tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34827630087858959422024-03-13T09:43:17.545-04:00What's the Diehl?The irreverent musings of a sardonic wisenheimer who’s prone to fits of hopefulness and hypersensitivity. PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.comBlogger1873125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-22425536088317374052023-05-03T17:43:00.002-04:002023-05-03T17:43:55.253-04:00Real Sea Horse<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjVBprPIER7hMCohDP77jeiRZ9AEH_-j9sFk6_bwW35sP-wE_1N8xwN6IvXVpsfeLah0kwviDI93QQsvCUXXp-SLBnQwzATxkXcIqLYNm253joyCXBeQZQATN-3l2iBc0ZyBXwf8s_FnxEWREQYYIqkruNsvG91RiaNSodjYxx0rsybv6j_u_P8kPyA/s1406/f9w8wsx8hqva1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1406" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjVBprPIER7hMCohDP77jeiRZ9AEH_-j9sFk6_bwW35sP-wE_1N8xwN6IvXVpsfeLah0kwviDI93QQsvCUXXp-SLBnQwzATxkXcIqLYNm253joyCXBeQZQATN-3l2iBc0ZyBXwf8s_FnxEWREQYYIqkruNsvG91RiaNSodjYxx0rsybv6j_u_P8kPyA/w256-h320/f9w8wsx8hqva1.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p></p>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-7910856765962648142023-05-03T17:42:00.003-04:002023-05-03T17:42:29.622-04:00Erykah Badu - On and On<p><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-CPCs7vVz6s" width="320" youtube-src-id="-CPCs7vVz6s"></iframe></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-67805110182184453862023-05-03T17:37:00.000-04:002023-05-03T17:37:35.764-04:00What About My Books?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC86dXOkt-DheAUlXxXOFbsWcpGNU4mG0_gjpa7u__ITtSXulVgvmTLxuF2urnP87rFKWsEIdp4uf3ZPROZhbwrO8YfrZqNelw9zEh-9TtHoxVZhdxG2e85aoFsbKUu_-5Skm9UnCkU-hXbRKi1xHDyypuw4B0uK-DWJx4FwsQPixuwZC1IgejnNICw/s4000/20230503_162900.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC86dXOkt-DheAUlXxXOFbsWcpGNU4mG0_gjpa7u__ITtSXulVgvmTLxuF2urnP87rFKWsEIdp4uf3ZPROZhbwrO8YfrZqNelw9zEh-9TtHoxVZhdxG2e85aoFsbKUu_-5Skm9UnCkU-hXbRKi1xHDyypuw4B0uK-DWJx4FwsQPixuwZC1IgejnNICw/s320/20230503_162900.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Who will take care of all my books?<div><br /></div><div>What will happen to the framed photo of POTUS and me or the baseball cap Anita bought me at Tahquamenon Falls a few years before she dumped me or the skinny shot glass Dave Dempsey snagged from the airport gift shop on his way home from Ottawa?</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfOjEl42MfBpJAOHk9B0qrbJXL2wgN61-NvOEiDjrRwYSY8tO3bnoEdm-ibbS5jV2TQ51DKaMGMNGEKS9A0dpUHIYF6ysax2ySJ8qmPPrvboVI-i6h2Brw3VPF_TH2aohpNFAA6qPIMCxAR2y03Lnt5mUxpYdB5SqL_h79tTpFhRY-84t0NDnoehJuw/s4000/20230503_171025.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDfOjEl42MfBpJAOHk9B0qrbJXL2wgN61-NvOEiDjrRwYSY8tO3bnoEdm-ibbS5jV2TQ51DKaMGMNGEKS9A0dpUHIYF6ysax2ySJ8qmPPrvboVI-i6h2Brw3VPF_TH2aohpNFAA6qPIMCxAR2y03Lnt5mUxpYdB5SqL_h79tTpFhRY-84t0NDnoehJuw/w200-h150/20230503_171025.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />What about my shirts and sweaters and shoes? What about the silverware and CDs and pens and power cords that have birthed babies over the years or the bed that Amy and Gary Kohlhepp said I could keep if I moved out of their basement?</div><div><br /></div><div>What about the toolbox I picked up and stocked years ago and haven’t yet used? What about the machete purchased online from Brasil to protect me from home invaders, or the 9mm handgun that replaced it when I realized I don’t want to get close? What will happen to the thank you cards saved as proof that sometimes I’m nice or the laptop I’m writing this on (my parents’ last gift to me)? </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Seems wrong for all this to be landfilled once I’m done.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t have children. Anymore. Few friends and loved ones to speak of – dead mom and dad, a sibling 3,000 miles away who I’ve disappointed by being me, and lots of exes – so the task of sorting through my shit when I’m gone is up for grabs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose I can contact Habitat for Humanity or a library or shelter or church. No promises though. (I’ve learned they’re meaningless.) I’m okay with the idea that I won’t be remembered but my stuff deserves a better fate.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve got some good books.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fAYpylP8mW0wJ-NG_5QvXYz-_yn359K52811L7R1fwcOoK_cnKsdoRG98aU09gpyRzMbNCQ52KJT0zUua9DNjgR_cC6W7rI6eZXAiKSYuOkQ6ZkN54QcjpIbpPRsTGtVDeg7-WCWgsjIdzLJuxvYhSk35Y4sl9YZWKm-QyJAfQR5L58D8zf2ydVv_g/s1000/machete.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="1000" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fAYpylP8mW0wJ-NG_5QvXYz-_yn359K52811L7R1fwcOoK_cnKsdoRG98aU09gpyRzMbNCQ52KJT0zUua9DNjgR_cC6W7rI6eZXAiKSYuOkQ6ZkN54QcjpIbpPRsTGtVDeg7-WCWgsjIdzLJuxvYhSk35Y4sl9YZWKm-QyJAfQR5L58D8zf2ydVv_g/w200-h183/machete.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-26678308377419967052020-12-31T11:40:00.000-05:002020-12-31T11:40:20.863-05:00Connected<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZfT3_2Y8BK7R8Qg3Ih-Vgn8jSDsxzIxWrmNiFKZRsMVfQpdN6m2br6XqLOOu82vejQHrulC21_IQhi95BHr8fMwJwde2CG_UHbe84t-f1GVW6AuNvrHYyW9XsLTsWwxOiuhS1AtOfBuc/s800/godad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZfT3_2Y8BK7R8Qg3Ih-Vgn8jSDsxzIxWrmNiFKZRsMVfQpdN6m2br6XqLOOu82vejQHrulC21_IQhi95BHr8fMwJwde2CG_UHbe84t-f1GVW6AuNvrHYyW9XsLTsWwxOiuhS1AtOfBuc/s320/godad.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-78549553452276922232020-12-31T11:31:00.002-05:002020-12-31T11:31:44.201-05:00Alfie - Sarah Vaughan<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Beu6TegST2w" width="560"></iframe></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-59225430876751529562020-12-31T11:23:00.002-05:002021-01-04T16:16:10.310-05:00Goodbye, Jack<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpgmm26vuYf0D5P4zqiGMZCQEjc7NTkT4j2AkKKDMpofGjiVUZjJoWb6CbcV2AXlu6xrAXsBwt8Pn1xhKuFV7lg35aaolG506Rq3jaY2lX_knIAjbQvhfdHpAMPy9bS4REZamWHyx1AJj/s2048/jack2.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1635" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHpgmm26vuYf0D5P4zqiGMZCQEjc7NTkT4j2AkKKDMpofGjiVUZjJoWb6CbcV2AXlu6xrAXsBwt8Pn1xhKuFV7lg35aaolG506Rq3jaY2lX_knIAjbQvhfdHpAMPy9bS4REZamWHyx1AJj/s320/jack2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>What happens to one’s wisdom and experiences when one dies?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know we touch and teach people and leave marks of various
degrees and help shape others and live on in the hearts of our families and all
that, but when someone lives a long time, that person accumulates a great deal
of knowledge. Unless he or she writes a book or becomes famous, is that all wasted,
just lost, when the person leaves?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I ask because my 83-year-old dad died on Christmas – 72 days
after my 80-year-old mom died alone in a regional hospital in Spalding County,
Georgia, gasping for air – and I’m afraid. All the people he knew and music he
liked and lessons he learned and experiences he had and achievements he amassed
and wisdom he gained from eight decades of life – are they just lost with him?
