I Have No Thought Of Time …

jono55

Sandy Denny was an English folksinger and songwriter with a gorgeous voice who sang with several groups including Fairport Convention and Fotheringay, and who put out a handful of solo albums as well. One of the most enduring pieces she wrote was Who Knows Where The Time Goes, a marvelously thoughtful and melancholic song about the passage of time.

I first listened to it as a much younger man and was instantly caught up in the lyrics, which seemed to speak directly to me and I thought How could Denny have written such a personal song when I had never met her and there was no way … but I imagine that’s everyone’s reaction to this lovely musical meditation. At every age I’ve been through since then it has spoken to me with an even clearer meaning, until at my present time of life when I listen it seems just the perfect fit, carrying the message of one of life’s most constant truths.

And yet she was only twenty when she wrote it. Amazing. Breaks your heart, really. It was the last song she ever sang at a public performance. Denny died after a fall down a flight of stairs, at the age of only 31. But even if this piece of music had been her only legacy … aahhh, love … it is timeless.

“Who Knows” has been covered by so many people. Each one that i’ve listened to beautifuin its own right, but none eclipsing the original by Sandy Denny herself.

******

Who Knows Where The Time Goes, by Sandy Denny

******

There are three people whose clear-minded writing about our present national political manure pile that I read regularly. They are Robert Reich, Heather Cox Richardson, and Timothy Snyder. There are many others producing worthy material, but the day is only so long and, alas, my attention span has its limits.

I marvel at each piece they post, and especially in the case of Richardson and Reich, they post nearly every day. E.v.e.r.y d.a.y they produce an essay that would get an “A” in Civics class. All three are available on Substack and can be followed on its app. I find that they cut through the clamor and smoke very well, pointing out over and over the lessons of the Andersen fairy tale: The Emperor’s New Clothes.

******

******

Upon reflection, I have found that an almost perfect metaphor for the present-day version of the Republican Party would be the Freudian concept of the Id. I was going to ask Sigmund if he agreed, but was disappointed to find that the man was completely dead.

******

Who Knows Where The Time Goes, by Nina Simone

******

Yesterday I made a fine meal of New England Clam Chowder, which Robin and I wolfed down with much lip-licking and slurping. It was only later when washing the dishes that I noticed a stinging on the tip of my right middle finger, and found that it was missing a bit of tissue measuring about 2×2 millimeters. Apparently during the slicing and dicing of the vegetables that went into the mix I nicked the finger but didn’t notice at the time. There exists the distinct possibility that the missing piece of me went into the chowder.

It’s a tiny thing, I know, but I have chosen not to share this information with my wife. She has a tender stomach, poor dear, and this might affect her attitude toward me and my meal preparations in general.

******

From The New Yorker

******

I visited the Black Canyon Park on Monday forenoon. It is only partially open, and there is no walking about in the burned areas at all, anywhere, said the burly Park Ranger to me as I came strolling back down a charred hummock. He also said that my hiking where I had no business being would encourage all the other people who were presently in that same parking lot to start doing it. And he definitely implied that this could be the end of civilization as we know it.

I assumed the humbled, craven posture that is my best weapon against angry authority figures and skittered away.

But even such a tense situation couldn’t hide the fact that only 40 days since the onset of the fire, there were one-foot tall Gambrel Oak seedlings already coming up from the rootstocks of the burned trees.

Hallelujah, brothers and sisters. Nature holds the cards. She started the whole mess with those lightning strikes, and now shows that she is repentant and can put it right again.

******

Who Knows Where The Time Goes, by Judy Collins

******

Across the evening sky
All the birds are leaving
But how can they know
It’s time for them to go?
Before the winter fire
I will still be dreaming
I have no thought of time

For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

Sad deserted shore
Your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know
It’s time for them to go
But I will still be here
I have no thought of leaving

I do not count the time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

And I am not alone
While my love is near me
I know it will be so
‘Til it’s time to go
So come the storms of winter
And then the birds in spring again
I have no fear of time

For who knows how my love grows?
And who knows where the time goes?

******

Oh Happy Day!

jono55

Let me apprise you of a bit of cat behavior that I have found interesting. When our younger cat, Willow, decides to go out into the back yard through the pet door, she pauses with her nose at exactly the interface between in and out, sniffing, looking slowly from left to right and back again, studying the landscape with eyes and nose. This process might take a full minute and when it is deemed safe to do so, she exits. There is never a variation in this routine.

Curiosity may have killed a cat here and there, but it is wariness that has kept ours alive. Poco has been an indoor/outdoor cat for eighteen years, and you don’t hit that mark without having a care now and then about where you go and what you do.

******

All Mixed Up, by The Cars

******

I like Neil de Grasse Tyson, even though he can (like myself) be a little full of himself at times, but here is a fascinating short tale about who he thinks is the greatest scientific mind of all time. Love it.

******

All Mixed Up, by the Red House Painters

******

I have spent enough years on the planet that when I think back on my early career in pediatrics, even I am impressed at what has happened to the discipline during that time. Compared to the humming and beeping and LCDs flashing on the machines in an NICU today, those first years were like working in a cave without light or power, and poor access to water as well.

An example. When I was in my junior year in medical school, I watched the network news and followed a story along with the rest of the country. On August 7, 1963, Patrick Bouvier Kennedy was born prematurely. He was actually a good-sized infant at 4 pounds 10 ounces, but developed respiratory distress syndrome within a very short time. Today his care would have been almost routine, with survival all but assured.

But Patrick died at age 39 hours of his lung disease, although he had been given the best neonatal care in the country. Even being the son of the sitting President of the United States couldn’t save him, when pediatrics had little more to offer than to run oxygen into the incubator and hope for the best. There were no infusion pumps to control IV rates and maintain those precious lines. There were no ventilators of a size that could be used on small infants. There was no surfactant to give, a substance that keeps the alveoli of infant lungs open so that oxygen can pass into the baby’s bloodstream.

By 1967, when I was a second-year resident in pediatrics, I spent three months studying under the best neonatologist in Minnesota. How do I know this? Because Dr. Martha Strickland was the only neonatologist in Minnesota. And there weren’t any in either of the Dakotas, Wisconsin, or Iowa. The early versions of the machines had begun to appear that would eventually change the dismal neonatal picture, but the first ones were clumsy and unreliable. By 1969 we had some decent ventilators and early infusion pumps, but it wasn’t until 1989 that surfactant received FDA approval.

One more example. In 1967 the five-year survival rate for acute lymphoblastic leukemia was 0%. Every child who came to us with that disease died, usually within a few months. Today, survival is 90%.

Like I said. I started working in pediatrics in the clan of the cave bear era.

******

Oh Happy Day! Our little jewel of a national park will re-open tomorrow, August 18! The campgrounds will remain closed for the rest of the year due to damage to rest rooms, picnic tables, etc., but we will have access to most everything else. I am so curious I can taste it. It’s been just over 40 days since this drama began with those lightning strikes, and we would have usually been up there several times during this month plus.

So, Rejoice And Be Glad is the message for today! Our sins have been forgiven and the stone has been rolled away and tomorrow we will drive the length of the park with jubilation in our hearts!

******

Oh Happy Day, by the Edwin Hawkins Singers

******

A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight …

jono55

Our guests of the past weekend came and went. Our home is returning to normal as everything that was shifted has been moved back to its rightful spot in the cosmic scheme of things. The refrigerator is half-filled with leftovers of good foods that somehow were overstocked at meals and were too tasty to throw out.

No matter. Prudence and parsimony require that those leftover baked beans must be consumed right down to the last gaseous molecule. The old gag line: “We had a thousand things for supper … all of ’em beans” was never more true than at supper the last two nights. By Friday we should be able to look once more ahead rather than backwards in our menu planning.

Even though the teenagers largely ignored the adults, it was good to see those kids at play and to hear all that enthusiastic giggling. And as I went through the paces of cleaning my bathroom, which had been turned over to them, I was reminded of a constant thread that runs through all the generations that we are so fond of naming. Teenagers might be meticulous in their appearance, but they are positively slobs at the makeup mirror. Thorough cleaning required my use of a firehose and a strong right arm.

Good to know that some things remain the same.

******

It has become so depressing to read the news. We have become a nation where the only thing that other nations can trust about is that we can’t be trusted. We are the bad guys in all corners of the world. Perhaps not the only bad guys, but … damn. I find myself cheering for Canada every time they stick it to us in yet one more way. When British Columbia threatens to shut down the trans-Canada highway to Alaska, which is our lone land connection to the 49th state, some little interior voice says DOITDOIT!

Of course this regime will eventually fall apart, it is too villainous and selfish to last, but when will that downfall occur, and what amount of damage will have been done in the interim? What a shame. How many lives wasted, torn apart, spent in pain and sorrow that is completely unnecessary? It is truly our age of dishonor.

******

Hurdy-Gurdy Man, by Donovan

******

Well, that’s it. I’m tired of global warming and there’s no going around it. This endless succession of 90° days is making it impossible for me to grow my one tomato per year, and have become very tiresome.

I’m sure there must be some way of turning it off, and I would like the government to get about it as soon as possible. This just won’t do.

Right now, of course, our government is consumed with trying to decide whether the president is a pedophile or not. The insiders in his regime have decided that of course he’s not and is instead quite a wonderful person. Never mind that the rest of the world knows that he is almost entirely abominable.

******

Runaway Train, by Soul Asylum

******

Colorado is in the midst of a looooong drought. It has made things very crispy out here in Paradise, and one result was that bundle of wildfires that started a month ago during a dry thunderstorm. But we are not the only ones dealing with this natural but uncomfortable phenomenon. Right now the Lee wildfire near Meeker has consumed more than 110,000 acres, and there are many smaller ones scattered about. Here is a map of their locations as of yesterday.

The Lee wildfire, the fifth largest in Colorado’s history, has caused many people to have to leave their homes, and an entire prison needed to be evacuated and the population moved to one far away from fire activity. Schools are closed, parks are closed, some highways are unsafe to travel … it’s all a large and dangerous mess.

The only real bright spot is that to date no lives have been lost, neither of residents nor firefighters. Each year I marvel of the courage of those battling to contain the blazes. Whenever a fire is nearby, I will see these young people in the grocery store, shopping for supplies in small groups of very fit-looking men and women wearing a variety of uniforms. They are a cadre, proud and resourceful.

