Sunday, July 6, 2014

By Any Other Name ... a Probe ... ?

By any other name ...

What Exactly is a Yaris?

I have been fascinated by car names for years.  Or rather, for years I have been fascinated the names car manufacturers give to different models of cars and trucks.  A lot of them are simply non-words.  Like my Toyota Yaris.  I did my Wikipedia research.  The world’s new authority on everything – but librarians hate it because it makes them pretty useless – says a Yaris is a “model of car made by Toyota”. 

Pretty much sums it up in a circular fashion don’cha think?  No attempt at some Latin or Germanic derivative.  Some Viking or ancient Greek God?  Nope.  Like a butterfly.  An insect that doesn’t particularly like butter and doesn’t remotely resemble a fly, other than it does, in fact, fly.  But, in English it is still a butterfly.

Big macho trucks for men with small genitals and women with mullets, like the Tundra – an uninhabitable stretch of northern landscape.  Or the Yukon – chunk of the coldest American state where 99.9% of the American population will na-hever, never ever visit.   The Avalanche – a natural catastrophe that claims dozens of lives every year. 

At least those are real words. 

They might be really stupid names for vehicles, but they are real words.  Of course it’s all just marketing.  “How can we talk the dumbest people in the population into buying trucks that use massive amounts of expensive fuel to perform the least necessary tasks – badly.”

Second criminally overpaid marketing executive, “Let’s give them really stupid macho names and tie them into fantasies of driving loads of bricks over horrible wilderness roads and horses galloping across Texas deserts and stuff.”

First criminally overpaid marketing executive, “Perfect and make sure some tall really good looking gay guy is driving it.  Homophobic dweebs and sexually insecure women just love wa-a-ay handsome gay guys.”

But at least they are real words.

Okay here are just a few of those that you see everywhere:
Maxima (not real Latin even though it sorta sounds like it), same with Elantra and Versa. 
 Impreza and Solara (not real Italian). Spanish? Nope.
Camaro? No.
Venza, Impreza, Aveo.  No.  Not Italian, Spanish, Portuguese or anything actually spoken by any real people. 
Jetta, Passat, Routan – made by Germans (mostly in Germany), not real German words.

One that has always puzzled me is the Probe.  It is a real word and kind of has a new technology spaceship relationship, if you are a true, a real, an honest out-of-the-closet nerd.  Other than that it reminds me of a prostate exam, which is not something I want to think about every time I go to get into my car.

The Toyota Prius?  An actual, as in real Latin word meaning before (Wikipedia).  How did that slip by? 
Or the Thunderbird?  Great name and very fitting for a super-di-duper muscle car.  Landrover – perfect name for what it is and what it is designed to do.

What I find entertaining is that when you get into the best of the best cars, the high end most expensive and best engineered quality cars, all you get is letters and numbers.  No names.  Mercedes doesn’t give their cars names.  Or Volvo.  Rolls Royce does, which is just tacky.  BMW doesn’t really, but some fan nicknames have stuck to some models.

Finally there is the all-time classic Jeep.  Word is, as I always heard it growing up in a military family and verified, once again, by Wikipedia, is that the word Jeep came from a slurring of the initials G.P. for Government Production.  The government production vehicle used in World War II we see in all the WW II movies.  The actual word Jeep is a truly non-word that became a real word because it simply wormed its way into the English, and then the world language through the process of saturation.  Like okay and Coke (used for any kind of carbonated beverage – when I was growing up, a Coke meant anything liquid, fizzy and sugary that came in a can or bottle.)

To wrap this blog up; just pay attention to the little chrome text bubbles on the butt of all the cheap cars as you wander through any large parking lot.  It is an adventure in creative marketing that is totally non-intellectual but curious to the point of being almost intellectually fun.

Probe!  Really?  Ee-yew …

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A new video.
Mr. James Ashbury plays his new jazz guitar composition for you live.

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If you enjoyed this blog, and/or found any value to you within it, please do subscribe.  I’d really appreciate it.  And feel free to write to me, or add a comment.