He didn’t write any books or give any TED Talks; he touched many people but
memories fade and life goes on and I just feel right now like the list of reasons
why this was such an indescribable loss not just to me and his other loved ones
but to the universe is immeasurably long.<o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLafIvY2unwK-gxoUQ7fOr0epSKcSN5z9QYw66VlQr-BBSxlIV-DJrwdSQaxSG29DAcTK9JaTgccblJVxd3MwG8MppQ7ILt4ezlFeWRplF836E5lL_DVjUJCACu6AOl_NVR3_2DHcY7DLT/s683/jack5.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="683" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLafIvY2unwK-gxoUQ7fOr0epSKcSN5z9QYw66VlQr-BBSxlIV-DJrwdSQaxSG29DAcTK9JaTgccblJVxd3MwG8MppQ7ILt4ezlFeWRplF836E5lL_DVjUJCACu6AOl_NVR3_2DHcY7DLT/s200/jack5.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Yes, he left the world a better place. Yes, he loved and was
loved, and he was smart and compassionate and strong and interesting and
charming and patient and talented and generous. He was multi-faceted and caring
and unselfish and genuine and wonderful. He taught me so much about so much. But
who’s gonna know this when there’s no Wikipedia page, no statue in a park, no offspring
to keep his memory alive ‘cause we’ll be gone at some point too? Who’s going to
be aware of all that Jack Diehl knew and saw and learned and was? Blog posts
and framed photos don’t convey this. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Everyone dies, I know. And so many people have been lost to Covid.
It’s overwhelming, though, to everyone left behind. Because not only do we suffer
the immediate, up-close loss of our loved ones – their empty chairs at our dinner
tables, their laughs no longer filling our rooms – but collectively we suffer
the loss of all that each of them was, all they knew and offered and
represented in the bigger scheme of things.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t even know if what I’m writing makes any sense. But it
doesn’t make sense to me how someone can live for decades – learning and loving
and being and giving – and then just leave one day for good. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are no buildings with Jack’s name on them, no charitable
foundations dedicated to preserving his memory. But he deserved this and so
much more. I’m sad that someday no one will know this.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’m devastated by how much we’ve lost.<o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVmlLcdZthQLra-RfV6sOwVcGiDSyACfETRJt44BQ2Ttmi5Hd4nm-WaxCPX-e2ZjX5Z2RcT4yRNuE9X3jcp5Aom3JsSbHm4mry72AvIUCA7fe5dR6IYNTO7CLHx0dP2sdYbzSITq5JL-t/s895/jack4.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="895" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVmlLcdZthQLra-RfV6sOwVcGiDSyACfETRJt44BQ2Ttmi5Hd4nm-WaxCPX-e2ZjX5Z2RcT4yRNuE9X3jcp5Aom3JsSbHm4mry72AvIUCA7fe5dR6IYNTO7CLHx0dP2sdYbzSITq5JL-t/s320/jack4.png" width="320" /></a></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-16789957609799158692020-10-15T13:44:00.001-04:002020-10-15T13:44:44.594-04:00Untitled<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5TqDAxEgwvgiqQCimrZxQ0s_W9c13N3NmYO-a0gxUdkGXAaa77sxgT2aJ72eXxICvtc3x7CmZpx9tD2vuQB5szH0xPSpX8cI0zdg1nF_Ff90tHCZyjkO-pdW7jtX3BxuMY4jyWK7vdnd/s960/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="879" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5TqDAxEgwvgiqQCimrZxQ0s_W9c13N3NmYO-a0gxUdkGXAaa77sxgT2aJ72eXxICvtc3x7CmZpx9tD2vuQB5szH0xPSpX8cI0zdg1nF_Ff90tHCZyjkO-pdW7jtX3BxuMY4jyWK7vdnd/w293-h320/tree.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-78596048249970398742020-10-15T13:36:00.000-04:002020-10-15T13:36:14.418-04:00Hurt - Johnny Cash<p style="text-align: center;"> <iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8AHCfZTRGiI" width="320" youtube-src-id="8AHCfZTRGiI"></iframe></p><br />PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-60089098595975972422020-10-15T13:32:00.002-04:002020-10-15T13:58:13.975-04:00Rest in Peace, Mom<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s6H2YL312OcYum_Kiwo_-jgdqU60z697Cf99G_ivqQdJKS8F7SDgDywZJfH2EGrQd-0gRgms_PivCgtVllA5CLX_D1ebRS937jsZdcEsp0DxoLmqK9Lw7sAF36v_et_9EmPoF61EaUYy/s765/20180408_035434.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="418" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s6H2YL312OcYum_Kiwo_-jgdqU60z697Cf99G_ivqQdJKS8F7SDgDywZJfH2EGrQd-0gRgms_PivCgtVllA5CLX_D1ebRS937jsZdcEsp0DxoLmqK9Lw7sAF36v_et_9EmPoF61EaUYy/s320/20180408_035434.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2><span style="font-family: times;">Kay Diehl<br />1940 - 2020</span></h2></td></tr></tbody></table><div>My mom had a great sense of humor. She was really smart
