MULTI-TASKING

 Most people have hobbies. Some, such as taking afternoon naps, can be immensely rewarding, though if you snore probably not for others. Some, such as carving garden gnomes out of soap, are merely temporarily rewarding if you live in a rainy climate because, even if you use Ivory Soap, the dissolving soap will look lopsided and pathetic and then damage your garden. Even so, in spite of the social and artistic hazards, I have hobbies: 

I have more hobbies than I can shake a stick at (a hobby I've abandoned) but the two I practice most are walking and sneezing: they work very well together. If you're civilized (a hobby I sporadically practice) you really can't have a good sneeze in public, you have to stifle it and it feels like your head is exploding; you have to cover your mouth with a tissue or handkerchief and you just get a "AAAsnuphh" which isn't satisfying at all ---- But when you're walking on an empty path or sidewalk, you can just let it rip with a satisfying explosion and spray and not worry about appearances at all. You let the world know: I'm Sneezing!! and the world can be damned.  

Three days ago, near the end of an easy walk (a few miles, nearly level) I was next to a long six foot high, solid boarded fence when I sneezed: It was a magnificent sneeze, a solid nine out of ten, and it inspired three dogs on the other side of the fence. They started vigorously barking, trying (a good attempt, but still failing) to match the vigor of my sneeze. I'm not skilled at translating dog talk, but I'm sure they were blessing me "Gesundheit!!" I courteously (another sporadic hobby) thanked them. They sounded like schnauzers. I finished my walk, invigorated and pleased,  Then I took a nap. 

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Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. Groucho Marx (?)

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Estornudo (Spanish) -- now there's a proper sneeze. It calls to mind a tornado, a storm; just like a proper sneeze should. ***       Nysa (Swedish) -- I'm a quarter Swede, but what's up with this? This isn't a real sneeze, this is what a new-born baby might do; a baby who hasn't figured out he or she doesn't need to be cross eyed. Naturally a proper sneeze is beyond a little baby, but come on Sweden, once you conquered most of Northern Europe and Russia, you can do better. ***        Knxahe (Bulgarian) --- Huh? They don't actually sneeze in Bulgaria? ***        Teshtij (Albanian) -- A reasonable effort, but stifling at the end needs to go; the country isn't under the thumb of Stalin (or his heirs) any more, so take my advice and just let it rip! ***        Eternuer French (Canada) -- I guess they don't actually sneeze in Canada. I've been to Canada multiple times and now that I mention it, I have never heard a Canadian sneeze. 

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Morosophist:  An ignorant person who thinks he knows it all. 

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You can't make everyone happy. What do you think you are? Tequila? 

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And so it goes. 

Once Upon A Time

My sister Rosemary A./Jeanette D./Glennie B./Me/ My brother Jim A./Fred D. Occasionally another kid would move in, then out, but we were the regulars. 

     As quite a young lad (see photo) I lived in a logging camp sited at the West edge of the Cascade Mountains, between farm and forest. We didn't have Mounties but we did have a choker setter who worked naked except for caulk boots and a hard hat; we had a blacksmith who would pick up, with his bare fingers, a hot coal from his forge to light his pipe; thanks to a local farmer, we had a free range herd of cattle with a bull who regularly tried to kill us. It was a great place to grow up.

  Living in the country, occasionally we all had interesting events -- since I was the youngest of the bunch my events were often solo events. I had my own real hatchet (steel head, wooden handle) which I used to nearly chop off a finger and which I was going to use to whang Lonnie in the head; I was thwarted by my mother -- just as well I suppose, but he totally deserved it. *

    An irrigation ditch ran on the other side of the gravel access road. My brother used the ditch to try and drown me. Later I used the ditch water to put out a fire which I had started while playing forest fire. I learned early on that some adventures are more fun in thought than in deed. 

   

* ( I have a major question about this: Why did I have the hatchet? As I recall my parents weren't blase' about murder and self-amputation. I didn't try to kill Lonnie and cut off my finger at the same time, so there are two possibilities: 1 -- I tried to cut off my finger and my parents thought: "Well, the young lad has seven more fingers and two thumbs and he's unlikely to chop all of them off so he can keep his hatchet" Then I tried to kill Lonnie, they decided I wasn't a reliable hatchet wielder, and the hatchet was taken away. or 2 -- I tried to kill Lonnie and they thought: "Well, the young lad didn't actually kill Lonnie (even though Lonnie is obnoxious). But our boy probably won't try to murder anyone else, so he can keep his hatchet." Then I tried to cut off a finger and they thought: " The kid has seven more fingers and two thumbs -- if he tries to chop them all off it'll cost us a fortune in medical bills getting him stitched back together -- We'd better take away his hatchet!" so they did. There are no other explanations for the hatchet.

The young "hatchet man" after an adventure gone awry. I'm sure my mother didn't send me out wearing a ragged play suit -- I must have torn the suit during my adventure. 

Our logging camp was right at the edge of the mountains. Logging was "up the hill" (My Dad: "Yeah, I have to go up the hill tomorrow and work on that miserable Skagit" -- My dad was the millwright for the logging operation.) Except for logging trucks thundering down a road 50 yards from the housing, and other equipment moving up or down the hill. actual logging, including the noise, was never part of camp. But the hills and mountains of "up the hill" started at the very east end of camp: climb over the fence and you started climbing the hills. 

One hill in particular always fascinated me. It was much like every other hill (or mountain if you will) that reached up just east of us. Snow Peak. It looked like everything else up there. It wasn't particularly higher. It would get snow, but so did everything else, including camp. There was nothing to distinguish it. It was always: "You, know that hill just to the right of Snow Peak." "That thing just this side of Snow Peak." and so on. Why did Snow Peak warrant a name, but nothing else did? Why was it so special? I began to doubt that it actually was named Snow Peak -- that the name "Snow Peak" was just a local fable -- less interesting than the Dunkelberger Gravel Bar, or Sasquatch And The Bear -- just a boring fable. (this opinion is sort of confirmed because "Snow Peak" doesn't earn an entry in Oregon Geographic Names a 1000 page tome.)

I pondered the problem while we lived there, but when we moved I largely forgot about it. The Snow Peak problem went to a back burner, then off the stove and into a cupboard, then into the basement where it gathered dust until a few months ago when I came into Facebook contact with Jeanette D. and Fred D. (in the top photo -- they're both older now). My interest in Snow Peak was re-awakened and I suggested to dw that we have a short and mild adventure -- find it, drive as close as possible, and climb it. 

