New Holland 7630 Manual Muscle

Posted on 29.01.2020

✍THE QUOTE“The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil.” —♢OUTDOOR LOVIN’The IDS this morning runs a, the first outdoor movie theater in the state.✍Built in 1955, it still stands at 7630 South Old State Road 37. The opened for the 2012 season this past weekend, drawing about 500 cars for a double bill of “The Hunger Games” and “Mission Impossible 4.”The Loved One and I plan to get out to the Starlite sometime this summer so we can make out in the car.♢PISTOL LOVIN’I’m trying not to jump on the Trayvon Martin bandwagon at this moment because, as a very, very prominent attorney in these parts reminded me the other day, we don’t know many of the facts yet.Trayvon Martin And George Zimmerman✍Highly emotionally charged incidents like this one draw the ranters and the ravers out of the deep woods. Like that despicable, “Act like a Thug Die like one!”Never mind the borderline illiteracy of the man’s wireless ejaculation, this officer of the law is saying if you walk around wearing what he considers to be the uniform of gangsters, you ought to have your life taken.The cop has been suspended without pay. If I’m the chief of police, I fire his emotionally unqualified ass forthwith.Anyway, the shooter. Let’s assume that’s true. Should we be able to pump lead into people whenever we find ourselves in a fight? Especially when we’ve been trailing them in the dark?See, these are the chickens that come home to roost when you’re a nation in love with guns.♢FRANKFURT LOVIN’The German city of Frankfurt has a new mayor.

The software is copyrighted and allrights are reserved. Therefore, Halfen GmbH cannot accept responsibility ifthe results reached with this software or CAD libraries containerrors. Any changes to the programs or sub-componentsrequire the prior consent of the author.While every care has been taken in the preparation of the software,errors in the program and the CAD libraries cannot be fullyexcluded. This calculation programs and CAD libraries are products of HalfenGmbH, Langenfeld, Germany.

New Holland 7630 Manual Muscle Cars
New Holland 7630 Manual Muscle Oil
New Holland 7630 Manual Muscle Cars

Peter Feldmann, a Social Democrat, takes over the fifth largest city in Germany on July 1st.Feldmann beat the Christian Democrat candidate with 57 percent of the vote.Man.Feldmann✍It’s ironic. I’d just watched the movie “” (originally “ Der Untergang“) the other day.

It’s a German production with English subtitles. You can get it on Netflix.The movie recounts the last 12 days of the Nazi regime and is set primarily in Hitler’s underground bunker. It’s as powerful a piece as you’re likely to see. Much of the story is based on the recollections of Hitler’s stenographer, Traudl Junge.The actual Junge opens the film by saying, essentially, How should I have known what those guys were doing? I was just a kid.Junge✍The movie’s coda carries a different tune. I won’t spoil it for you by telegraphing it here.Anyway, Hitler’s surviving boys always said Yeah, we screwed up but at least we did something about those pesky Jews.In the movie, Hitler doesn’t allow the possibility that he screwed up but he seems most proud of the fact that he stood tall against the Jews.Bruno Ganz As Adolf Hitler✍A few people who were forced onto cattle cars and shipped off to concentration camps are still alive to this day.

Most of them wore the mandated Star of David.It’s been only 75 years since the end of the Holocaust. And, yeah, anti-Semitism now and again makes a reappearance in Europe.But Frankfurt has a Jewish mayor.I thought you might appreciate some good news.♢MIES LOVIN’Didja catch today’s?✍March 27th is ‘s birthday so Google put up a stylized image of one of the architect’s most notable designs. It’s at the ‘s campus on the South Side of Chicago.Crown Hall✍Mies, as he’s known familiarly, was perhaps the key figure in 20th Century world architecture. The simplicity of his work was stunning. His famed aphorism, “Less is More,” was the imprimatur for a generation of architects who filled the world’s big cities with box-like, prismatic skyscrapers.Mies’s 860-880 North Lake Shore Drive Apartments (1951)✍Whereas Mies’s boxes were elegant and visually arresting, the slew of copycats who followed him turned his minimalism into a stultifying conformity.Michael Wolf’s Photo, “tc 81”✍See? Jumping on a bandwagon rarely turns out well.♢LOVIN’ YOUHere’s another reason I love doing this blog. ‘s song “Lovin’ You” seemed a perfect wrap up for the series of headlines above.

So, in the course of researching Riperton, I discovered, ex of, is her daughter.That might be common knowledge but now I know.Cool, huh? Now, an admission — this song really gets on my nerves.♢. ✍THE QUOTE“At least Bank of America got its name right. The ultimate Too Big To Fail bank really is America, a hypergluttonous ward of the state whose limitless fraud and criminal conspiracies we’ll all be paying for until the end of time.” —✍NAH, IT CAN’T BE — CAN IT?had this first, then re-posted it. It’s a purported commercial for the Rick Santorum campaign.Ebert says he can’t believe it’s real.

