Navigation
Install the app
How to install the app on iOS
Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature currently requires accessing the site using the built-in Safari browser.
More options
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
You should upgrade or use an alternative browser.
"Everyone was always well toilet-trained."
- Thread starter Procrustes Stretched
- Start date
- Thread starter
- #2
- Thread starter
- #3
---
---
- Thread starter
- #5
**In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this
material is distributed without charge or profit to
those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving
this type of information for non-profit research and
educational purposes only.**
material is distributed without charge or profit to
those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving
this type of information for non-profit research and
educational purposes only.**
- Thread starter
- #6
-------Forwarded published opinion-------
Friday, December 28, 2001
Boston Globe <http://www.boston.com/globe]
[Boston, Massachusetts]
Editorials/Opinions section
Opinion/Oped
A homeless man's gift
<http://www.boston.com/dailyglobe2/362/oped/A_homeless_man_s_gift+.shtml>
By Elissa Ely, 12/28/2001
ONE SUMMER DAY, a man with a diamond pinkie ring drove up in an immaculate
old Cadillac without license plates. ''I am people's bad dream,'' he said to
the clinic receptionist.
For eight months, he had been living out of his car - washing in a pond,
purchasing the balanced four food groups at the Store 24, and nursing The
Wall Street Journal through the day in parking lots throughout the city.
How had his life come to this? Over the next few months, the immaculate
Cadillac glided up to the clinic every Tuesday. Bits of history were
surgically removed from him, and the story, once amputated, sounded so
painful that it was easier not to believe.
He had been a white-collar professional, he told us, in the sciences. His
children went to private school. His daughter sang in a state choir. Then he
began to realize that he could make his neighbors sit and stand on his
silent will. It was a terrible power, and he was resented for it. First his
boss antagonized him, then his coworkers antagonized him, then everyone
antagonized him. He got into many white-collar fist fights. He lost his job.
His wife left. ''I became a marked man,'' he said. After that, the only
strategy was to avoid human contact. People could not be trusted.
Each week the Cadillac waited patiently outside my office window for 50
minutes. It was like his better half, a miracle of management. From my
window I could see shirts folded on the back seat, and water bottles stacked
on the floor where soda cans go to die. I wondered about the trunk and glove
compartment - a microwave? A wine cellar? - but looking out the clinic
window felt like peering through a shower curtain. The curiosity was too
personal.
On a fall day, the city police caught him between parking lots and
discovered that the car that had no license plates also had no registration.
His better half disappeared. So did his closet space, his refrigerator, his
bed, and his family room. He was officially homeless now. It began to leak
into his appearance. He stopped shaving. His jeans smelled. He sat in the
office, diminished and mostly wordless. Where were the folded shirts? How
did he get from here to there? Where did he sleep? He wouldn't tell.
Thanksgiving came. He refused to consider a shelter - too many people.
Besides, he had accommodations, he said. He wouldn't tell us where.
December came. On a morning with frost, when we worried out loud, he finally
told us that he slept on the steps of a certain church every night and
stashed his sleeping bag and a suitcase in the shrubbery during the day. He
would not tell which church it was, though.
Christmas arrived. He brought the receptionist a floral arrangement and
enough Eternity to fill a tub. His appointment was his only party. We
explained that we could not accept the gifts. It defied policy. He thought
for a minute, ''What about a fruit basket?'' he said.
That afternoon, on his way out, he made a decision. Looking around to the
corners of the room for unwelcome ears and to the ceiling for technology, he
lowered his voice and named a church on a nearby side street. It was a
larger gift than the fruit basket.
A storm began the night before New Year's Eve. I was at a dinner party. Snow
fell so sweetly outside the warm windows that some overseeing director
needed to shout ''cut'' before it slid into caricature.
I started to think about him during the appetizers. I could picture him, now
that I knew where he was, sitting on his church steps, cobbling together the
four food groups from the Store 24, and peering at NASDAQ values in
snowlight.