and good with words. (She was an English teacher and a paralegal.) She loved
music, golf, photography, and playing cards and board games with family and
friends. I inherited my love for reading and writing and my interest in politics
from her. She made me feel loved and important and likable. She wasn’t a perfect
mom, I suppose, but she was close enough for me. She made the
tastiest sandwiches, that’s for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufyigWrb2tnlNWjFKvrhXR2cTmyOL5RurKYj-pgv8bTklz9FLAl6JXEdDoByql-3V7kdposo8lmW3kDsZaDZWUpqGfBnXmA4JLMZFLOUuBe4v4kVhDFJL1ol0en4JiRodfofY6YoYbj9c/s1041/three.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1041" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufyigWrb2tnlNWjFKvrhXR2cTmyOL5RurKYj-pgv8bTklz9FLAl6JXEdDoByql-3V7kdposo8lmW3kDsZaDZWUpqGfBnXmA4JLMZFLOUuBe4v4kVhDFJL1ol0en4JiRodfofY6YoYbj9c/w200-h153/three.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I wasn’t a great son. I didn’t call or visit as much as I should have. I always thought I’d fix that: I just needed to
get that new job or save up a little more money or get over this hump or that
one. When I had a partner and kids, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was
single, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was depressed, I just couldn’t get
away. She understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope she knew
because I can’t tell her anymore. She died last night. Alone, struggling to
breathe, in a hospital in Georgia.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last time I saw her was in early 2018,
just before breaking up with Anita. We took the kids and visited Anita’s sister
in Georgia before heading to my parents’ place. I didn’t give my mom the time
and attention that she deserved during the visit, though, because Anita and I
were fighting and the kids wanted this or that and I just assumed my mom would
understand. I just assumed she knew I loved her. It didn’t occur to me that I
would never see her again.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglh35i39e0Se4zRWyPwtoWAst8X_VauLQFl3Jvvbn780C4dJbDkg-BucwrOetRSvpvJ8Nhzxk_nk13ngMjA6RysXQjUAcSfNHoiy-zV5CYNpnKH6MaXoPN_DalnYfqXt7F-hEqOuCYO-yv/s1477/FB_IMG_1553100768563.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1477" data-original-width="940" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglh35i39e0Se4zRWyPwtoWAst8X_VauLQFl3Jvvbn780C4dJbDkg-BucwrOetRSvpvJ8Nhzxk_nk13ngMjA6RysXQjUAcSfNHoiy-zV5CYNpnKH6MaXoPN_DalnYfqXt7F-hEqOuCYO-yv/w127-h200/FB_IMG_1553100768563.jpg" width="127" /></a></div>My memory’s not great but I remember my mom taking
time off from work to chaperone a field trip when I was in grade school – and
not saying anything when only one kid chose to ride with us. I remember her
taking my little sister and me to Cedar Point and Camp Dearborn, to malls and
movies and concerts and carnivals. I remember her coming home from work and
making us dinner every night. She taught me to be good to others regardless of
what they look like. She taught me to do my best but was there for me when I
didn’t. She made me laugh when I was crying. She threw birthday parties and
encouraged me to do my homework, keep my room clean, go outside and play on
sunny days and all the other things that loving moms ask of their children.</div><div><br /></div><div>She
didn’t ask for much for herself, of course. I remember her asking for Chanel No.
5 perfume for Christmas one year. I can’t remember if she ever requested
anything else. I do remember all the birthdays and Christmases and Mother’s Days
when I didn’t give her anything, not even a card, because money was tight. She
understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew she was getting older.
She was overweight and just underwent hip replacement surgery so I knew I didn’t
have forever to become a better son. I knew the clock was ticking but I was just
so depressed and self-absorbed that I told myself occasional phone calls and
Facebook exchanges would do for now. Then a week ago my sisters called with the
news that both of our parents had tested positive for COVID-19. My dad is in
better shape so he was released from the hospital but my mom was not. I spoke
with my sister Jennifer regularly and heard about Mom’s rapid, distressing
decline.</div><div><br /></div><div>I talked with my sweet, good, loving, wonderful mother twice on the
phone as she struggled to breathe in the hospital. The first call was okay. The
second – and last – was awful but I was able to tell her that I love her. She
couldn’t say, “I know.”
