Wealth

The homely fellow above is one Adam Smith, born this day (depending on whose calendar you go by) 1723 in Kirkcaldy, Scotland. The exact date of his birth is unknown, but he was baptized on June 16th, 1723, so I figure today is as close as we need to be to put him on the hero podium. Not a whole lot is known about his childhood, but there is a story of him being kidnapped by a band of gypsies at the age of four, and then quickly rescued from them. Not sure if it is true or not, but I am sure it made for one hell of a dinner time story. He entered Glasgow University at the age of fourteen, and eventually made it to Oxford University. He came to Scotland, and begin a teaching career by starting to give lectures at the University of Edinburgh. In 1751, he got a professorship at the University of Glasgow, and spent the next 13 years there teaching logic and moral philosophy. But, any damn fool can go and read the minor, and major points of his life. He is famous for writing "The Wealth of Nations" a book that, ages ago when I was trying to be an intellectual I had to become fairly familiar with. Now, that I am just a dumb lawyer pushing papers around a desk, I have forgotten most of what I gleaned from his writings. That does not detract from his influence, a good teacher he made, and it is not his fault that I was such a poor student. In the book he introduces the idea of the Invisible Hand guiding the marketplace, and keeping its seemly chaotic meanderings from spiraling out of control. The best passage, and one often quoted from "The Wealth of Nations" is "It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own self-interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity but to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities but of their advantages." True enough words there, like the apothecary who, against his own will, sells Romeo the poison, and whom Romeo reminds "I pay thy poverty, not thy will" we are prisoners of the marketplace. We may like the brewer as a friend, we may have even be raised in the same neighborhood, or we may be some how related, but at the end of the day, the brewer has to eat too. And good will and friendship does not taste nearly as good as a nice, fat, juicy, steak. Perhaps we get the occasional freebie, but in the long run, we are in a buyer/seller relationship with a lot of people. A lot of Smith's ideas have been misinterpreted by, and for a lot of different causes. I suspect that is a sign that your ideas have some staying power, when a lot of very diverse groups try to latch onto them, twist them a little, and call them their own. His ideas were groundbreaking, and for those ideas, and for writing a fantastic book that is a foundation of modern economic thought, Adam Smith (June 5th, 1723-July 17th, 1790, at the age of 67), you are my (283rd) hero of the day.

Ohhhh-kkkkaaayyy

The gloomy fellow above is Eeyore born sometime in 1926 in the A.A. Milne books about Winnie the Pooh, and Christopher Robbins. Today is not exactly his birthday, but since there is no one who's birthday is today that is hero worthy, our boy Eeyore is stepping up to take his place on the hero podium. The "old, grey, donkey" lives in the southeast corner of Hundred Acre Wood in a place called "Eeyore's Gloomy Place: Rather Boggy and Sad." Eeyore is not what you would call an uplifting character, despite the bright pink bow attached to his tail. His favourite food is thistles, and he has a fairly low opinion of the other animals in the forest describing them as "having no brain at all, some of them." For a donkey, he is fairly bright since he is able to read and write, although his spelling is fairly bad. He is also the focus of the annual "Eeyore's Birthday Party" which is held in Austin, Texas on the last Saturday in April. Of course this party has little to do with Eeyore's actual birthday, but seems to be a good excuse for a bunch of hippies to party in the park, and get bombed. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it just seems odd that such a grounded, down to earth donkey who might need a little cheering up is the subject of a party in the park. Perhaps his gloom stems from the fact that he is full of sawdust, that would make me grumpy. Despite being a bit of a downer, he is still one fantastic character, and for those wonderful appearances in those wonderful books, Eeyore (1926-present), you are my (282nd) hero of the day.

The Second Time

This is of course my way of telling you that for today, June 3rd, there is no hero of the day.

