Gallimaufry

   Lately it seems I've been giving this blog something of a cloacal theme, so I thought I'd feature a photo of a toilet from the men's room in the Kohler Art Museum (Sheboygan, Wisconsin).  I wrote about the museum on 9-14-2010.  The entire room, walls, sinks, urinals is similarly decorated.  There are five other restrooms in the museum, each decorated with a different theme.  The museum itself still ranks as one of the high-lights from that car trip.

   But to the point of this blog:  Several times and several different people have wondered about the photo I use on my facebook page -- the one of me in a Viking helmet, horns turned down.  I bought the helmet on the same car trip as the Kohler, but at a later date in Kensington, Minn: home of the Kensington Runestone (a faux Viking relic)  Apparently the good folks in Kensington, and perhaps all of Minnesota, believe the runestone is real.  You might think it unlikely a whole city, let alone a state, would be so gullible -- But the fine folks there also elected Michele (Crazy Eyes) Bachmann and Tim (I'm going to save the USA from the heathen liberals! -- Oh, -- Well -- Never mind!) Pawlenty.  So properly parsing out the Minnesota belief system might not be possible.

   So dw and I visited the Official Runestone Gift Shop where I found the helmet.  I hesitated a bit, but finally bought it.  (the pic is for anyone who hasn't noticed the facebook pic).  Later, as dw was driving,  I found the horns are not only removable they are reversible so for the rest of the trip we used the horny positions as an indication of the appeal of any particular site.  Two horns up (good!). One up, one down (so-so). And two down, not so great.  This specific picture was taken at a field of sand dunes in eastern Idaho and was actually two horns way down.

   Since I started writing this blog I've been looking at other blogs.  Most are commercial or not worth looking at (in my opinion), but I've been surprised at the amount of interesting writing available on the web.  A couple I've been reading:  Other Men's Flowers (http://omf.blogspot.com) -- written by Tony (who commented about my P.C. Wren bit -- thanks)  He's a few years older than me, frequently funny, occasionally dyspeptic and always enjoyable.  Another is "Attack Of The Redneck Mommy" written by a young woman about her life as a mother and other -- Also consistently amusing  (I don't have an address for her blog --- the title should work).   (while I'm writing about blogging -- thanks for the greeting Laurie)
  
    To continue on the subject of modern communications:  A few days ago a nephew-in-law -- (is there such a thing? -- he's married to one of my nieces so we're some sort of relations) -- Joe H. -- posted a simple cypher on facebook, (in support of the U.S. Armed Forces) and suggested his readers  cut and paste and post it -- A reasonable thought but I pointed out that cutting and pasting was unlikely to happen on my watch (I'm not a Luddite but my motto web-wise and other is KISS -- keep it simple stupid) On return post Joe did a short tutorial (apparently I too can cut and paste) but mentioned the task is more difficult with an iphone.  As if -- a different young friend (Alan M.) -- said my cell phone is the equivalent of a tricycle with training wheels.  Ha!! Take that Steve Jobs.

Books:  Finished "Life" (Keith Richards) -- There's a long boring section in the last half when he writes about his drug-addled period.  Boring, particularly since he periodically insists he didn't kill himself because of his wise use of drugs.  He really doesn't acknowledge that he's still alive just because of dumb stupid luck.  And there's a lot of "I played with this guy, or that gal or her or him" -- not interesting to me but others might find it so.  And so it goes.  DA


    

Home Entertainment

     The toilet paper (or tissue paper if you're delicate) core collection started some years ago.   About fifteen years ago, for Christmas, our oldest grandson gave us (at the behest of his mother)  the garden statue of a boy with a bird.  Shane A. didn't think we would want it and was embarrassed about giving it, but what could he do? -- His mother thought it was a great idea or at least thought it was an adequate idea.  And Shane was right, the statue wasn't to our taste, but what could we do?  One certainly doesn't dis a Christmas present, particularly one from a six year old, so we stuck it in the downstairs bathroom until we could figure out a place for it.  After a few weeks, I added white and pupils to the statue's eyes so it appeared to be looking at a person who was sitting doing his or her business.
   After a few more weeks dw and I started decorating the statue by bandaging it with paper, making a hat from a paper roll,  giving it a paper scarf and so on.  At one point someone (I think it was Dan -- younger son) who gave it the leggings.  Following a period of increasing escalation and saving the paper cores for later inspiration, we started noting the date, time, weather  and anything of interest on each roll core as it appeared.  For a time we just stacked the cores until a year ago when we started hanging them.   It should be noted that any legitimate use for the actual paper is fair.  It needn't be of a scatological nature.  (I got to label one core when I used the paper to wipe off an oil-paint brush)  Some of our friends think we should get out more. 

