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Canadian, eh = THE GOLDEN PHONE

I can testify to the veracity of this blog. I wrote the book.

On the River 2009+

FROM: Canadian, eh – Canada Day 2003;

AKA: Canadian, eh; God’s Country Only in Canada, you say; Proud Canadians; Ten Cents;

An American decided to write a book about famous churches around the world. For his first chapter he decided to write about American churches. So, he bought a plane ticket and took a trip to Orlando, thinking that he would work his way across the country from South to North.On his first day, he was taking photographs inside a church when he noticed golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read “$10,000 per call.” The American, being intrigued, asked a priest strolling by what the telephone was used for.

The priest replied that it was a direct line to Heaven and that for $10,000 one could talk to God.

The American thanked the priest and went along his way.

Next stop was in Atlanta. There, at…

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Kafka And Trump Walk Into A Bar

kafka-for-president

 

{I wrote this after Donald Trump was elected President of The United States of America.  He is still in place.

Today an article popped into my news stream entitled : “Trump Has Franz Kafka Spinning His Grave”. You can find it here: https://www.laprogressive.com/trump-has-franz-kafka-spinning/

So, in honour of Kafka (and I have visited his grave), I’ll play it again, Donnie.}

““““““““““`

~ Frank. Welcome to your world.

~ Thanks, DT. I’ve been living it all my life.

~ I’ve taken some pages out of your books, Frank.

~ I did try to get them burned.

~ You didn’t try too hard.

~ Well – no.

~ You know – neither did I.

~ I know. They all ran to your tune.

~ They did.

~ You were the Pied Piper of Havoc.

~ Worked like a charm, Frank.

~ Yes, DT – yes, it did.

~ They thought I was a bug.

~ Yes.

~ But I turned them into bugs.

~That you did, DT. And turned them against each other.

~ Yes.

~ And stood back, and watched.

~ Pretty well.

~ To the victor goes the spoils.

~ I was astounded – believe me.

~ And they keep making the same mistakes.

~ I know, Frank. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so funny.

~ The one-eyed man is King in the land of the Blind.

~ Yes, Frank – yes. But you know what?

~ What?

~ I’ve got great vision in both eyes.

Ricotta and Bittersweet Chocolate Crostata (Gotta say, this is a blend that sounds superb.)

This crostata will never disappoint, just imagine a thick layer of chocolate ganache on top of a creamy filling of fresh ricotta and cream.

Source: Ricotta and Bittersweet Chocolate Crostata

Minty Gin Rickey (As there happens to be a BIG bottle of gin at hand – and fresh limes.)

Similar to a mojito, this Minty Gin Rickey recipe is made with gin, lime juice and club soda in an iced highball glass with muddled mint.

Source: Minty Gin Rickey

Zolle Sott’Olio | Pickled Garlic Scapes in Oil : Garlic  scapes ~ the long, swirly green shoots and buds that grow above ground ~ are harvested in spring. This allows the garlic plant to focus its energy on the bulb. And it also provides garlic lovers with another edible treat. Garlic scapes have an appealing, mild flavor, and there are plenty of ways to enjoy them.

Source: Zolle Sott’Olio | Pickled Garlic Scapes in Oil

A long religious life.   Benedict XVI visits his ailing brother in Germany

One of the major characters in my first published novel, A Lost Tale, came from Regensburg. He was a member of this choir.

Pope emeritus Benedict XVI is making a private visit to Germany to see his ailing brother Msgr. Georg Ratzinger.

Source: Benedict XVI visits his ailing brother in Germany

Where I Deftly Cojoin Kafka And The “Ode To Billy Joe”

Not only is 03 June the day that Kafka died, but it is the day that Billy Joe jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge. So, how unfortunate is that?

https://youtube.com/watch?v=HaRacIzZSPoTo

Die As Kafka Did Is Not Easy https://daleestey.com/2020/06/03/to-die-as-kafka-did-is-not-easy/

To Die As Kafka Did Is Not Easy

Franz Kafka inches toward being dead for 100 years.He died on this day, 03 June, in 1924. he did not go gently into that good night, though he probably was just as happy to be gone. It was difficult to satisfy Kafka,

I wonder what Kafka would think about the worldwide communication and information of today. He was a rigid fixture of the staid (he hated using the telephone). He also was a keen observer of the world around him (he wrote the first newspaper report about aeroplanes, and he invented the safety helmet). It was more this deep divide in his personality which caused him his problems, about which he so famously wrote.