Let's flash forward a bit in (my) history, and discuss the second time I had a bit of a "run in" with clowns. After the first time, I was pretty wary of clowns, and did not really care to go to the circus again. However, I learned that the circus does not have a monopoly on clowns. I have a sister, and that sister decided, when I was about 22 or so, to produce an offspring. Now, that is all well and good, but I, being the loser I am, was still living with my parents. My parents who are now the doting grandparents of a child who hung the moon. Anything my niece, the little monster, wanted she got. Granny's house was a place where the rules of the world did not apply to her. If she wanted to watch cartoons, we watched cartoons, if she wanted to stand on the coffee table, she stood on the coffee table, if she wanted to punch her loving uncle, well she did, and got hit back because loving uncle doesn't like to be hit. Years of this behaviour went by, and I eventually moved out, but I still received a lovely invite to my niece's 7th birthday party. Of course hanging out with my parents, my sister, and a bunch of seven year olds was not high on my to do list, but there was a promise of free cake (I love cake), and since I was a starving student at the time, free food was a big enough prize to lure me to the party. I was invited only, and was not consulted about the guest list, or about the entertainment. I arrived on time like a dutiful son, all ready to tear into some cake and ice cream, and begin trying to studiously avoid any sort of contact with the other "guests" (I think children are disease factories). Everything was going as well as could be expected when my mother decided to spring her big surprise, and announce that for her only grandchild she had cobbled together the money, and sprung for Tully the Clown. Gleeful clapping from the children, and a look of horror (that was quite unnoticed) on my face. A clown? Why the hell did that lunatic hire a clown? Couldn't we have got a pony instead? By now free cake is no longer worth it, and I begin to try and think of ways to make a swift, but uncowardly exit. Too late. In tumbles Tully the Clown. I decided that a corner of the room far, far away from him would be the best place for me, and for a while things go as planned. However, thing soon took a turn for the worse (if they hadn't then I wouldn't be writing this post now would I?). I, being suspicious by nature, and having a prior "run in" with clowns begin to pay close attention to our buddy Tully the Clown. Remember the little family silver thing from my previous post? Well sure enough, our cheerful little clown was quietly pocketing what I considered to be, one day, my inheritance. Not that our family silver was worth a ton of money, but it was the principle of the thing. I pondered exactly what to do, I mean how do you confront a clown in front of a party of seven year olds when you are somewhat terrified of clowns? This could only go badly for me, but I felt the need to at least attempt to have a quiet word with Tully, and attempt to save what was left of the family silver. This, sadly, proved to be a mistake. A quite word, whilst he was outside on a "smoke" break turned into the recently purloined family steak knife being shoved gently against my ribs, and Tully whispering (with real menace) for me to "keep my fucking mouth shut, if I didn't want to ruin the party." Needless to say, I saw the wisdom of his argument, and besides what is a little family silver? I am sure it was just misplaced, or lost by some clumsy child, and will turn up eventually. And, since I didn't want to turn up face down by the docks, I thought that Tully's plan made perfect sense. Although he didn't beat me up, Tully made his point very clear, and this was the second time I was terrorized by clowns. It was not to be the last.

Maddening Crowd

The fellow above is one Thomas Hardy, born this day 1804 in Dorset, England. The son of a stonemason, Hardy was not one of the upper crust, and his formal education only lasted until the age of 16. At that age he became an apprentice to an architect, and moved to London to pursue that career in 1862. However, London was not his type of town, he was acutely aware of his (low) social status, and after five years, he moved back to Dorset. His move back was for "health reasons", and it also was at this time that he decided to devote himself to writing. And what writing he did! "Far from the Maddening Crowd," "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," "Jude the Obscure", and a whole host of other prose and poetry. It is his poetry that puts him on our hero podium for today. I "discovered" him a long, long time ago, in a place far, far, away, but "The Man he Killed" is one of the best poems I have ever read. I cannot give his career justice, and hesitate to try, but he was one fine writer. So, for all of those lovely poems, and timeless novels, Thomas Hardy (June 2nd, 1840-January 11, 1927 at the age of 87 of cardiac syncope), you are my (281st) hero of the day.

Shadows

The shadowy fellow above is one Robert Cecil a.k.a. the 1st Earl of Salisbury, born this day (they think) 1563 in Salisbury, England. He was the son of William Cecil, who was the chief advisor of Queen Elizabeth I, and probably the source for the younger Cecil's political education. After graduating from Cambridge, he became Secretary of State in 1590, and upon the death of his father in 1598, the Queen's leading minister. However, most of his life was spent serving as spymaster for James I. He helped to smooth the way for James' succession, and the King rewarded him with a peerage. First making him a baron, then a viscount, and finally an Earl (that of Salisbury). He had been born with a pronounced hump in his back, and his political enemies (he had them in spades) made political hay with that. Stating that "a crooked back, makes a crooked man." He was critical in uncovering the Gunpowder Plot (though his detractors have made it a popular theory that he had something to do with plotting it as well). That is the beauty/problem with being a spymaster, you work in the shadows, and you don't made friends easily. Much of his later work remains veiled in mystery, which is how he would probably like it, but for being a skilled manipulator that allowed a couple of monarchs to rest more easily on the throne of England, Robert Cecil (June 1st, 1563-May 24th, 1612, at the age of 48), you are my (280th) hero of the day.