Snow Peak-- Picture taken a couple of miles west of where camp was (camp is long gone)

     So we did. I tried to find information on the web -- essentially there isn't any. One site: "Drive to the gate and park (don't block the road) --- and so to summit". Oregon Atlas & Gazetteer is reasonably detailed and it shows many roads, with little indication if any of them are passable in a small car. I bought a copy of the appropriate Big Sky Maps (AKA guesstimap) which had more detail but still no clue re: driveability. The area is festooned with roads, but nearly all of them are old logging roads (some still active), and nearly all of them are impassable except with a big 4-wheel drive rig -- many are blocked with a log or two barring entry -- our Toyota sedan is a fine car but not much of a brush/rock busting vehicle.  We chose two possible access roads and decided to wing it 

    After waiting two weeks for a break in the fall rains, we drove to Stayton (an easy hour and a half drive), made several wrong turns, found the proper access road, and started up the hill. The road was paved, if narrow, and we indeed found the gate, which was closed and posted "No Trespassing" but not locked. We could have parked and started up, but round trip would have been eight+ miles and since I was being annoyed with plantar fasciitis that seemed too far. We needed to rethink. On our way out we stopped and talked with a young man who was working on a generator (his house was off the grid by miles) He told us there was another road on the other side of Neal Creek which might work,  

"Just cross that bridge that's a mile or so back there. I started to drive up there once but it's real narrow so I just turned around. Good luck though."

    The road is very narrow. Strictly one lane with occasional places where vehicles could pass. It is paved though. This first day was a reconnoiter day and we drove to a fork where the pavement ended; one fork went up hill (totally impassable -- a parked giant four wheel drive pickup didn't try it); the other fork seemed to be a good gravel road (again very narrow) heading down hill. We started walking to see if the uphill branch would work. After only two hundred yards we met three hunters. A nice trio: father, uncle, and son. The son was 35 or so. The father and son were hikers and the son had climbed (hiked into) Snow Peak -- we had really lucked out. He gave us precise directions, knew how far the walk is (one mile), noted the rock scramble at the summit -- and just like that we knew where to go and how long it would take.  

    We returned to Stayton, poked around a bit (two art galleries with decent displays but nothing exciting), a good bookstore (library castoffs but a nice selection) manned by a VERY chatty volunteer, a brew pub with good beer but no food, however a regular food truck came in the afternoon (we returned at five for dinner and a pint) and a tired motel a mile north of town. 

Snow Peak Brew Pub -- we  had to stop here. 

The Snow Peak porter was very good, the IPA was just OK, too hoppy in my opinion. The burger and fries from the food wagon (The Runaway) were surprisingly good. 

   

That night in the motel room (inspired by the room) we began reminiscing about some of the bad rooms we've stayed in during our travels and the bad food we've experienced (a cafe in Rome where we hung around outside warning people away -- a cafe in SE Oregon where the catsup bottle was clogged with mold -- for some examples) Finally dw said: "Why don't we talk about some good things?" 

    "Well," I said, "The linens in this room are clean and there don't seem to be any fleas or bedbugs. The carpet needs a good vacuuming but the blood stain is small and I could hide it with my boot. It doesn't smell -- or only a little -- and it's quiet. We've done much worse." In all we had a good night's sleep. 

   Next morning we drove to the trail head (an easy hour), did the mile hike, the short rock scramble, and so to summit. Snow Peak is the high point of an extinct shield volcano rim just on the West edge of the Cascade Range. The view is stunning. In spite of some haze and left over forest fire smoke, we could see Mt. Adams (possibly Mt. Rainier) south to the Three Sisters. On a clear day I'm sure we could have seen Crater Lake rim and perhaps further south to Mt. McLoughlin. We could see across the Willamette Valley to the Coast Range -- it's a wonderful short hike. We were exhilarated. 

    

    We hiked out and drove home -- with a mild disappointment (for me) at Mt. Angel -- site of Oregon's largest Octoberfest. I wanted a bratwurst and spaetzle but nothing was available. Sigh. In all a mild low-key adventure but we really enjoyed it. 

Start of the trail

Scramble to the summit

Part of the foundation for the long gone fire lookout

Scramble to the summit

Oh me of little faith -- it really is Snow Peak

The view North -- The other side of the crater rim

Mt. Jefferson

Summit, and view West

On the top

from "Ithaka" -- C.P. Cavafy

     Hope your road is a long one. 

     May there be many summer mornings, when

     with what pleasure, what joy

     you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time --

Aristotle:   Bald people are not mutilated (I'm not bald but this is still good to know)

Because they frequently contain botulism, if you eat, in a few hours, 1400 Slim Jims -- it can kill you. I'm not convinced that it would be the botulism that kills you. 

And speaking of food: (from Twitter) A serious question: if someone is telling me a sad story and crying, how long should I wait before I take a bit of my corn dog?

And so it goes. 

But I Digress

---- The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
------
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
------
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:

------

Four other Oysters followed them,
And  yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more --
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing-wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot --
And whether pigs have wings."

     Our first thought was indeed to walk along the sea, but without the Oysters -- Neither of us are oyster fans. Wretched things, oysters,  and the thought of slurping down a raw oyster is disgusting. Humankind spent a few million years trying to discover fire and now certain people choose to revert many millions of years and eat raw oysters -- secretly delighting in tiny burbling oyster screams as the poor things slide down gaping maws. --- But I digress.

We've been walking a lot lately, covering and re-covering North and Northeast Portland (with an occasional foray into Southeast and Southwest) and repeated trips into Forest Park. Frankly it has become boring, and we look for interest wherever we can find it.
     "Which way did you walk?"
     "Ainsworth to Denver, then I zig-zagged over to Alberta and Williams, and etc., etc."
     "Did you see anything interesting?"
     "Well, letmethink --- No."
And so it goes, with some occasional variety:

The other day as I walked past an elementary school, I saw a group of 6 year olds playing some sort of game with a large piece of multi-colored nylon. As I came abreast I heard their leader (a 13 or 14 year old) say: "Lets put the tent away, and then we'll play Red Rover." A little girl plaintively replied: "I don't know Red Rover."