******

Aye, Aye, Ma’am!

jono55

Robin and I tuned in to the regularly scheduled (Wednesdays at 1800 hours) Zoom meeting of Solidarity Warriors, a branch of Indivisible Colorado. Their first guest was a woman who is running in the Democratic primary and who hopes to eventually take on and defeat Rep. Lauren Boebert.

For those of you who are not from Colorado, Ms. Boebert is most famous not for her diligence in representing her district, but for publicly fondling her date at a performance of Beetlejuice. The name of the person who hopes to unseat her is Eileen Laubacher.

You don’t know Ms. Laubacher’s name nearly as well, possibly because she hasn’t engaged in any indecencies while occupying a theater seat. Instead, she quietly raised five children, none of whom have been arrested. During this same period of time, she kept her day job which was as an Admiral in the U.S. Navy.

Yep, you heard right, an Admiral.

She has recently retired and finding herself growing more restive and nauseous by the day at the destructive antics of Cluck’s administration has decided to run for public office.

She spoke for nearly an hour, with solid answers to questions from the other Zoom attendees, and by the end of that time we wanted to just hug her to bits. Both of us. It was the first time for me. Wanting to hug a retired admiral, that is. (You’ll have to ask Robin about her own history). She was forthright, no nonsense, honest, blunt when bluntness was called for, and all with a grand sense of humor. A woman whose love of country instead of self came through so clearly it was like a glass of cool water on a climate-change 94 degree August day in the desert. Completely refreshing is what it was.

The Zoom meetings are being archived on YouTube so you can check this one out and see for yourself.

******

Howl At The Moon, by Ellen McIlwaine

******

We have house guests this weekend. Justin and Jenny are here from California on one of their too-rare visits, and Amy/Neil and the kids have joined them here in Paradise. We are ten at table.

I’m definitely out of practice in cooking for a multitude. And when four of the attendees are adolescents, whose appetites can range from birdlike to frightening, sometimes within the snap of a finger … ay, ay, ay.

Thursday it was 95 degrees here in Paradise. I have reached the mental stage where when it gets over 90 I just stay in the house and sip tasty beverages in a leisurely fashion. I think it’s why I’m still alive. But I also think I’ve carried things too far when I begin to wonder whether it is safe to push the trash barrel to the curb on collection day and whether that brilliant sunshine will do me in like a vampire who stayed out too late.

I’m not sure how it all came about, but during the past few days we had three female teenagers sleeping here, while their parents took refuge from the heat in local motels. The trio occupied a single room by placing a futon next to a blowup single bed, leaving a walkway of about six inches. Saturday night their light finally went out around 0100 hours.

Polite, thoughtful, kind, silly, energetic, smart … they can come back any time they choose.

******

Black Myself, by Amethyst Kiah

******

Talking with Justin about ICE and its violations of the law and any sense of common decency, I began to use the trite comparison with the Nazi Gestapo, but then stopped myself in mid-sentence. Even that evil army of psychopaths wore uniforms and were not masked. The thugs of ICE don’t observe conventions like that. Their behavior is instead that of criminals.

While our guests were here, we watched the first two episodes of the new season of South Park, episodes that have been generating quite a bit of comment for their take on the Cluck regime. They were just as ferocious and rude and tasteless as had been promised. They were also very funny and satisfying. The South Park brand of fantasy was much more entertaining than that of the administration, which steers daily toward the tragic, without a trace of humor.

My favorite scene? Kristi Noem and her ICE thugs on a kidnapping rampage in Heaven while she exclaims: “Just take the brown ones!”

******

Followup on our mushroom farming. It all looked like a failure for a while, with only a few puny specimens being produced. I had been following the instructions provided by several videos, all of which were filmed in areas with a more moderate climate than we enjoy here in Paradise.. So I said to myself: “Self, what have you got to lose? Let’s move from prudent to imprudent and see what happens.”

From that moment I began to water the very bejeezus out of the mycelial brick and within a couple of days there was new growth everywhere and I just finished gathering a very respectable harvest.

It’s all turning out to be a little more labor-intensive than I thought it would be, but when your efforts finally pay off, it’s a proper gas.

******

MADJB

jono55

I was leafing through a small-town newspaper the other day and came across this reference to a group of comics that liked to play music together and eventually got together and formed a band. Because they were all middle-aged dads they called it the Middle Aged Dads Jam Band, or MADJB. Eventually they began playing gigs, developed a YouTube Channel, and are living the dream.

Kind of a hoot, it is.

******

Robin and I went driving to see how far up the road to the Black Canyon National Park we could go without being arrested. Just before the gate entrance we encountered a very polite park ranger whose pickup was blocking the road and who instructed us that we had gone far enough, thank you very much. But from that point we could already see a large swath of burned-over rolling hills, our first view of the damages from the fire.

On the way back down the hill from the Black Canyon entrance we found this large herd of elk grazing in Bostwick Park. In the photo you can see that there are two groups of animals, one near and one far away, totaling close to 100.

******

Have you ever visited a fish hatchery? If not, here’s a brief description. There are large open concrete “ponds” of various sizes, each filled with small fish of a uniform size.

When you toss in any food, there is a great commotion as all of the fish compete with one another blindly, with so much swirling and splashing that you can no longer make out individual creatures.

That, my friends, is my metaphor for today’s Republican Party. A large group of undistinguished organisms largely inert until Cluck tosses out some random outrage or idiocy into the pond, and then there is pandemonium as they compete for scraps.

Right now, there is only one place for an up and coming member of the GOP to be, and that is with their nose planted firmly between the two rear pockets of the Generalissimo’s XXXL trousers. What they never seem to do is to look back behind themselves at the trail of bloody career corpses he has left in his wake. To Cluck, each of them is little more than a paper towel, to be used once and then thrown away.

******

From The New Yorker

******

After much reflection, I have come to a conclusion that I am certain many of you have reached before me. And that is the disturbing absence of fennel seeds in what passes for food in Italian restaurants. (And that includes pizza joints, which may or may not have Italian lineage).

To me, any red Italian sauce that doesn’t ‘t include a sprinkling of those delicious licorice-y and crunchy seeds is nearly always disappointing. Tonight I heated up a frozen pizza (confession time, here) and not only were there no fennel seeds but there was no basil or oregano, either. Which indicates that if one lets these commercial vendors get away with one thing that soon they are trying to get away with several.

There’s only one remedy that I can see, and that is legislative. Inclusion of fennel should be mandated, and let’s get it done. I will admit, although I have never heard of a case, that there might be people in this country who are violently allergic to this spice. Without having a choice there might be the rare bad spell for those folks in the new world I am describing. But in society some of us have to make sacrifices for the greater good, and this is one of those times.

Should Mom or Pop or Gramps perish as a result of being poisoned by Foeniculum vulgare we could all send something nice to the funeral and to the charity of their choice.

******

Volare, by Domenico Modugno

******

From The New Yorker

******

Over the next several days we will become a family of ten at table. Amy and Justin and their families are coming for a visit. The adults will be staying at a local motel, while the children will bunk here at Basecamp. The whole thing promises to be messy and fun and is a rare event these days, when that curious creation called family is spread thinly over thousands of miles.

Our own anxieties are pretty much of the “what will we do all day when the temperature promises to be in the 90s and the mountain sun is so unforgiving?” variety. Much food has been prepared in advance, beds are assigned … what could possibly go wrong?

******

Hand-sitting

jono55

Memo to “Normal” Republicans: if you are silent, sitting on your hands and waiting for the storm to blow over, you are complicit in and partially to blame for whatever Cluck is thus able to send our way.

Memo to Democrats: if you are silent, sitting on your hands and waiting for the storm to blow over, you are complicit in and partially to blame for whatever Cluck is thus able to send our way.

Memo to Independents: if you are silent, sitting on your hands and waiting for the storm to blow over, you are complicit in and partially to blame for whatever Cluck is thus able to send our way.

Memo to those who consider themselves above the political fray: if you are silent, sitting on your hands and waiting for the storm to blow over, you are complicit in and partially to blame for whatever Cluck is thus able to send our way.

This is no time for silence. Silence is complicity. Silence is collaboration. Silence is capitulation.

There, got it off my chest. Now I can blather on to other matters.

******

Living Well Is The Best Revenge, by R.E.M.

******

The header photograph today is of author Alexander Solzhenitsyn and it was taken on the day of his liberation from the Soviet gulag in 1953, after eight years of imprisonment. He went on to write several books, and the one that is considered his masterwork is The Gulag Archipelago, where he describes the system of forced labor camps that existed in Stalinist Russia and continued until it was officially abolished in 1960.

It doesn’t take too much imagination to see parallels between that system and the camps that the Cluck administration is establishing around the United States to house immigrants who are being deported. The most glaring example being perhaps “Alligator Alcatraz,” in Florida.

Cluck’s Visit to Alligator Alcatraz, July 2025

In effect, they can be considered our political prisoners. They are being transported and incarcerated in these places at the whim of the Cluck regime. No habeas corpus. No due process. No recourse to the protections of our justice system. It is ugly and it is illegal.

To add to the rottenness, these people are being rounded up by our very own newly-minted secret police squads, which we euphemistically call Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE.

******

I subscribe to the “Cooking” section of the New York Times, and I’m not quite sure why. I rarely use their recipes for a number of reasons, the most common is that so many of them call for ingredients that are simply not available in our corner of the world. Another is that some authors are almost unbearably precious and full of themselves. Where a more straightforward person might write “and then simmer for two hours,” their instruction might be paraphrased as “and then simper for two hours.”

But we’ve just been enjoying a NYT recipe, a superior vegetable chili that stars black beans and mushrooms and that is very tasty indeed. It is not difficult to make, does not involve using a single word of a foreign language, and is ready in only an hour. It is economical and nutritious to boot, unless you go too crazy in the variety of mushrooms that you use.

******

I think that if my last name were Epstein I would change it ASAP. Perhaps to something lighter, like de Sade or Dahmer.