</div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-16817172150719577492020-05-29T11:01:00.002-04:002020-05-29T11:01:14.270-04:00Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Iay2EJnrVDs8XEylLhgAOtTNbT0VW3LWkWMypuHQ4cAPXiFDQXswQlWn6tE19Hjk7yLWkEyf8Jqy62hU6Vm7eb8a0mfgOpjcovKpaGf9MxHm1C2rV-PnZ7O5aYgL7XBgKvWD8BQBeLnO/s1600/dpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Iay2EJnrVDs8XEylLhgAOtTNbT0VW3LWkWMypuHQ4cAPXiFDQXswQlWn6tE19Hjk7yLWkEyf8Jqy62hU6Vm7eb8a0mfgOpjcovKpaGf9MxHm1C2rV-PnZ7O5aYgL7XBgKvWD8BQBeLnO/s320/dpic.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-77397556103178825682020-05-29T10:59:00.000-04:002020-05-29T10:59:06.237-04:00Someday We'll Linger in the Sun - Gaelynn Lea<div style="text-align: center;">
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-59779062558894877072020-05-29T10:52:00.002-04:002020-05-29T11:33:40.892-04:00Everybody Needs a Sparkly Patrick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDjSyVkfGNOoTfBHOXTMNxlRXARWf7eHRfF2NaoJMgHG9jIu7OTGa0LVWDvQQRxOvEP76VEYjSOy40bJAO5eWIlXQan179lKhxRyciwsQh1YLuSqn2FH2QFpbWV58_daX_O0UjQqezOTc/s1600/FB_IMG_1590333425909.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDjSyVkfGNOoTfBHOXTMNxlRXARWf7eHRfF2NaoJMgHG9jIu7OTGa0LVWDvQQRxOvEP76VEYjSOy40bJAO5eWIlXQan179lKhxRyciwsQh1YLuSqn2FH2QFpbWV58_daX_O0UjQqezOTc/s320/FB_IMG_1590333425909.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
I received a package from my Facebook pal Patrick that I have to tell you about.<br />
<br />
I met Patrick several years ago online. We were writing for the same website and became Facebook friends. Although I know very little about the guy – I probably knew more but my memory sucks – he’s one of my most colorful and compelling contacts in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg. His posts about politics, current events, entertainment and sex are witty, thought-provoking and fun. He’s an Occupy Wall Street/Don’t Taze Me Bro kind of guy, someone who reads Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Saul Alinsky and Malcolm X and also digs Dolly Parton, the Bee Gees and watching Leave It to Beaver while stoned. He marches for what he believes in and is pro-cannabis, anti-war and ready for the revolution.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1ByfDxcXKcFZ1WXcAn6AbhRETOXg12dkcYETSiBOHoUHG3RiZHFhxM6exrnZL0ZNDdSRRHVkSVbpMwKHoa7us7veCwXumdQ-DRDOK439PGrYJzbS5aXWw50QsfnfvhyrI5o3OEXZ9B28/s1600/patcornel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="447" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1ByfDxcXKcFZ1WXcAn6AbhRETOXg12dkcYETSiBOHoUHG3RiZHFhxM6exrnZL0ZNDdSRRHVkSVbpMwKHoa7us7veCwXumdQ-DRDOK439PGrYJzbS5aXWw50QsfnfvhyrI5o3OEXZ9B28/s200/patcornel.jpg" width="127" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patrick with Dr. Cornel West</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I know he’s from Jersey and lives in the Big Apple. I think he makes his living as a writer but I’m not sure. He could be a waiter or a dog walker or an Instagram influencer or an acupuncturist or all of the above. (Yes, he’s that smart.) I don’t know if he’s 25 or 35 but judging from his Facebook posts and my package, he’s youthful and energetic. He’s also unique and creative and confident, at least online. He’s very theatric and not the least bit afraid of cameras; I think of him as Sparkly Patrick, the campy dude with the boa and sunglasses at night. He’s opinionated too and I almost unfriended him once during a political disagreement but fortunately I came to my senses. What a mistake that would have been.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYOPVAvpoaRsRXLReDAtJg5aeiOi0xiF_-cLHI4VsIf3FxXP6MHSV7_dDu-oTgbYPqjZUfbFHFI8g7Vh3FhlMfHvhxvkBG8cNXE8YBVAIn2jsIKxuqdpNb13J70a70SR65FT7TZ6BaFOJ/s1600/20200529_084510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1432" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYOPVAvpoaRsRXLReDAtJg5aeiOi0xiF_-cLHI4VsIf3FxXP6MHSV7_dDu-oTgbYPqjZUfbFHFI8g7Vh3FhlMfHvhxvkBG8cNXE8YBVAIn2jsIKxuqdpNb13J70a70SR65FT7TZ6BaFOJ/s200/20200529_084510.jpg" width="179" /></a>So anyway, a few weeks ago Patrick posted something in Facebook about how we need brightness in this grim world “so send me your address and I’ll try to brighten your day” or something along those lines – my memory sucks, remember? – so I sent him a DM and we exchanged addresses. Sure enough, a colorful yellow box, bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a microwave oven, adorned with SpongeBob and pig stickers, arrived at my doorstep from New York City a few days ago. It was a gift on so many levels. <br />
<br />
The box included:<br />
<ul><li>Utensil packets from a fast food place</li>
<li>Hot Wheels Fun Park</li>
<li>A Pizzaboyzzz lapel pin</li>
<li>A birthday candle in the shape of the number 6</li>
<li>Assorted small plastic containers, one full of candies and Tums</li>
<li>Stickers</li>
<li>A LOVE refrigerator magnet</li>
<li>A New York Metro card</li>
<li>Fluffy ears headband</li>
<li>Assorted loose playing cards</li>
<li>Three condoms</li>
<li>A photo of the Empire State Building</li>
<li>Loose sheets of paper</li>
<li>Two packets of Yogi organic tea</li>
<li>Hand sanitizer</li>
<li>Knitting for Dummies book</li>
<li>More stickers</li>
<li>“I’m With the Band: Confessions of a Groupie” book by Pamela Des Barres</li>
<li>A small, battery-powered plastic candle flame</li>
<li>A short personal note from Patrick</li>
</ul><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WO9TOcgMbT_EO5qG-lQaB4TAYUZm72Yjhw8e9YEqmHwyoZDRhzB80MzTZSiV1WmjTHsnbbIlTu2H81_P8pyt8G7dmP9vr94sJYIQeIW_24YIeAKp4VF4eWLo-mSJB1ogzWKOE7nasHHW/s1600/20200529_103340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1022" data-original-width="1600" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WO9TOcgMbT_EO5qG-lQaB4TAYUZm72Yjhw8e9YEqmHwyoZDRhzB80MzTZSiV1WmjTHsnbbIlTu2H81_P8pyt8G7dmP9vr94sJYIQeIW_24YIeAKp4VF4eWLo-mSJB1ogzWKOE7nasHHW/s200/20200529_103340.jpg" width="200" /></a>How crazy and cool is this? Look at the items individually and then collectively. How wonderful that someone would do this for me? Sparkly Patrick put playful thought into selecting and gathering each item, boxed them up, and spent time and money to mail them to me here in Michigan just to make me smile. How lucky am I to know someone as silly, sensitive and special as this guy?<br />
<br />
It’s no secret that I’ve been depressed lately. In addition to the whole “people are refusing to wear masks during a global pandemic and increasing the likelihood that I’m gonna catch the virus” thing and my personal <strike>hell</strike> <strike>despair</strike> <strike>struggles</strike> challenges, there are racists murdering black men in the street. There’s the tragedy that is Trump and all this entails. There’s record unemployment and increased hunger, poverty and abuse. There’s devastating weather and climate calamities. And every day another scandal, crisis or accident, someone being mean to someone else, something bad happening that didn’t have to happen.<br />
<br />
If you’re woke, it’s hard to be light-hearted, to smile and laugh and feel like everything might be okay after all. But that’s just what Sparkly Patrick’s package did for me. Hope it did it for you too.<br />