He did not fit into his personal world, yet he fit into the real world perfectly. He was adored by his friends and by many ladies. He was respected at his work and rose to a position of power. His stories were published to acclaim in his lifetime. 

Kafka lived a Kafkaesque life. He died a Kafkaesque death (he caught tuberculosis because he drank “pure” unpasteurised cow’s milk). He was rigid in his personal beliefs (until proved wrong), yet he was a beacon of compassion to others.

Kafka was always on a tightrope. He looked at things with such accuracy that his comments can seem bizarre. Supposedly his last words were:  “Kill me, or you are a murderer.” They were to  his doctor, as Kafka beseeches for an overdose of morphine.

I have written much about Kafka. I will share but two.

This is the diary entry I had him write in my fictional novel “Kafka In The Castle”:

03 July 1917

The anniversary of my birth. In honour of the day, I do not make it my last.

And this is a short story.

      The old Rabbi moved slightly on his bed, and the young man raced over.

     “Yes, Rebbe?”

     The old Rabbi opened his eyes, showing the cast of death which had almost consumed him. “Ka … ” he groaned.

    The young man had been told the dying Rabbi would never regain his senses, and he did not know what to do. He was scared, almost horrified, but he leaned closer.

     “What is it? What do you want?”

     The old Rabbi struggled for breath. “Ka … Kaf …”

     The young man gazed at the face, saw its pallid features and the clouded eyes. He touched a shrunken cheek, raised his voice to a shout. “What is it? What can I do?” He could hear wheezing, the struggle for air. He put his ear directly over the gaping mouth.

    “Ka … Ka …” One last ragged breath, a low hollow whisper. “Kafka died for your sins.”

(image) https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mj5aC-_baiQ/VU8ja5psBxI/AAAAAAAAWqY/y6gyF6mst2g/s1600/Kafka%2BGrave%2C%2BPrague%2BCU%2BDetail.jpg

The Commander – in – Chief

The Commander – in – Chief decided that it would be a grand day to become Admiral of the Fleet – Lord High Admiral if he chose the hat with cockade and plume.

Nodding jauntily in the air, the plume put on an impressive display, as he either agreed, or disapproved, with a toss, or a shake, of his head. The dancing ostrich feathers would add a dashing air as he boarded his flagship and, with just the right mixture of stringent authority and well- tempered geniality, moved in imperious sweeps among the ranks of ratings on the aft deck.

He would, of course, be extra careful about the pitfalls awaiting a man with ornate dress sword and scabbard, among the steep steps and narrow companionways.

*******

Wednesday was khaki day for the  Commander – in – Chief.

It was the day set aside to remind him of the loyalty he must always retain from his men, for what was a leader without his troops? And as a treat – for really, the dull brown did not make for a very striking appearance – the would chose the tank commander’s uniform.

With its wide web belt and shiny black holster on the hip, flap unsnapped to reveal the butt of a wicked forty-five. And of course the black leather gloves, as befits a man at the controls of so much power, and the steel helmet polished to a mirror-shine.

The riding crop? Ah, the riding crop was debatable.

*****

Today there would be a parade. Massed men at attention with stiffly held rifles and fixed bayonets.

The Commander – in – Chief would have to chose carefully to represent his awesome power and responsibility. Cavalry boots are a must, raising half-way up the calf and resounding with silver spurs, steel-tipped toes and heels.

Then would come crisp black trousers, billowing majestically around the thighs, and kept up with a wide leather belt. He took care that each red stripe reaching the length of each leg was as straight as an arrow.

His blue tunic, he decided, would have only muted decorations and the minimum of gold braid entwined about his shoulders. He was – after all – a fighting general.
A civic reception is the time when the Commander – in – Chief would be on close display.

He believes he is at his most effective  when draped completely in white, save – of course – for his highly polished black dress shoes (and, in truth, he favoured white even here, but feared such footwear was a trifle effeminate). White is striking by itself, but well he knew it made the perfect background for his medals and decorations.

He has trouble deciding upon which color sash to wear across his chest, but finally chooses the emerald green – the reception is in the public gardens. He dons his silver-visored cap, and graces his bosom with the blue Clustered Palm of Valour; the diamond centred Star of Courage; the gold Pyramid of the Oaken Grove; and seven rows of bars and campaign medals.

 There are no visiting Heads of State, so he need not be too brilliant.

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