And, quite frankly, neither can I.I mean, Little Rickey is the altar boy who loved all the attention the priest lavished on him, leading him to become the world’s most prominent closeted figure. His resultant damaged psyche then led him to turn the Republican primary battle into a cheap Outer Limits episode, natch.But this? For real?Well, just watch. Someone out there has to know if this is legit or not. Lemme know, would you?♢♢PSANTORUM IS PSYCHO✍Here’s the definition of, as presented in the DSM-IV-TR, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, 4th edition, text revision, that is the bible (you’ll pardon the pun) of the psychiatry profession:A. ✍THE QUOTE“Sex is like bridge; if you don’t have a good partner, you’d better have a good hand.” —♢THIS JUST IN: ORGASM IS “INTERESTING”Perhaps the best story I’ve ever read in the Indiana Daily Student.

The story, I tell you, makes living in a college town all the more worthwhile.It’s here, after all, that people actually investigate things like the origin of the universe, the inner workings of the cell, the psychological underpinnings of economics, and — even more intellectually compelling than those topics — the human orgasm.— who, I’ve since learned, is a semi-regular visitor to — is a research scientist and a director of IU’s. She has released a study indicating that a significant percentage of women who work out at your local gym actually experience orgasm while they’re panting.Herbenick✍One of the Boys of Soma, Real Estate John, works part-time at the. He usually pulls the Friday night shift. I pointed out the story to him. He read it with great interest. He turned to another Soma Boy who regularly works out at the Y on Friday nights and who also read the piece. Real Estate John said, “I have the perfect candidate.” he mentioned the name of a woman they both were acquainted with.“Oh yeah!” the other guy said.

“No wonder she always has an ecstatic look on her face.”The woman, the fellows explained, is generally attached to the.That device, according to Herbenick, is one of the exercise machines that lends itself nicely to stimulating certain locales of the female anatomy. “Women,” Herbenick told the IDS, “are moving their genitals in the bike seat.”Spinning classes are awfully popular with women. Now I may know why. It occurs to me I’ve not met many men who take spinning classes. I wonder if this study will inspire more men to get into that regimen.“Phew. I Need A Cigarette.”✍Anyway, Herbenick said her study, which indicated that a shade more than one third of women canvassed have experienced the Big O while working out, “reminds people how interesting orgasm is.”Can’t argue with that.♢SPIES IN THE CLASSROOM OF LOVEMost of what I learned early on about sex came from a fellow named.He wrote a gigantic bestseller in 1969 entitled “.” It’s estimated some 150 million inquiring minds have read it.At the age of 14, mine was the most inquiring of minds. Especially about sex.The book had somehow found its way into our house.

I know I didn’t buy it; if I had, it would have been safely stashed in my room somewhere. Under the bed, next to the old liver sausage sandwich, probably — it’s true, for several months there was a liver sausage sandwich under my bed. I recall having made it late one night and, after bringing it back to my room, had promptly fallen asleep without eating it.

It wound up under the bed.Hey, I was 14 — leaving sandwiches under the bed and devouring all printed material pertaining to sex were defining characteristics of the age.✍I know Dad didn’t bring the book into the house. My sisters had flown the coop ten years before and my brother was away at college so it couldn’t have been them. Process of elimination left Ma as the likely culprit.Makes sense.The women’s liberation movement and the sexual revolution were in full swing.

Now, Ma wasn’t a practicing libber, nor did she sample the pleasures afforded by the newly relaxed attitudes toward sex. She was Ma, after all.She was, though, eager to be seen as “up on things.” If either or, for instance, was to appear on, say, Dick Cavett’s show on a given night, you can bet Ma’d be parked on the sofa, watching. She bought bestsellers like “Love Story,” “Portnoy’s Complaint,” and, I assume, Dr. Reuben’s book.Gloria Steinem✍Man, as soon as she finished that thing, I snapped it up and started memorizing it.Reuben described female topography in terms I’d never heard before.

He revealed techniques and practices I could only dream of trying out. My time wouldn’t come for another five or six years, though.Until then, I considered myself the sexual theoretician of my circle. “It says in David Reuben’s book that a man should,” I’d begin whenever some sexual topic had arisen.My pals listened raptly. None of them had the slightest patience to read a book — even one about sex — but they still were curious about the purported expertise Reuben offered.One day I told Tough Marc about Reuben’s assertion that women know secret methods of masturbation in public.

Reuben reported that many women liked to cross their legs and squeeze their inner thigh muscles repeatedly, often bringing themselves to orgasm.“Oh My God, Is She? Do You Think?”✍Now, Tough Marc was a gearhead and he packed a punch that could have been confused with the blow from a sledgehammer, but he was smarter than the rest of my neighborhood pals. He’d confessed he was almost tempted to forgo his long-lasting embargo on books and buy Reuben’s.Such a concession made him, among my peers, an intellectual. Still, he was able to resist the urge. Last I heard, Tough Marc owned a car wash on the northwest side of Chicago.Anyway, Tough Marc was fascinated by the revelation that women had ways to stimulate themselves under the table, as it were.They’d do this on the bus, in the office, in the movie theater, and even standing in line waiting for the next bank teller. The impartial observer, Reuben revealed, could tell when a woman was hard at work in this manner by the swinging of her leg (if she were sitting) and the dreamy look on her face.