******

The Internationale, by Ani di Franco and Utah Philips

******

A gallery from Scotland. Makes the signs I’ve carried so far look a bit wimpy. There were others that were even more colorful, but there are words a gentleman like myself does not employ.

Not that they weren’t correct, mind you.

***

A One-line Curriculum Vitae Created For He Who Will Not Be Named

Cheatliardelusionalrapistabuser
whorermongerbigotbankruptfelon
traitornarcissistdraftdodger
pedophileimmoraldisloyalhypocrite
fascistdementedbullyscoundrel
adulterersoullesspeckerwood.

******

No breaks from the plus-90 heat here in Paradise. But my kids and friends living in Minnesota and South Dakota recently had to deal with heat and then some. There were tornadoes, thunderstorms, Biblical-style rains, and a by-god derecho. (These pix are not mine, but no matter. The view is the same)

Now, I make absolutely no claims to meteorological expertise beyond phrases like “When the rain is from the East then the fishing is the least.” But if I should ever look up and see something like in these photos, I’m pretty sure it would be quick-step to the root cellar for me. Even if I couldn’t explain what I saw, I would take it as a direct message from the Almighty that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

******

There are blogs that I follow that from time to time provide absolute gems for me to read and thing about. One of those came along this week. It included this poem, which I found quite beautiful and provocative (that is, it provoked me to actually think). The author is Mick Canning and he lives in the UK. He is a real writer, as opposed to a trafficker in poppycock and dither like myself.

******

La Marseillaise, by Isla St. Clair

******

Beaten

jono55

Those among you who are wholesome adults and children and have no interest in the sordid business that rock and roll has occasionally been can just skip this section. I am dedicating it to a tune that is either one of the most or least offensive songs in the entire genre, and that is the Kingsmen’s rendition of Louie, Louie. It was prompted by a recent article in the New Yorker entitled: Is This The Dirtiest Song of the Sixties?

Just to start things off, here is the original, by Richard Berry

Louie, Louie, by Richard Berry

And here is the version that actually had the FBI up nights trying to decipher the lyrics.

Louie, Louie, by the Kingsmen

There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of cover versions out there, making Louie, Louie one of the more durable arrows in the rock quiver. Sooooo … what’s your verdict? Read the article. It’s amusing but you won’t learn a thing that helps to clarify the issue.

******

Here is a perfect point/counterpoint. Our president and his gang of thugs are rounding up latinos and latinas as fast as they can and sending them illegally to prison camps where they live under deplorable conditions. But what’s this? A group from Mexico (the land of rapists and drug lords according to Cluck), came northwards across the border to help Texas in rescue and recovery operations immediately after the Guadalupe River catastrophe.

Cluck and his newly created League of Incompetent Bastards would have trouble understanding something like this. It is the sort of unselfish and courageous thing that people do for other people when disaster strikes. Borders, languages, and politics are set aside as humans respond to tragedies. There are days when I despair of our species for many reasons, but stories like this … maybe we will make it after all.

******

In an idle moment I spent some time searching for a photo of my old elementary school online and was at long last successful. I did find that Warrington Elementary ceased to be a school in 1966, and was reborn as an apartment building.

Our family home at the time I attended Warrington was on Second Avenue south and everybody on that street was white. Two blocks away, on Fourth Street, that color pattern was reversed. We all went to Warrington, however, and I have no recollection at all of any black/white tensions in the school, no sorting out according to color on the playground. I only had one playground fight in all those years and that was with the biggest girl in the fifth grade who trounced me, on the spot indicated by the arrow. I do not recall what my offense was, but her remedy was a doozy.

I do recall an African-American boy who was the best singer in the entire school, and his name was Plouis Moore. At an assembly one day he sang Danny Boy in the finest Irish tenor voice imaginable. Even a clot like myself could recognize his talent. Because of that one day, that one song, his is the only name that I remember from all those years in that school.

Except for Marjorie Heath, of course, my unspoken and thus unrequited love of the fourth and fifth grade. She never knew it but I would have been her slave and would have done anything she asked.

I have only a few memories of elementary school, but one that is still vivid involves adhesives. In many of the projects that we were assigned in class there was quite a bit of gluing of one piece of paper to another. This was done with the aid of a giant jar of white library paste. By the time we had finished any of those projects, I had been licking that paste from my fingers for at least an hour, just to keep them usable.

Over the years I developed a strange liking for the stuff. Fortunately for my health, in the junior high years the paste pot was no longer on the scene. Lord knows whether I would have made it out of seventh grade if that weren’t true, but instead might have been found under my desk, white paste smeared around my mouth and on my hands, moribund.

******

Came across this photo of a gravestone in Goldfield, Nevada. Whew! Narrow escape for me.

******

We are presently beset by hummingbirds, who are here in such numbers that they empty the feeders in 36 hours. At times there are up to six birds at the two stations. If one is to be beset by anything this is a good kind

I have identified two species, the Rufous (at left) and the Black-chinned. All day long they drink and squabble among themselves, and their day begins well before sunup.

It would appear that I need to shop for more feeders. Just having the two isn’t handling the traffic.

******

Bullet the Blue Sky (Jacknife Lee Remix), by U2

******

Nature Is Not A Place To Visit

jono55

Why go camping? Why put this seasoned carcass on a thin pad on the ground in a tent in a remote spot where one’s serenity could be interrupted at any moment by a thunderstorm, a tree falling, or the crack of a dry branch in the night as a large creature travels near the tent. Why go days without a proper bath? Perhaps the following paragraphs will provide some ragged sort of explanation.

******

A long time ago I was reading … something … I can’t even recall whether it was non-fiction or a novel, but I came across this phrase which has stuck with me and become part of my DNA.

What the white man calls wilderness, we call home.

Reading it back in that dimly remembered day was one of those scales falling from the eyes moments. For I recognized for the first time that my attraction to the outdoors, the woods and the deserts and remote places, was homesickness. I was living my life in a town, in a house which was centrally heated and air conditioned. I drove a car along marked streets to grocery stores where I traded money for the food I needed, without ever producing a morsel of my own. I followed the rules of social living, became a high school graduate, a college boy, a physician, a husband and father. But I knew that I was living in a foreign country called America, when my true home was somewhere else entirely.

I am sitting by a campfire, lively breeze blowing through  giant pine trees, granite cliffs on one side, distant snow-capped mountains on the other; a stream flowing downhill over pebbles and boulders can be heard in the distance; at night the pitch black sky lights up with seemingly endless stars, somewhere far off an owl hooting….  I make a cup of coffee over the fire and converse with this wilderness…. 

Mostly we don’t think of that starry sky as also a wilderness, but it is that.  It is “wild” in the root meaning of that word, not humanly controlled or manipulated, not running by human wisdom, but by its own inner wisdom which the ancient Chinese called the Tao.  I look at the Milky Way, that fuzzy white spread of millions of stars like our sun, our galaxy, and millions of other galaxies out there whose light takes millions, even billions of years to get here….it is all so incomprehensibly and unimaginably vast, and yet in a very real way it is all our home.  Every atom of every fiber of our being was made in those stars billions of years ago…and so with everything we touch, we breathe, we eat….  In the deepest sense there is nothing “out there” that is alien to us.

The Tao of the Wilderness

The lure of leaving safety, comfort, recognizable landmarks and finding one’s own way is such a strong one. Whenever I would step off the shore into a canoe leaving on a Boundary Waters trip I had that delicious and necessary feeling of disconnection from all of the things that civilization is. Even now, at a time of life when I creak in places I didn’t even know that I had, I am eager for the next trip, the next step away from the shore.

I took many small voyages into those Boundary Waters with an old friend Rich, and for the most part we agreed on things. But there came a day when we argued (both unsuccessfully) with each other over something that we had almost no control over. Some company wanted to build a communication tower on the edge of that wilderness, tall enough that the signal could reach a cell phone anywhere out in the BW. Rich wanted it to happen, to be able to stay in touch with his family at all times. I could understand his position, at least it was the truth for him.

But as for me, I idly thought: “If they build that goddam thing perhaps I will come back and blow it up.”I was pretty sure that Edward Abbey would have my back on that one, even as they dressed me in new orange pajamas and showed me to my exclusive room at the Stillwater State Prison.

So I go camping, backpacking, walking out. These are tiny gestures, really, and if I were to be “out there” totally on my own I suspect that I would not last long at all. Within a month or two the porcupines would be gnawing the leather belt on my pants to extract the salt they crave. But as poet/naturalist Gary Snyder put it:

Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.

Gary Snyder

******

Ends of the Earth, by Lord Huron

******

From The New Yorker

******

The fire in the Black Canyon National Park is not done with us yet, but has slowed and is being contained. No loss of life. No homes burned. The Visitor Center preserved. But the residents of the area are not yet being allowed to return to their homes.

Photographs started to become available once the media was given an official tour, while the general public is still denied access to the area. Something like 14% of the park area has burned. Here are some pix taken from our local newspaper.

******

What a rotten caricature of a human being we have at the helm. Each day we are given a reminder of the values of honesty, uprightness, and mercy as we follow the slime trail of a man who possesses none of those virtues. He has the power to hurt so many people and is using it full-time to do just that, while the country is run as if it were a garage sale rather than a sovereign state.

Ahhhhhhhh … the waiting for the end of this particular time of tribulation is a difficult thing. Hard times … hard times … come again no more.

******

Hard Times Come Again No More, by Gangstagrass

******

Two Miles Up

jono55

This will be a rather short post due to the fact that Robin and I have been away from home and not in contact with the world and its problems. For two days we camped a few miles south of Aspen CO with daughter Ally and friend Kyle. The internet goes away about three miles before the entrance to the campground, which is mostly a blessing and less a curse.

The place we stayed is called Difficult Campground and is named for the Difficult Creek which flows through it. There is only one hike leading away from it and it is the Difficult Creek Trail. We have no idea why everything is Difficult, we found it quite lovely and not particularly difficult at all.

There are a little over forty sites at the campground which are relatively close together but the trees and underbrush are so dense that you feel quite private even so. I encountered campers from many places in the U.S. and from France and Poland. With mega-rich Aspen so close the clientele is somewhat better mounted than we lowlife cowboys from small-town Colorado. There were some awfully comfortable-looking recreational vehicles sharing the area with us. Big and roomy and expensive.