Blondie

The steely eyed fellow above is one Clinton "Clint" Eastwood, born this day 1930 in San Francisco, California. After graduating high school, he had intended to enroll in university, but a little thing called the Korean War got in the way, and he did a stint in the U. S. Army. He came back, moved to Los Angeles and got married. His first big break came with him being cast as Rowdy Yates in the TV series Rawhide. By this time he was thirty years old, and did not really like the character of Yates that much dubbing him "the idiot of the plains." It was in 1963 that he would get the role that puts him on my hero podium for today. That role is as "the Man with No Name" in Sergio Leone's "Dollars Trilogy." He signed on for $15,ooo, and a Mercedes to be gifted to him upon the completion of filming. He considered it a paid vacation since filming was to take place in a remote area of Spain. Eastwood himself was the major source for the character's visual look. The black jeans he bought and roughened up a bit, the hat, the leather bracelet, and the trademark black cigars were all Eastwood's idea (though he is a non-smoker, and hates the smell of cigar smoke). Though, Leone commented, "The truth is that I needed a mask more than an actor, and Eastwood at the time only had two facial expressions: one with the hat, and one without it." Whatever that facial expression was it was bad ass, and even as I sit here writing this TCM is showing the trilogy. I did not care much for the Dirty Harry films, and some of his later stuff is so-so, but Clint Eastwood is the baddest fucking cowboy on the planet. The laconic way he played "the Man With No Name" is outstanding, and my favourite of the three is "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly." That is the film which Eli Wallach's character calls him "Blondie." It is one of my favourite films of all time, and it starts in about 10 minutes, so I need to wrap this up quickly. The rest of his career is also fantastic, and he is now well regarded as a director as well. I could write about his career, and it highlights until his birthday next year, and still not give him the credit he is due. It is for a writer with much more talent, and time that me to write the big picture of his life. All I need for him to be my hero is "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly," which is about to start. So, for that iconic, laconic role as Blondie, Clint Eastwood (May 31st, 1930-present) you are my (279th) hero of the day.

I say

A quick calculation has led me to the horrid realization that I will be somewhere between 10-15 heroes short by the time end of the year for this little project. So, I figure since I know I have heroes enough I needed to double up a few days. As I mentioned in the previous post, Mr. Blanc voiced a few characters that would be on this list, and I decided in further tribute to him to add one of those characters that I enjoyed watching so much as a child. The cocky fellow above is one Foghorn J. Leghorn, first voiced by Mr. Blanc on August 31st, 1946, but as I have all the power to decided "birthdays" we are going to celebrate Foghorn's birthday on the same day as that of the fellow who gave him his voice. A leghorn is a breed of chicken, and "Foghorn" describes his manner of speaking, loud that is. In all he appeared in 28 cartoons during the "Golden Age of Animation" all were directed by the fellow who created him, one Robert McKimson. His usual nemesis is a dog known at first as George P. Dog, but also referred to as "The Barnyard Dawg." Their rivalry was not always won by Foghorn, and sometime the dog got the better of him. Foghorn has a pronounced Kentucky accent, and one of his more famous lines is "That a joke, I say, that's a joke son" delivered in his good old boy fashion. He also seems to be fond of the song "Camptown Races" humming in on occasion when he was about to unleash a prank on the dog. He is also hunted by a very small chicken hawk named Henery Hawk, who was going to "get him that chicken." This gag was made all the more humorous by the fact that Henery was about 1/50th Foghorn's size. So, for providing me hours of entertainment all those years ago, Foghorn J. Leghorn (August 31st, 1946-present) you are my (278th) hero of the day.

That's All Folks

The unassuming fellow above is one Melvin Jerome "Mel" Blanc, born this day 1908 in San Francisco, California. His face is not going to be familiar to anyone, but it was his voice(s) that made him famous, and makes him our hero of the day. Mel provided the voice for a whole of Looney Tunes characters that I grew up watching. Daffy Duck, whom he voiced for 52 years, Porky Pig, Bugs Bunny, whom he voiced for 49 years, Woody Woodpecker, Foghorn Leghorn, and a whole host of other unforgettable characters. The face man may get all the credit, but without M. Blanc there would have been a great big entertainment hole in my childhood. It is difficult to believe that Yosemite Sam, and Tweety Bird were voiced by the same fellow, and Blanc called himself "The Man with a 1000 Voices." That probably was as close to true as it could get. All of those memorable characters done by one fellow, it boggles the imagination. I suspect there are a couple of more of his characters that will show up on this list in their own right, but without him they just would not have been the same. He once said that it was Yosemite Sam's voice that gave him the most trouble. The sheer volume, and raspiness of Sam caused his throat some major pain, but he soldiered on nonetheless. He died of heart disease in 1989, and the cartoon world has been a poorer place every since. By his request his tombstone reads "That's All Folks" the line he voiced to sign off at the end of many of the Warner Brothers cartoons that were sometimes entirely voiced by him. So, for giving voices to all those fantastic characters from my childhood, Mel Blanc (May 30th, 1908,-July 10th, 1989, at the age of 81), you are my (277th) hero of the day.