Tough Marc and I pledged to monitor the legs and face of every woman we might encounter.In the summer of 1971 both Tough Marc and I found ourselves in summer school taking a make-up course in algebra.One of our classmates was a girl named Kathy Masterton. We noticed on the first day of class that Kathy Masterton was a champion leg swinger. You couldn’t walk down her aisle for fear of getting kicked in the shin or knee.Kathy Masterton, too, often stared off into space, her eyes glazed.Tough Marc and I looked at each other and nodded.

After class on that first day we compared notes.Leg kicks — check. Dreamy look on her face — yup.Yeah, we concluded, Kathy Masterton confirmed Dr.

Reuben’s assertion.A couple of days later, Tough Marc said he’d come up with a new name for our leg-swinging classmate. “Kathy Masturbant,” he proclaimed, triumphantly. I congratulated him profusely.As the summer school semester passed, we became transfixed by Kathy Masturbant. We maintained surveillance of her from the bell that signaled the start of class to the one that ended it.

She kept up a rhythm with her swinging leg that can only be described as heroic.Miss Fritz, the algebra teacher, wrote formulas from one end of the blackboard to another but we took no notice of them. Pythagoras, balanced equations, polynomials — none of them meant anything to us. Our focus was on Kathy Masturbant.“Huh? I Dunno.”✍Kathy noticed us staring at her. I became concerned she might suspect we were on to her. Nevertheless, she kept swinging her leg.Kathy smiled at me one day and I smiled back.

Tough Marc and I conferred about this development immediately after class. It was decided I should chat her up and, if I was lucky, get the inside dope on this leg-swinging business. “Good luck,” Tough Marc said, solemnly.It’s important to note that we didn’t hatch this plan just to embarrass her. Nor was our aim to somehow get sex from her.

We were still too far away from that Holy Grail to consider it a reasonable possibility.No, our goal was knowledge. We wanted to know if Dr. Reuben’s leg-swinging theory could be proved. Ours was a scientific quest.Oh, on second thought, the idea of having sex with Kathy Masturbant must have crossed my mind.

I can’t imagine being 15 and certain a girl I knew was masturbating in public and not think it conceivable she might have sex with me.Then again, Kathy Masturbant was an exceedingly plain-looking girl, which is a nice way of saying she was a gargoyle. In fact, Tough Marc and I cursed our luck that the most likely public masturbator we’d yet found was so homely.So, we gamely carried out our scientific pursuit.The next day during class break, I approached Kathy Masturbant in the school parking lot. She was busy lighting one cigarette off another. We exchanged greetings and engaged in a bit of small talk. She seemed easy enough to talk to, although it must be admitted I was scared to ask her about her swinging leg.“Go On, Man. Talk To Her.”✍I glanced over at Tough Marc, who was eying us from several cars away. He could sense my resolve was fading.

He mouthed the words “Ask her!” at me.I screwed up my courage and spoke up. “So, uh, y’know, I see you’re always, like, swingin’ your leg. Know what I mean?”“I do?” she said.“Um, yeah. You do.”“Oh,” she said.“So, uh, what’s that all about?”Kathy shrugged. I’m nervous I guess.

What’s the big deal about it?”“No big deal,” I said. “I’m just interested.”Oops. Wrong choice of words. Kathy interpreted that to mean I was interested in her.Which I wasn’t. I still had a teenaged boy’s arrogance that made me think she was not attractive enough for me.Kathy became giddy.

She started telling me all about her family and friends. She suggested we go to see the movie “Patton” someday soon. I let it slip that I was a Cubs fan and she jumped on that, saying we had to go to a game that weekend. Next thing I knew, she’d invited me over for dinner that coming Friday.“Y’mean, Like A Date?”✍I hadn’t the heart to turn her down. Plus, there was that little part of me that hoped she, the public masturbator, might let me have sex with her.That Friday I showed up at her family’s apartment at dinner time.

She and her mother had laid out a fancy spread. Clearly, my presence made the affair a special occasion.After we ate, Kathy’s mother said, “You and your boyfriend go in the living room and watch TV.

I’ll do the dishes.”Boyfriend. My hair stood on end (yes, I had hair.)We watched “The Brady Bunch” (which I loathed), “Nanny and the Professor” (not only bad, but boring), and “The Partridge Family” (now, that was a good show; Susan Dey inhabited every heterosexual boy’s nocturnal fantasies). For her part, Kathy loved “The Brady Bunch” and was in heaven when “Nanny” came on. “The Partridge Family,” she could take or leave.Unnnhhh.✍Throughout the hour and a half, Kathy’s leg never stopped swinging.