Not to brag, but I could have told her all about Red Rover. I could have chilled her little heart with tales of Red Rover, for we played Red Rover when I was in elementary school. My school was one room (later expanding to two) with the normal age range of 6 to 14, except the school drew from a logging and a farming community which were largely transient so there were many kids who had moved from school to school too often and been held back, so the age range expanded to 16 or 18 or 23 or so it seemed.
     For anyone who doesn't know Red Rover, the rules are simple: Players are divided into two teams. Each side holds hands in a line, the lines separated by 20 feet, and in turn, the captains would say: "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jimmy right over." And little Jimmy, legs churning, would dash between the lines, bash into the other side, and attempt to break through. If he succeeded, he would choose an opponent and both would return to Jimmy's original side. If he failed to break through, he would join the other side. The goal was for one team to capture all of the other players.
     Strategy is complex: If the captain calls for little Jimmy to come over, there's a good chance Jimmy will be captured -- however he'll also be a weak link, introducing the chance to lose a 24 year old. Eventually all the "big" kids will be on one side (Unless it's necessary, no captain would ever say: "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Bubba right over.") but in the end the Big Kid would be called and he, or she, --- at 28 and muscled from gnawing down trees, would come roaring between the lines. Bashing into a line of cowering 6 and 7 year olds, flinging them about like tiny tenpins, ricocheting off the outhouse and flying into the blackberry thicket. --- That was Red Rover.
    We didn't always play Red Rover. Another popular game didn't have a name, but could have been called: "Fling the little kid into Roaring River" A corner of the school yard had a modest grove of Douglas Fir trees, one of which had a large, long and thick branch which came close enough to the ground that a Big Kid could jump up and grab it. Several would then pull it to one side, a Little Kid would climb on, cling as tightly as possible -- the Big Kids would let it loose and the Little Kid would get a low-budget carnival ride --- If the Little Kid didn't hold on tightly enough he would be flung into a nearby fir trunk, or perhaps fly down the hill toward Roaring River. It was very exciting.
     Also exciting but in a different way (and in truth frowned upon by adults) was "Mumbly-Peg", or "Stretch-em" -- a game involving pocket knives. The players would stand three feet apart, throw, and try to stick their knife into the ground. In turn, each player would throw the knife near his own foot: the goal was to stick your knife into the ground as close as possible to your foot; and wherever the knife stuck, you would move your foot next to it. Your feet would get farther and farther apart -- the loser would be the one who couldn't move his feet any farther apart or who fell over. If you actually stuck the knife in your foot, you won. Adults didn't like the game because it could damage shoes. (yes, we did carry pocket knives to school -- some (dw) have claimed the knives were used to sharpen quill pens but that isn't true)
     My sister will (I am sure) verify that this is all sort of true. But I digress.

dw and I decided we would walk another Camino, and we've been training. We considered the Northern Route -- along the Bay of Biscay (too hilly, and perhaps too urban), The Portuguese Route -- along the Atlantic (the first half from Lisbon seems highly urban and industrial -- not pleasant), and after consideration we decided to walk the Via de la Plata. We won't walk the entire route, instead we'll start at Merida -- still walking about 500 miles -- certainly sufficient for us. The route follows, and is about 50 to 100 miles east of the Portugal/Spain border. It will be different from the other two we've walked. The Via de la Plata is much less traveled and passes through a more lightly populated region. It'll be interesting.


Some  sights in our walking area:

JOKES: Plateau -- the highest form of flattery.

How do you think the unthinkable?
   With an ithberg.


TRIVIA:  Odin rode an 8-legged horse, which will be eaten by a wolf at the end of the world. So the wolf will be eating a hairy, meadow-muffin producing centipede.

When he played Micawber in "David Copperfield", W.C. Fields insisted on including a juggling scene. The studio heads vetoed the idea, noting that Dickens made no mention of juggling in the book.
     "He probably forgot." replied Fields.
When that idea failed, he suggested that after the funeral of Copperfield's mother, Fields should do his pool table act while telling a story about a snake. That idea was also vetoed, but it certainly would have made a different movie.

---------  And so it goes. DJA --------

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

I believe many people are interested in what actors earn: I did a quick calculation, and as an extra on "Portlandia" -- ignoring carried over earned interest, debentures, and the P/E ratio -- and assuming I can get a similar role every week, I'll be a millionaire in 300 years.
  
The appropriate theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BObK59njSg

I saw a brief news article which mentioned that extras were being hired for "Portlandia". I have watched and enjoyed the show a few times, even though we don't have cable -- and I thought I had a good idea of what being an extra would entail -- and I was sort of correct: but it was more boring than I anticipated.
     I went online, filled out the form with the requested head shot and a full length shot, and to my surprise was notified within a week that a slot was available if I wanted it. After another three days, the agent told me of the time and place and said I should wear business casual. And paying close attention to that was a mistake, I would have been better off if I had gone for a bit of a scruffy look, and worn my beret -- which I considered but decided against.

The episode I was in will air sometime between January and March -- it is possibly episode number three in the new season -- the particular skit concerns a 90's vegan restaurant (we were requested not to reveal any particulars)

I arrived at the extra assembly point at 1PM but being on time wouldn't have mattered much, as I didn't get called to the actual shooting location until about 6PM (but being on time is always good) First we filled out normal new employee paperwork (SS#, tax stuff) which surprised me as I assumed the extras would be considered contract people, responsible for their own taxes and withholding, and not as regular employees (much easier for the production company). I assume the difference is because of some union contract (as a good union guy, I'm not complaining) After that we were photographed by an assistant using a smart phone, and I'm sure the photos were sent to a woman ten feet away sitting in front of a laptop (probably the extra casting director).  After laptop mixing and matching and some modest costume changes (there were 16 extras) we were divided into three groups and again photographed.

The assembly area took up the parking spaces on two sides of the street: four 8X8 canopies (one with the laptop woman) a rented box van, five 3X8 folding tables with chairs, three motor homes (one with a bump out thing), each with a generator, and two port-a-pottys  -- for crew only -- except we extras ignored that sign -- the "crew only" bit was the only questionable thing I saw. Some of the extras (me, for one) were sitting there for 5 hours and we weren't supposed to pee?