We encountered a problem that is new to me. These days camping in the U.S. is largely done by reservation, and this campground had been solidly booked for months. But only about two-thirds of the campers actually showed up for to occupy the spot they had reserved. Affluent campers now often reserve spaces at several campgrounds early on in the season at the same dates, to cover the time they had available for recreation. Then at the last minute they could go to whichever spot they preferred. Of course that meant that they were paying $30.00 a night for each campsite they didn’t use, but if you are at a certain place economically this is pretty small potatoes compared to the convenience it affords.

But this means that you are freezing out another camper who would love to have used that site now which was now empty and unavailable. It is a selfish behavior, but I hate to admit it … there are selfish Americans. There, I’ve got it out there. I feel better now.

******

The Eagle and the Hawk, by John Denver

******

From Aspen to Independence Pass is a distance of 19.7 miles. We spent our second day exploring as much of this area as we could. For me the highlight was the walking about the area surrounding the Pass itself. You are well above treeline and at an altitude of more 12,000 feet. The spot we chose to eat our picnic lunch was at 12,160 feet according to the app on my phone. Turns out that food tastes exactly the same even though the act of chewing can leave you breathless (gross exaggeration here).

This road is classic Colorado mountain driving. Two lanes of steep and tight and twisting curves with no guardrails. There are two short segments where there is no center line because the road is so narrow that you pass an oncoming car v.e.r.y s.l.o.w.l.y with only a foot or two to spare between you. Being an acrophobic, I do not like such passages. Here’s an interesting graphic from a bicycling journal.

And yes, you share this narrow piece of asphalt with bicyclists. Bicyclists with a death wish is what I have come to believe. When you encounter a person on a bike on a curvy stretch you cannot pass due to limited visibility, so you travel at their speed. It is a journey that I simply could not make. The guy on the bike at times is only a couple of feet from the cliff edge and that is about ten feet too little for this timid soul.

***

A few miles before the summit is the ghost town of Independence. It once was a gold mining town, established in 1879 and abandoned in 1899. All but one member of the population left at that later date during the worst winter in Colorado’s history, when snow cut them off completely from supplies. At one point many residents took planks from the buildings to fashion skis and in that way traveled back down the mountains to Aspen and safety.

One of the plaques at the townsite discussed a local Elks Lodge having brought new elk in to repopulate the valley, and that herd’s descendants now now still roam the area. Why, you ask, did they do this? Well, because in that isolated and harsh environment the miners and their families had eaten nearly all of the deer, elk, and marmots before they abandoned the town. Yes, even the marmots did not escape those ravenous appetites.

Here’s a few pics I borrowed from the internet. I took none of my own because my phone had run out of gas.

***

Rocky Mountain High, by John Denver

******

This morning I returned to modern life by reading articles about President Cluck’s continuing war on democracy and decency and wondering to myself … where’s a good heart attack when you really need one?

I know, I know. An unworthy thought. I will give myself a time out.

******

Comic Relief: sign found in the bathroom at the top of Independence Pass.

Listen To The Music

jono55

There are times when I actually feel sorry for the MAGA bunch. Not often, because they are continually involved in such sorry and destructive behavior. But sorry in the sense that they seem so desperately unhappy. So little of the world they live in is acceptable to them. I would not want to live in their heads for a moment.

And I realize that to have become the wise and serene and accepting and all-round wonderful human being that I am is the purest accident, the endpoint of a long series of days (31,311 to be exact) when life sculpted and molded and pushed me until I couldn’t be anything else.

I grew up in an economically deprived home, but not an abusive one. I was exposed to peer groups that were only mildly delinquent and antisocial in their behavior, which meant that I experienced none of the harsh lessons that come with incarceration. I had parents who had clear ideas about right and wrong, fair and unfair, and who had enough minor flaws that I learned that it was possible to love someone even though they were imperfect.

I was given a mind that was useful in solving problems and remembering information, at a time and place in history where such qualities were rewarded.

As the wonderful man who was Thich Nhat Hanh used to tell in one of his stories, we are the victims of robbery and rape, and we are the robbers and the rapists. All of those possibilities were in us when we were born. Chance and happenstance … chance and happenstance … and here I am, a card-carrying non-MAGA of the first water.

******

(Three of the tunes on the blog today are from the album Live At Wolf Trap, and are performed by the estimable Doobie Brothers.)

5 Corners, by The Doobie Brothers

******

The world is full of metaphors involving water, isn’t it? Makes sense, since our origins are probably in the sea, but just think of all the lessons and stories that involve the ocean, rivers, and lakes of the earth. And I offer here a modest addition to that lore.

Robin and I are involved in a nationwide progressive organization called Indivisible. We have been involved in planning events, we have marched with kindred spirits, we have watched many training sessions on television. Training to become engaged citizens who have left their comfort zone and are learning the language of speaking up, of making our voices heard.

It took the many kicks and prods offered by the Cluck administration to get us out of our burrows, but it has happened and now, we ask ourselves as we stand blinking in the glaring sunlight, what?

We have a healthy sense of our individual unimportance, I think. No delusions of one day running for political office (and here is the 85 year-old junior senator from the great state of Colorado … ), and are not convinced that our understanding of where it is all going is a completely accurate one. But we see a great ugliness that calls us to resist it and to stand in its way whenever we can.

And yet we also realize that by ourselves we are like a couple of drops of water on a griddle. If we stand still we disappear and are of no help to anyone. But when we join with others we become a creek, a river, and finally, perhaps, a powerful wave.

******

******

Rainy Day Crossroads Blues, by The Doobie Brothers

******

Robin and I hit the streets once again on Thursday afternoon, along with Indivisible and the League of Women Voters. About a dozen of the women, including Robin, dressed in costumes from the television series “The Handmaid’s Tale.” The theme of the day was protection of women’s rights including the right to vote. Both of these are in jeopardy under Cluck with his corrupt handmaidens and henchmen.

‘Twas a hot afternoon, but not quite as beastly as the previous few days. Once again, the local yahoo contingent was nearly completely absent, so there were no episodes of harassment. The leaders of our group have suggested for the first time that we become familiar with the Signal app, in order that we have a way to protect sensitive communications from prying eyes.

A sign o’ the times, but one that is sensible and mindful of the safety of participants. Even though we live in Paradise, not all of the angels are to be trusted.

******

Bread and Roses, by Bobbie McGee

******

Very early this morning I stepped out onto the lawn in the backyard because the night was so quiet and there was still a gentle warmth leftover from the day. It was utterly still, not a leaf moving on the big ash tree.

When I first learned about mindfulness meditation, I remember the following instruction. At the end of an in-breath and before the out-breath begins, there is a moment of complete stillness of the body and mind. That was what it seemed like at 2:00 this morning. That the world of my backyard was at just that moment of breathing in … pause …

******

Listen To The Music, by The Doobie Brothers

******

UPDATE: The National Park Service folks tell us that 85% of the South Rim of the park has been burned. A community meeting next week is set to allow group “mourning” for those who love the park. No one except firefighters and a handful of media members knows what it looks like up there, but it is certainly drastically changed. As of Saturday, the fire is now considered “contained.”

Our last visit to the park before the fire was just four days before the blaze began. Robin and I were stopping at each viewpoint and walking out to take fresh looks at this dramatic slash in the earth. We ran out of water and energy before doing all of them, and promised ourselves to come back in a week or two and finish the job.

The campgrounds have been completely burned over, and will not reopen this year. Maintenance building have been destroyed, along with the equipment that was housed in them. We are grateful that the visitor center was unharmed. It will provide the counterpoint of what the new version of the park will become. I can imagine that the hiking trails will need a lot of work to make them usable.

Zero loss of human life, zero loss of homes in the area. That is the very good news.

******

******

Pozole News

jono55

After this long on the planet It is very annoying to learn that there is basic information missing from my personal portfolio. But yesterday I was listening to a woman on NPR who was talking about our Black Canyon fire and who used the term “dry thunderstorm.” I had never heard that term before.

So I looked it up.

What it means is precisely what happened here last Thursday morning. Ferocious lightning without any significant rainfall. These sorts of storms occur primarily in very dry areas of the country, as found in the Western US. They are a very common cause of wildfires, exemplified by the fact that our recent “dry thunderstorm” produced four fires in this area, which are still burning.

Dry thunderstorm … polar vortex … downbursts … the meteorologists have their own arcane vocabulary which they use to maintain their power and lord it over the rest of us. Someone should fire them all. I’m calling DOGE.

******

Main Title Theme (Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid), by Bob Dylan

******

Robin and I are presently exploring the joys of pozole, a Mexican stew made with hominy (dried corn). Yesterday I put together a pozole verde, made with hominy, tomatillos, jalapeños, chicken, and a few spices. It was delicious. The helpful publisher of the recipe provided instructions for making it in an either a crockpot or a pressure cooker.

I started out with a package of dry hominy, which is the consistency of a bag of rocks and requires some serious soaking and cooking to soften up. Once you get this part done, the rest of the recipe kicks in quickly.

Simple techniques, no special skills required, delicious output. What’s not to like?

******

Went with friends Joe and Caroline to a chamber music concert at a local church. Three young musicians played for us, with violin, viola, and a double bass the size of a compact car. The music was excellent.

The bassist was a member of the Navajo nation and he played two of his own compositions. The first of of those was so beautiful and dramatic that I sought him out after the concert and asked if he had recorded it, hoping I might purchase a copy. But no, it was his most recent work and he was still trying it out.

A pity. Would have loved to have had it in my library.

******

Not Dark Yet, by Bob Dylan

******

I am so totally confused now about the Jeffrey Epstein affair that I don’t know where to start. And the White House isn’t helping by trotting out one scenario after another hoping to find one that will make us all magically forget our names and where we put the car keys and everything else.

The whole business is a good reminder of one of those adages you can hear at any AA meeting. “If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember what you said before.” Exactly. And the hapless consortium at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue can’t remember in mid-afternoon what they said before lunch.

******

“Wow who would have thought that electing a rapist would have complicated the release of the Epstein Files?”

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez

******

Fire On The Mountain

jono55

Something remarkable happened to the family living next door. The woman went into the hospital on Sunday evening and on Monday morning a surgeon reached into her abdomen and pulled out a brand new American. Mother and child are doing well.