At eight-thirty, her Mom came into the living room and said we’d better call it a night. By that time, Kathy had scootched so close to me that I was squeezed into the corner of the sofa.Kathy put her arm in mine and walked me to the door. I thanked her Mom for the delicious dinner and was about to say goodbye to Kathy when she ushered me onto the front porch and closed the door behind us. She launched into an itinerary that included “Patton” and the Cubs game and four or five other engagements for the two of us over the next couple of weeks. She held my hand as I leaned toward the front steps — swear to god, had she let go, I’d have fallen down the stairs.Again, I didn’t have the heart to turn her down (nor did I wish to pass up the chance, however negligible, that she’d let me have sex with her.)Funny thing was, we had a lot of fun over the next couple of weeks.

The next Friday night when we walked home from the Tivoli Theater, we took our shoes off because we fancied ourselves sorta-but-not-quite hippies. When we went to the Cubs game, we sat in the very top row of the upper deck and looked out over the city and Lake Michigan and pointed out landmarks to each other. We went to hear at the high school gym and danced until we were soaked in sweat.C’mon, Go Easy On Me — I Was A Teenager, Okay?✍One day in class, Kathy stopped swinging her leg long enough to inform me that her mother would be out that evening. I should come over, she suggested, so we could listen to her new “Shaft” album.When I told Tough Marc about this, it was his turn to congratulate me profusely. And again, he said solemnly, “Good luck.”“Shaft” was a double album — total running time, 68:50.

Oh, the things we could do in that time frame!I was beginning to like Kathy. And, truth be told, she wasn’t that bad looking really, as long as I ignored her horn-rimmed glasses and slight case of acne. Only now am I strong enough to admit she had to ignore the same things on me.We were laying on the living room floor, kissing deeply, by the time Track 4, Side 1 came on.

“Ellie’s Love Theme.” Kathy’d said, “I’ll show you how to French kiss.” I thought I might pass out.John Shaft✍By the time Side 2 fell onto the turntable, Kathy pushed me away. “Look here, buster,” she said. “We can do this all night long if you want.”I nodded enthusiastically; unfortunately there was more.“But I want to tell you something. I’m a virgin and I’m gonna stay that way!

Capeesh?”I’d never been so relieved in my life. I’d only just learned how to French kiss moments before. Despite reading Dr.

David Reuben’s book from cover to cover several times over, I still had no idea what was expected of me had she said tonight’s the night.Kathy’s Mom came home around 10:30. She looked at us suspiciously. Kathy said, “Mom, we didn’t do anything. We just listened to albums.”Her Mom looked skeptical.

“I don’t want anything going on around here,” she warned.“Oh no!” I said quickly. “No, no, no, no. Nothing.”With that I said good night to Kathy and told her Mom how very nice it was to see her again. She nodded but her eyes were narrowed.Kathy and I lasted about another two weeks, which constituted a committed, long-term relationship at our age. A cosuin had introduced her to a boy who, Kathy told me apologetically, had bedroom eyes.

The unspoken question being How could she not start dating him.I began walking home certain I’d kill myself that night. By the time I’d hit the back door, though, I was over Kathy.I never did find out if Kathy Masturbant was, well, masturbating when she swung her leg so heroically. In retrospect, I realize I was never cut out to be as accomplished a sex researcher as Debra Herbenick.♢THEME FROM SHAFTAny song off this double album still makes my legs weak.♢. ✍THE QUOTE“The law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest. That would seriously interfere with business.” —♢BZZZZZZZZZZZ!Steve the Dog and I just had a major drama. I was in the process of typing up the entries below when Steve started getting unusually curious about something in a corner of the garage (where I keep my office).Suddenly, Steve screech-barked and jumped back.

I went over to see what was up and I saw a gigantic bumble bee staggering and lumbering around on the concrete floor.The hair on my arms turned to tiny needles.A Cute Little Bunny — I Refuse To Post A Picture Of A Bee✍Apparently, the bumble bee took exception to Steve’s sniffing and gave him a shiv to the snoot. Bumble bees, I understand, essentially commit suicide when they sting. I would normally look something like this up to verify it but I’m not gonna do it.See, I have a bee phobia. Wasps and hornets, too. Merely typing the words makes me shudder. I can’t even look at pictures of the brutes or else I’ll spend the rest of the day glancing over my shoulder in a panic.You think I’m neurotic about these guys? Take my sister Charlotte and snakes.

She can bear them no more courageously than I suffer yellow jackets. Swear to god, Charlotte one day cut the picture illustrating the entry for the word snake out of her family’s dictionary.

That’s nuts.Wanna know what’s more nuts? I wouldn’t even have the cagliones to cut the picture of a bee or wasp out of my dictionary.

