This morning I found myself longing for the days when I didn’t care who was Speaker of the House of Representatives. And then I realized what I was doing and thought … where’s my MAGA hat? I know I left it around here somewhere.
So far, the best things about this new holder of the office are that (1) he isn’t Lauren Boebert, and (2) I never heard of him until yesterday. Which to me means that maybe he isn’t one of the worst of the certifiable loonies in that august body. I know that it’s a waste of my time to mention Boebert except that whenever I start to think of Colorado as a sensible state she cops a feel in a Denver theater, blows smoke in a pregnant woman’s face, and behaves in general more like a trollop than a congresswoman.
(Even as I typed that last line I realized that I was insulting trollops by including her in that group, and it was unfair of me to do so. Shame on me.)
As regards this new guy, I have only this to say.
******
From The New Yorker
******
We went out to the movies with friend Rod a couple of nights ago, to see Killers of the Flower Moon. We were completely prepared to find a “masterpiece,” another feather in Martin Scorsese’s very large headdress, a film for the ages. We were disappointed.
What we found was what should have been a two-hour long movie that was stretched to three and a half hours for no obvious reason.
A movie which might have given us more perspectives on how it felt to be a member of the Osage tribe at a time when “the blanket was a target on our back,” became instead more of a profile of a slightly dim man who does bad things almost from the get-go.
We are obviously supposed to find him a conflicted and sympathetic character, but I couldn’t find the tragic good guy in there. He’s little more than a thug.
I don’t regret the time spent in the theater. The cinematography was brilliant. The grim story was there on the screen to be seen, I just wish that it had been presented more clearly than it was. I think the tale deserved a better telling.
But you know what? Even imperfect Scorsese is better than much of what the movie industry offers us these days. I’d rather watch a three hour misfire of his than any ten superhero films. Make that twenty.
Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 92 rating. It would not have scored quite as well if they had asked the three of us.
******
This weekend we have been promised our first real chill, and perhaps our first snowfall here in the valley. Nothing epic in the works, just a drifting away from a nearly perfect autumn.
Going through a small shed the other day I found that I own three snow shovels. Which is one, perhaps two, more than I need or want. Of course they aren’t the sturdy sort that I was given to use when I was a kid pressed into sidewalk duty. No lightweight plastics then, since plastic hadn’t hit the streets yet. No aluminum either, until well after WW II was over.
No, these were heavy steel contraptions that were difficult for a child to move even when empty. I have no fond memories of pushing those beasts around.
******
From The New Yorker
******
Thursday evening we traveled to Ridgway for an outing, and ended up at that small town’s Thai Paradise restaurant. There we hit a trifecta of cheerful service, modest prices, and excellent food. After dinner we cruised Ridgway’s streets admiring the architecture of its homes. There is a bit of money in that village, and one of the places it shows up is in very interesting houses. Not blatantly showy or over-large, but interesting.
It was the time of day when the sun has set but there is still enough light to see well, and we noticed a couple of deer in one yard. I happened to muse that I’d wager that deer might sometimes move into town in sizable numbers when we rounded a corner and came across three, then five, then twelve of them. Before we left town we had seen about forty deer without even trying.
One of them was an older buck with a substantial set of antlers, but even more striking was his chest and shoulder musculature. That boy was buff, and he posed like the Prince of the Forest as our car passed him.
(This is not my photo, but a sketch of Bambi’s father looking majestic, just like the one in Ridgway)
Unfortunately, this bounty in the village meant that the trip home was a watchful motoring past many more herds of deer between Ridgway and Montrose, a stretch of road notorious for deer/auto collisions.
******
We’ve all dealt with the earworms of life, where a bit of music gets stuck on repeat play in our heads until we want never to hear it again. There is a complementary thing in my head where a non-musical phrase gets into the same sort of loop. This morning it is this quote, which I have mentioned before. Can’t imagine why I might be thinking this way.
Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.
H.L. Mencken
I think I need another cup of coffee, to tide me over until the danger is past. That, or visit a cutlass shop and examine their offerings.
******
Robin and I have a good friend who is critically ill and in hospital. A generous but greatly weakened heart is unable to do the work it needs to do, even with the best of what medicine has to offer as assistance, and she has bravely chosen what is called comfort care, where her therapies are being reduced.
It is not an easy thing, this choosing to move toward the unknown. I would hope that when my own hour comes along I could summon the courage to do what needs doing, and then do it with the same grace this lady has shown.
More than once over the years she has gently rebuked me because I rarely append pieces from her favorite genre of music to this journal. That would be classical music, especially opera. Yet there was at least one song that we shared affection for, and it seems especially right for today.
******
Little Home In The Valley 