By the time that child reaches the age where he cares about such things, these troubled present days of ugly political behavior will be only paragraphs in history books. Paragraphs that delineate what can go wrong when those who cherish democracy are complacent. When those same folks make the mistake of assuming that you have triumphed over wickedness once and for all because you have beaten it back one time.

***

For some reason Nathan Hale came to mind this morning. He may have been America’s first spy. I rarely think of him, which is a pity, because there is much to learn from his example.

He was caught on his first mission, however, and hanged shortly thereafter. Nathan was only twenty-one years old at the time of his death.

.

“On the morning of his execution,” continued the officer, “my station was near the fatal spot, and I requested the Provost Marshal to permit the prisoner to sit in my marquee, while he was making the necessary preparations. Captain Hale entered: he was calm, and bore himself with gentle dignity, in the consciousness of rectitude and high intentions. He asked for writing materials, which I furnished him: he wrote two letters, one to his mother and one to a brother officer. He was shortly after summoned to the gallows. But a few persons were around him, yet his characteristic dying words were remembered. He said, ‘I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country.'”

Captain John Montresor

There is not unanimity of opinions about whether he said exactly those words, but after this long stretch of time I doubt whether anyone cares but some historians. The lessons to be taken of courage, sacrifice, and dedication to country would not be altered by the transposition of a few vowels and consonants.

******

Fading Fires (Of The Great Chiefs), by AIRO

******

******

Robin and I have just finished watching the series “Endeavour” on PBS, and thoroughly enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that it was at times more than a bit talky and occasionally preposterous. Now while the word “preposterous ” might seem harsh, I like to have a bit of it in anything I watch, since dry reality is so tawdry and boring these days.

The series covers several years in the life of a young policeman whose private life is that of an opera-loving loner. It is as much about relationships as it is about criminal activity. He has a mentor, a reputation for being prickly as well as a brilliant crime-solver, and yet somehow fails to hear Robin and I call out repeatedly “That’s the girl for you, fool!”

******

The temperature reading stood at 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and I believed it. Our younger cat, Willow, chose this stressful day to change her habits and remain outdoors all the livelong day, instead of sleeping on a cool chair in our bedroom. Of course our anxiety levels rose as the number of hours added up, until nearly six PM, when she made her appearance.

We pictured her gasping in a ditch, drowned in the irrigation canal that runs behind our home, or gobbled up by any number of large creatures, including coyotes, mountain lions, and the Yeti.

But all our concerns were for nought, she is in fine shape, and for all we know, may enjoy getting away from us for longer periods of time, whether the weather be clement or not. There may be repeats, but without the panic.

BTW, the humidity was in single digits this afternoon. This means that unless you drink your water quickly you are behind a couple of ounces by the time you finish the glass. Walking a few hundred feet searching for a cat meant not being able to formulate words clearly after only a few minutes, the inside of the mouth being roughly the same texture as an old pair of dried-up leather work gloves.

******

******

Fire On The Mountain, by Jimmy Cliff, Bob Weir, Mickey Hart

******

Early Thursday morning there were a handful of lightning flashes and thunder blasts here in Paradise. No rain, just the fireworks. But up at the Black Canyon National Park there was much more going on. Some of those lightning strikes started fires, one on the north side of the canyon and one on the south. Our valley became filled with a smoky haze, enough that the horizons were obscured.

Access to the park entry road is barricaded off, to keep idiot looky-loos like myself from wandering about the area, bothering the firefighters and becoming problems when those brave people have to stop more important work to hose us down.

Wildfires are always a possibility here in Paradise, a dry country in a good year. But this is the closest one in the eleven years we’ve lived out here. The Black Canyon is one of our favorite places … to walk … to drive through … or just to grab a rock, sit on it, and think about stuff. It will certainly be changed the next time we see it.

(Addendum: As of Saturday afternoon the fire had burned 3000 acres and was zero per cent contained. The park only contains 30,000 acres.)

******

This is the view of the Black Canyon Fire from the end of our street. It’s about nine miles away.

******

Triviality

jono55

Robin and I started with a new physician this week. The doc we’ve had since moving to Paradise is retiring, and we wish her well.

The new MD is thirtyish, asks all the right questions, gives lots of solicited advice, and has definite opinions about things she should have definite opinions about.

I like her.

I don’t mind at all being ordered about by a female physician, it fits well with the pattern of the rest of my life. It turns out that I do better at taking orders from women than my own gender because, in general, those orders have a higher sensible/thoughtful score and rank lower on the bluster/buffoon index.

(Actually I’d rather not take orders at all, but that part seems unavoidable.)

******

I mentioned a couple of posts back that our house has been recurrently invaded by three young raccoons.

They’ve been back several times since that first visit and I’ve been straining my brain trying to figure out how to get them to stop coming in without harming them. Then I remembered that farmers and gardeners have been using the urine of predators sprinkled around their trees and plants to discourage deer and small animals (including raccoons) from eating or damaging them.

So we left the cat door open as it’s always been, but I’ve started putting the T-shirt that I’ve worn during the day right by the door at night. Interestingly the raccoons have not come in since.

I don’t know if they’ve given up on us or if they’ve just decided to wait me out, but our home is presently raccoon-free. I feel that I should add for the sake of propriety that there is no urine involved in this operation. None whatsoever.

******

Last evening Robin and I watched a 2016 concert on PBS where some of the stars in the country music world paid tribute to Kris Kristofferson. People like Willie Nelson, Reba McIntire, Martina McBride, etc. It was nicely done, and the performances of KK’s songs were excellent.

***

Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

***

Kristofferson’s music has played its part in both of our lives, starting long before we met and I’m pretty sure that it will continue through the rest of our personal stories. What stands out in his writing is truth and honesty. If he’d only written Me and Bobby McGee, just that one tune, he’d be on our fave list. But there is so much more.

***

Loving Her Was Easier

******

The irony of one of this week’s events on the political stage … you couldn’t make this stuff up, honey. When a man avoiding an international arrest warrant for criminal acts of war comes to Washington DC to announce that he has officially nominated President Cluck for the Nobel Peace Prize.

My, my, my. Another chapter in the malignant fantasy that is Cluckland.

******

The two friends in the header photograph have moved on to camping and paddling in another part of the cosmos. I wonder how the scent of woodsmoke registers there.

******

Subterra Incognita

jono55

Dang, but I’m hooked on this song! Heard for the first time on our recent return trip from Minneapolis as background music in a chicken-sandwich restaurant in Fairplay, Colorado. I now play it all the time, putting it on continuous replay as I work on the computer or sit around vacant-minded on the backyard deck.

It’s one of those times when a song blows right past the thinking part of my brain without stopping for a moment and implants itself in whatever primitive corner in there that is always awake and hungry for things to chew on. I’ve read through the lyrics and … okay … there’s something pleasantly metaphoric there. But then there’s the chorus popping up with “You’ll never walk alone,” which I find distracting.

But, no matter … I love it.

It’s from early Pink Floyd, before they became “The Dark Side of the Moon,” and “The Wall” famous. It’s not the first time something like this has happened to me. There is a pantheon of tunes which preceded it that are lined up in those dark cerebral catacombs and all it takes is hearing a few notes or a phrase to wake one up and put it on the turntable (a metaphoric one, since I got rid of my real turntable decades ago).

Each of them is in its turn like those crushes that I had on one girl or another along my way to adulthood. Passionate and without borders for a time, then gently and lovingly retired.

Fearless, by Pink Floyd

******

******

Each year as I approach the storage limit on WordPress I have to make a choice whether to ante up quite a bit more cash for a larger perch or to trim away enough to make room for what I want to write tomorrow. I always opt for prudence and parsimony. Because, let’s face it, although some of those older posts pleased me very much at the time, they are not deathless prose. Not War and Peace, not even Steal This Book.

You’ve heard the tale, I’m sure, about Emily Dickinson who kept her poetry pretty much to herself and asked that her sister destroy it all upon Emily’s death. When I first heard the story I thought it such an odd request, something on the order of a man who asks that his dog be euthanized on the man’s passing, because “he just wouldn’t be happy without me.” Or, in a more macabre reference, the not-rare story of the depressed parent who decides to end it all, but then takes their family with them, without their assent. Perhaps for the same reason as the dog owner’s, who knows?

But my heirs will not have that problem, because I go through and delete posts without mercy. Everything beyond two years ago disappears. There are enough words being saved for the world to deal with, it doesn’t need my musings added to the stack.

And Emily? I think she secretly wanted everything to be published, but wouldn’t admit it to herself.

******

This gets my vote for best pinback button of the week! I saw it on Substack and stole the image for my personal use.

******

This was also on Substack, on the same day. I tried to read it to Robin but kept breaking into nearly paralytic laughter each time. Finally had to give it up.

I have such low tastes in humor that it often embarrasses even me.

******

******

A rain, finally! Thursday afternoon Robin and I had back to back doctor appointments, and it was 84 degrees and sunny when we entered the building. We exited an hour later into a steady rain and 60 degrees. But hooray for a bit of personal shivering sogginess!

******

This is for Jonnie and those of us who knew him well.

.

******

******

Mindless On Purpose

jono55

Once in a great while I have to leave the world of reality behind and slip into that space where ordinary life is not allowed to go. Where age and situation and doing the right thing are irrelevant. It’s a bit more difficult to do since I became a sober person, but I can if I puts my mind to it … enter music.

Back when I was shooting at my brain with single malt scotches and Pouilly-Fuissé I would put some Neil Young on the turntable, power up the Bose speakers to dangerous levels (capable of killing roaches within a thirty foot radius), and sink into a soft leather chair with my glass in hand. At those moments rock and roll and I became one, similar to the unity that Buddhists talk about.

Problem was, of course, that the next day those ecstasies had been replaced by that painful bit of instant karma called the hangover, which was ever more durable than the “fun” had been. And where did that bruise come from? And what day was it, anyway?

Today there are all sorts of nastinesses out there to sabotage one’s mood and serenity. To get away from them without chemicals requires different sorts of thinking. Meditation … yoga … deliberately letting go of the attachments to the news cycles (which are a form of poison in themselves). And sometimes it is as simple as listening to music. Today I am one with the universe and George Thorogood.

