Not Craig's List

If you have $1.3 billion in your pocket, join the club,

The Forbes 400.

Square-jawed speech not needed anymore. Just cash, not class.

The Albatross of Commuting

You have probably read of the extreme commutes that are commonplace for many; how millions are on the road by 5 a.m. and after 7 p.m.

It's hard for me to sympathize with these people.

At all.

Scaredy cats.

They want to live in their parochial, gated, seemingly safe and seemingly secure suburbs. They want to be vampires of our cities, sucking out what they can, only to run away at night, or to dabble back in the evening if there's enough safety in numbers, otherwise scared by the phantoms of fear.

The Culture of the Cul-de-Sac.

It's just a dead end, now, isn't it?

Prepositions

Prepositions or pre-positions? Either way, the choice of prepositions makes a world of difference when one speaks of the albatross of war or power or freedom or tyranny or terror or dreams.

A local Congressman, Rep. James Walsh, R-Onondaga, a former supporter of the war to and in and for and at Iraq, now calls for a change, saying,

"We've done enough. No country has done more than we have for Iraq. . . . I think we have given enough."

For?

For Iraq?

Does not an ocean of tears shed by Iraqis cry:

To !

To Iraq !

Pax vobiscum.

Line Item

Waiting in line can be a test of one's patience.

My patience, that is.

Impatience, though, can be its own albatross.

And sometimes the albatross surprisingly falls off the neck and into the sea.

Albatross of Addiction

I tend to be all or none. Addictive. Yesterday I bought a Take 5 New York State Lottery ticket, quick pick (QP), two games, each with two chances to win, two bucks. Then a QP for Wednesday's lotto. Then even another two Take 5 QPs. (Someone once told me Take 5 has the best odds, so . . . .) This morning, driving to work, not even having checked the numbers, I'm thinking and saying to myself but not out loud while driving, "This is usually a bad sign for me. I'm no philosopher, but Pawlie, you are literally attempting to buy happiness. To purchase it. Cheaply. You literally believe that your happiness can be purchased, for, what, four dollars? Five? Five million? Just ask Britney Spears. Or Paris Hilton. Or Donald Trump. Or Leona Helmsley's dog [I just threw that last one as a bone to my readers, hahahahahahahaha]." It wasn't until evening I checked the tickets. Whew. No dice. Losers, all. In case you are wondering, my numbers for tonight are: 05, 19, 20, 28, 39 and 01, 30, 32, 33, 38. "A dollar and a dream," as the slogan of the New York State Lottery goes. A dollar and an albatross dream.

Feathered Fetishes

I guess materialistic dreams aren't the only things that can weigh you down like Samuel Taylor Coleridge's albatross around your neck.

I find even sex can be an albatross.

(Well, instead of "even sex," make that "odd sex." Hahahaha)

Especially with feathered flying creatures.

(A bit of humour, that.)

Mayday! Mayday! Labor Day!

Labor Day. Or in this case the day after.

Long forgotten amidst the barbecues and telethons and swimfests and political campaign kickoffs:

-- the eight-hour day (becoming long-forgotten again before our very cyber-eyes)

-- paid holidays

-- paid vacations

-- paid sick time

-- et cetera

-- you can add to the list

... all because of the blood, sweat, and tears of unions (before they were run by their own politically connected fat cats) and the workers who needed them.