dirty sweet and you’re my girl.

Get it on, bang the gong , get it on
Get it on, bang the gong, get it on

You’re built like a car, you’ve got a hub cap diamond star halo
You’re built like a car, oh yeah
You’re an untamed youth that’s the truth with your cloak full of eagles
You’re dirty sweet and you’re my girl.”…

(So, where’s your Shakespeare now?)


Kiss, kiss

Mrs. N.


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The Visual Metaphor

Remember Me?

I had [C-SPAN-2] Booknotes on the tube early this morning in the other room while I was getting set up to water my orchids.  I soak them a few at a time in a big 5 gallon tub.  In the background I hear a woman discussing her book  “Plutocrats: The Rise of the New Global Super-Rich and the Fall of Everyone Else”.   Her name is Chrystia Freeland and the thing I heard that caught my ear and got me thinking was this tidbit of information.  Two of the richest men in America own more than over one hundred million other Americans do, collectively.

As fate would have it I heard this shocking (to me at least) bit of information while I was loading up the tub with some of the members of my Phalaenopsis orchids collection.  The phalaenopsis orchid is what they call monopodial. That simply means that it always has just one main stem.  At this time of year that “main stem” is growing and preparing for the day it will produce magnificent flowers.  What it is, actually, is a long neck and a great deal of care must be taken to protect that neck during watering, or, moving of any kind.  It is very fragile and any damage will result in ending any hope of flowers.  In other words… If you cut the neck, that’s all she wrote!

As the author of the book went on with her dissertation on how badly the “Plutocrats” are fucking over the rest of the human beings on planet earth, grabbing FAR MORE than they need, or, could ever use while 50,000 human beings starve to death each day I got to thinking how much they, the Plutocrats that is, resemble Phalaenopsis orchids.  Such thin and vulnerable necks.

The author went on to discuss how a very, very small group of obscenely wealthy Americans have hijacked our government and made a mockery of any claim we may think we have to being a democracy.. “Of the People and By the People”.   She clearly demonstrated that you would have to be a real idiot not to see that our politicians were owned by the rich and beholden to them for their office.  She elaborated with regard to just how thoroughly the common working people in America have been screwed… and made to enjoy it.

I got to thinking how much organized religion plays a part in this and how the Plutocrats of every age have gone out of their way to support and promote religious fervor.  I read the following in a Blog that shall remain nameless.  The poor bastard who wrote it has enough to be embarrassed about.

“Religion is a crumbling institution in this country, and I believe a long, introspective search with the intent of rediscovering its roots is the only process that might save it. Organized religion has strayed and taken distant paths away from its true message of love and compassion to the community of mankind.”

OK, how far up your ass does your head have to be to not know that the purpose of religion has NOTHING to do with …love and compassion to the community of mankind…?   Obviously this clown never read his Bible where God demanded the grizzly death of any and all who dared to disobey His Holy Laws.

The purpose of religion is to offer an escape from death to those within a group who agree that a specific supernatural (and usually farcical) tale is REALLY TRUE and not ridiculous bullshit after all.   It’s group dissociation.  It’s pretending, in a group, that reality is what we wish it is.

And what do these poor souls get for all this pretending… and WHY would the Plutocrats support this nonsense so steadfastly?   EASY!  The ignorant poor get the God given promise that no matter how miserable their life is on earth… In the NEXT life they will be riding high on the hog and the greedy fat cats will have their faces in the dirt.  They get the bullshit promise of living forever gloriously!

The Plutocrats?   They get the best deal and the most out of the bargain as usual.   They get to pretend that it is God’s Will that they are stinking rich and furthermore that it is God’s Will that less fortunate people are starving to death for lack of what the Plutocrats have more of than they can possibly use.

Tell me THAT ain’t a neat trick.  Fat Cat Republicans can ALWAYS be counted on to support Fundamentalist Christian Crack-Pots.  Those oil rich brothers who funded Republican candidates with hundreds of millions of dollars support Fundamentalist Christianity 100%   How can you not laugh?  Oil moguls “pretending” to believe that the very earth they suck the oil out of is only 6,000 to 10,000 years old.  Their ENTIRE business model is reality based and reality is that the carbon that became oil was laid down during… The Carboniferous period  a geologic period and system that extends from the end of the Devonian Period, about 359.2 ± 2.5 Ma (million years ago), to the beginning of the Permian Period, about 299.0 ± 0.8 Ma.