Who Do You Love, by George Thorogood

******

This fashion note was prompted by a Times article on Sunday dealing with the present trendiness of very small swimsuits on men. It’s not so much worrying about that small area that the suit covers but the vast area that is now open to the public gaze that would trouble me.

The gentleman in the photo above with his smoothly muscled body and delicately tattooed dermis might as well be a different species entirely, in that he does not represent in any way what I would look like in such a garment.

In my case, time has worked its wonders behind the closed doors of cotton and polyester, and I fully intend that those doors remain firmly shut. Therefore, in response to as yet no questions at all from the reading public, I make this promise: In spite of my wish to be a model of sartorial perfection at all times, I will not be purchasing or wearing any swimming outfits that are smaller than a large Band-aid.

You can take that to the bank.

******

If, after I have left this earth behind, anyone wished to play something to remind themselves of me (and why in God’s name would they do this?), this song would do handily. Bob Dylan wrote the gently mournful tune, and there are numerous excellent covers out there. I came upon this special one this morning and thought I should share it with you.

******

There is a crack in everything … that’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen

******

What? Two music videos? Is this an MTV flashback?

Nope. These two are really to remind us that although there are people loudly shouting shit every day into our faces … let’s name names, shall we … although our president is loudly shouting shit every day into our faces, because that is what he does best … there are people all around the country and the world who are every day working hard, raising families, contributing to their societies, creating beauty.

This morning I came across one of those moments where somebody had the cameras rolling and an interesting experiment became a joy to be shared. A slender blade with which to cut through the ordure and let the light through.

******

Before enlightenment chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment chop wood, carry water.”

Zen Proverb

I’m looking at the week ahead and there is much work to be done. Fortunately I don’t have to do it all, which is a good thing, due to my being better suited to dozing in a rocker than carrying a torch.

One by one people are waking to the possibility that our national nightmare need not continue. That we water carriers and wood choppers of the earth can join together to make a wave that will cleanse our country and make it stronger.

(end of sermon)

And now, dear hearts, if you would turn in your hymnals to …

******

The Sound of Two Hands Slapping

jono55

Robin was in Durango on Wednesday night, while I hung around Paradise to attend an Indivisible meeting on the Disappeared Ones. The meeting went well and at present I am out on the backyard deck where the overwarm day is cooling off right on schedule. The ongoing violation of constitutional protections is one of the more repellent programs Cluck has put into play. It’s straight KGB stuff, Gestapo stuff. The clay that authoritarians use to mold their citizens into subjects.

I took some time to read more tonight about the courage of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo in Argentina, who kept coming back and asking the question of the brutish government “Where are our children?” They came back even when they were being beaten, tortured, imprisoned, and in some cases becoming los desaparecidos themselves.

Cluck is now breaking the law and disappearing people every day, using the masked thugs of ICE as his henchmen in our own version of the brutish Argentine government of 1977. There is no safety under such a president for any of us. To think otherwise is foolhardy.

******

Mothers of the Disappeared, by U2

******

******

Since Robin was away, that evening I went out to supper alone. At the next table was a family consisting of mom, dad, grandma, and three young children. The adults, as far as I could tell, spent way more time corralling their imps than they did enjoying their food.

It wasn’t that the kids were unusually naughty, it was that their energies couldn’t be contained on a chair. My takeaway from watching this drama was twofold. First, that kids in a restaurant can be amusing to watch if they are not yours. Second, I am grateful that I don’t have any small kids of my own any longer, and thus am able to eat serenely while others lose their cool and their appetites.

I still shudder thinking back to the time when my own kids were in their feral stage and the carpeting under our restaurant table looked like a picnic that had exploded. I’m quite sure that the waiters of that time looked on our arrivals with resignation and our departures with relief.

******

This is the time of year when visiting the Grand Mesa must be done cautiously. Right after the snows have melted up there, the gods turn loose one of the great plagues of mankind. Instead of saying “Release the Kraken,” however, they smile and whisper “Release the mosquitoes.”

The top of the Grand Mesa, billed as the largest flat-topped mountain in the US (or world), is very different from the valley floor. The types of trees and the abundance of lakes make it much like northern Minnesota. And the month of June in that fine state is another place to find all manner of tiny bloodsucking demons whose names start with the words Culex, Anopheles, or Aedes (there are actually 112 genera of mosquitoes).

Twelve years ago when Robin and I were looking for a place in Colorado to settle and were visiting Montrose we used one afternoon to explore the Mesa just a bit. Taking a short hike proved challenging in that we could not stop to breathe once the beasties zeroed in on the carbon dioxide in our outbreaths. Slapping frantically we ran to the safety of our car, slammed the doors shut, and vowed never to go back in early Summer again.

My father used to awe us children when he would allow a mosquito to light on his arm and completely fill itself with blood, turning its abdomen quite red. We could not imagine ourselves doing such a thing, but watching his recurring performances was both horrifying and fascinating.

.

******

One of Us, by Joan Osborne

******

******

Here’s something anyone of my tender years can use to strike awe into kids. They already know that we were born before digital cameras, before computers, even before television moved from the lab into our homes. So reciting those items won’t stun them one bit. But here’s the phrase that will be absolutely incomprehensible to them and will bring them to their knees, slack-jawed and unbelieving:

“I was born before ball-point pens.“

******

Psychedelia

jono55

One more tag-end to our recent trip. On the return leg we overnighted in FairPlay CO. I believe Fairplay, Colorado might be one of the least gentrified communities in the entire state. Perhaps the entire country. We sought advice from the motel desk clerk and went to Otto‘s for supper. Otto’s was located in one of my favorite sort of venues, a simple wooden-frame structure whose bathrooms were approached by going out the side door and around the back. The kitchen was very busy with young men working hard at preparing a large number of their signature dishes which are fried chicken sandwiches.

Robin and I each ordered one of those and sat down at a table to wait. The music coming at us from the small Bose speaker in the corner was straight out of a late sixties psychedelic playlist.

It was all wonderful stuff, but there was one particular song that came on which I had never heard before and admired greatly. I went to the desk where we had ordered our food to ask the gentleman if he knew what was playing on the overhead. He immediately came up with the answer, which was Fearless, by Pink Floyd, from their album Meddle.

I have included that gem in today’s post.

******

Fearless, by Pink Floyd

******

From The New Yorker

******

Robert Reich reposted a message a couple of days ago that I wish I had written. It brings together what was an inchoate mess of thoughts ricocheting around in my own cranium and then organizes them. It calls for action by all of us who are sickened by current events, and does not at any point suggest that we sit back and watch in bemusement.

It especially calls for the leaders in the Democratic Party to be … well … leaders. To leave their comfort zones so far behind they can’t remember where the keys are and really dig in while digging is still possible.

As the graphic indicates, democracy is not a spectator sport. The house is on fire, friends. The next right thing to do is to grab a bucket and join a brigade!

******

From The New Yorker

******

It’s a bit after one a.m., and while I am computerscribbling in my office I hear a scuffling noise out in the kitchen area. The pet door is open to the outdoors, and rarely another feline will wander in to sample whatever we’re feeding our own cats. So I walk quietly to that room and discover not one, but three young raccoons, each the size of a small kitty.

They took poorly to being discovered and went out the door, across the yard, and over the board fence in a dignified hurry.

That’ll be about that for a while, I say as I button down the cat portal. I do like these intelligent critters, but only outdoors. They are quite good at probing human defense systems, and it is likely that our home is now on their list of good places to visit.

Oh well.

******

Travelog

jono55

The past several days we’ve been traveling and there has been little time for blogging. We’ve moved along by car, which is my favorite way to go, and so passed through Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, and southern Minnesota. All along the route and at each bathroom stop on the freeway system, the humidity increased, until I estimate that it is above 100% here in Minneapolis. Or at least that’s what it seems to desert dwellers like ourselves. If you listen carefully you can hear your hair matting on your forehead and the creases falling from your trousers to the floor.

The purpose for the trip was to attend our granddaughter’s wedding. I had been asked to give the bride away, and everyone hoped that I could perform that brief duty without tripping, drooling, exhibiting excessive flatulence, or in any other way embarrassing the family. I think that I did okay, although the reviews are still coming in.

The bride was beautiful, the groom seemed blissfully happy, and the assembly was refreshingly young. When you are a senior citizen you have a lot of social options you can choose from, but most of them are comprised of getting together with groups of other seniors. Moving to a room where the average age is under 30 is a treat. You are reminded of how sleek and supple the bodies of people are when they are in their twenties, and that once upon a time you owned one of those bodies. ‘Twas a pleasant recollection.

******

Summertime, by Janis Joplin

******

From The New Yorker

******

I have let the world turn largely without me during these travel days, but it is a joy each morning to find that we are not yet at war, not in a depression, and have not yet set ourselves completely apart from the rest of humanity.

President Cluck, it seems, has become quite adept at lowering his rank in the opinion polls each time a new one is taken. My take is that the scales are finally dropping from the eyes of those who are willing to see what advanced thinkers like myself have noticed all along. That he is an unprincipled gasbag with no more right to be POTUS than your average intestinal roundworm.

(That may only be my opinion, of course, but you have to remember that once upon a time I was a physician and that makes my opinions so much more valuable than those of your run of the mill poltroon.)

******

From The New Yorker

******

The journey home has been uneventful so far, except for a 40mph headwind, rampant humidity, and a temperature that held right at 100 degrees all afternoon and early evening. The headwind was so forceful that our Subaru posted the worst mileage day of its life – 24.4 mpg. It was a long day of two-handed driving and subsequent cricks in the neck. At one point I was loading ice into our cooler when I dropped the bag and it flew away too fast for me to ever catch it, although I did run after it for a few yards. So, today I am a litterer. Ugh.

Were there any pluses, you ask? Well, yes, quite a few. Other drivers sharing the road with us on this trip have been remarkably polite and well-mannered. A young man at a gas station came out to the car to offer me a huge bag of ice at the same price as two lesser bags. Another very young man who we asked for restaurant recommendations suggested we try the Crystal Cafe. “I’ve been eating there since I was a kid, and it was always good,” he said. Of course to Robin and I he was still a kid, but the food was very good.