   Yesterday was my birthday (Hurrah, Happy Birthday to Me!) and dw surprised me with a present.  We don't ordinarily do much for birthdays, a card and a "Happy Birthday"  (and if anyone is feeling sarcastic:  "You're how old now?  Wow!!") commonly is the extent of the celebration.  So the gift -- discovered when I went to get milk for my morning coffee -- was quite a surprise.  Now, as a creamer it's sort of gross, and it drips so it really needs a very tiny nursing bra but I think it's great.  dw knows and shares my taste for the outre'.  (It's made by a local potter -- Mudshark Studios)
   And in the afternoon we met friends for light dinner -- Largely for a going away dinner as they're leaving for their annual half-year sojourn teaching at Stanford.  A pleasant day.

   The house painting is coming along.  The actual painting has started and the end is in sight if still a ways away.  

   Books:  "Life" (Keith Richards with James Fox)  It's to his credit that Richards gives prominent credit to Fox.  Usually celebrities like to pretend they actually wrote their autobiography.  The book starts with an account of his arrest in Arkansas for drug possession (he beat the rap) and I feared the worst.  I think a chronicle of "I get drunk and do drugs and therefore I'm wonderful" is really boring.  But Richards doesn't take that path.  Periodically he mentions using drugs but it isn't the center of his story.  I'm finding it very interesting  -- it's mostly a tale of how he came to music and how he keeps working at and exploring music.  I've always liked the Stones, but I think even a non-fan, if interested in how an artist works, would find the book interesting.  -- An irrelevant aside:  the copy I'm reading is a library book -- large print edition (it was the only copy available) Large print -- you could get carpal tunnel from having to turn the pages so often.    DA

Home Maintenance

   I haven't written anything recently because we're in the process of painting the house and I've put in ten hour days for the last week.  Oldest son Sean has been rebuilding the storm windows and grandsons Shane and Josh have been helping with the actual paint job.  (Youngest son Dan works swing shift and his hours aren't compatible with the rest of us).  So far our time has been largely spent pressure-washing, scraping and sanding with the occasional foray into Git-Rot and Bondo.  Thankfully all of that is nearly done and we've actually started painting.
   The front gable is the most inaccessible part of the building and after I set up the scaffold (it's more secure than it looks) dw wanted to give it a try.  -- dw wants to put it on record that a sit-harness adds a good 15 pounds to a person's appearance (for me that ship has sailed) --  So dw spent a couple of hours getting some climbing exposure.  -- I was up there yesterday afternoon --  We both use a safety rope and a Gibbs ascender that I dug out of my pile of long-unused climbing stuff --
   I took the day off and  ran some errands:  Renewed my driver's license (including a new photo -- surprisingly,  it's not awful)  And since my car wouldn't start this morning, I jump-started it and drove to a battery place.  Of course it needed a new battery.  After the running around I spent the day reading. 

   When she's not on a scaffold, dw is a skilled health-care professional.  A few days ago in the course of a discussion (between the two of us) regarding health-care costs, she mentioned a place where she once worked that, as a matter of course, gave 100% oxygen to post-operation patients.  She thinks the procedure was a waste of time and money with no real health benefit.  I, however, think that the practice is a definitive explanation for the problem of SHC.  -- Spontaneous Human Combustion -- A mysterious malady where people burst into flames and keep combusting until they're charcoal.  But if someone inhales pure oxygen and then tries to light a fart:  Presto!  Bubba Brulee.