At two PM we were told we could break for lunch (which was provided) at a nearby pizza place. We had to wait until the regular crew got their food (buffet style) which didn't bother me as they  probably had a limited amount of time. The food: good fresh salad stuff, a cashew tofu thing or a cashew chicken thing (both adequate), rice, fish, mixed fruit, and some cookie type things for dessert. It was all right.
    Then back to the waiting area with the four canopies (the woman was finished clicking away) and the box van with a bunch of unidentified stuff (sound? lights? scaffolding?) stacked in the box and two people sort of tucked in a corner, typing away doing who knows what. One of the motor homes was for costumes, the other two -- who knows -- the generators kept running, but no one came or went.
    Occasionally a pedestrian would walk by, generally ignoring us. Occasionally a pedestrian with a scruffy dog would walk by, also ignoring us except one of the scruffy dogs tried to pee on a chair (the dog was pulled away but still provided the highlight for that hour) --- excitement knew no bounds.
    (I expected the waiting, but I thought we would be able to watch the taping -- no such luck. But it did make sense: No one at the active location wanted a bunch of extras yakking in the background, or wandering around tripping over cables.)
   
The first group was called into action. Those of us left behind (me) felt dismayed and abandoned. Then the next group was called and the final four (me) really felt abandoned, ignored, and denied entry into the light. As a sop, we were told we could access the snack van (it looked much like one of those half size school buses) which was full of all of the snack stuff you would ever find in a 7-11, and more besides (for example: fifteen two quart size jars of candy: mints, taffy, chewy-gooey, chocolate bits etc.) I scored a Blue Bunny neapolitan ice cream sandwich, and a bottle of water, and returned a second time for a can of sparkling water. --- living large ---

Every ten or fifteen minutes a crew member would walk by, wearing a tool belt, ear buds, a small walky-talky radio, perhaps a roll of blue painters tape hanging on a hook.  We who were still waiting (me) would look up longingly, a haunted look in our (my) eyes. I considered organizing "Hey, gang! Let's put on a show!" but my lethargy was overwhelming. At last all our (my) hopes were gone, a crew guy walks by and no one looks up.  We (I) felt destined to forever be unused: cast into the dust bin of discarded extras -- sitting there --  mocked by two costume racks and the passing crew members.

The actual restaurant!

    And then we were called! There were four of us: A couple who were going to be parents of a college kid, the college kid, and me, who was going to be an old guy who dumps his young paramour. Alas, after I was seated in place, chatting with the quite attractive young woman, I was unceremoniously bumped -- moved over to a table where I was just some guy sitting talking with a different young woman. The first young woman was pretty and pleasant, but I could have dumped her standing on my head -- back when I was an actor I played a fair number of rats and cads. Oh well. Later in the scene I and a few other extras wandered back and forth in the background --- ideally, looking like we belonged there and ideally, looking non-goofy.

A few details: When I arrived, two guys were cutting to size and writing cue cards. I didn't see the cards again, but I suppose they were used before my group was called to action.
   The café had an appropriate 90's cigarette smokey look -- provided by some kind of smoke generator. I don't know what it was, but it didn't smell.
   Carrie Brownstein (also of Sleater-Kinney https://youtube.com/watch?v=itxAqoADuxM) looked great in a plum/purple pencil-skirt suit. (before I was bumped, she came up said: "Hi, how's it goin'?" and offered her hand. I shook it of course and said: "Very well, thank you.") 
   And lest anyone think I'm objectifying women with my comments about their appearances: Fred Armisen looked dashing in a plaid shirt, wig and soul patch. (Fred Armisen wasn't in my little scene. He was just hanging around in the background, off camera, his work done for the day) -- I think Armisen is still the musical director for "Late Night With Seth Meyers" I have no idea how he does both "Portlandia" and "Late Night". 
   The taping was done with two cameras, with a third seemingly unused. There was a monitor that showed the action live, and Brownstein used it to direct the parents and college kid as they were being taped. (I assume the sound is adjusted later) The director watches both the live action and the monitor, and with digital cameras, re-takes and small adjustments can be done immediately. For example, those of us wandering around for background color were wandering around too quickly so during another take we were told to wander more slowly. (showbiz!)
   I was surprised at how few lights were used -- digital requires less light than film, but they only used a few lights and a few reflectors.
   It was hot. It was a hot day and the crew put up fans but it was still hot.
   I think I would do it again. Boring though it was, there was enough interest for a repeat or two. 

 A POEM FOR TODAY:

For acting
 we are here,
 and it is true.
We have so many
 roles to play
 that are at times
 unimaginable.
And yet we are
 playing and
 we are acting
 to our best capacity.
We are the actor
We are the player
For a short time here.
     Gajanan Mishra

BOOKS: Paper (Mark Kurlansky) ---This is the fourth book by Kurlansky I've read. (I've also read: Salt, A World History; Cod - A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World; Birdseye: The Adventures Of A Curious Man) I've enjoyed them all, but Paper was my least favorite. It's a history of paper and printing and how they changed the world, and were changed by the world. There wasn't a lot was new to me, and that's probably why it's my least favorite of the four.
     A couple of tidbits: About 1490 Aldus Manutius starting printing and opened a book shop in Venice (among other things, he developed the italic type style as well as the modern semicolon and comma) A sign on the front of his shop read: "State your business briefly, and then immediately go away." --- Impractical, but I bet most shop keepers would sympathize.
     And: In 1477 William Claxton printed the first book printed in England. It was a book of sayings of philosophers that Anthony Woodville had translated from French -- Translated while he was walking the Camino de Santiago. When dw and I walked the Camino we just enjoyed the scenery and bitched about our feet. 

In Montramartre -- Picasso, Matisse and the Birth of Modernist Art (Sue Roe) Another interesting book about the artists, agents, collectors, and hangers-on, and how they interacted. Any young person who wants to be an artist should read this book. All those guys (and a few women) really worked at their art. There are few revelations but the book is well done and well organized. Roe does a very good job of balancing the stories of the different artists and their problems.

A WORD: Acnestis -- the part of the back which an animal cannot reach to scratch. In Denali National Park, some signs are heavily studded with nails -- the point sticking out. The Rangers did that because the grizzlies kept ruining the signs by leaning on them to scratch their backs. It wouldn't be natural, of course, but would it have killed the Park Service to put in a few heavy steel posts for the bears to use. I'll bet not a single bear has a "made in China" bamboo back scratcher. 