The bastards go on to “pretend” with the religious nuts that men and dinosaurs lived together and that global warming and concern for overpopulation and wholesale pollution of our entire planet are nothing to worry about.  A liberal, atheist plot to turn man away from God who is and will continue to take care of everything.  Talk about willful ignorance!

So I got to thinking.  The vast majority of people are entirely too terrified of the prospect of their own death to be of any value in restoring our democracy.  They will trade ANYTHING…. Believe ANYTHING… if it promises them they won’t “really” die.  Religion IS their opium and they want nothing to do with kicking the habit.

So, perhaps it’s up to those of us who are not addicted to point the finger toward the future.  Perhaps we owe it to the Plutocrats to remind them of how this nonsense ALWAYS ends.  Perhaps, just for educational purposes mind you, we should construct two guillotines.  One outside The Capitol.  Another outside The New York Stock Exchange.

Then, of course, we could distribute millions of round colorful guillotine stickers to be placed where ever and whenever we found Plutocrats at work, or, at play.

Perhaps we could fund all this through a tax exempt foundation?  But, what could we call it?  I don’t know… how about  [The Word to the Wise Foundation] ?


[Happy Birthday Tommy]


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I’m sitting in my orchid room facing south-east.  It is almost 12:00 noon on a rainy winter day and the temperature here on the eastern side of the Blue Ridge Mountains is 37.5 degrees.  We all here have been lead to believe that the temperature outside will peak today somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 degrees.  The rain is not expected to let up until late tonight.  Puddles reflecting a grey on grey sky are scattered all around the flower beads like broken mirrors on a blank slate.  The Solstice has come and gone leaving that blank slate pregnant as hell with new flowers for another new year.

I have 26 different orchids and most of them it seems are preparing to have sex right here in this room.  It’s a whore house.  Shameless displays of colorful anatomical features grown specifically to attract and confuse and amaze will soon be everywhere pumping perfume and calling to insects that will never hear, or smell, or see them.  No one has a date for this prom.  There is no one here but us voyeurs who make a fetish of this kind of thing.  You could say we like to watch.

In the last week I had the opportunity to read two interesting books.  “Steve Jobs” by Walter Isaacson and “Empire of the Summer Moon” by S.C. Gwynne.  The first was about Steve Jobs.  In 571 pages I learned that I don’t think I would have liked him at all.  I appreciate his art, but, I’m afraid that is as far as it goes.  The second book was about the rise and fall of the Comanches, the most powerful Indian tribe in American history.  The Comanches were artists at torturing people who were their enemies while Steve Jobs was somewhat of an artist at torturing friend and foe alike.  Steve Jobs figured out a way to tame and make computers friendly and useful to people almost to the point that they couldn’t live without them.  The Comanches figured out a way to tame the wild mustangs left behind by the Spanish Conquistadors and with them rule the South West.

Both books were very interesting and worth the time spent.  Steve Jobs was afraid to die, the Comanches not so much.  When a reporter asked Steve Jobs what kind of market research he did for his products Steve replied,  “Do you think Alexander Graham Bell did market research before he invented the telephone?”  Steve Jobs cried a lot.  I mean A LOT!  The Comanches expected to be tortured to death should they fail in battle so they always fought to the death.  Not a crybaby in a carload.

So, here I sit in my room full of oversexed dandelions, as usual, trying to make some kind of sense out of it all.  Failing of course because there is no sense to be made of this dog’s breakfast mix of so called facts and falderal we call existence.  The only game in town is “Connect-A-Dot”.  We are each, in our time and place, the only player.

Long after I have forgotten the things I learned about Steve Jobs I will remember how the Comanche broke wild horses.

They would lasso a horse around the neck and tighten and tighten the noose until the horse could be forced to the ground.  They would sit upon the terrified animal and restrict it’s ability to breathe until it, after much thrashing, would lose consciousness.  They would then undo the noose and the man who was to own the horse would begin to stroke its neck and blow air up its nose until it regained consciousness.  In a matter of minutes the animal could be mounted and rode away.

Could John the Baptist have been a Comanche?

According to Mitt Romney and his Mormon Church Jesus came to America after he was executed.  Who is to say Johnny didn’t come too?

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