<br />
What did the note say? None of your business. Get your own Sparkly Patrick. 😊<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNwgTmjBExgLkRoi0_6XkNUr2WWYBWKNRTthIN9j4U2bZVbKVu_-3LLaJwi8jIfwM_a81-_6bEvuXII6onlOa1NHh4kMbUEAJF-NoxN10e4ZHLWrq5WQWISlKm_kJusRFpo61l6yr8H9B/s1600/patarthur300.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="314" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNwgTmjBExgLkRoi0_6XkNUr2WWYBWKNRTthIN9j4U2bZVbKVu_-3LLaJwi8jIfwM_a81-_6bEvuXII6onlOa1NHh4kMbUEAJF-NoxN10e4ZHLWrq5WQWISlKm_kJusRFpo61l6yr8H9B/s320/patarthur300.png" width="320" /></a></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-87925851707938301162019-09-11T01:38:00.002-04:002019-09-11T01:38:22.411-04:00Untitled<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLDuOZjnPzCkqxYOqgd_k-xwXTlwTG_z7o38ZNvPHG8RBjB75LDA1iPUJbvUk0eYA4vd8wh3LR6kpv3XAf24fpc5vIuOUZ3XJ0SeNYm6N9EIrkxHImJA8oAv5BQR7NZ-8frBbbGpZ9xtO/s1600/FB_IMG_1565303389129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="773" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLDuOZjnPzCkqxYOqgd_k-xwXTlwTG_z7o38ZNvPHG8RBjB75LDA1iPUJbvUk0eYA4vd8wh3LR6kpv3XAf24fpc5vIuOUZ3XJ0SeNYm6N9EIrkxHImJA8oAv5BQR7NZ-8frBbbGpZ9xtO/s400/FB_IMG_1565303389129.jpg" width="322" /></a></div>
PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-8804392022440067762019-09-11T01:34:00.001-04:002019-09-11T01:34:30.457-04:00Ascension (Don't Ever Wonder) - Maxwell<div style="text-align: center;">
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-10474869544143960302019-09-11T01:29:00.000-04:002019-09-11T02:09:53.954-04:00Who Will Call Me Patches?<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWal9eMN3tSMdMLrXwupz9LjSarQyHawAFu-6VLc9TGF5tnHedZNTE-Un0QIBcYoBU3dHhA0ERyxj1PxMs9kxJmKx3WADSKcJUSvs3qeZryUemW2z9wxWtDmL_jIy6EFjJIVL3S2zg9SR/s1600/nancy+woodnew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="479" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWal9eMN3tSMdMLrXwupz9LjSarQyHawAFu-6VLc9TGF5tnHedZNTE-Un0QIBcYoBU3dHhA0ERyxj1PxMs9kxJmKx3WADSKcJUSvs3qeZryUemW2z9wxWtDmL_jIy6EFjJIVL3S2zg9SR/s320/nancy+woodnew.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>“It is not length of life, but depth of life.”</i></div>
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<i></i></div>
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<i>Ralph Waldo Emerson</i></div>
<br />
I met Nancy Wood from Rockford, Alabama through my good friend Josh Fielder. Nancy and I became Facebook friends in January of last year. I use “met” instead of “haven’t really met but feel like I know her thanks to Facebook” because it’s shorter.<br />
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She was born on February 23, 1974 and died last Saturday.<br />
<br />
I realized when I sat down to write this that I don’t know as much about Nancy as I thought. I don’t know if she had health issues – her death seemed sudden and certainly unexpected – or if she was allergic to anything. I don’t know what her favorite color was or if she knew how to drive a stick shift. I don’t know if she could sing or what her laugh sounded like. I don’t even know what she did for a living other than to make other people smile. <br />
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Her Facebook profile says she earned a bachelor’s degree from City College of New York – she was originally from Harlem – and she was also an Auburn alumna. I know she loved football and boxing – she said she also watched basketball because “hell, after a while it’s all ya got” – and that she could talk about sports better than some of her husband Phil’s friends. (She boasted that she and Phil “can ESPN together.”) I know her faith was important to her and the recent death of her dear friend Paula was devastating. But there’s a lot that I don’t know and now won’t. <br />
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We shared dance videos with each other. She posted animal clips, news articles and essays, memes and status updates about sports, friends, Trump, race, politics, current events, marriage and cooking for the man she loved. She was an active Facebook user. I’m glad for this. <br />
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Two days before she died, I posted about not having a home team along with this meme:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8ek93FnkC6ty03GfxA5ahdMapTkTyKfTpTa6e8G6ncy2wC3sTjsq0KHCRMz8hrv2AWQLvSvblHWXtolOLcy6MR-r0IbASuTQyR3WSDTVpA3ZFftnb6BewhSZc6DQUz7_AaNG-E6XbO-H/s1600/meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="720" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8ek93FnkC6ty03GfxA5ahdMapTkTyKfTpTa6e8G6ncy2wC3sTjsq0KHCRMz8hrv2AWQLvSvblHWXtolOLcy6MR-r0IbASuTQyR3WSDTVpA3ZFftnb6BewhSZc6DQUz7_AaNG-E6XbO-H/s320/meme.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Nancy was one of several who commented, gently scolding me (complete with “WTF?”), encouraging me to move to the South – she knew my aging parents live near Atlanta – and assuring me that she had my back.<br />
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I love the idea that a person I had never seen and knew relatively little about had my back. For some reason I felt like she meant it. <br />
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It’s funny how some deaths hit you harder than others. I would not have expected to feel such heartache at the loss of someone I knew only in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg. I feel for Phil and her family and closer friends. I’m so sad for them because if Nancy’s death hurts <i>me</i> this much, <i>they</i> must be in excruciating pain. I hope they take comfort in knowing what a mark she left and what a gift, a flower, a bright light, a treasure she was to people all over the place.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBYTfSHBvCFAvp86OyeWsXUrThVAy7JmsWExyNCf92bRBR-5B4B6EkL06oV6UKGiRyMdFCvA2lk5WJ3ymG7dzjJiF_es5Pw_QYsugqHnlRSnOs-WLJK6ReKnC4DPLoftBZY32I769CTlF/s1600/nancy6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBYTfSHBvCFAvp86OyeWsXUrThVAy7JmsWExyNCf92bRBR-5B4B6EkL06oV6UKGiRyMdFCvA2lk5WJ3ymG7dzjJiF_es5Pw_QYsugqHnlRSnOs-WLJK6ReKnC4DPLoftBZY32I769CTlF/s200/nancy6.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Nancy was smart and charming and confident and perceptive and funny as hell. She was the type of individual we need more of. You just <i>knew</i> she was special. You weren’t sure why you were lucky enough to cross paths with her but you were grateful for the happenstance and content to assume that there would be time. Time to hang out in real life and share and post and help and learn and laugh. We always think there’s more time. And then there isn’t.<br />
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Nancy gave me the nickname “Patches” – I don’t remember why – and it’s my favorite nickname ever. I remember how supportive she was when my personal life took a significant downward turn and I revealed my depression to her. At a time in my life when the going was tough, a witty woman with a big heart in Alabama reminded me that we’re all in this together. She was kind to me when I needed it. I will miss her.<br />