******

Summertime Blues, by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

******

Brulé

jono55

Yesterday I found myself trying to recall how to pronounce the Lakota saying: Mitakuye Oyasin, which I have admired for the longest time now. I learned its meaning when I first heard it, but how to say it properly … well, you know … advanced years … I forgot.

The phrase translates in English as “all my relatives,” “we are all related,” or “all my relations.” It is a prayer of oneness and harmony with all forms of life: other people, animals, birds, insects, trees and plants, and even rocks, rivers, mountains and valleys.

Wikipedia: Mitakuye oyasin

There is a Native American musical group called Brulé, and it was from them that I learned the meaning. The leader of the band, Paul LaRoche, had grown up in Minnesota and while he knew that he was adopted, his adoptive parents had told him that he was “French Canadian.” After their death, while going through the parents’ papers, he discovered that he was not Canadian at all, but Native American. A search for his origins brought him to the Lower Brule Reservation in South Dakota, where he met blood relatives for the first time.

With his daughter and son he formed the groups Brulé and AIRO, which have earned many honors and have one of the longest running concert videos on PBS.

***

Buffalo Moon, by Brulé

******

From The New Yorker

******

I grew up being immersed in the stories of the European pioneers, especially in the Midwest. Of their courage, steadfastness, and their hard work in establishing themselves in a new world surrounded by hostile Indians. Movies continued my miseducation, and were mostly on the theme of John Wayne beating down one tribe after another when they wouldn’t “listen to reason.”

But at the age of sixteen I read an old book entitled A Century of Dishonor, which chronicled the chicanery, lies, deceptions, and murders that eventually robbed the Native American of most of their lands.

The book consists primarily of the tribal histories of seven different tribes. Among the incidents it depicts is the eradication of Praying Town Indians in the colonial period, despite their recent conversion to Christianity, because it was assumed that all Indians were the same. The book brought to light the injustices enacted upon the Native Americans as it chronicled the ruthlessness of white settlers in their greed for land, wealth, and power.

WIkipedia: A Century of Dishonor.

After that, it was no more tales of the brave pioneers for me. I read other books along the way, among them were:

  • Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee
  • Empire of the Summer Moon
  • Killers of the Flower Moon
  • In the Spirit of Crazy Horse
  • Black Elk Speaks

When I had absorbed what had really happened in the settling of this country, I began to wonder how in the world these Native peoples could have survived what my ancestors had done? How had they hung on to their language and traditions, their religious beliefs? Why were they still here at all? I decided that from that point on I had more to learn from the survivors than I did from the so-called conquerors.

******

From the movie: Smoke Signals

******

From The New Yorker

******

Still Standing, by AIRO

******

There are a great many Native Americans whose stories I have heard, but none more impressive to me than that of Crazy Horse. A Lakota warrior and leader, he was one of those responsible for the victory at the Little Big Horn. Almost alone among famous Native men of his time, he refused to allow his image to be captured either by painting or camera, so we don’t know what he looked like. There are many photographs of Red Cloud and Sitting Bull, but none of Crazy Horse.

One of the last to come in for talks after numerous successful battles and skirmishes with the US Army, he was deceived and killed at Fort Robinson, in what is now western Nebraska.

The building where he was slain has been restored, and a plaque installed outside. His body was taken by tribesmen and buried in a location which remains unknown.

******

Rainbows

jono55

Last night, one of those amazements that the skies put on for us seldom enough that each one dazzles. There were a few raindrops falling on an otherwise sunny evening when the double rainbow started to appear. Slowly growing more intense, the colors strengthening, the whole VIBGYOR sequence eventually easily discernible in both of them.

Both rainbows stretched from horizon to horizon. They lasted for perhaps ten minutes and then gracefully faded. There was no reason for us to feel awe-inspired, but we were, as always. After all, a rainbow is only a trick of the light, isn’t it? Completely explicable in the language of physics.

As the lifelong buffoon that I am, I chose the moment to break into me Lucky Charms leprechaun accent as I babbled on about pots of gold and the like. Can’t seem to help myself.

******

When I’m Called, by Jake Xerxes Fussell

******

We experienced a death this week in our little menagerie here at Basecamp. I found one of the garter snakes who live under our front steps lying dead at the edge of the lawn, not a dozen feet from the entrance to its burrow. No outward marks of violence, just a sad small half-coiled and lifeless creature.

For whatever reason I began ruminating on all the skeletons of snakes I’ve ever seen, in photos or museums. Remembering the too-graceful-to-be-real beauty of their assembly.

******

There is still too much snow in the San Juans for me to go there, but I am itching to get out hiking on some of the trails. There is nothing quite like walking above treeline. It’s almost as if you are leaving the earth behind and there you go, only on foot. Of course, I could go right now, if I weren’t such a fussbutt.

We have a friend who is already walking those mountains using crampons to get him over the snowy and icy portions of the trail. A man who takes pleasure in slogging through the inevitable muddy portions.

I’m just too fastidious for all that. My idea of a great walk in the hills is a nice dry trail with no sliding off cliffs or falling into mudholes, and then returning to town still clean enough to sit in an ice cream parlor with something tasty in front of me without drawing attention because of my being completely crusted over.

I have my standards.

******

Magnolia, by Lucinda Williams

*****

Don’t know whether to be outraged at Senator Alex Padilla’s manhandling this week at Kristi Noem’s press conference or grateful that she didn’t shoot him.

******

Robin and I decided not to attend Cluck’s birthday party in Washington D.C. and to take part instead in an Indivisible-sponsored No Kings rally and march on Saturday here in Paradise. We had been part of the planning committee for the event, and it has been very satisfying to see it taking shape.

The ambient temperature was in the 90s and the humidity was low, which meant that water was evaporating from the body so rapidly you could almost hear it hissing.

The event was marked by music, readings of poetry, excellent behavior, sweltering temperatures, and smiles galore at knowing they were part of something special. Actually, even the yahoos driving by in their Clucktrucks behaved themselves with only a minimum of their dysphonious hooting.

******

The unofficial count of attendees was 2,256, here in little ol’ Montrose CO. Robin and I helped with setup and takedown, and in between we marched the designated route and then took care of the table where the buttons we’d made were available for free-will donations. One gentleman dropped by, picked up one button, and left a one hundred dollar bill as his contribution. I tried to find him later and make him my new BFF but he got away.

Dang! I’ll bet we had a lot in common, too. Could have been the start of a beautiful friendship.

******

******

Moving Toward Plan B

jono55

We’ve entered a new phase now in the protest movements against this government’s unlawful policies. This past weekend Cluck has called out the California National Guard to intimidate people who were demonstrating against the Gestapo-style tactics of his ICE agents. Tactics that have involved episodes where masked men are grabbing persons off the streets and disappearing them into unmarked vans. There is quite a disconnect between the Armageddon-is-at-our-doors rhetoric coming from the Federal government and the much quieter statements from California law enforcement.

Cluck’s move is a transparent one that all totalitarians use, where they magnify a threat and give themselves an excuse to bring out the truncheons and the tear gas. In the weeks to come we will see jails filled with demonstrators. We will unfortunately probably see violence and people injured on both sides.  Tyranny thrives on violence.

But we will also see mass non-violent actions all across the country, by groups like Move On, Indivisible, 50501, and many, many others. Eventually these actions will prevail, as they must, but our beloved and imperfect country is likely to undergo a painful wrenching before that happens.

A possible peaceful resolution to this present situation is in the hands of the disagreeable people in the White House.  If they could begin to behave as a representative government, instead of a gang of thugs on a pocket-filling rampage, these dark times could end. Right at this moment I don’t see that happening.

******

Robert Reich wrote a stirring piece on Substack on Sunday, which I can recommend to you. Its title: Time for Nonviolent Disobedience.

(There was another guy who wrote an essay on the same topic, quite a while back. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? I’m so bad with names.)

******

Drift Away, by Dobie Gray

******

We’re about a week and a half away from our journey to Minneapolis for our granddaughter Elsa’s wedding. It will be a time to touch bases with my children as well. The wedding will be a special occasion for me as well as the wedding couple, as I am giving the bride away. Which means I will be wearing a dress suit for the first time in many years. ( I lead a simple life )

Trepidation? Not too much, but in recent days I have seen reruns of old men tripping going up steps into airplanes, both Cluck and Biden, and they are years younger than I am. I am doing what I can do to not repeat their faux pas in front of the assembled guests. This will be complicated by the fact that I will be wearing rented shoes, and who knows where they have been or what embarrassments they have already caused? The rental store assured me that they are not evil shoes, and I have to take them at their word. But how do they really know?

My usual footgear are built for trails and paths that require non-slip soles and sturdy construction. Brands like Oboz and Hoka are in my closet these days, for very good and utilitarian reasons. I had briefly thought of wearing them with the rented outfit but then that same granddaughter discouraged my making such a fashion statement at her party. I acceded to her wishes

******

Shelter From The Storm, by Bob Dylan

******

One of my favorite moments from the movie Gandhi. The line: “They are not in control … we are” rang out clearly when the film was released in 1982. It rings out even more clearly today.

******

Last evening was one of those with a golden twilight. Where the seemingly aimless flight paths of countless insects were backlit and it is a beautiful thing to see. Hypnotic, really.

Now I realize that using the word “aimless” when talking about another species is an arrogant thing to do. A more honest phrase would be “I don’t understand why they do what they do.” As simple as that.

How can I possibly presume to make assessments of these flying creatures’ behavior when I can’t even understand or explain why my own species does what it does half the time?

******

Where Have All The Flowers Gone, by the Kingston Trio

******

I seem to be quite busy these days. My involvement with Indivisible is taking up a fair amount of time, I am painfully trying to learn some Spanish with Duolingo as my cranky guide, and I am now growing psilocybin-containing mushrooms in my pajama drawer.

Without going into detail, there are many, many people who struggle with chronic pain and depression that does not respond to present-day therapies. It turns out that there is an accumulated mountain of anecdotal evidence that psilocybin can provide help to many of these people. Not in doses that produce a “high” or a psychedelic experience, but in tiny fractions of that dose. Microdosing is the term that is used.