Dale Clarence Peterson © 2014
Please check out my new book Drawing Blind (Learn to draw without looking) at:
It’s free – all I ask is that you post a review.

You can also get any of my books for Amazon Kindle at:
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Sunday, June 29, 2014

God Is In the Reruns, And ...

God Is In the Reruns And …

Second time …

“God is in the details.”  A long time quote you see and hear a lot.  I have no idea who is responsible for it.  (Not me)  The question then arises from this; God being in the details; is where or how are these details established.  Exactly what details.  There is a tendency for everything to have a lot of details.

And just because a particular thing is small, does not mean it doesn’t have a lot of details.  The act of breathing has a lot of details.  God is definitely in the act of breathing!  Doncha think?  Grains of sand, planets, contemporary TV schedules.

Spending some time on this concept, a couple of – or three – thoughts occurred to me.  First of all, let’s say a person believes deeply in a particular God.  A God that has an established focus group and a manual.  By this I infer a clergy of some sort and a Bible, or Talmud, or Koran.  A Godly God that has been around for some time. 

Still with me?

Okay …

So, according to an established God’s word, as it were, a person of that faith is expected to act, live, behave in set ways.  How are these specifics, or details, arrived at?  Why by studying the manuals (Bible, etc.) and listening to the various clergymen.  And all of this is based on what has happened in the past.  In other words, a person of faith scrutinizes the details of what has happened before.

A major theme in the religious manuals is; God says, “Don’t do this (some particular thing) and you’d better do that (some other particular thing – like … oh … respect your mother and father.)  The people (in the historical manual) disobey and they do the thing they were told not to do.  Then they turn right around and don’t do the other thing.

Sa-mote-ah!!!  That God these people ignored doth put the big smote! upon their asses.  The big whammy!  The  major smack-down!   Suddenly it’s raining burning frogs, there are like … floods and stuff drowns – like everything gets wet and starts to mold.  Old people are wearing their baseball hats backwards.  All the beer in the world goes all funky.  Tragedy and tough times everywhere you look.

The Godly clergy all make little notes in the margins of their Bible manuals and repeat the stories of what God WILL put down if the faithful don’t start toeing the line.  And the people “were sore afeerd!” and straightened up for a while and everything became just peachy wonderful.  Everyone’s boils all healed up.  The old people started wearing their baseball hats like old people should.  The burning frogs turned into some kind of Tastee Cake and the people rejoiced and became slightly overweight, which was considered a beauty mark of the ancient old timey times.

Then the people got overconfident and screwed up again and again came the burning frogs.  Round and around.  With the clergy sulking in the background and mumbling at the sidewalks, “Stupid people …. I told ‘em an’ I tole ‘em … do this shit an don’t do that shit an no-ho-body listens … oh no … don’t listen to me … I read the manual and wrote the stuff in the margins an I tole ‘em …  mmmble, mmmmble … now we got the friggin' flaming toads falling out of the clouds agin …”

So my contention is that you can’t find the details unless you study the reruns.  It’s all there in the reruns.  Like the dialogue in a movie you miss when you are sitting in the movie theater watching a movie you have looked forward to for … like, months.  You paid your … like twenty bucks and found a good seat because you got there early.  And at the last minute some big jerk comes pushing in and sits right fucking behind you!!!  Then every ten seconds he’s kickin’ the back of your seat!!!!!!!  And you miss what the actors are saying!!!!!

Man!!!  You really want to smote that turkey!!!

So you have to wait until that movie comes out for rental and carefully listen to the part you missed.  Those details in the reruns.  That’s what I’m talking about.

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I will have a new video for you next week.  I promise.  Really, truly true.
But here is a photo of my latest Grapevine and chalk drawing on packing paper.  These are my oldest motorcycle boots.  I call it Wa-a-ay Old Motorcycle Boots #414.


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If you enjoyed this blog, and/or found any value to you within it, please do subscribe.  I’d really appreciate it.  And feel free to write to me, or add a comment.