Just a Dash

The white stuff of above is sodium chloride, otherwise known as salt, and for reasons that will become clear it is our hero of the day. The human list of possible heroes was a bit disappointing, and so I began to look around for something, anything to continue my hero parade. Salt is a bit of a stretch, but it is my list, so I guess I can do what I want within reason. So, salt it is. It is essential, in small qualities for animal life, and since we are animals, in more ways that one, there is one good reason for it to be a hero. Of course, like all good things that you can't live without a little of, too much of it will kill you. Its major function is to help regulate the water content in the human body, but too much of it and you will probably stroke out from high blood pressure. However, the table salt that you and I use to season our food is not the only useful thing that salt does. Only 17.5% of the world salt production is used for food purposes, it is a necessary ingredient in the production of pulp, paper, soap, and detergents among many other things. It is supposed to be good luck to throw a pinch of it over your shoulder, and it has many mentions in various religions throughout world history. But, today's reason for it being my hero is something a little more sinister. Salt has also been used throughout history as a weapon of war. When Rome finally defeated Carthage, and razed that city to the ground, they sowed the earth with salt to make sure that nothing would ever grow there again. Now, if you read this blog, you know of my ongoing battle with Mother Nature (the Bitch). Well, today I decided to go all Roman on her, and salt a little portion of the earth under my possession. It was not to be merely symbolic, it was for the purpose of helping a couple of well entrenched stumps (the remnants of trees that I have cut down) come out of the ground. I tried at two separate places to buy large quantities of salt, and was foiled at both. The first place I tried, the people looked at me like I had two heads when I asked if they even HAD salt. Salt? Do we sell salt? was the puzzled reply I received to my question. I almost said "yes, salt you know the stuff Romans used to salt the earth at Carthage" but, I figured that would probably only result in them calling the police, and asking them to remove me from the premises because I was clearly a madman. The second place I tried did have salt, but only in small packages. Clearly, my need for salt is a need for salt in large amounts, and I asked an employee if perhaps, they sold salt in larger portions. Once again, I was looked at as if I was an alien, and told "no." I did not bother with any further attempts to find large sacks of salt, and purchased an smaller amount just to get the ball rolling on my project of salting my own little bit of earth. So, for all its commercial, food, and symbolic uses, Salt (sodium chloride), you are my (276th) hero of the day.

For Your Eyes Only

The suave looking fellow above is one Ian Fleming born this day 1908, in London, England. We all pretty much know why he is our hero of this particular day. He created James Bond, who will all by himself grace these pages on day, and any fellow who can create a smooth motherfucker like James Bond deserves to be a hero in his own right. Fleming had a pretty interesting life in his own right, after leaving the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst early, he went abroad to study foreign languages. During World War II, he hatched all sorts of evil plots and plans to do grief to the Nazis. He even sort of commanded a group of elite commandos for a while. Some of Bond's traits, and some of the names of his villains are drawn from Fleming's war experiences. The name James Bond actually came from a family friend who was a fairly famous ornithologist of the same name. Imagine that James Bond international spy, and bird watcher! In all he wrote 12 novels and nine short stories with Bond as the subject, and I am quite sure that a few of us have seen a lot of the films based upon his books. Like Bond, he lived large. He smoked too much, drank too much, and loved too much, and eventually it caught up with him. But, for bringing to live the super secret agent that we all want to be, Ian Fleming (May 28th, 1908-August 12, 1964, at the age of 56from a heart attack), you are my (275th) hero of the day.

Night

I am just too lazy or too tired to try to hunt down a photograph of today's hero, so a non visual post will have to do. His name is Louis-Ferdinand Celine, and he was born this day 1894 in Courbevoie, France. He was born the only child of a lacemaker mother, and a father who worked in an insurance firm. At the age of 18 he, being mostly self-taught, obtained his baccalaureat degree, and begin to have aspirations of one day becoming a doctor. He joined the army in 1912, and saw a great deal of service during World War before eventually being declared unfit due to his war wounds. After the war, he decided to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor, and after a great deal of hard study, he obtained the necessary degree in 1924. However, the life of a doctor was not to be his stopping point, while obtaining his M.D. he had acquired a wife, and a daughter, both of which he left for good in 1925. Deciding to do a bit of world traveling, he visited Switzerland, Cameroon, the United States, and various other countries. It was during this time he began to write. His first book, and the one book by him I have read "Journey to the End of the Night" was published in 1932. It is an awesome book, full of the hate that Celine harbored against pretty much everything. Its writing style has been called "savage." An example of the type of savagery he wrote with, and of the picture of the horrible world that Celine believed we inhabit is below.