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One time Nancy told me she was starting to make me a grey scarf. (Again, I don’t remember why.) I think I’ll go shopping for a new grey scarf this winter so I can think of her every time I go outside.<br />
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Rest in peace and thank you, Nancy Wood.PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-70859983307546242412019-05-25T06:12:00.003-04:002019-05-25T06:12:34.087-04:00Buskers at Eastern Market<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">#DETROIT</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Courtesy Kerry C. Duggan</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-25733524343700298092019-05-25T06:05:00.002-04:002019-05-25T06:05:47.564-04:00It Runs Through Me - Tom Misch (featuring De La Soul)<div style="text-align: center;">
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-82496204104370030762019-05-25T05:58:00.001-04:002019-05-25T05:59:52.869-04:00So Bernie Wrote an Essay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zeofb3s6bjVYMA3w9TMIxyIgipGQQ-TRK5cL_dER4_CAKxDA8z66aW4cMfndPQtEAKLwushWVHT-_KplGLxOhdBSKp2hF_3_VtIEEMeF9uItbciXOjRRU1uZBTYrOQJxoPjGmGbCPdoC/s1600/FB_IMG_1552005063217+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Zeofb3s6bjVYMA3w9TMIxyIgipGQQ-TRK5cL_dER4_CAKxDA8z66aW4cMfndPQtEAKLwushWVHT-_KplGLxOhdBSKp2hF_3_VtIEEMeF9uItbciXOjRRU1uZBTYrOQJxoPjGmGbCPdoC/s200/FB_IMG_1552005063217+%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
My Facebook friends include ardent Bernie Sanders supporters as well as those who think his time has come and gone and he needs to sit down and shut up. One in particular – a local politician who constantly pronounces and pontificates and will fight you if your opinion differs – recently slammed Sanders by bringing up the yucky essay that the U.S. Senator from Vermont wrote back in 1972.<br />
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I guess it doesn’t matter that Sanders, the 2016 and 2020 presidential candidate who some think was shafted by Debbie Wasserman Schultz and the Democratic National Committee if not Hillary Clinton herself the last time around, supports the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_New_Deal">Green New Deal</a>, <a href="https://www.kff.org/interactive/compare-medicare-for-all-public-plan-proposals/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwrJ7nBRD5ARIsAATMxst5On8upG5xWCypHkPqzSBY6MujZhrbnTQKPOUTrP3wviaIo78eL90aAkMkEALw_wc">Medicare for All</a> and a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Living_wage">living wage</a>.<br />
<br />
Or that he wants to expand social security, legalize marijuana and end the resource-wasting “War on Drugs.” Or that he supports Roe v. Wade, wants to repeal the Patriot Act and supports same sex marriage.<br />
<br />
Supports net neutrality? Who cares? <br />
<br />
Believes climate change is real and we must address it? So what?<br />
<br />
Wants to reform student debt and provide free or affordable college to all? Whatever.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0k8LRGppqGRsraag5Gl6gPj27NmtsWS-gj3D0LJJ3HuYeUpC_uA_vWCheVOsiGjh1d3jgVT9qelSd2zwlSxsJCgzFwH5eDcWhXqR6ZpmIVTsfHgofiN4Y2oAXNmFiwLBlJiZrFkiVn7CF/s1600/FB_IMG_1555771459833+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="831" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0k8LRGppqGRsraag5Gl6gPj27NmtsWS-gj3D0LJJ3HuYeUpC_uA_vWCheVOsiGjh1d3jgVT9qelSd2zwlSxsJCgzFwH5eDcWhXqR6ZpmIVTsfHgofiN4Y2oAXNmFiwLBlJiZrFkiVn7CF/s200/FB_IMG_1555771459833+%25282%2529.jpg" width="173" /></a></div>What apparently matters is that the guy wrote a <a href="https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/bernie-sanders-essay/">one-page essay</a> almost 50 years ago – when a new house cost $28,000, a gallon of gas was 55 cents and five guys were arrested for burglarizing the offices of the Democratic National Committee in the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. – for an alternative publication that’s disconcerting. Even nauseating. This and the fact that he’s not really a Democrat (even though he’s caucused with the Democrats for years) are seemingly enough to disqualify him from the office that’s currently being defiled by an orange oaf with zero intellect who’s on tape and on record degrading women and encouraging disrespect and molestation.<br />
<br />
Given the anti-Sanders sentiment out there on the left as well as the right, I’m not sure he’s the Trump-annihilating candidate we need right now. What we don’t need, though, are lazy swipes and tabloid-level attacks at politicians who don’t strike our fancy. We don’t need more slime, more mud, more spurious accusations and prurient implications. If you’re going to oppose Bernie Sanders, let it be because you don’t care about campaign finance reform or disagree with the idea that we should only use the American military as a last resort. <br />
<br />
Let it be because you think he’s wrong to want to break up the big banks or because you resent that he organized and protested against segregated housing or was at the March on Washington back in 1963. Let it be because you don’t want to tax the rich and close corporate tax loopholes or you don’t support unions or you’re against affordable housing or lowering drug prices. <br />
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Don’t base your case on 14 paragraphs of crap that he wrote the same year that Richard Nixon visited China and Mark Spitz won seven gold medals in swimming, for Pete’s sake. You can do better than that. <br />
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Sources: Kaiser Family Foundation, The People History, pro-Sanders Facebook groups.PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-47137023001089006272019-05-08T14:21:00.001-04:002019-05-08T14:21:35.739-04:00Path<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGfv6YBji9g4UbFpQHyWz5HMue77Z1CCWLXrGiZ2x8zj3btcj4-0wg0iSF8WBVutJ9JwJxspm76bIZjoJaKwRv0Mj9DhzTXLTto0qr9ST6TeI0vtxji4wWjRDaLQyINPovqMutqM-co0j/s1600/20190308_142410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGfv6YBji9g4UbFpQHyWz5HMue77Z1CCWLXrGiZ2x8zj3btcj4-0wg0iSF8WBVutJ9JwJxspm76bIZjoJaKwRv0Mj9DhzTXLTto0qr9ST6TeI0vtxji4wWjRDaLQyINPovqMutqM-co0j/s320/20190308_142410.jpg" width="320" height="211" data-original-width="1078" data-original-height="710" /></a></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-81004057623792215102019-05-08T14:18:00.001-04:002019-05-08T14:18:10.576-04:00Take Me to the Alley - Gregory Porter<div style="text-align: center;">
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-60389108285212782442019-05-08T14:15:00.002-04:002019-05-08T14:15:48.976-04:00Here's a Blog Post<br />
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Depression is a motherfucker.<br />
<br />
It saps your drive, energy and will to live. It takes away your future and makes you feel hopeless and unmoored. You don’t know where you’re headed so you don’t know how or what to prepare and you’re too tired to prepare for anything or make plans or accept invitations or explore opportunities anyway. It’s a funk indeed.<br />
<br />
I’m depressed. I have it. Or I am it. Or I suffer from it or live with it or am learning to survive it. I’m not sure of the correct terminology. But as they say and sing, there’s a memory around every corner and with each memory comes heartache and pain. A lot of pain. <br />