Dale Clarence Peterson © 2014
Please check out my new book Drawing Blind (Learn to draw without looking) at:
It’s free – all I ask is that you post a review.

You can also get any of my books for Amazon Kindle at:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=dale+clarence+peterson

My website:

My YouTube Channel:

Sunday, June 22, 2014

The Impossible Mountain

The Impossible Mountain

The mountain is impossible to climb.  It simply cannot be done.  This particular mountain – the “insane mountain”.  Or, you might call it Crazy Mountain.

When asked why he chose to devote so much of his life and endure so much pain and trial, climbing Mount Everest, Sir Edmund Hilary answered, “Because it is there.” 

What is there to understand about this?  What if Hilary’s mountain was impossible to climb?  If every time he tried to climb it, he failed, like Sisyphus, he got nearly to the top and he died.  Only to be reborn at the bottom and be compulsively driven to climb it again.

But, every time he got older, he became more disabled by each effort.  Failing over and over.  The pain of each failure building on the last, until every step, even the very first step of each new effort, was beyond what he could endure.  However he cannot stop trying. 

Why?

Why doesn’t he just quit?  Why doesn’t he just stop trying?

What if we accept that a person’s life is like that of a tree?  The tree sets down roots and grows upward toward the sunlight.  The tree will continue to grow until it dies.  The tree knows nothing else – but to grow.  The only knowledge the tree possesses is to grow.  During its life cycle, the tree will devote some time and energy to fulfilling its role in reproducing, but even that is only a required part of its genetic growing program.

Believing in anything other than growing is beyond the ability of a tree.  As human beings, sentient beings, the belief is that humans have some kind of free will.  Well … compared to a tree, humans do have apparent choices.  The great bugaboo of genetics still has far greater power than anything humans might hope to wield.

And if that genetic programming determines we are to spend our lives climbing an impossible mountain, that programming cannot be undone.  It is also believed that all impossible mountains are obvious.  I mean, who can miss a mountain?  You go around it or over it or, possibly, between mountains.  But they are right there.  Right?

Assume that one mountain, a very special mountain, is only obvious to one special person.  What if Sir Edmund Hilary was the only person who could see Mt. Everest?  (Also know as Sagarmatha by the country in which it exists – Nepal) 

This must seem like such a silly argument.  Doesn’t it?  Of course we all know about Everest and Hilary.  Blah di blah …  I am postulating a theory however.  And this theory says that only Hilary could see Everest.  And he was programmed to spend his life climbing it and he was also programmed to fail every time.  To him, to Sir Edmund Hilary, HIS mountain was there and he was GOING to climb it. 

This is Crazy Mountain. 

However, Sir Edmund had to live in this world.  He had to get a driver’s license, get along with other people, avoid breaking the law, earn a living.  All of these things require living within society with other people.  And whenever he was asked, “What ‘cha doin’.”  He knew he couldn’t say, “Well, I’m getting ready to climb Mt. Everest again.”

“Climb what?”

“I have to climb that huge mountain right there (pointing at Mt. Everest).”

“What mountain?  Where?”

“That one.  Right there.  It’s huge.  Can’t you see it?”

“Sir Ed.  Have you ever considered therapy?”

So Sir Ed keeps it to himself.  Bearing the burden of his life compulsion inside just to keep from being locked up.  Or worse, shunned as if he had the dreaded lampapoo plague.

If he had had his leg chewed off by a mountain wolf, the sympathy and understanding would be immense.  Most probably even if he said it was on his mountain nobody else could see.  The fact that his leg was obviously gone would prove he must be telling the truth.  Hundreds of other mountain climbers and adventurer types would take off looking for Sir Ed’s mountain.

Is this a ridiculous concept?  How many people absolutely believe and spend enormous of time and resources looking for Sasquatch, the Yeti or, I dunno … the jackalope?   

One man’s Sasquatch is another man’s invisible mountain.  Why is the first acceptable and the second not acceptable?  Why is it acceptable to be missing a leg, but not to believe in the necessity of climbing a mountain no one else can see? 