The worst part is wondering how you’ll find the strength tomorrow to go on doing what you did today and have been doing for much too long, where you’ll find the strength for all that stupid running around, those projects that come to nothing, those attempts to escape from crushing necessity, which always founder and serve only to convince you one more time that destiny is implacable, that every night will find you down and out, crushed by the dread of more and more sordid and insecure tomorrows.

That little paragraph is by turns, savage, bleak, and fucking beautiful, and it is a fantastic paragraph, it explains a lot about his world view, and it also happens to be one that I, in my more morose moments, share. The book made him a star, and he would go on to write a lot of other books that are on my to read list. I highly recommend you reading him, but be warned a little Celine goes a long way, and be prepared to be shocked, impressed, disturbed, and a little scared by him. However, each of those feelings is worth it, and you should start, as he did, with "Journey to the End of the Night." It is a highly autobiographical work, and if you keep your courage up to finish it, it will have a profound effect upon you. His record during World War II does not make for pretty reading, he was a pretty solid anti-Semite, and eventually fled France because he feared being executed for treason. He was found guilty, in absentia, of high treason, and spent a year on death row in Denmark (to where he had fled). I can't says that I condone his politics, or his views on race, but I can put that aside when I read him, because his prose is just fucking brilliant. He was eventually allowed to return to France, and regained some of his earlier fame. However, he does remain a polarizing figure to this day. Not for me, I am solidly pro-Celine, and I am pretty sure he would tell his detractors to go fuck themselves, and for that, and for writing some outstanding prose in a style that cannot be duplicated (Charles Bukowski wrote, "First of all read Celine, the greatest writer of 2,000 years.") Louis Ferdinand Celine (May 27th, 1894-July 1st, 1961, at the age of 67 of ruptured aneurysm), you are my (274th) hero of the day.

The Duke

The lantern jawed fellow above is one Marion Mitchell Morrison, otherwise known as John Wayne, born this day 1907 in Winterset, Iowa. His is the classical Ameican movie star, an icon of the strong willed, square jawed, tough as nail, male role model that doesn't take shit from anyone. To attempt to condense his impact, and biography into a blog post would be unfair to him, and is beyond my limited talent. Plus, I am actually exhausted mentally today because I had to do some "real" lawyering for a change. My favourite line from John Wayne is "I'm not going to hit ya" "I'm not going to hit ya, and then just before he hits the fellow he had been saying this to "The hell I'm not!" That is John Wayne in all his cowboy/war hero greatness. His political leaning were, in my opinion, horrid, but he was "The Duke" and who am I to say a bad word about him or his politics. I confess that a lot of his Westerns don't do too much for me, but the one that I like are fucking awesome. Several of his war movies are just plain brilliant, and you can't really imagine anyone but John Wayne in them. He was the model of what it was to be "a real man." His last film "The Shootist" is awesome as well, and made all the more touching because the role he plays, a dying gunfighter, was pretty much what he was at the time. He was dying when he made the film, and this was his last round-up so to speak. He was one hell of a man, and one hell of an actor, and for those reasons, John "The Duke" Wayne (May 26th, 1907-June 11th, 1979, at the age of 72 from cancer) you are my (273rd) hero of the day.

Casualties

The three photos above are lovely pictures of my trophies of war, the war I am waging against Mother Nature (the bitch), and her of her minions, big and small. The carnage you see above took me quite some time, and I think I lost about 5 pounds of water weight while executing my attack. It was, in the main, a success. Several members of Mother Nature's (the bitch) death squad were eliminated, and good riddance to them. I am sure, since it rained yesterday, that her and her minions are even now plotting their comeback/revenge. More power to them, I will be there, chainsaw, axe, or weed eater in hand to meet them at the gates of my citadel. I have mentioned before, and will say again, nothing green can stay. Of course, Mother Nature (the bitch) did leave her mark during this weekend's skirmish. It seems I have got a bit of poison ivy or poison oak (not sure which) for my troubles, but fear not citizens, the Grand Inquisitor is not deterred by such cheap tricks. A poultice has been obtained, and the rash is no longer driving me crazy with itching, therefore, I will continue to prosecute my war against Mother Nature (the bitch). Since there was no one worthy of being a hero today that was actually born today, I decided (decreed more like) that today's hero is a fellow few of us have ever heard of, but who is critical to my purposes. His name is George Ballas, and I have no idea when or where he was born. I have no clue if he is still alive or not, but I do know one important thing about him. It is that one thing that makes him a member of our hero parade. He invented, in the early 1970's, that wonderful device known as the weed eater. The idea came to him as he was taking his car through an automatic car wash, the brushes used to clean his car were the inspiration, and a wonderful device for killing Mother Nature's (the bitch) minions was born. So, for inventing one of the devices I use to continue making my yard Hell's Half Acre, George Ballas (?-?) you are my (272nd) hero of the day.