When I was a kid I read my family’s set of the World Book Encyclopedia voraciously — all except the B volume. I didn’t want to take a chance on seeing a picture of a bee.See? No Bees✍This reminds me of an incident that happened in the Book Corner last summer. I was straightening out the half-price book table near the big front windows. Suddenly I heard what I originally thought was the drone of a World War II fighter plane.

It turned out to be one of those titanic carpenter bees.They stand about six-foot-three and have a wingspan of some three yards. This particular one was hurling himself against the window trying to get out of the place. Honestly, he was smoking a cigarette. I’m not certain but I think he might have been carrying a gun.I almost lost control of my bodily functions. I dashed to the other end of the store.Right at this time, my pal Mary Damm, a soil biology researcher at IU, walked in. She could see the terror on my face.“What’s wrong?” she asked.I pointed toward the window where, by this time, the carpenter bee was picking up a large volume and preparing to fling it at the glass.“You’re afraid of a bee?” she marveled. “It won’t hurt you.”I looked closely at the bee; he glared back at me and drew one of his fingers across his throat in a threatening manner.“Look,” I said, almost mewling, “I’m scared to death of these things.

I don’t know what to do.”At this point, Mary started telling me what terrific citizens of the Earth bees are. How they keep to themselves and help propagate countless floral species and how they won’t attack you as long as you don’t molest them.The bee in the window gave me a terrifying glance and made a shushing gesture in my direction.

I think I squeaked.“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, “but they still petrify me.”Almost As Terrifying As Bees✍“Well,” Mary observed, “that’s not rational.”“No, it’s not,” I said, my voice shaking. “That’s why they call it a phobia.”“Well, do you want me to get it out of here?”Oh!

Had I the courage to get within 50 feet of the carpenter bee, I would have run up and hugged her. As it was, I could only shout out, “Yes, please!”Then I offered to fetch her a cardboard box and a push broom and a snow shovel. “Whatever you need to do the job, I’ll get,” I said. I remembered seeing an axe in the basement and so I made a move in that direction before Mary stopped me.“I won’t need those things,” she said. “I work in the fields all summer long.

I’m used to bees. They don’t bother me at all.”She directed me to bring her a soft drink cup and a piece of paper. She carefully and calmly crept up on the bee as he stood there, trying to figure out his next strategy. She gently placed the cup over the bee and slipped the paper between it and the glass. Then she took the bee outside and released him over a planter on Kirkwood Avenue.The bee buzzed off without a single word of gratitude, the hoodlum.“That’s that,” Mary Damm said. They won’t hurt you.”“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said.Anyway, the bumble bee today.

I grabbed the longest broom I could find and positioned myself as far from the bugger as I could. I stretched and craned and flicked him toward the now-open garage door.I flicked, that is, if flicking is the proper term one would employ to describe moving something the size of a wrecking ball.Victory! ✍THE QUOTE“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” —♢WHAT’S GOING ON?Okay, so we’re in the midst of a more-than week-long run of high temperatures in South Central Indiana. Each day’s high during this streak has been about 30 degrees above the normal. Monday, the high was a full five degrees greater than the previous record for that date.Think about that.

Usually, when record highs are set they beat the old record by a single degree, and if the heat wave is amazingly severe, perhaps two.Five degrees.Except for the deluded and deranged among us (in other words, Republicans) who deny the evidence of climate change, everybody’s talking global warming.Lois Nettleton Schvitzes in The Twilight Zone Episode “The Midnight Sun”✍Here’s where my professional contrarianism kicks into high gear. Generally, during weather extremes I caution people not to see the anomaly as evidence of the norm. In other words, just because today’s remarkably hot, it’s not proof the climate is changing.Besides, climatologists see global warming as a half-degree, a degree, or maybe two-degree uptick in the average temperature over a period of years. It’s the sustained rising of temperatures that’s dangerous, not the odd heat wave.But this thing is making me think twice. The new battle cry to replace global warming should be global weirding.I admit this is anecdotal but something I heard this morning on the radio gave me pause. Apparently, a huge storm system parked over Texas produced thunder so severe that it caused seismic instruments to jump.Now think about that.Fine-tuned, delicately balanced sensors that measure the very slightest rumpling from deep within the Earth’s crust recorded thunder claps.

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These instruments are not supposed to be affected by outside clutter. Yet the needles flicked because of thunderWhat in the hell kind of storm is that?Storm Batters Kentucky Earlier This Month✍I’m in a hurry this morning and I can’t spend the time researching this. Maybe seismographs record thunder claps all the time. I don’t know. I’ll get on it tonight after my shift.For now, though, I just might be beginning to think 2012 is the year we justifiably get the crap scared out of us by nature.♢BACKSEAT PORNSo, Dan the Jeweler, Crystal Belladonna, and I were gabbing of this and that at the Book Corner yesterday. Somehow the conversation turned to the year 1969. And somehow it turned to public porn.Why don’t I just give you the dialogue from memory?Crystal Belladonna (rummaging through the magazine shelves, weeding out old issues): Look at this — November 2011.