And so it goes. DJA

A Vacation In Mountain View

Some time ago our friends J&K G. lost their cat Beaner who was a very respectable age and who was too old to be saved even by a diet of French ham and pate' and drinking directly from a faucet. After a suitable wait, J&K adopted a rescue cat, now named Cleopatra.
    Cleo is a nice cat and a long cat. Cleo is so long she can easily catch her own tail should she be inclined. Measured from the ground up, Cleo is an average medium sized cat. Measured nose to tail, Cleo is a cat and a half. Front to back there's a lot of Cleo to go around.  Cleo is a happy cat, but still shy and J&K were worried about putting her in a kennel while they vacationed in the desert SW, so we volunteered to house-sit Cleo while they were gone
   (A largely free vacation in the San Francisco area was hard to take, but dw and I sacrificed for friends)

So we drove to Mountain View (just south of San Francisco) and stayed in their lovely condo in a lovely neighborhood and took care of their lovely cat -- which was very easy since Cleo would either stare at us from as far away as possible, or hide under a bed or the couch. And as a courteous cat, Cleo didn't express displeasure with any misplaced poop or vomit. Easy cat patrol.  

dw and I are in training to walk another section of the Camino (I'll write about that in a later blog) so most days we took long walks -- some in the Santa Cruz Mountains, some on urban routes. We walked to Stanford University (10 miles), and across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito (9 or 10 miles -?-), and after visiting a friend we walked around Pacific Heights (8 miles or so)

 agave in Palo Alto

The route we took to Stanford passed through modest neighborhoods, with modest houses, largely one story or one and half -- 900 or 1200 square feet -- small yards all very nice and middle class, and according to the occasional real estate flyer we saw -- all priced at $3,000,000 to $6,000,000 (The expensive houses (Steve Jobs lived in the general area) are largely hidden with hedges and walls) -- It's a different world. 
    Stanford's art museum is better than I thought it would be (and it's free) -- (even for Stanford, which is not a poor school) with a large collection of Rodin, including maquettes which show how some of his pieces evolved. A bunch of world ethnic stuff and the standard classic stuff and a new annex with modern art. (After looking at a thousand "Madonna col Bambino"s or a thousand "Saint Sebastian With a Hundred Arrows And an Axe In His Head" modern art is refreshing.)

In San Jose we lucked into a tour of the Cathedral. The chatty docent was happy to pass on bits of interesting gossip (old and new) and was very informative. The church has an unusual Greek Cross shape, with the altar in the center (church in the round) and in it's present shape dates back to 1876 with assorted repairs over the years.
   We also went to the San Jose Art Museum. The SJAM is entirely modern art and has a very small permanent collection. Mostly they seem to host temporary exhibits. We lucked into a Diana Thater video and light installation exploring the relationship of our galaxy and the dung beetle. It occupied several large rooms and featured four videos of zooming stars projected on a wall and a dung beetle projected on the ceiling, and other walls draped and lit with glow-in-the-dark blue light and in the center of one room a big blue glow-in-the -dark box with a door (which I touched, even though dw said I shouldn't)  To be truthful, we didn't quite get the connection between a dung beetle and the galaxy even though (according to the artist's statement) Thater has long been fascinated with the dung beetle and the galaxy (compare and contrast)!  The gravitas of the installation escaped us.
    The dung beetle has a near tragic and little known history. Many thousands of years ago the dung beetle, an ordinary beetle at the time,  was mouthing off to Kushiel (the beetle was kind of a low key jerk) and Kushiel finally said, "Eat shit and die!" so the beetle had to. -- The dying part takes some time which makes the "eat shit" part more tragic. 

We took a train into San Francisco, then walked across the Golden Gate Bridge and on to Sausalito. The walk was enjoyable. A fair number of people were also walking across the bridge but it wasn't too crowded, and the view was wonderful. Bits of fog moving in and out, boats (motor and sail, and tour) moving about with a few sailboats being amusingly incompetent (one lost control of his spinnaker, another seemed to get a good whack from his boom when he came about). On the north end a couple of seals were nosing about the rocks -- all in all the walk was much more interesting than our average training walks.  The walk from the bridge to Sausalito was along a road with light traffic.
     We wandered around Sausalito: had a good pizza for lunch, walked around the docks and looked at boats (if we sold everything we own we could outfit some of them with new sails), and checked out art galleries --- The Great Bay Area Artist Colony of Sausalito. What a joke. 95% of the stuff wasn't just garish kitsch, it was bad garish kitsch. And naturally all of it was grossly over-priced. I get particularly annoyed at places which pretend giclee is anything other than ink-jet printing. We have seen much higher quality work in Ashland and Astoria, let alone Portland.
     We took a ferry back to the city -- the windows were scratched and filthy but the weather was good enough to stay on the open deck. All in all a lovely day with 9 or 10 miles walking.

Another day we visited an old college friend, JC (he's my age, almost to the day). He has some sort of mental thing going on -- he's lost a large part of his short-term memory -- the kind of thing Oliver Sacks might have written about. He's fully aware of his loss, and while much of the time he converses like the witty and intelligent  person he's always been, he will repeat the same question time after time, each iteration separated by a few minutes. He lives in an assisted living place which seems to be a good arrangement, and which he needs because he really can't safely wander around unsupervised. His situation is sad and yet he seems content enough. Much of what he was remains and he has contented himself with his present life. Of necessity he lives in the moment and he seems to be OK with that. 
     After the visit we did a mansion tour of Pacific Heights, including a walk-by of the Spreckels (of Spreckels sugar fame) Mansion, now occupied by Danielle Steele -- who knew that a crappy romance-novelist could make so much money.   

Photo from the web

After picking up J&K from the airport we started the drive back to Portland, stopping for the night in Yreka. Before I've only driven past Yreka, at most stopping for gas, but this time we looked at the downtown and it's an appealing, turn of the 20th century area, that so far hasn't been killed by an edge-of-the-freeway shopping mall. The downtown actually has two Thai restaurants, leaving Bismarck, N.D. as the only town in America without a Thai restaurant.  Even Ely, Nv. has a Thai restaurant. It's owned and operated by one woman, who cooks, waits tables, delivers takeout (!) does dishes, etc. -- all by herself. And the food is good. A couple of years ago, we entered the café, sat down and waited. There didn't seem to be any activity and we were getting restless, finally two couples at another table said: "She's just out delivering some pad thai to the Wilkersons, she'll be back in a few minutes."
   "Oh," we said. "Is the food any good?" (thinking -- What!? there's only one person here?)
   "Yeah", they said, "She does a real good job. She runs this place by herself and she's a real good cook."
    And so she was -- leaving Bismarck with no excuse at all. 
   