By the end of the first course, an inch was on the ground, and by dessert,
the storm was the most important guest at the table. People began to talk
about the road conditions and gathered their coats. A plough hummed outside.
I drove home by feet instead of miles. When it was time to turn right toward
my house, the car skidded slightly and turned left toward the church near
the clinic. He had trusted me with his address. No one else in the world
knew where he was right now. He might be freezing. Driving by was not like
peering into the shower curtain of his car; it was an obligation of care.
Men with special powers died on nights like this.
I didn't know what I would do when I found him. I couldn't let him sleep in
my car. The clinic was closed. He wouldn't go to a shelter. People were his
enemy, and hospitals were frightening. There was no plan. I would need to go
on inspiration.
I skidded past the church once, twice, three times. The place was pure with
snow, entirely undisturbed. There were no footprints and no shapes under the
bushes. The steps were not only empty, but much too narrow for a bed. It
would have been impossible to sleep there in any season.
The following Tuesday he arrived for his appointment in a bitter mood. A new
year was nothing to celebrate.
''Trust no one,'' he said. ''There's no such thing as a friend.'' We sat
together, thinking about it.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.
This story ran on page A27 of the Boston Globe on 12/28/2001.
--------------------------------------------------------
**In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this
material is distributed without charge or profit to
those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving
this type of information for non-profit research and
educational purposes only.**
--------------------------------------------------------
-------End of forward-------
Morgan <[email protected]>
Morgan W. Brown
Montpelier Vermont USA
Friday, December 28, 2001
Boston Globe <http://www.boston.com/globe]
[Boston, Massachusetts]
Editorials/Opinions section
Opinion/Oped
A homeless man's gift
<http://www.boston.com/dailyglobe2/362/oped/A_homeless_man_s_gift+.shtml>
By Elissa Ely, 12/28/2001
ONE SUMMER DAY, a man with a diamond pinkie ring drove up in an immaculate
old Cadillac without license plates. ''I am people's bad dream,'' he said to
the clinic receptionist.
For eight months, he had been living out of his car - washing in a pond,
purchasing the balanced four food groups at the Store 24, and nursing The
Wall Street Journal through the day in parking lots throughout the city.
How had his life come to this? Over the next few months, the immaculate
Cadillac glided up to the clinic every Tuesday. Bits of history were
surgically removed from him, and the story, once amputated, sounded so
painful that it was easier not to believe.
He had been a white-collar professional, he told us, in the sciences. His
children went to private school. His daughter sang in a state choir. Then he
began to realize that he could make his neighbors sit and stand on his
silent will. It was a terrible power, and he was resented for it. First his
boss antagonized him, then his coworkers antagonized him, then everyone
antagonized him. He got into many white-collar fist fights. He lost his job.
His wife left. ''I became a marked man,'' he said. After that, the only
strategy was to avoid human contact. People could not be trusted.
Each week the Cadillac waited patiently outside my office window for 50
minutes. It was like his better half, a miracle of management. From my
window I could see shirts folded on the back seat, and water bottles stacked
on the floor where soda cans go to die. I wondered about the trunk and glove
compartment - a microwave? A wine cellar? - but looking out the clinic
window felt like peering through a shower curtain. The curiosity was too
personal.
On a fall day, the city police caught him between parking lots and
discovered that the car that had no license plates also had no registration.
His better half disappeared. So did his closet space, his refrigerator, his
bed, and his family room. He was officially homeless now. It began to leak
into his appearance. He stopped shaving. His jeans smelled. He sat in the
office, diminished and mostly wordless. Where were the folded shirts? How
did he get from here to there? Where did he sleep? He wouldn't tell.
Thanksgiving came. He refused to consider a shelter - too many people.
Besides, he had accommodations, he said. He wouldn't tell us where.
December came. On a morning with frost, when we worried out loud, he finally
told us that he slept on the steps of a certain church every night and
stashed his sleeping bag and a suitcase in the shrubbery during the day. He
would not tell which church it was, though.