<br />
In my case, I’m reeling from the changes that come with an unexpected breakup that wasn’t my choosing and took away my family, home and identity. I played a role – I helped bring about the end, albeit unintentionally – but still, I had no control of the outcome or the process. Nothing’s perfect and that included my relationship with my partner but the sudden removal of her and the kids from my life has been worse than I could have imagined. No one has cancer or has been murdered, I keep telling myself as if that will ease the pain, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t get out of bed. I don’t care if I eat. I don’t make plans or do anything, even things I need to do like update my resume or figure out my next step. It hurts to look at pictures and hear songs and take certain shortcuts and drive on certain roads. <br />
<br />
I’m clinging to the thought that this is temporary, that it’s a transitory phase just before something positive happens again. I’m distracting myself by playing Pool Practice and getting lost in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg (aka Facebook) on the new laptop that my parents and sister gave me for my birthday a few weeks ago. I hang out with friends occasionally but not often because that requires energy, teeth-brushing and smiling. I’m not young anymore as at other times in my life when sudden or major changes resulted in upheaval. This time it feels like there’s not a lot of time left for the next phase or incarnation or life event or however you describe what comes next to arrive and settle in.<br />
<br />
Add to this anxiety, loneliness, fear (no home or health care), regret, frustration and financial instability and sprinkle some news about the Orange Asshole and the divided states of America on top and you’ve got where I’m at right now. I know there are others having a bad or worse time but that doesn’t heal my wounds. The fact that I could have prevented some of this doesn’t stop me from feeling betrayed and hurt by the results.<br />
<br />
I’m not sure why I’m writing this. “What’s the Diehl?” needs fresh content, to be sure, and I haven’t been able to sit down and write about issues or politics or current events because when I come back from my crappy, low-wage job as a service worker, all I want to do is flop onto my bed and pull a blanket over my head. (Did I mention that I’m fortunate to have two fantastic friends who’ve enabled me to escape homelessness by living in their basement rent-free and indefinitely?) I resist doing anything that might lift me out of the place I’m in. No energy to walk upstairs and outside, let alone hit a gym. Yes, I desperately need a better, different job but I’ll get to that tomorrow. There are 20 things I need to do but I’ll get to them later. For now, here’s a blog post. <br />
<br />
Life is full of highs and lows, I know. I’ve had some remarkable experiences and come in contact with some really special people. I’ve seen breathtaking beauty. I’ve made babies laugh. I’ve eaten jumbo shrimp while sitting on Dolley Madison’s sofa in the White House as the President of the United States stood nearby. (Don’t worry, I was invited.) I’ve ziplined and danced and hugged and won shit. I’ve stroked purring cats on my lap and hiked through the woods and held hands with the love of my life. <br />
<br />
There have been bad times too, of course. I hope this is just one more of them and not the way things are going to be from now on because depression is a motherfucker. <br />
PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-42769087183506252872019-02-09T10:26:00.000-05:002019-02-09T10:26:08.174-05:00At the Carpet Museum of Iran<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpEAdhirbbewl2uWu0ZsbHdFiD62u_xzTJaYP5raEXmdzezlkxYGgEc2GtMiUkDFuNts8oxukPPBwSxcWwm97z0P58e98Pbr3MSkG28YPFKV81rDfKcMeGzmKLIsElhXVXb7NA4oG8_GF/s1600/avi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="1071" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpEAdhirbbewl2uWu0ZsbHdFiD62u_xzTJaYP5raEXmdzezlkxYGgEc2GtMiUkDFuNts8oxukPPBwSxcWwm97z0P58e98Pbr3MSkG28YPFKV81rDfKcMeGzmKLIsElhXVXb7NA4oG8_GF/s320/avi.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-32156690837808858022019-02-09T10:19:00.000-05:002019-02-09T10:19:02.351-05:00Radiohead's Paranoid Android - Portland Cello Project<br />
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PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-1242156291212004342019-02-09T10:15:00.000-05:002019-02-09T10:22:05.922-05:00So Long to the Dean of Twitter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5MbGVPvR_5Eda3fZZ6bv6brpD1ivDUtk1_sJ134X-BLr9iH4jT7f7YvP9boWbSTRUdlTMjV_4CWt9FXDKB-_2Wmxq_jl7w8n0eMx02IKbrFH2HNhdrGw-i-YuX1hGpsxGM8ClwnWWz8n/s1600/din2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="493" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5MbGVPvR_5Eda3fZZ6bv6brpD1ivDUtk1_sJ134X-BLr9iH4jT7f7YvP9boWbSTRUdlTMjV_4CWt9FXDKB-_2Wmxq_jl7w8n0eMx02IKbrFH2HNhdrGw-i-YuX1hGpsxGM8ClwnWWz8n/s320/din2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca D'Angelo/The Washington Post</td></tr>
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I can’t say I knew Congressman John Dingell. We were in the same room several times – at the Michigan Democratic Party’s annual Jefferson-Jackson dinners, at meetings and state conventions, at a Michigan League of Conservation Voters tribute at the Ark in Ann Arbor – and I’m Facebook friends with Debbie Dingell, who was married to John for 37 years and who’s represented the 12th District, John’s old district, in Congress since 2015, but I don’t recall being lucky enough to even shake hands with the complex, imposing, charming guy who served in Congress for decades and was known as the Dean of the U.S. House of Representative, the Dean of Michigan’s congressional delegation and the Dean of Twitter.<br />
<br />
Too bad. He died two days ago of prostate cancer. Now I’ll never get the chance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5yhMOo2dIdx07x30pWcR_oFNQbBDO32mJS1F-qJXn_qLoPS25cvZryUN9jsrgf6HXe6LDIOnsf4pbDsMJ3yhV1VYdA7y_cdWtuARk_MWi83y0ADXa0anWFhTfshCSuKdwl8sjC7IcTu0/s1600/din5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="612" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5yhMOo2dIdx07x30pWcR_oFNQbBDO32mJS1F-qJXn_qLoPS25cvZryUN9jsrgf6HXe6LDIOnsf4pbDsMJ3yhV1VYdA7y_cdWtuARk_MWi83y0ADXa0anWFhTfshCSuKdwl8sjC7IcTu0/s200/din5.JPG" width="200" /></a>Click <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2019/02/08/politics/john-dingell-best-tweets-trnd/index.html">here</a> to read “John Dingell kept his Twitter followers entertained until the end.”<br />
<br />
I used to hear his name a lot. I worked for an environmental organization that supported raising mandatory automobile fuel efficiency standards and the congressman, who had strong ties to the auto industry, was opposed to the idea. He wasn’t referenced angrily or with invectives; he was an opponent on this one issue who deserved respect. He actually voted pro-environment most of the time and was known and lauded for his commitment to public and environmental health.<br />
<br />