Books:  Other than the newspaper I've been too busy to read much, but I have started "Lost Discoveries" (Dick Teresi).  Blurb:  The ancient roots of modern science -- from the Babylonians to the Maya --- Which  summarizes the book.  It's interesting but the author spends way too much time erecting straw men to knock over.  (OMG, India or somebody invented the zero way before the prideful Europeans thought of it!)  It's good enough to pass the time.  DA
  

Holy Toast

   It has come to my attention that dw doesn't care for Sundays.  Even though, as she puts it, her family didn't go to church on Sundays -- or any other day, for that matter.  Some might say that church-going could improve Sundays (Kate G. suggested that a simple genuflection in front of our Toasted Virgin would be a good substitute for church) but I think her ennui is caused by a strong sense of unrealized Sunday Potential.  We could do nearly anything on Sundays:  A short car trip,  A hike in the Columbia Gorge, Visit friends or relatives, do any number of things in Portland -- but come the day we seldom do any of the above.  dw will usually visit a friend (skipping the chance to pop in and visit a stranger) and I thoroughly read the paper, work up a good case of umbrage, and give the paper a hard shake which satisfies my need for excitement.  
   But back to the Madonna Col Butter:  The painting in the background is an older work of mine -- called by Sean A. (oldest son) The Sunny Side Up Egg.  It's actual title is "Fall Sunset", or "Apocalypse Then", or "What? It Was The Sixties!"  It's hanging outside to add some interest to a dull section of fence, and the Virgin On Toast was a later improvement.  I haven't previously written about the Miracle Of The Toast because I worry that our back yard will become a pilgrimage site and I'll have a continuous job of shooing away people crawling through the alley -- giving each a crumb from the Blessed Loaf, the very origin of the Holy Mother of Baked Flour And Yeast.  (It's called Wonder Bread for a reason).  But to enliven our Sundays I am now sharing our own  Miracle Of The GE Toaster.  Please call for an appointment if you need to share the Awesome Buttered Madonna.

   In my last post, I wrote of Peninsula Park and the several hundred rose bushes.  I checked and there are 10,000 rose bushes -- each a different variety.  No wonder the scent is so strong. 

   Books:  I finished Mark Twain's Autobiography -- or finished the part he actually wrote or dictated.  There are several hundred pages of notes and appendices which I largely skipped.  I enjoyed as much as I read but, to be truthful, the hundreds of pages of scholarly research was more than I am interested in.  I'm now reading "Napoleon's Buttons" (Penny Le Couteur & Jay Burreson) -- A collection of essays about "17 molecules that changed history" (the sub-title).  They write about such things as tobacco and caffeine and pepper.  It's a good read.  DA

  

The Smell of Roses

   My usual bike route whether to and from the gym, returning from downtown or returning from most locations south and east in town, passes Peninsula Park.  It's one of the city's older parks and the site of Portland's original rose test garden.  This time of year when many of the rose bushes (there are a hundred or so varieties and five or six hundred plants)  are in bloom, the area for a couple of blocks around smells of roses.  It's remarkably pleasant.  The scent isn't the cloying aroma of too much perfume but is light and refreshing.  Each time I pass the park I think of a large rose bush from somewhere in my youth -- Probably the lumber camp where I grew up and where my mother, who loved flowers, devoted much time and energy to her flower garden.  When we three kids got a bit older we went on regular excursions to find and transplant bushes and flowers from the forest to our yard. 
   (The tiger lily photo is from Forest Park.  I don't think our mother would have taken any plants from an actual established park, but anywhere else was fair game.  If they had been outside of a park, those lilies would have been dug up -- using our fingernails if necessary -- before anyone could have said "Aren't those pretty.", and replanted in our yard where they would have been far prettier)
   Another, less pleasant memory, comes with the smell of diesel smoke -- evoking my high-school summers -- which I spent loading hay bales, throwing hay bales, stacking hay bales, chopping (grinding the hay into bits -- cattle and sheep will eat a lower quality of hay when it's ground up) the hay -- all the while being hot, sweaty, covered with hay dust and inhaling diesel fumes -- and commonly surrounded by rutting sheep,  which was very frustrating to a teenage boy who wasn't getting any --   Such fun it was.   Proust had it wrong to my mind.  It isn't the taste of madeleine with tea that brings memories, but the smell of them.

   Dredging up memories reminds me:  for the last few days I've been trying to remember this WWII ditty and today I finally Googled it.
(to the tune of Colonel Bogey's March)

Goring has only got one ball
Hitler has two but very small
Himmler has something similar
And Goebbels has no balls at all

Still reading Mark Twain's Autobiography.  DA