The Home

I wasn’t sure what to make of Friday’s weather prediction for the Los Angeles area – a blizzard warning. My problem is that the warning and the location did not compute in my rapidly shrinking brain. Instead of a collection of binary ones and zeros in there, I found myself with a bunch of threes.

But for the moment, let’s assume that the prognosticators are correct. First problem for the city fathers would be to locate the Los Angeles snow shovel. In the hustle and bustle of that large-ish city it would be an easy thing to lose track of. And it probably wouldn’t be the sleek and ergonomic model in the photograph, but something much more primitive. Perhaps a piece of sheet metal nailed to a 2×4.


Rounding up proper clothing for the populace might be difficult on such short notice, but surely there would be useful garments in the warehouses of the film industry where old costumes are stored.

This outfit worn by Jack Nicholson didn’t do his character much good, but even this garment would be better protection than the usual pair of shorts and a tank top.



Finding snow removal equipment would be a challenge. The last time they needed one they employed this horse-drawn beauty, but that was when the population of the town was 300 souls.


Will The Wolf Survive, by Los Lobos


Two Republican legislators from Idaho have introduced legislation that would make the administration of mRNA vaccines illegal. (Just as a reminder, these are the vaccines against COVID 19.) It would only be a misdemeanor according to the bill’s sponsors, state Sen. Tammy Nichols and Rep. Judy Boyle.

What they would really like is to bring back the stocks and the dunking stool for these offenders, says Nichols, “but you have to start somewhere.” They are also recommending doing away with some of the subversive teachings in the state’s school system, including that the earth is round and that 1+1 = 2.

As egregious as the almost daily insults to the national intelligence provided by various members of Congress are, I don’t worry that much about them. As my Norwegian-American grandfather used to say, “Det ordner seg før fuglen fiser om morgenen.” Translated, this says: “Things will be alright before the bird farts in the morning.”


From The New Yorker


We’ve been very much enjoying our visits with Elsa and Marc this week. Robin seems to have acquired new color in her cheeks, the result of having people to chat with other than myself. She keeps muttering the words “insufferable blowhard” under her breath whenever I try to add to the conversation. I’m not quite sure how to take that.

The weather hasn’t been all that cooperative this week, what with intermittent snow, blustering winds, freezing temperatures, and the like. Truth be told, I would have much preferred balmy, for I am positively done with Winter 2023. After today, I will not say another word about it, but turn my thoughts and writings exclusively to the days ahead where we are not required to wear puffy jackets. Or long-sleeved anythings.

Where I can rush outside into the blazing carcinogenic sunlight and take my chances along with everybody else. That’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it.

That’s The Way (I Like It), by KC and the Sunshine Band


At supper last night, we somehow got onto the subject of backpacking and were reviewing our successes and flops of the past. The very last time Robin and I went out into the wild with packs on our backs was just a few years ago, on a walk into Porphyry Basin. We’d planned to be out only two nights, because we needed to carry CPAP hardware with us and a battery to power it all.

The trip in involved driving three miles up a rough old mining road, ditching the car, then continuing on for another three miles or so along that same (but now rougher) road. Not an epic walk by any means but enough to get the cardioworks pumping up there at 10,000 feet.

We set up housekeeping on a lovely spot with not too many rocks to stab us in the back, and of a mild enough slope that we were in no danger of rolling out of the tent, down the hill, and off the cliff. One problem for me in the mountains is that they are so darned high, and there are plenty of opportunities to look down. For the acrophobic that I am, it’s the looking down that is the awkward part.

One minute you are having a great time and then you peek over an edge, see what mischief a wrong step could cause, and suddenly your brain goes completely haywire all by itself. The earth spins, panic sets in, and you can hear the universe calling you by name to step forward and off into space. Like a Star Wars tractor beam drawing you into whatever version of eternity awaits you.

No matter. Our tent was a short distance from the most delicious fresh water. There were three marmots watching us and providing entertainment as they moved about to get a better look at thee humans who had invited themselves into their home. The views were outstanding. The skies were clear. All was going according to plan except for one thing. Our efforts had made us hungry enough that by noon of the second day we had eaten all our food and had to cut the trip short. The packaging on those freeze-dried meals that claimed that there were two servings in every package flat out lied to us.

Perhaps they provided two servings for a pair of Lilliputians resting on a couch in their living room, but not for two average-sized people on a hike. So we explored the area until we ran out of gas and then walked down the hill to our car and back to the nearest grocery store.

The pix were taken on that jaunt, but they show none of the gasping episodes and waves of hunger that we had to deal with. Those photos were judged to be too upsetting to be viewed by the general public.


From The New Yorker


On the morning that Elsa and Marc took their leave our ongoing conversation had turned to politics. Our guests were remarking negatively on the advanced age of so many of our representatives. I observed that we frequently are told that our government is supposed to look like America, and I agree with that premise. It just happens that right now it achieves that look only if we believe that America is one big nursing home for old caucasians.

Who Knows Where The Time Goes, by Fairport Convention


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