Everybody knows that when the Dalai Lama gets on in years and finally checks out that there is a search for the person who is his reincarnation that goes on until a child is found that meets the criteria, whatever they are. Then that child becomes the Dalai Lama until … and so it goes. I don’t know how much of this mysticism that I believe but I am happy that it seems to have worked for Tibetan Buddhists for a long time now. And I don’t know of a nicer human being than the present incarnation of the Dalai Lama, whose answer to the question about characterizing his faith was “My religion is kindness.”
But today I read an article in the Times of New York about a possible reincarnation occurring in rock and roll. It was all about a singer/songwriter/guitarist named MJ Lenderman.
Neil Young hasn’t passed away, and is still coming out with new stuff, but he is definitely an older gentleman and we all flame out one day. As I listened to an album of Lenderman’s, I kept thinking … this music would be the carrying on of a tradition of whatever it is that Young has been doing for about 200 years now. There was even a post-music-video comment that I came across that went “My dad had Neil Young, now I’ve got Lenderman.”
Reincarnation prior to passing away. I like the concept. Less jarring. They could even get together and jam.
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From The New Yorker
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This might not be of help to any of you, but I’m passing it along anyway. Robin and I use Osprey Packs when cycling, hiking, backpacking, sometimes as luggage. They are well designed, attractive, and reliable. But they do wear out, at least some of ours have. When they do, Osprey has a program of repairing the pack for free, or if unrepairable replacing it with a similar model, again for free. Forever!
Twice in the past I had problems with two packs after several years, where all of the nylon straps were disintegrating. I sent the packs back to Osprey and received two completely new packs without meeting any resistance at all from the company. You send them the pack and if they can’t repair it, they decide on the replacement. The new pack comes to your door and suddenly it’s Christmas!
Now Robin’s Osprey Cirrus 24 has developed the same fraying strap problem. It is no longer a pack that can be relied on. One could easily end up carrying it in your arms on a longer hike which is really missing the point of having a backpack in the first place.
I will box it up and mail it to Osprey HQ which is located in Cortez CO. Mailing it to them is my only expense, from here on there will be no charge for anything. It’s really a heckuva program because if you like their stuff you will never have to buy another pack. (And we have happily used this old pack for more than a decade.)
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In just a couple of days we will be presented with the first Harris/Trump debate. At least it’s scheduled that way as of this writing. In general, I have not watched the bulk of the “presidential debates” since Kennedy/Nixon. The ones I did watch were for the most part shout-fests filled with sniping, griping, one-upping, and non-edifying balderdash. Also they are a nationally televised opportunity for telling lies on a grand scale. But, I don’t know, I might watch this one. With the same expectation that I would bring to being a spectator at a cage match.
Nixon “lost” his debates because he wasn’t schooled in how to look good on black and white television. What he actually said was as thoughtful as anything that came out of John Kennedy’s mouth, but Jack looked better and that was that.
You could describe the debates as improvisational theater. The announcers toss out questions that are thoughtful for the most part. And then the candidates attack the helpless question as if it were the shuttlecock in a bad game of badminton. Sometimes they answer it. Sometimes they ignore the question altogether. Oh, my, the suspense of it all.
But on the other hand, I do want to see how VP Harris carries herself against Mr. Respectful of Nothing and No One. Cluck is not the only rancid guy in this world, but he is definitely one of them.
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From The New Yorker
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The signs of autumn are all around us here in Paradise. The butterflies have largely packed up and gone. It’s been at least a month since I’ve seen one of those beautiful swallowtails floating past. Some of the trees are doing their Fall thing. Our next door neighbor is putting out Halloween decorations already. Fall is a favorite season for a lot of folks and I am one of them. Its beauties, its brevity, its aromas, its poignant reminders of change and inevitability.
I love the fruits of the season. The peaches from Palisade (which are what Nature intended when she made a peach in the first place) are starting to fade from the markets and roadside stands. This year’s apples will soon show up and a local apple festival in Cedaredge will pull us in as it does most years. Try to imagine wandering in a small town’s public park and having your sense of smell flooded with the scent of competing apple pies and cobblers being served at the booths? Excuse me for a moment … I seem to be drooling on my keyboard.
This is the month that I begin looking for where I put my snow shovels at the end of last winter. Not that I need them often, but better prepared than not, I say. With such a small home and limited storage facilities it is a wonder how long it can take to find something. Even something as large as a shovel. I fully anticipate the morning when I turn to Robin and say: “Dear, I know that I put the car away last night but do you have any idea where that might have been, by any chance?”
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Little Home In The Valley 
Definitely Autumnal over on this side of the pond, too. Lots of wind and rain.
And I agree about Osprey – me best pack is an Osprey 36 litre. Lovely bit of kit.
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