The many tributes and obituaries that will come out now that he’s gone will provide an in-depth look into Mr. Dingell’s life but even a cursory on-line search turns up interesting tidbits. The Congressman was anti-gun control and pro-NRA. He chaired the U.S. House Energy and Commerce Committee from 1981 to 1995 and from 2007 to 2009. He promoted national health insurance and health care reform long before others. He introduced legislation that created a Civil Rights Division in the Justice Department. He presided over the House when Medicare was passed in 1965. He went after corporate and government fraud. His nicknames were “Big John” and “The Truck” for his forceful nature and his hulking 6-foot, 3-inch frame. He was the longest-serving congressman in American history. He was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom back in 2014 when it still meant something to get a medal from the president.<br />
<br />
Click <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/john-dingell-longest-serving-member-of-congress-in-us-history-dies-at-92/2019/02/07/43be4bf0-2a48-11e9-b011-d8500644dc98_story.html?utm_term=.16e1409ac665">here</a> to read his obituary in the <i>Washington Post</i>.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the <i>Washington Post</i>, one of the most read pieces at its website right now is entitled, “John Dingell, My Last Words for America.” Here it is:<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>John D. Dingell, a Michigan Democrat who served in the U.S. House from 1955 to 2015, was the longest-serving member of Congress in American history. He dictated these reflections to his wife, Rep. Debbie Dingell (D-Mich.), at their home in Dearborn, on Feb. 7, the day he died.</i><br />
<i><br />
<br />
One of the advantages to knowing that your demise is imminent, and that reports of it will not be greatly exaggerated, is that you have a few moments to compose some parting thoughts.<br />
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In our modern political age, the presidential bully pulpit seems dedicated to sowing division and denigrating, often in the most irrelevant and infantile personal terms, the political opposition.<br />
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And much as I have found Twitter to be a useful means of expression, some occasions merit more than 280 characters.</i><br />
<i><br />
My personal and political character was formed in a different era that was kinder, if not necessarily gentler. We observed modicums of respect even as we fought, often bitterly and savagely, over issues that were literally life and death to a degree that — fortunately – we see much less of today.<br />
<br />
Think about it:<br />
<br />
Impoverishment of the elderly because of medical expenses was a common and often accepted occurrence. Opponents of the Medicare program that saved the elderly from that cruel fate called it “socialized medicine.” Remember that slander if there’s a sustained revival of silly red-baiting today.<br />
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Not five decades ago, much of the largest group of freshwater lakes on Earth — our own Great Lakes — were closed to swimming and fishing and other recreational pursuits because of chemical and bacteriological contamination from untreated industrial and wastewater disposal. Today, the Great Lakes are so hospitable to marine life that one of our biggest challenges is controlling the invasive species that have made them their new home.<br />
<br />
We regularly used and consumed foods, drugs, chemicals and other things (cigarettes) that were legal, promoted and actively harmful. Hazardous wastes were dumped on empty plots in the dead of night. There were few if any restrictions on industrial emissions. We had only the barest scientific knowledge of the long-term consequences of any of this.<br />
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And there was a great stain on America, in the form of our legacy of racial discrimination. There were good people of all colors who banded together, risking and even losing their lives to erase the legal and other barriers that held Americans down. In their time, they were often demonized and targeted, much like other vulnerable men and women today.<br />
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Please note: All of these challenges were addressed by Congress. Maybe not as fast as we wanted, or as perfectly as hoped. The work is certainly not finished. But we’ve made progress — and in every case, from the passage of Medicare through the passage of civil rights, we did it with the support of Democrats and Republicans who considered themselves first and foremost to be Americans.<br />
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I’m immensely proud, and eternally grateful, for having had the opportunity to play a part in all of these efforts during my service in Congress. And it’s simply not possible for me to adequately repay the love that my friends, neighbors and family have given me and shown me during my public service and retirement.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Debbie Dingell<br />
Courtesy Max Ortiz/AP</td></tr>
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<i>But I would be remiss in not acknowledging the forgiveness and sweetness of the woman who has essentially supported me for almost 40 years: my wife, Deborah. And it is a source of great satisfaction to know that she is among the largest group of women to have ever served in the Congress (as she busily recruits more).<br />
<br />
In my life and career, I have often heard it said that so-and-so has real power — as in, “the powerful Wile E. Coyote, chairman of the Capture the Road Runner Committee.”<br />
<br />
It’s an expression that has always grated on me. In democratic government, elected officials do not</i> have p<i>ower. They </i>hold <i>power — in trust for the people who elected them. If they misuse or abuse that public trust, it is quite properly revoked (the quicker the better).<br />
<br />
I never forgot the people who gave me the privilege of representing them. It was a lesson learned at home from my father and mother, and one I have tried to impart to the people I’ve served with and employed over the years.<br />
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As I prepare to leave this all behind, I now leave you in control of the greatest nation of mankind and pray God gives you the wisdom to understand the responsibility you hold in your hands.<br />
<br />
May God bless you all, and may God bless America.</i> <br />
<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, I’m starting to remember one time when Congressman Dingell did smile and wave directly in my direction. Rest in peace and thank you, sir.<br />
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Sources: CNN, <i>The Washington Post</i>, Twitter, Wikipedia.PDiehlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15777786793146135176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3482763008785895942.post-23970587579655542082018-12-10T18:17:00.002-05:002018-12-10T18:17:23.134-05:00Beautiful Old Family Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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