We are not Amused

The lovely lady above is one Queen Victoria born this day 1819, in London, England. She was the only legitimate child of the fourth son of George III, and when King George IV died in 1830. When King William IV died in June of 1837, the, just turned 18, Victoria became Queen of England. Her actual first name was Alexandrina, and at first she was expected to reign under the name of Alexandrina Victoria, but, at her request, her first name was dropped, and she became Queen Victoria. It was to be a long reign, 63 years and 7 months to be exact, longer than any other king or queen of England, and the longest reign of any female in the world. They named an entire era after her, so she must have been pretty impressive. She started the tradition of bride's wearing white at their wedding, by wearing white at her own wedding in 1840 to Prince Albert. Theirs was a happy union, and his death in 1861 devastated her. She was to wear black for the remainder of her life, and was referred to as the Widow of Windsor because Albert died at Windsor Castle. Her withdrawal from her duties after her widowhood made her, for a time, quite unpopular, but by the time her Golden Jubilee came around in 1887 (to mark the 50th year of her reign), she was once again an extremely popular monarch. She survived numerous assassination attempts, and the law governing high treason underwent radical changes to death with all the lunatics that tried to kill her. Her face adorned the first ever postage stamp, the design based upon a portrait of her when she was 15 years of age. She is supposedly the source of the quote that is the title of this post, but the sources are pretty slim. Either way, she was a fantastic queen, and for over 63 years! So, for reigning over perfidious Albion for so very long, and for having an entire era named after her, Queen Victoria (May 24th, 1819-January 22nd, 1901, at the age of 81 of a cerebral hemorrhage), you are my (271th) hero(ine) of the day.

Opposites Attract

The fellow above is one Carl Linneaus born this day 1707 in Rashult, Sweden. He and I are polar opposites, he loved nature and plants, whilst I have spent the larger part of this weekend killing plants, and waging war on nature. Clearly, he never had one of the plants that he loved so much try to kill him. Attempted murder has a chilling effect on friendships. Linneaus' claim to fame, and his claim to the hero podium is based mostly upon him being the fellow that laid the foundation for binomial nomenclature. He gained most of his higher education at Uppsala University, where he eventually became a professor of botany. He did some serious traveling throughout Sweden, collecting plants, and classifying them. He decided that the old way of naming plants was a bit too confusing, and came up with a system for naming things with just a species and genus name. Thus, making life a whole lot simpler for plant freaks all around the world. He helped to found the Royal Swedish Academy of Science, and published a couple of master works in which he classified over 7,300 species. For all of his good work, the King of Sweden ennobled him, and he took the name Carl von Linne. Part of the irony of his life was that a man known for naming things changed his name, and that name was actually taken by his father from a linden tree in the family's front yard. Though the way that he grouped plants and animals has been changed a bit over the years, and advances in science have changed a lot of the way things he did things, the foundational principles of his naming system remain in place. He was acclaimed world wide by some pretty impressive fellows, like Rousseau, von Goethe, and Strindberg. Like I said before, I doubt me and Carl would have been fast friends, considering my life goal is to obliterate all the lovely little plants that he wanted to name. Maybe a five hour regime of weed eating, lawn mowing, and stump removal would change his views on the joys of plants, but I can still appreciate his efforts. So, for helping to name all the plants that I am intent on destroying, Carl Linnaeus (May 23rd, 1707-January 10th, 1778 from a stroke at the age of 70) you are my (270th) hero of the day.

