He's doing as well as can be expected with four incisions in his side.
He's in pain (expected) and really tired (also expected).
He ate a big ol' Belgian waffle before he went to sleep.
He thanks you for your thoughts, wishes and love. And so do I, his faithful correspondent.
ETA: Brownies are still appreciated
Spam, fraud: "vmelasr" running Ponzi scheme on LJ, "friending" people randomly
"vmlasr" (http://vmelasr.livejournal.com/) has
1. Made me his/her "friend" for the second time. I don't know "vmelasr", and neither do the five or so of my *real* friends that this person(?) lists as "friends".
2. Has, on three occasions to date, placed ads on "his" (for brevity's sake) Journal, attempting to recruit "home workers". This is not only a violation of LJ's "no doing business" rule, it is a fraudulent pyramid or "Ponzi" scheme (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponzi_scheme). The dates of the "ads" are:
February 4th, 2009, 05:24 pm
February 6th, 2009, 06:03 pm (A blatant display ad which lays out the details of this Ponzi scheme)
February 10th, 2009,03:36 pm
The rest of the LJ's content is what appears to be a rambling short story about a very disturbed person.
I don't want "vmelasr" bothering me anymore, and as I understand such things, "vmelasr" is using LiveJournal in a way that breaks the law, via said pyramid scheme.
Please investigate and take appropriate action; I don't need "vmelasr", and neither do you good folk at LiveJournal.
BTW, how do I get "vmelasr" off of my "friend of" list?
Kathy, Andy and I just finished our annual Christmas Eve viewing of It's a Wonderful Life. I set a new record, starting to get teary-eyed during the first scene. It's one of my two favorite films, the other being Seven Samurai (go figure).
At the end of the movie, George Bailey, the lead character, receives a copy of Tom Sawyer from his guardian angel, Clarence Oddbody. Clarence has written an inscription, which reads, in part,
No man is a failure who has friends.
I am more successful than I ever dreamed I'd be. Thank you all for this gift beyond price. I celebrate your existence every day of the year.
Patsy Cline, taking my favorite Bob Wills & The Texas Playboys tune around the block.
My only regret in this historic week has been that Mom and Dad, and my other relatives of their generation aren't around to experience it. Lou Berlien and Roberta Conkell were both adults during the Depression, and I was raised with stories of their heroes, Abe Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt.
They had no truck with totalitarianism, Fascists or Commies. During WWII they both worked in defense plants. Mom wasn't Rosie the Riveter -- she was Bert the Welder, and it convinced her that she was as good as any man. Dad's brother Bob took a bullet in the shoulder at Anzio, and years later went to his grave with the German slug in his arm, because doctors scared him worse than Nazis.
Mom and Dad were both union stewards, and when I was a baby they took turns carrying me on the picket line when their local went on strike. The blood of Organized Labor runs in my veins -- around the turn of the (twentieth) century, my Grandpa Berlien organized with his fellow coal miners in southern Indiana to strike for an eight-hour, six-day work week. They got shot at by the goons the mine owners hired for their efforts (and won the better working conditions). Grandpa Conkell? A life-long railroad man, and yup, a Union Man too. He worked on the Grand Trunk/Canadian National line through Michigan to Toronto. Mom was born in Canada, and became a U.S. citizen as a child, when Grandpa moved the family to Battle Creek, Michigan.
Dad was a coal miner as a young man, too, until he scraped up some dough, went to college to get his teacher's certificate, and taught in a one-room school. Hard times hit, so he moved to Battle Creek, where there was work in the factories. He saved enough money to bring his father, mother, and kid brother out of the poverty of the failing coal mines.
Neither he nor Mom could stand or understand bigotry of any kind. He told me that we're all the same kind of critter, and that every coal miner was black when he walked out of the shaft at the end of his shift. Mom believed that God had built a big, beautiful garden, and that if all the flowers were the same color He'd be bored. When we lived for a year in a very segregated Florida in 1959, she made a point of entering stores through the "coloreds'" door. She had to explain to me that the drinking fountains that stood only about three feet from the floor weren't put there out of kindness to kids, but that they were there because the "coloreds" couldn't drink from the adult-height, refrigerated, "whites only" fountains. She was so ashamed at this that, from then on, we both drank from the same fountain, and she had to get on her knees to do it. It would have been one of the highest points of my parents' lives if they could have seen a black person living in the White House.
And their son Bob? He grew up to marry a Canadian Union Maid (who's getting her American citizenship), be a Union Organizer, and vote for the first President who wasn't a white guy. And it's all their fault. Y'see, Bob wanted to follow in the footsteps of his heroes.