If a person spends a life time being kind, even loving, honest and productive – how is this totally disqualified because of their invisible mountain?


Who is crazier, the ones who see what can be done, what might be done that no one else can see?  Or, the ones who simply refuse to see that anything can be done that they cannot see?


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If you enjoyed this blog, and/or found any value to you within it, please do subscribe.  I’d really appreciate it.  And feel free to write to me, or add a comment.

Dale Clarence Peterson © 2014
Please check out my new book Drawing Blind (Learn to draw without looking) at:
It’s free – all I ask is that you post a review.

You can also get any of my books for Amazon Kindle at:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=dale+clarence+peterson

My website:

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Sunday, June 15, 2014

Broken Ribs

Broken Ribs

I think I have just become a more interesting person.
Shy of my sixty-eighth birthday by a month, my brain decided to take a holiday and have a seizure – while I was driving my car.  This was not fun.

First of all the inter-brain seizure experience was worse than having ether used as a anesthesia.  Something I have experienced, more than once actually. 

We were living in England at the time I was a lad of eight and determined that I could do judo.  My first victim happened to be another eight-year-old lad who also happened to be considerable larger than myself.  I got him up in the air in a judo flip and brought him down directly on my extended arm.   Snap!

When it got purple and about the size of an Arizona watermelon (very large) and was sticking out straight from my shoulder, such that I was dribbling my soup on the tablecloth at dinner, my father noticed it.  At the hospital, the English (British) hospital in the 1950’s, medical practices were still stuck at around 1910.  As an anesthetic ether was the common knock-out juice (gas).

“Don’t ask me.  They were the Doctors and that was the hospital.  I was a kid.”

Ether, if you are unaware of it, is basically horrible.  Ether does kill the pain of whatever god-awful injury you’ve got, but it works by inflicting worse pain.  Mostly in the head.  With your brain in a quisinarte, your eyes on fire and your ears ringing like a car alarm, any other physical considerations become moot.  

Have you ever seen one of those toys with a spinning propeller at the top of small rod with a spring-loaded flint thingy?  You push on a thumb lever and the propeller spins while the flint creates and throws sparks on the propeller?  I hate those toys.
With one of those things duct taped to each eye and a large brutal man marching around the room whanging on the largest brass cymbal he can hold, you begin to get an idea of ether.  This stops.  Then it starts all over again.  Over and over.

“szzrrerrrr-szZZRRERR!!!  Whang!!  Whang!!  Whang!!!!”
“szzrrerrrr-szZZRRERR!!!  Whang!!  Whang!!  Whang!!!!”
“szzrrerrrr-szZZRRERR!!!  Whang!!  Whang!!  Whang!!!!”

“szzrrerrrr-szZZRRERR!!!  Whang!!  Whang!!  Whang!!!!”

“Jeezuz!  Just kill me!”  “Leave the arm broken!  Cut it the fuck off!”  “Just turn off the freakin’ ether!”

Later that same year I got a toothache and had to have the tooth pulled.  The British (English) dentist used ether (!) to help me with the pain.

Flash-forward, and I do mean flash, and after over a full half century, my brain goes on the fritz and it feels just like ether has been shot straight into both of my temporal lobes. 

All in all it could have been worse – ha ha – no it couldn’t have been worse.  I was driving at the time.  I’m driving.  Ether is shot into my brain.  I am crawling out of my car, which is nose into a tree. 


There is a full on medical explanation as to why it happened, but that is not important in this blog.  What is important is that while safety belts “save lives”, they do, apparently, also “break ribs”.  Better broken ribs than dead.  Yes … I agree.  But the ribs still really hurt.

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And here's your video this week.


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If you enjoyed this blog, and/or found any value to you within it, please do subscribe.  I’d really appreciate it.  And feel free to write to me, or add a comment.

Dale Clarence Peterson © 2014
Please check out my new book Drawing Blind (Learn to draw without looking) at:
It’s free – all I ask is that you post a review.

You can also get any of my books for Amazon Kindle at:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=dale+clarence+peterson

My website:

My YouTube Channel: