You're probably missing out on something if you can't see "Friends Only" posts.
But then again, there's probably a reason for that also.
Comment to be judged.
URGENT - WEATHER MESSAGE"
NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE SAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA
1002 AM PST FRI DEC 24 2010
...LOCALLY WINDY CONDITIONS EXPECTED LATE TONIGHT INTO CHRISTMAS
.A SHARP COLD FRONT WILL MOVE TOWARDS THE CENTRAL CALIFORNIA
COAST ON CHRISTMAS DAY AND WILL RESULT IN WINDY CONDITIONS. THE
STRONGEST WINDS ARE EXPECTED ALONG THE IMMEDIATE COAST...THE
SALINAS VALLEY AND ALONG MOST OF THE MOUNTAINOUS AREAS EXCEPT FOR
SOUTHEAST MONTEREY AND SAN BENITO COUNTIES.
COASTAL NORTH BAY...INCLUDING POINT REYES NATIONAL SEASHORE-
NORTH BAY MOUNTAINS-SAN FRANCISCO PENINSULA COAST-
EAST BAY HILLS AND DIABLO RANGE-SANTA CRUZ MOUNTAINS-
SANTA LUCIA MOUNTAINS AND LOS PADRES NATIONAL FOREST-
NORTHERN SALINAS VALLEY...HOLLISTER VALLEY...AND CARMEL VALLEY-
NORTHERN MONTEREY BAY-SOUTHERN MONTEREY BAY AND BIG SUR COAST-
1002 AM PST FRI DEC 24 2010
...WIND ADVISORY NOW IN EFFECT FROM 7 AM TO 4 PM PST SATURDAY...
THE WIND ADVISORY IS NOW IN EFFECT FROM 7 AM TO 4 PM PST
* TIMING: SOUTHERLY WINDS ARE EXPECTED TO BEGIN TO INCREASE LATE
TONIGHT AND LAST INTO THE EVENING HOURS OF CHRISTMAS DAY.
* WINDS: SOUTHERLY WINDS OF 20 TO 30 MPH WITH OCCASIONAL GUSTS
TO 45 MPH IN SOME LOCATIONS.
* LOCATIONS INCLUDE: AREAS ALONG THE IMMEDIATE COAST...THE
NORTHERN SALINAS VALLEY AND ALONG AREAS OF HIGH TERRAIN.
* IMPACTS: HIGH PROFILE VEHICLES WILL BE MOST SUSCEPTIBLE TO THE
STRONG WINDS. ALSO...SMALL TREE BRANCHES AND UNSECURED LIGHT
ITEMS CAN BE BLOWN INTO ROADWAYS. ELECTRICAL POWER MAY BE
INTERRUPTED DUE TO DOWNED POWER LINES.
A WIND ADVISORY MEANS THAT WINDS OF 35 MPH ARE EXPECTED WITH
OCCASIONAL GUSTS TO 45 MPH. WINDS THIS STRONG CAN MAKE DRIVING
DIFFICULT...ESPECIALLY FOR HIGH PROFILE VEHICLES. USE EXTRA
"Coming To America
There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr. Ibis in his perfect copperplate handwriting.
That is the tale; the rest is detail.
There are accounts that, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply. Look - here is a good man, good by his own lights and the lights of his friends: he is faithful and true to his wife, he adores and lavishes attention on his little children, he cares about his country, he does his job punctiliously, as best he can. So, efficiently and good-naturedly, he exterminates Jews: he appreciates the music that plays in the background to pacify them; he advises the Jews not to forget their identification numbers as they go into the showers - many people, he tells them, forget their numbers and take the wrong clothes when they come out of the showers. Our man supervises the detail taking the bodies to the ovens; and if there is anything he feels bad about, it is that he still allows the gassing of vermin to affect him. Were he truly a good man, he knows, he would feel nothing but joy as the earth is cleansed of its pests.
There was a girl and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.
No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we are not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other's tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of stories. The shape does not change: there was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some other means, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes - as peas in a pod (and have you eve really looked at peas in a pod? I mean really looked at them? There's not a chance you'd mistake one for another, after a minute's close inspection) but still unique.
Without individuals we only see numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, "casualties may rise to a million." With individual stories, the statistics become people - but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child's swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And it if does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust behind him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lived who will soon be food for the flies' own myriad squirming children?
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearlike, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
A life that is, like any other, unlike any other.
And the simple truth is: There was a girl and her uncle sold her."
"One question that has always intrigued me is what happens to demonic beings when immigrants move from their homelands. Irish-Americans remember the faeries, Norwegian-Americans the nisser, Greek-Americans the vrykolakas, but only in relation to events remembered in the Old Country. When once I asked why such demons are not seen in America, my informants giggled confusedly and said, 'They're scared to pass the ocean, it's too far,' pointing out that Christ and the apostles never came to America."