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What’s this doing here? It’s 2012, isn’t it?Me: Why no. Man, I’m gonna go to that big Woodstock thing in New York. And I can’t wait for the moon landing.CB: Wise ass.Dan the Jeweler: Do you remember where you were during the moon landing?✍CB: I wasn’t even a twinkle yet.Me: It was a Sunday night. I was staring at the moon just on the odd chance that I could see something, like the Command Module rocket firing or something.CB: Geek.D the J: Believe it or not, that night me and my friends were at an outdoor pornographic movie. We left it and drove around to look for a TV so we could watch the landing.CB: I know just what outdoor theater you’re talking about!✍D the J: It was on Route 46, on the way to Ellettsville. It was an outdoor pornographic theater for years.

Right next to a trailer park.CB: Yeah, yeah! Whenever my mother would drive by it at night, I’d strain my neck to see the screen.D the J: Yep. The fence had gaps in it.CB: Uh huh!D the J: It was near a railroad crossing and when a coal train was going by, traffic would be backed up all the way to Bloomington.CB: Yeah, my mother would always wonder why I’d be saying, “Ma, could you move the car up just a bit?”D the J: It’s not there now.CB: No, they knocked it down. There’s an old people’s home there now.Who says people don’t have a rich sense of history anymore?♢. ✍THE QUOTE“Most artists work all the time. They do, actually, especially good artists. They work all the time.

What else is there to do?” —♢FROM THE CHELSEA TO EAST PILSENReading about the time lived in New York City’s got me thinking about a few years that I spent living and working in a similar milieu.The Chelsea was the storied Manhattan locus of artists, writers, actors, musicians, and many other ne’er-do-wells. Clarke lived and wrote there — he penned “2001: A Space Odyssey” in his cramped room. Dylan Thomas wrote and died there.

Mark Twain spent time there. Henry, Leonard Cohen, Arthur Miller, Gore Vidal, Tennessee Williams, Allen Ginsberg, Brendan Behan, Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Thomas Wolfe.The Chelsea’s visual artists included Christo, Julian Schnabel, Frida Kahlo, R. Crumb, Jasper Johns, Claes Oldenburg, Willem De Kooning, and Henri Cartier-Bresson.More musicians than can reasonably listed here called the Chelsea home as well. People from Edith Piaf to Iggy Pop received their mail at the Chelsea.The Chicago art scene at the turn of this century was centered around the East Pilsen neighborhood just southwest of the Loop. In 1998, I moved into a first floor apartment on 17th Place and, later, lived at Carpenter Avenue and 18th Street. I spent my days clacking my keyboard at the Hardware Cafe coffeehouse on Halsted, one of the neighborhood’s social centers.The Chelsea mixed creative types with drag queens, hookers, and poet-wannabes. East Pilsen melded working artists with gang-bangers and people who claimed to be artists mainly because they couldn’t keep a day job.One night I watched two neighborhood toughs stroll out of Pauly’s Tavern at 18th and Union, conversing and laughing, looking for all the world like the best of friends until one guy cold-cocked the other, dropping his pal to the ground like a sack of sugar.

The puncher picked up the punchee, brushed him off, and the two resumed conversing and laughing as if nothing had happened.The writers, actors, painters, sculptors, and other societal misfits of East Pilsen learned to steer clear of the thugs and hellions. But we found each other. We were not as celebrated as the Chelsea artists, but we worked as hard. Then again, none of us labored as diligently as our New York counterparts at becoming celebrated, so there is that.Below, I present a I wrote for the 12 years ago.♢ON EXHIBIT: A SECRET SOCIETY SHOWS ITSELFA year ago this month I was abducted by a tough-looking character with a filterless Camel dangling from his lips. He placed a callused hand on my shoulder and said, “Come with me.” I hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t get hurt.”He brought me to a nondescript storefront in East Pilsen, where I was forced to listen to a CD of some Deep South banjo picking. A group of people got up from a table full of steaming food, danced around me, and placed leis and chains around my neck. A cape was draped over my shoulders and a titanic sombrero balanced on my head. A fellow who looked to be the leader of this mob handed me a two-foot-long pipe brush. “This is your scepter,” he said.“Welcome to the weekly meeting of the Ever-So-Secret Order of the Lampreys,” this fellow — we’ll call him K — said.

“You’ve been selected as our adjudicator. It is your duty to judge the art that’s been made over the last week by our members. Tonight you are all-powerful. You are a deity. Wield your power wisely.” He motioned for me to sit in a chair.For the next two hours I watched and judged as some two dozen sculptures, drawings, paintings, poems, and musical pieces were paraded before me. All the artwork, I learned, was inspired by a single word: “bodacious.” The Lampreys fittingly are a bodacious bunch.“A couple of years ago I was sitting around thinking, ‘All I ever do is make stuff for clients,'” says K, a tall guy with a Dixie accent and hair that changes colors as often as the wind changes directions.