    A flyer I picked up in Yreka:  "Waiting to be seen by a doctor at the emergency room can be stressful, especially when out of town. With the Dignity Health North State hospitals, you can visit our website and select a projected arrival time at any of our emergency rooms. Spend less time in the waiting room and more time at your hotel, office or anywhere that is convenient."
     So if you're in a traffic accident, for example, you can whip out your laptop, schedule an arrival time and then go to the nearest bar for a beer and a bump while you wait for your ER appointment.  With just a little planning, you can be sure your underwear is clean or that you're wearing your new bra. Have your next accident in Northern California and THINK AHEAD! Scheduling your ER visit a week ahead of time is not too soon. Folks, planning is no accident. 

JOKE OF THE DAY: "OMG, OMG!! Amelia's? On Alberta? They sell gluten-free lipstick!!!" ---- (really --- at least according to a sign in front of the store)

WORD OF THE DAY: "mouton enrage'" -- literally, angry sheep. (French -- in honor of our upcoming trek through France) --- a normally mild and calm person who suddenly becomes uncharacteristically angry. 

A MOMENT FROM HISTORY --The Oregonian (4/4/2011):  (Shirley, Mass.)  One man was killed and another injured when the two fell out of a restroom window of a tour bus that was returning from a brewery in New Hampshire, Massachusetts State Police said Sunday. --- The two were believed to have been mooning  passing traffic. --- Police said they believe alcohol was a factor.

And so it goes.  DJA  


 

PO'ed

I wrote a longer blog when we were in Pamplona -- the poor internet connection lost almost all of it. (the connection kept shutting off) I won't try to write another blog until I have a good connection. (this one is also poor -- one bar) --- I hope more a longer will follow, eventually --- I won't even try for pictures until I get home.  so it goes.  DJA

Vegetarianism, What Is It Good For?

A few weeks ago, dw and I went to the Portland Art Museum to look at the Francis Bacon, "Portrait of Lucian Freud". I thought it was a wonderful triptych, dw not so much. We also wandered about the museum for a bit. (I bought a membership a while ago -- for some reason, I don't remember why -- I was offered a deal too good to pass up)

----- As an irrelevant aside, the official description of the Bacon  paintings referred to them as "figurative" -- meaning they sort of look like something or someone -- my art work generally sort of looks like something or someone so I'm happy to announce that I'm a "figurative" artist and not someone who can't draw any better than that.  And I'm sorry, but your kid couldn't do that, and besides, he didn't.!  -----

In any case, after the museum we stopped at "Lardo" for lunch. I don't recall what dw ordered, but I had a pulled pork, kimchi, aioli on ciabatta sandwich  that was a taste treat. --

               (again, alas, I don't get any perks for mentioning places in this blog) --

 and a dark beer -- Timber something, it was very good, even though it was too early for beer. All of which brings me to the subject of this blog: Vegetarianism.

I'm not a very good vegetarian. Proper vegetarians would give me a proper taste of the cat. They would burn me at the steak.*  Over the years I've eaten many kinds of meat (not all at once). Naturally the big three, beef, pork and chicken, but also deer (venison), caribou, elk, muskox, moose, bear, walrus, goose, duck and pheasant, horse, sheep and goat plus the fishes of the sea and probably others I've forgotten --- it's good to be on the top of the carnivore food chain --- (although, unlike my friend John G., I've never eaten goat eyeball) And I've enjoyed them all. (As another friend,  Bob D. says, "if it doesn't have meat, it's not a meal, it's a snack"  -- Or as a friend from college (I go way back with this) said, "I don't like rabbit food.") But a taste of  cat is over the line and it should have never been suggested, -- But  regardless of what a proper vegan, or vegetarian would say about me,  I sort of follow their eating regimen .

I'm the chef du jour at our house, and I haven't actually bought a meat thing since Christmas, and not for several months before that. --- dw is intent on losing weight, (whatever, I think she already looks good) and I have an entirely unfair heart thing happening -- so meat and other animal stuffs (eggs, cheese, butter, etc.) are off the menu. I'm learning anew to cook. I've got a few oriental things (heavy with the peanut sauce) that are good. Thai,  and vegan chili. -- Tofu looms large. --  Rice things.  Pasta without any meat stuff. And some eastern European things (big on cabbage).  Eggplant, beans and squash.   It's all good. But truthfully, I miss my meat -- and unlike a proper vegan, at restaurants, or with friends,  I occasionally indulge.

 --- Several years ago, dw and I were in Prague. My mother was Czech, and to an extent I grew up eating Czech food, and truly --  Czech food, on site, wasn't to be missed.  dw and I went to a classic Czech restaurant and after looking at the menu I ordered a dish of potato dumpling (knedliky), gravy,   coleslaw (savory not sweet), and roast pork. All of which I had as a youth. The roast pork was called "pork knee" at 5K. I knew that restaurants listed meat servings by weight, but I thought the 5K was a typo and it was actually .5K.  I ordered it.  --   It was not a typo.  After awhile the waiter brought this gargantuan platter with a 5K, 12 pound, chunk of pig to the table. After I recovered from the shock, and after I peeled off the skin, fat and bone it was a huge but manageable dinner and it was wonderful. --- Everything about it was wonderful ---  It was one of the reasons I now have two stents.

So I'm facing a choice of eating wonderful roast pork, larded with garlic and dripping with fat  or  having a heart attack. I'm trying to go the healthy route and now I'm a vegan or a vegetarian, except when I'm not.

*I'm plagiarizing myself.

Did you know?  If you stick your nose in a Ponderosa pine bark (a Ponderosa has scaled grey to brown bark with orange  deep groves and large cones. The needles are long and grouped in threes --) and snuffle up, the bark smells like vanilla/caramel.  dw and I confound other people by sticking our noses in trees and snuffling up.

Words of the day:  SLURG --- To lie sleepily or sluggishly. Later today I might slurg on the couch.

ABLIGURITION --- Extravagant spending on food and drink. --- a prodigal spending on belly-cheer. I'm always ready for someone else  to abligurite for me.

A few years ago a student in Germany mooned a group of Hell's Angels, threw a puppy at the bikers when they came after him, and then escaped on a stolen bulldozer. (the puppy was fine) "What motivated him to throw a puppy at the Hell's Angels is currently unclear," said a police spokesman.
     I don't have any special inside knowledge, but I suspect he stopped taking his meds.   And so it goes. DJA




 

Views From A Bummel*

Before I start on this bummel business, I've got one more curiosity from our Los Angeles trip. The buses, naturally,  had pre-recorded bus stop announcements: "The next stop will be Wilshire Blvd, and Bundy Drive." etc. Nothing unusual about the announcements except the speaker loved saying "Hollywood". You could hear the soft smile on his face as he crooned "Hollllywoood" into a lovers pearly-shell like ear. The air was cleaner and the music sweeter as "Holllywoood" wafted into your consciousness. On the other hand, when he announced "Wilshire and Bundy, when boarding or departing, please watch your step." he clearly didn't care if you watched your step or not. He didn't care if you tripped and broke your nose he just wanted you on or off and be quick about it you jerk. We didn't ride enough to know if there were any women doing the announcements, or if the guy liked anything else besides "Holllywoood" but they were amusing announcements.