Creator

The serious looking fellow above is one Arthur Conan Doyle born this day 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland. Since he is the creator of two of my heroes, I figured he deserved his place on the podium in his own right. There remains some mystery, which considering his later achievements is appropriate, regarding the origin of his "Conan Doyle" surname, but that need not detain us here. He was sent off to prep school, then to college, during which time he was to become an agnostic, and then to study medicine at the University of Edinburgh. After obtaining his medical degree, and having one failed partnership to his name, he set up his own private practice in Portsmouth. His attempt at first was not very successful, and since he had arrived in town with less than 10 quid to his name, things were looking pretty bleak. While waiting for patients to begin to flock to his door he began writing short stories, and in 1887 he gave the world a hero for the ages in "A Study in Scarlet." That hero was one Sherlock Holmes, said to be based on Joseph Bell, whom was one of Conan Doyle's former university professors. He continued writing the Holmes stories until in 1893, after growing weary of Holmes, and wanting to devote more time to his historical novels, he killed Holmes off in "The Final Problem." Public outrage followed, and he was persuaded by it to bring Holmes back. He ended up writing 4 novels, and 56 short stories containing Holmes, and they are fantastic stuff. In those stories he also created the older Holmes brother, Mycroft, who was also a hero of the day. So, for creating two heroes of the day, and writing excellent works of fiction to bring them to life, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (May 22nd, 1859-July 7th, 1930, at the age of 71 from a heart attack) you are my (269th) hero of the day.

Lobster Man

Since today was short on heroes, and tomorrow had more than one, we are going to engage in a little time sleight of hand. A hero from tomorrow will have to serve his duty a day early. The fellow above is one Gerard de Nerval born May 22nd, 1808 in Paris, France. I am sure he would not mind be celebrated a day early for the sake of art. The son of an army doctor, a few of his formative years were spent being raised by a grandfather. When his father's army travels were over, his rearing was finished by his father. Like a lot of fathers, Nerval's wanted him to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. Like a lot of sons, Gerard was none too keen on that idea, and decided to become a poet. He believed that poetry, like sleep, allowed people to open doors to invisible. Writing that "in sleep we enter a new life, free of space and time." Clever idea there, of course, sleeping is critical to enter that world. He was a great friend of another hero of mine, Charles Baudelaire, and both were "card carrying" members of the Club des Hachischins. You can well imagine what kind of club it was. His poetry is sometimes some really far out shit, and it shows his longing for a spiritual world. His opinion of the material world was far from pleasant; "This life is a hovel and a place of ill-repute. I'm ashamed that God should see me here." Not sure I disagree with him too much there. He experienced his first of what was to be three, breakdowns in 1841, and there was even a mock obituary of him printed after he "disappeared" for a while. He was one odd duck. He had a pet lobster named Thibault which he would take for walks around Paris at the end of a blue, silk ribbon. It seems he had "rescued" Thibault from a lobster trap while on vacation, and upon being accosted by the mayor of the town, who wanted de Nerval to apologize for stealing from the lobster traps, he decided to make "reparations" and bring the lobster back to Paris with him. He has been quoted as saying, in defense of his choice of a pet that "Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? ...or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do." I guess there is some (twisted) logic in that way of thinking. After his third mental breakdown, he was found hanging from a window grating leaving behind a suicide note (addressed to his aunt) saying "Do not wait up for me this evening, for the night will be black and white." I suppose, in some ways, most nights are black and white. So, for some lovely imaginative poems, and some surrealist prose works, and for being one odd duck, Gerard de Nerval (May 22nd, 1808-January 26th, 1855, at the age of 46), you are my (268th) hero of the day.

Comedy

The chubby fellow above is one Honore de Balzac born this day 1799, in Tours, France. His father was a poor fellow who moved to Paris with one gold coin to his name, and achieved a middling amount of success. The "de" he added to his name, was added to make him look the aristocrat, and was not sanctioned by the people that handle that sort of thing. At the age of eight, he was shipped off to a grammar school, where he apparently spent more time in the "alcove" (a place of punishment where the "bad" children were sent) over 100 times during his years there. After he finished his schooling, he was persuaded by his father to study law (a cruel man he must have been), he trained, and worked at the office of a lawyer for three years before he decided it was not for him. He wrote two lovely quotes (which I shamelessly steal) about why the law was not for him. The first was written in his 1840 novel "Le Notaire" and it explains what a young person sees in the legal profession, "the oily wheels of every fortune, the hideous wrangling of heirs over corpses not yet cold, the human heart grappling with the Penal Code." The other quote was written after he declined to become his employer's successor, he wrote that he did not want to be "a clerk, a machine, a riding-school hack, eating and drinking and sleeping at fixed hours. I should be like everyone else. And that's what they call living, that life at the grindstone, doing the same thing over and over again…. I am hungry and nothing is offered to appease my appetite." Now you might begin to understand why a lot of lawyers are miserable bastards. I happen to be one, and I agree with both of those quotes wholeheartedly. He moved to a small apartment in Paris, and launched his literary career. Like most beginners, he started slowly, but in 1832 he came up with his brilliant idea. A massive series of novels which he entitled "La Comédie humaine." A series that would eventually grow to include 95 published works. Its goal was to paint a panoramic picture of all the aspects of human life, and there are some wonderful novels contained within the series. His works habits were the stuff of legend, and he would work all sorts of odd hours, drinking massive amounts of coffee to sustain himself. He was an obsessive reviser (is that a word?), that constantly corrected printer's proofs with additions and changes. I am sure it drove his publisher mad. I clearly have not read all 95 of his works, and probably won't manage to get around to it during my lifetime, but I can highly recommend him. Although he was a deeply conservative Royalist, he was, it is claimed, the favourite author of Fredrich Engles. That little fact shows what kind of ability he possessed. To be as right wing as you can get, and still show such insight into the lower, and working class that you get the co-author of "The Communist Manifesto" to claim you as a hero takes talent. So, it is for that enormous talent that Honore de Balzac (May 20th, 1799-August 18th, 1850, at the age of 51), you are my (267th) hero of the day.