“I do architectural ironwork and ceramic and marble work. I enjoy making objects; it’s a good way to make money. But I like to make sculpture. I like to make useless objects. So I brainstormed with my buddy S, my roommate at the time.”K and S had met when S crashed one of K’s parties. K throws parties at the drop of a hat.

He’ll even celebrate the night before a party. His semiannual pig roasts are known far and wide, attracting hundreds of artists, musicians, old hippies, bikers, manic-depressives, bookies, and schoolteachers. K took an immediate shine to S, a sculptor from Australia, and hired him to work in his metal shop. A couple of weeks later, S and his girlfriend, L, moved into K’s spare bedroom.“We were drawn together,” K says. “He had a similar problem.” S spent every waking hour making art for his portfolio. His only concern was the business of making art.

K and S brooded over glasses of whiskey one night. They mooned over their idealistic days as aspiring artists.

“It was a blast back then,” K says. “Then we started taking ourselves too seriously.“So we decided to make an object once a week that’s not related to our portfolio, our clients, to anything. It would be absolutely non-marketable. L told us about this big Sunday brunch at her family’s house in Australia.

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Everyone had a standing invitation and would get fed well.”K found it impossible to pass up yet another excuse for a party. He and S planned to make new pieces for a brunch the following Sunday. “That first week, there were the two of us,” K recalls. “L thought it was kind of cool, so the next time there were three of us. Someone heard about it, and the next week we had four.” Within months the revolving cast of artists and hangers-on numbered in the dozens.

Soon the brunch became a ritual that had to be codified.“We decided we would no longer own our pieces,” K says. “They would become property of the group. We also figured if we were going to present our pieces formally there should be some kind of ceremony with someone chosen to preside over the presentation.” Thus began the tradition of kidnapping some unsuspecting sap to be the adjudicator.“The adjudicators are dressed awfully silly,” K acknowledges. “You cannot have a secret society that doesn’t have a set of absurd rules. With this comes a great deal of pomp and circumstance.

We take it to the extreme by allowing the adjudicators to believe they are all-powerful. There was one adjudicator who demanded that we all get naked. We thought about it but then realized there were some members who didn’t want to. So there was a coup. We shouted, ‘The King is dead; long live the King!'

”The adjudicator bestows an array of fanciful awards. A scrap of polished wood is known as the False Gem of Hope.

A well-worn wig is the Matted Hair of Revulsion. The Sardines of Delusion is a can of (what else?) sardines, while the Banana of Ill Repute is a two-year-old black, shriveled banana.“This whole idea caught on,” K says. “Everyone we invited to the meeting started participating.

We come from a lot of different backgrounds. We have trolley drivers and carpenters. There are some people who’ve never made art before. One guy, a computer programmer, joined us for the word ‘spicy’ and sewed 400 chili peppers to a pair of boxer shorts and wore them and nothing else, dancing into the room.” With so many making art, it became obvious a weekly theme was in order. So at the end of his or her term, the adjudicator has the task of choosing the next week’s word.

“Our first word was ‘structure,'” K says. “Then we had ‘symmetry.’ We had ‘beef.’ Then there was ‘lagniappe,’ a little something extra. Then there was a made-up word from sci-fi, ‘grok.' ”Early on someone suggested the group needed a name. A lightbulb went off over K’s head.

“Society has always viewed artists as lampreys, sucking on its soft, fleshy underbelly,” he says. “We decided to claim the name. We suck.”These being artists, a late-morning starting time for the brunches was as welcome as a 3 AM alarm clock blast. The Lampreys began to gather later and later in the day. Now dinner is served at around 8:30 or 9 PM.In November 1998 the Lampreys erected an altar to the memory of scientist Nikola Tesla for a Day of the Dead exhibit. “Tesla was a nut,” K says. “He was a Lamprey.” Someone described it to Chuck Thurow, director of the Hyde Park Art Center.

Thurow dropped in on a Lamprey meeting and decided, almost on the spot, to offer the gallery to them for an exclusive show.“3½ Months of Sundays” will open this Sunday, March 5. The group will erect altars to such overlooked geniuses as Sen No Rikyu, who several centuries ago elevated the simple Japanese afternoon tea to a formal ritual, and Philo Farnsworth, who invented the TV picture tube but had to sue RCA to earn royalties. The altars will surround a centerpiece containing 2,000 Lamprey pieces, displayed together for the first time.“One of the problems with showing Lamprey work is it’s not very commodified,” K says. “It’s not something we can sell. We can’t be shown in a typical gallery because there’s no money to be made off us. It’s more about the process and the meeting each week.

The object becomes de-emphasized and less precious. The collection becomes fascinating.”I was fascinated that Sunday night a year ago. After I’d reviewed all the art and passed out the awards, K told me I had one final duty: choose the next week’s word. I pondered for ten minutes and then wrote on a big chalkboard the word “mortar.”Immediately K stripped off my royal raiment. “Now you’re nothing,” K shouted gleefully. The tough-looking character with the filterless Camel dangling from his lips smirked. “You’re just like one of us,” he said.

I couldn’t wait to come back the next Sunday.The opening party for “3½ Months of Sundays” will be held from 4 to 6 PM this Sunday at the Hyde Park Art Center, 5307 S. Hyde Park Blvd. A closing party will be held from 5 to 9 PM on Saturday, April 15. Call 773-324-5520 for more information.— M(Originally published in the Chicago Reader, March 2, 2000)♢. ✍THE QUOTE“I’m supposed to have a PhD on the subject of women.

But the truth is I’ve flunked more often than not. I’m very fond of women; I admire them. But, like all men, I don’t understand them.” —♢BREAD AND CIRCUSES (MINUS THE BREAD)Time to beat a dead horse again.

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In 1939, Ford introduced the 3 point hitch (three-point linkage) on the ‘N’ tractor Series, a very successful tractor family that made working on your own equipment mainstream with the release of the Ford Tractor Manual. In the 1980s, Ford was one of the major players, and its tractor division had been responsible for a number of industry innovations, including the use of power hydraulics, rubber pneumatic tires, diesel engines, the 3-point hitch (The 3-point hitch was originally developed by Harry Ferguson, but was in wide use on Ford tractors), and innovation in the field of Ford repair and service manuals.Today, the online New Holland PDF manual is part of Italy’s Fiat Industrial, producing New Holland PDF manual downloads for over 160 countries worldwide. New Holland was founded in 1895 in the Pennsylvania borough of the same name. Known for dependability, New Holland became famous for making a tractor that the owner could perform all the service and repairs themselves using an official New Holland Service and Repair Manual.In 1986, Ford bought Sperry New Holland and formed Ford New Holland Inc. That allowed even greater power with the release of the Ford New Holland Service and Repair Manual. Before this acquisition, Ford had a long history in Ford Service Manual agricultural machinery production. In 1907, Ford came out with the prototype for the world’s first mass-produced, gasoline-powered tractor, named an ‘automobile plow’.

Ten years later, this tractor went into actual production. It was renamed the Fordson Model F, and produced by a new business, Henry Ford & Son Company. In 1939, Ford introduced the 3 point hitch (three-point linkage) on the ‘N’ tractor Series, a very successful tractor family that made working on your own equipment mainstream with the release of the Ford Tractor Manual. In the 1980s, Ford was one of the major players, and its tractor division had been responsible for a number of industry innovations, including the use of power hydraulics, rubber pneumatic tires, diesel engines, the 3-point hitch (The 3-point hitch was originally developed by Harry Ferguson, but was in wide use on Ford tractors), and innovation in the field of Ford repair and service manuals.Today, the online New Holland PDF manual is part of Italy’s Fiat Industrial, producing New Holland PDF manual downloads for over 160 countries worldwide. New Holland was founded in 1895 in the Pennsylvania borough of the same name. Known for dependability, New Holland became famous for making a tractor that the owner could perform all the service and repairs themselves using an official New Holland Service and Repair Manual.In 1986, Ford bought Sperry New Holland and formed Ford New Holland Inc. That allowed even greater power with the release of the Ford New Holland Service and Repair Manual.

Before this acquisition, Ford had a long history in Ford Service Manual agricultural machinery production. In 1907, Ford came out with the prototype for the world’s first mass-produced, gasoline-powered tractor, named an ‘automobile plow’. Ten years later, this tractor went into actual production.

It was renamed the Fordson Model F, and produced by a new business, Henry Ford & Son Company. In 1939, Ford introduced the 3 point hitch (three-point linkage) on the ‘N’ tractor Series, a very successful tractor family that made working on your own equipment mainstream with the release of the Ford Tractor Manual. In the 1980s, Ford was one of the major players, and its tractor division had been responsible for a number of industry innovations, including the use of power hydraulics, rubber pneumatic tires, diesel engines, the 3-point hitch (The 3-point hitch was originally developed by Harry Ferguson, but was in wide use on Ford tractors), and innovation in the field of Ford repair and service manuals.Today, the online New Holland PDF manual is part of Italy’s Fiat Industrial, producing New Holland PDF manual downloads for over 160 countries worldwide. New Holland was founded in 1895 in the Pennsylvania borough of the same name.

Known for dependability, New Holland became famous for making a tractor that the owner could perform all the service and repairs themselves using an official New Holland Service and Repair Manual.In 1986, Ford bought Sperry New Holland and formed Ford New Holland Inc. That allowed even greater power with the release of the Ford New Holland Service and Repair Manual. Before this acquisition, Ford had a long history in Ford Service Manual agricultural machinery production. In 1907, Ford came out with the prototype for the world’s first mass-produced, gasoline-powered tractor, named an ‘automobile plow’.