I've started riding my bike again. I rode 35 miles the other day and then spent the rest of the day on the couch. 35 miles is a long ride when you haven't ridden for several months but I'm working at getting back in shape. And I'm sorry to say I haven't had any remarkable events so far.
   (Remarkable events bring interest to a ride, as long as they're not too remarkable: like the time last year when a homeless jerk decided he didn't want me -- an old guy riding alone -- on the bike path so he came me with a stick. (SE Portland) I called 911 and was most pleased when later I saw a couple of county sheriffs rousting out several of the poor homeless we're supposed to feel sorry for.)
 
 In any event here are some of the things I've come across -- Views from my bicycle:

Possibly the most unexpected thing is this tombstone. Poor old Fred is stuck in an industrial area next to an intersection with heavy truck traffic, a couple of auto you-pull-it yards, a welding shop with junk trucks and bits of steel piled around, a composting yard, RR tracks, and other bits of who-knows-what small industries. And he's almost buried again in brush and vines. There are supposed to be a few other graves at this site but I poked around a bit and didn't find any. Fred is here all by himself -- although he does have a nice marker. At one time the pillar had a sort of cone-shaped capital.

A neighborhood I occasionally ride through has this house with Lady Liberty on the corner. I'm guessing that if the Post Office had used this Statue of Liberty for their postage stamp instead of the one in Las Vegas they wouldn't have been sued.

Close to the Statue of Liberty a different house has this lawn ornament:

And being an aficionado of outsider art I enjoy this house -- but I admit I would be hesitant about having this place as a neighbor. It's not obvious in these two photos, but the builder really doesn't like Reagan, Bush or Cheney.

While Little Free Libraries aren't unusual, I think this is a nice one. I've found a couple of books here.(I return them, usually with interest -- I generally have a few decent paperbacks sitting around that I can part with)

Word of the day: "Herkimer" which is the name of a place in New York. A while ago Dan Aykroyd  was the spokesman (Part owner?) for Crystal Head Vodka, which among other things contained a "Real Herkimer Diamond" in the bottle, giving the vodka "new age positive energy and goodwill". Herkimer New York might be a wonderful place, but to me it sounds like you've had too much Crystal Head Vodka and are busy herk -- herk -- HERKING it all up again. (a Herkimer "diamond" is a type of quartz crystal)

*Book of the day: I haven't read this lately, but first is Three Men on the Bummel (Jerome K. Jerome)
    " When asked by one of the characters in the book 'how would you translate (bummel).' the    
    narrator replies: 'A bummel, I explained, 'I should describe as a journey, long or short, without
    an end; the only thing regulating it being the necessity of getting back within a given time to point
    from which one started. Sometimes it is through busy streets, and sometimes through the fields
    and lanes; sometimes for a few hours --- We nod and smile to many as we pass; with some we
    stop and talk awhile; and with a few we (ride) a little way. We have been much interested, and
    often a little tired. But on the whole we have had a pleasant (ride) ---
Three Men on the Bummel  is a pleasant and amusing book, but much better I think is Jerome's earlier book: Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) Which is very funny.

Some Mark Twain literary criticism: (his) prose is unreadable -- like Jane Austen's. No there is a difference. I could read his prose on salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death.
     (Jane Austen's) books madden me so that I can't conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. everytime I read 'Pride and Prejudice' I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.    ---- to me this seems a little harsh ----

Does Yosemite Sam believe in reintarnation?

St. Augustine: "The beard signifies the courageous," he declared "the beard distinguishes the grown man, the earnest, the active, the vigorous."    --- I couldn't agree more ---

And so it goes.   DJA

P.S. Once again this program has its own ideas about where photos should be placed and where paragraphs should break.

 

I Did It So You Don't Have To

A while ago, dw and I were sitting around of an evening, idly reading --- some travel show on PBS providing background noise --- basically bored and boring. We agreed that our lives were lacking a certain je ne sais quoi, that we needed to step out of our comfort zone and get more variety in our lives.

Pursuing that thought, a few weeks ago I decided to get a concealed carry permit (hereafter known as a ccp). Not that I am likely to carry a concealed weapon, but I was curious about the permitting process, particularly how restrictive it is. My parents gave me a 30-30 rifle when I turned 13 and I've owned a gun of one sort or another since then. However, not so oddly, I've never felt the need to carry a concealed gun. Also, not so oddly, I've never been in a situation where I felt a gun would improve things. (Except for the times I've gone hunting. While I had limited success I did think the gun was more efficient than a rock or a stick would have been)

(A friend who I put down as a reference said: "I'd never get one of those, I'd be sure to shoot somebody." -- He owns a boat moorage and a couple of rental houses -- he doesn't seem to attract the cream of the crop as renters)

The NRA seems to think everyone should have any weapon they want and carry it wherever they want. That sort of makes sense -- "Dick" Cheney, for example: He nearly missed when he used a shotgun to shoot that guy in the face, but if he had a Predator Drone it would have been a sure thing. And a Predator would make snipe hunting easier (let alone golf -- you could put the holes wherever you wanted them -- and the holes would be a more satisfying size) I'm not so ambitious. I'm just curious about a simple .45 magnum and a simple quick-draw shoulder holster.

In the event, I signed up for a ccp class. I'm now going to write down everything I learned so you too can get a ccp.

The 30 or 40 people in the class were a bit surprising: Most were 40 and above and a slight majority were women.               
There was only one younger guy who seemed to be a bit primitive, and another guy who (I'm guessing) seemed to be worried about blue-helmeted U.N. armies in black helicopters.
     (By golly, with his AK-47 and pistol and ccp he'd show them blue foreigners. He was prepared to
      defend his two bedroom -- in need of repairs -- ranch against all comers)
But most were ordinary middle-aged people (Look out! Grandma's packing heat! And she's mad as hell and she's not gonna take it anymore!!)

On to the lessons:

Number One: Safety. Don't shoot yourself. No, Really! Don't shoot yourself.