O fer

There were a lot of people born today, and maybe you know one or two of them. Maybe you personally, or maybe you have just heard of them somewhere (maybe some long forgotten history class). There were at least three candidates for our hero podium today, but as it will soon become clear, none of them could get over the hump. Our first candidate was a fellow by the name of Ho Chi Minh, a great hero in the country of Vietnam, and before the country of my birth got their noses bloodied in Vietnam, Ho Chi could have probably been a hero, but as an American who has seen the scars left by that conflict on society I could not, in good conscious, give the hero title to M. Minh. So, I moved on to candidate number two, a fellow by the name of Ataturk, the man most responsible for making Turkey the modern, secular state that it is today. However, I have never been overly sympathetic towards the "terrible Turk," and I think that might be because I clerked under a judge with Hungarian ancestors. That judge, an extremely brilliant fellow, might have influenced my apathy towards the Ottoman Empire and its successor. Thus, Ataturk, while possessing some truly marvelous qualities, just could not overcome that apathy to make it onto our hero podium. Finally, we come to candidate number three, a fellow who came to be known as Malcolm X. Now surely he is a hero right? He probably is to a lot of people, and of the the three he came the closest to taking the grand prize, but I am a lighter shade of grey that Malcolm, and considering my job, I might just be a part of the "white America" he railed against so eloquently. Not that I consider myself a racist, and I have rabble rousting sympathies myself, and thing that uptight America (white or black) needs a good kicking, but being called a member of a race of devils is a little too much for me to bear. Though I can respect him for raising the self-esteem of many African-Americans, and preaching self-reliance (both admirable qualities no matter what race, gender, or creed you are), I just could not put him on the podium either. Thus, after sailing those rough waters of patriotism, religion, and racism (and hopefully not coming across as some honky, christian, bigot), I must inform you that, for today May 19th, there is no hero of the day.

Spleen

This is the third attempt at trying to write a coherent blog post, the first two ended in absolute disaster, and I am not holding out much hopes for this attempt. But, I have to give it a shot, and hope for the best even though I expect the worst. I have tried, in those first two attempts, to convey a feeling that I have. The problem is, that the feeling I have is very hard to explain. It is somewhere been sadness and despair. I can not find the right word(s) in any of the languages I have any familiarity with, and the blinding rage that has seeped into my day is not helping matters any. Today started off badly, and has only gone to hell in a hand basket since I staggered out the door to work. Reading a bit too much Baudelaire before bed had caused me to dream in French, so I was a little disoriented from the beginning, but then it all went pear shaped. And pear shaped it has remained. No amount of "heroics" could save this indistinguishable day. Scan the annals of time all you want, you will be unable to find anyone, anywhere, from anytime that could rescue this day from itself. Some days just fade into the background, some days would be better off with your participation, for me, this is one of days. An episode in my life that would have been better if my part in it had been written out. The part of GI has been deemed unimportant today, and will therefore will NOT be shown in its entirety. A mere glimpse is all that is necessary in order for, even the most dense person, to see that my role in this day is pointless. It is one of those days that I should be snoring away the afternoon away in my own bed, rather than at work trying to keep it together until quitting time. Keeping it together at work is important you know, mustn't let the mask slip too much, or people will start to talk. Luckily for me I was able to call my therapist, Dr. Kronenbourg, and schedule an early afternoon appointment. He is a most understanding chap, and I hope that some quality time with him will at least put me in a better mood. Call for me tomorrow, and perhaps I will be less of a grave man, until then it is with only a little regret that I must inform you that for today, May 18th, there is no hero of the day.