Christmas arrived. He brought the receptionist a floral arrangement and
enough Eternity to fill a tub. His appointment was his only party. We
explained that we could not accept the gifts. It defied policy. He thought
for a minute, ''What about a fruit basket?'' he said.
That afternoon, on his way out, he made a decision. Looking around to the
corners of the room for unwelcome ears and to the ceiling for technology, he
lowered his voice and named a church on a nearby side street. It was a
larger gift than the fruit basket.
A storm began the night before New Year's Eve. I was at a dinner party. Snow
fell so sweetly outside the warm windows that some overseeing director
needed to shout ''cut'' before it slid into caricature.
I started to think about him during the appetizers. I could picture him, now
that I knew where he was, sitting on his church steps, cobbling together the
four food groups from the Store 24, and peering at NASDAQ values in
snowlight.
By the end of the first course, an inch was on the ground, and by dessert,
the storm was the most important guest at the table. People began to talk
about the road conditions and gathered their coats. A plough hummed outside.
I drove home by feet instead of miles. When it was time to turn right toward
my house, the car skidded slightly and turned left toward the church near
the clinic. He had trusted me with his address. No one else in the world
knew where he was right now. He might be freezing. Driving by was not like
peering into the shower curtain of his car; it was an obligation of care.
Men with special powers died on nights like this.
I didn't know what I would do when I found him. I couldn't let him sleep in
my car. The clinic was closed. He wouldn't go to a shelter. People were his
enemy, and hospitals were frightening. There was no plan. I would need to go
on inspiration.
I skidded past the church once, twice, three times. The place was pure with
snow, entirely undisturbed. There were no footprints and no shapes under the
bushes. The steps were not only empty, but much too narrow for a bed. It
would have been impossible to sleep there in any season.
The following Tuesday he arrived for his appointment in a bitter mood. A new
year was nothing to celebrate.
''Trust no one,'' he said. ''There's no such thing as a friend.'' We sat
together, thinking about it.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.
This story ran on page A27 of the Boston Globe on 12/28/2001.
--------------------------------------------------------
**In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this
material is distributed without charge or profit to
those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving
this type of information for non-profit research and
educational purposes only.**
--------------------------------------------------------
-------End of forward-------
Morgan <[email protected]>
Morgan W. Brown
Montpelier Vermont USA
- Thread starter
- #7
The side of us we don't like to see
By Elissa Ely | July 30, 2006
RECENTLY, IN FRONT of a bread bakery that carries an excellent semolina....A van with Southern plates and a half ``Gone Fishing" bumper sticker was double-parked next to my car. I waited...
...
``It's gonna be another 30 seconds. You can't wait?" she said.
``I can't get out," I said.
``You're so important?"
By double-parking in front of someone in a bakery, instead of someone at the start of a double feature, she had run into bad luck...
...
Under similar circumstances, a Zen master might have laughed at...you don't want the world to see you buck naked.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. The side of us we don't like to see - The Boston Globe
By Elissa Ely | July 30, 2006
RECENTLY, IN FRONT of a bread bakery that carries an excellent semolina....A van with Southern plates and a half ``Gone Fishing" bumper sticker was double-parked next to my car. I waited...
...
``It's gonna be another 30 seconds. You can't wait?" she said.
``I can't get out," I said.
``You're so important?"
By double-parking in front of someone in a bakery, instead of someone at the start of a double feature, she had run into bad luck...
...
Under similar circumstances, a Zen master might have laughed at...you don't want the world to see you buck naked.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. The side of us we don't like to see - The Boston Globe
- Thread starter
- #9
what are you trying to say???
i dint get it,, all you have said is that people always well tailored train??
Similar threads
- Replies
- 11
- Views
- 209
Latest Discussions
- Replies
- 7
- Views
- 39
- Replies
- 75
- Views
- 343
- Replies
- 142
- Views
- 1K
- Replies
- 33
- Views
- 99
Forum List
-
-
-
-
-
Political Satire 8037
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
ObamaCare 781
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
Member Usernotes 468
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-