Two: These are some different types of guns. (Don't be absurd, of course you can't actually touch them. Just because you're going to get a ccp doesn't mean the instructor thinks you should handle a gun)

Three: These are some different types of ammunition. (They're cut in half or otherwise de-activated so you can touch these)

Four: Video of armed citizens in action. Scene: with the subtlety of Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny a bad guy sneaks up on a woman. She whips out her revolver with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp proud and thwarts the villain. The class got to watch several variations of this scene. We were inspired.

Five: If you shoot someone, don't talk to the police, or anyone else. Get a lawyer.

Six: Over half of the class time (about 2 hours) was spent filling out the application forms. (The forms are available on line. If you can read this, you won't need 2 hours to fill them out.)

Silly me. Before the class I thought there might be some actual discussions or information on gun safety. Where applicants might go to get some real practical practice with gun handling. Some actual real-world information like: If you think you need to pull out your gun, just get the hell out of there.

The whole thing was astonishingly useless. However, I sent my application to Utah (!)  and now, thanks to reciprocal agreements between states, I can carry a concealed weapon in nearly 40 states. Oregon, I'm happy to say, takes a little longer so if I want to shove an assault rifle down my pants and carry it concealed, I have to go to Washington or Idaho.

The entire thing was appalling.

Books: It's more browsing than reading straight through, but: ...isms ... understanding architectural styles (Jeremy Melvin) it concisely explains architectural styles -- with illustrations -- from Pre-Classicism through Meta-rationalism (!?). It's inclusive and informative. A foot deep and a mile wide. It satisfies my architectural need to know.
   and The Nothing That Is -- A Natural History of Zero (Robert Kaplan) I'm re-reading this book. It's everything I need to know about zero and more besides. It's tough sledding in places.  As a history of  zero, it also applies to the ccp class.

Word of the day: It seems like this should come up several times a day: Malversation -- Corrupt behavior in a position, office, or position of trust.

Finally: "Privilege and self-interest are most likely to triumph when they can be concealed behind a mask of severity" (Pliny the Younger) -- Tea-Party and the Koch brothers anyone?   and so it goes DJA.


 

Thinking About Hats

I am not obsessed with hats even though I have a modest (20 some) utilitarian collection of them. I have my favorites, as well as some that I rarely wear (although I did in the past), but having hats at all is a curious thing. After all, humans, along with sheep, can grow great mops of hair so a hat would seem to be superfluous. On the other hand, it's far easier to deal with an oiled rain hat (like my Filson) or a Borsalino than a mat of felted hair that looks like the wearer glued a dead labradoodle to his head.
     Once upon a time, men wore hats. Men were expected to wear a hat, and none of this baseball cap stuff unless the guy was a pre-teen or playing for the Dodgers. With a casual dip of the brim and a slight tilt, a hat displayed a certain style or insouciance far beyond the reach of a beanie with propeller or it's baseball cap brother. And a real hat makes a statement: An English Walking Hat (such as my Kangol) says "Come mist or rain, I'm going for a walk." and nothing more needs be said.

  

Here's a picture of a guy wearing a proper hat. Looking classy. It's not on backwards or twisted to the side

   Admittedly there are hats and other hats. Carmen Miranda wore proper statement making hats but most of us would choose a different style, at least for casual wear. Even with the jazz hands, few of us (I suspect) would choose this hat for an evening at the theater.

 

Queen Elizabeth wears hats that make a statement:

But even paired with her foul little ankle-biters I think she looks a bit goofy. And besides I don't think that hat would do squat for keeping off the rain. Her perm would be sagging and dripping in no time with even a modest mist. This particular hat would offer some protection against rock-fall on any sport climb she tried, but a standard Joe Brown (although a bit old-fashioned) would do a far better job.

 

A few months ago, I decided my hat collection was sadly incomplete. If a hat guy lives in the West, even the Pacific Northwest, a hat guy needs a Stetson. (Not a stiff brimmed Stetson. The evil, eponymously named, Dick Cheney wears a stiff Stetson) So after a bit of searching for the proper hat, I bought a Stetson:

 

I didn't wear it when we hiked the Grand Canyon -- style be damned, a dark brown felt hat is a bit much when it's over 100 degrees. But I was wearing it last week when, walking down a sidewalk, I started to pass a little four year old girl who was playing in the back of a pickup (watched over by her grandfather). She stared at me for a moment, then waved and said: "Hi, cowboy!" I smiled, tipped my hat, said "Howdy, miss." and continued on my way. This little event neatly illustrated the difficulty of wearing a cowboy hat:

   It isn't a problem in the country where a guy isn't going to meet many women, but in the city where there are likely to be a lot of women it's hard to get anywhere. To correctly wear a cowboy hat, every time the cowboy-hatted man meets a woman, he has to tip his hat, or actually doff his hat and greet the lady. And how to properly address any particular woman is a huge problem:

    For instance, one of my nieces is a school teacher, and "Schoolmarm" is the correct term. But another niece works in international banking and how does that translate into cowboyese? A third niece is larking about in Paris France. A cowboy hat would clearly indicate Paris Texas. I've been to Paris Texas and there's little larking about there, so referring to the third niece while wearing my new hat would only lead to confusion. And what if I accidentally called a Miss a Ma'am or a Mrs.? Or vice-versa? All of these problems really slow down a guy, and my walks could come to a full stop. 

  

 So this little essay illustrates the importance of having a collection of hats (even a modest one, such as mine).  With a variety I can fit the hat to the occasion. When I walk in the city, I wear a walking hat.

When I walk in the country, I wear the Stetson. (Of course, if I ever ride a horse I'll wear the Stetson.)

When I bicycle, I wear the helmet (a hat by another name). It's all good and appropriate. 

 

Word of the day: For the men. (if this applies to you, get help. It isn't really happening -- unless you're swimming in cold water)  Koro: the belief that your penis is shrinking and that it'll disappear and then you'll die.

 

Moot Point: a cow's opinion, so it doesn't matter unless it's referring to cow things, such as cow flop. 

 

Books:  re-reading The Horse's Mouth (Joyce Cary) A very funny book -- Artist as an irascible old fart --  Alec Guinness wrote and starred in a movie adaption that took this fine plate of English roast beef with hot mustard, and turned it into an insipid  blanc-mange. If you have a chance, by all means, skip the movie.          And so it goes. DJA

 

P.S. the occasional weird word spacing is a function of this terrible blog program. At some point I'm going to start a different host.