Here in Colorado it is now legal to grow “magic” mushrooms and to ingest them. It is also legal to give some away to friends.

It is not okay to sell them, however, so there are no legal commercial outlets.

Exploring the world of mushroom culture has been really interesting. What I did was purchase something called a “grow bag,” containing a sterile mixture of everything an aspiring mushroom spore needs to thrive. From another source I bought a syringe filled with spores of a variety of mushroom called Golden Teacher and injected that solution into the bag. The instructions were to then keep it in a warm dark place for some weeks until a certain stage is reached. Thus, the pajama drawer.

There are other stages to come that require other sorts of care for the growing mushrooms, but no more than you experience in any sort of gardening. There is also the possibility of failure, since my previous gardening experiences have been … shall we say … only occasionally magnificent ones.

Stay tuned.

******

Abomination du Jour

jono55

It’s not been a bad week at all for somebody who is not an admirer of fascism. Just a few few days ago, we discovered there was an acronym published in the Wall Street Journal to describe how well Cluck’s tariff manipulations are doing in his dealings with other countries. The acronym is TACO, or Trump Always Chickens Out. Apparently Cluck has taken exception to the label. Go figure.

And in another juicy moment this week, Elon Musk left his government position (allegedly having been fired by the Exalted Cluckster), and three days later comes up with a description of the “big beautiful bill” now in the United States Senate as a disgusting abomination.

Now I’m not sure that once you use the word abomination, you really need to add the descriptor disgusting, because I can’t imagine what other kind of abominations there might be. Are there non-disgusting ones? Perhaps abomination lite? Or petit abomination?

But, I quibble. The bill is an abomination and I am disgusted, so there you are. If we ever needed examples of how being unbelievably wealthy doesn’t solve all the problems a person could have, with Cluck and Musk we’ve got prime cases right in front of us. I am almost embarrassed for them. Almost.

******

No Expectations, by the Black Crowes

******

Last evening Robin and I watched a presentation on the use of the infamous app Signal. You know, the one that our Secretary of Defense uses to share American military strategies with our foes? Yeah, that one.

The presenter this evening took pains to let us know that the app is a good one, unless you invite the wrong person to join in on the chat. For instance, if you invite a reporter, you should anticipate that they will report.

Not to be too paranoid, she told us, but the more involved that we become in resistance to what our rogue government is doing, the more we show up on their radar screens, and the more interested they become in what we are saying. So if we want to limit idle discussion about our conversations in the future, we should really consider using such a piece of encryption software.

No app known will keep the most determined and skillful hackers in the world from listening to our conversations, she added, but for the other 99.99% of the time it works very well, and is free. I will present what we learned at the next meeting of our Indivisible group and see what everyone thinks. Indivisible is a determinedly non-violent organization, but still … sometimes you want to talk off the record, no?

******

This morning an unusual headline in the “Arts”section of the New York Times caught my eye.

The notice prompted two questions immediately. Who is Sydney Sweeney? Who is Dr. Squatch?

Once I had wasted four minutes of my life doing the necessary research, I learned that Sweeney is an actor who is already famous for her bosom and hoping to become famous for her acting skills. Dr. Squatch is a seller of men’s personal care products made of what they call natural ingredients and “manly” scents.

The limited-edition bar of soap, made with sand, pine bark extract and a “touch” of Ms. Sweeney’s real bath water, according to the company, will go on sale June 6. Just so you don’t go out and purchase the wrong stuff, the bar is called “Sydney’s Bathwater Bliss.”

The mind reels.

The above photograph accompanied the article, and although I usually refrain from commenting on another person’s appearance, I have to admit that she does have lovely collarbones.

******

******

This is my nomination for the best song ever about sailing and failed relationships. Can’t hear it often enough, actually. The imagery in the lyrics completely cancels out whatever bad juju my head is involved with at that moment.

The story of the song’s origins were in a time when Stephen Stills was newly divorced and depressed. A friend invited him to get away from things for a while, to come with him on a sailing cruise in the south Pacific. Stills came back from the voyage with these lyrics in his hand. Beautiful.

Now, for contrast, I came back from my divorce without a thing to show for it but a large library of self-help books.

******

Saturday Robin and I spent a couple of hours at the second annual Montrose Pride Festival. There was quite a crowd in Cerise Park on a beautiful afternoon. Live music, a drag show, a handful of food trucks. What’s not to love?

Some of the displays were delightful surprises. At least three local churches had booths, as well as the town’s only Pediatric Clinic. Indivisible had a booth and so did the Democrats. (I loved that the pediatricians were there, but then pediatrics has so often been on the right side of things).

Republicans … can I have a drum roll … were totally no-shows. In their view, I suppose, why would they attend an affair celebrating a community that they have decided doesn’t exist?

***

Screenshot
Screenshot
Screenshot

******

For Robin and I, last night’s performance on CNN of Good Night and Good Luck hit it out of the bleepin’ park. First time ever of a live broadcast of a Broadway play! Right on, George Clooney and CNN for doing it. A dose of the “right stuff” in a time of much wrong stuff.

******

Warriors Of A Certain Age

jono55

Sunday afternoon Robin and I attended a Zoom training session on grassroots political strategies which was held at the Ute Indian museum out on the southern edge of town. There were probably 20 people in attendance. Besides myself there was only one other man present and he was only slightly younger than I am. Nearly everyone in the room was a senior citizen.

We wondered. Where are the men? Where are the young people?

This conference was broadcast nationwide, and had more than 1700 attendees from just about every state in the country. All of them were deeply interested in what we can do to more effectively oppose the destructive policies coming out of the Cluck administration.

The leader of the workshop was Representative Pramila Jayapal, a congresswoman from the state of Washington. She was an excellent moderator, was very well organized, and kept the session flowing so well that even though it was three hours long it never flagged.

Her enthusiasm was contagious.

What a civics lesson we are receiving! Perhaps it would have been better if the need to attend such lessons hadn’t arisen, and we could just have remained dumb and happy for the rest of our lives. However, it is another one of those situations in life where when bad things happen, the process of dealing with them often reveals something very good. Perhaps a strength you didn’t know you had, for instance.

Robin and I feel that we know much more about what it means to consider ourselves an American citizen. Along with the benefits, there are simply things that need to get done. If we are not doing the work ourselves, there is someone somewhere who is carrying our burden as well as their own.

******

Slim Slow Slider, by Van Morrison

******

From The New Yorker

******

One of Jayapal’s slides contained this diagram, and the explanation that went with it is that when working with people who may not be allies, your true goal is to try to nudge them over one category to the left, not all the way to “active allies.” Even moving them from “passive opposition” to “neutral” is a very positive step. It’s all about shifting balances.

I thought this an interesting approach, and a more useful way of assessing the effectiveness of one’s efforts than “Make any converts today?”

******

Finally – a rain arrived on Monday. Actually an all-day drizzle. But we’ll take it and be joyful! It’s been a dry couple of months. While Robin and I are close to ecstatic, the cats feel quite the opposite way. Everything in their expressions says: “What’s this? Wet paws? Wet fur? This is HELL and I’m not having it!”

It is a rare moment indeed that all four of us agree on what is or is not a good day. If we can look at the graphic above, the best Robin and I can hope for at such times is to move the pets from passive opposition to neutral. If they are in the active opposition mode … well … we’re at an impasse and can expect some major scratching of household objects. Like the sofa, or the end tables.

A very long time ago and with another cat (who is now deceased), we experienced what happens when an unhappy animal goes nuclear and declares: “What you see is a carpeted clothes closet. What I see is a litterbox. Deal with it.”

Compared with that, a little grumpiness is okay.

******

From The New Yorker

******

I tried to follow a recipe for fried chicken breast, the kind with the bones and skin still present, and ran into a problem. The cooking time recommended in the recipe had to be almost doubled because the breasts were so large. Now, in a lifetime I’ve dealt with chickens on various levels, chased them, ran from them, slaughtered more than a hundred, and eaten many times that. I know what an undrugged chicken breast looks like. But these body parts are so huge that I would seriously consider walking across the street to avoid meeting the chicken that was once built of such materials.

The original bird must have been as big as a mastiff, and when you combine this muscularity with a brain the size of a caper, you’ve got a potentially lethal situation. I would hate to have my tombstone read: “Led a decent life until mortally pecked on a public thoroughfare.”

Perhaps there are other things that I should be worrying about, but we all have to deal with what’s on our respective plates, don’t we?

******

Cyprus Avenue, by Van Morrison

******

Van Morrison was only twenty-two years old when he recorded Astral Weeks, one of the more talked about albums that came out of the sixties. The two pieces I chose today are from that album. Lester Bangs was a prominent music critic of the time, and ten years after the release of the album he was still moved enough to pen these words.

What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend. It is a precious and terrible gift, born of a terrible truth, because what they see is both infinitely beautiful and terminally horrifying: the unlimited human ability to create or destroy, according to whim. It’s no Eastern mystic or psychedelic vision of the emerald beyond, nor is it some Baudelairean perception of the beauty of sleaze and grotesquerie. Maybe what it boiled down to is one moment’s knowledge of the miracle of life, with its inevitable concomitant, a vertiginous glimpse of the capacity to be hurt, and the capacity to inflict that hurt.

Heavy.

******

Bruceland

jono55

Well, of course I bought it. If Bruce Springsteen can bring out an EP that just might piss off president Cluck, I am all in. It contains the now famous introductions that the world has heard, emanating from concerts in Manchester, England. Music to my ears, they are. The EP is called Land of Hope and Dreams, and retails for $4.95.

**

Introduction to Land of Hope and Dreams

**

My way of looking at it is that for a very modest sum I can send Cluck one more mosquito to stab at that thin skin. It’s a small and petty thing to do, but I never claimed to be anything else, now, did I?

**

Introduction to My City of Ruins

**

Bruce finishes the EP with a cover of what some folks think is Bob Dylan’s masterpiece, Chimes of Freedom. It’s one of those rare songs will never go out of style, principally because freedom can never be taken for granted, but must be earned and re-earned by one generation after another. (NB: if you live long enough you may get to re-earn it more than once)

Chimes of Freedom

******

And in our present day here in America …

  • when you can’t see the way forward
  • when it all seems overwhelming
  • when the voices of hate threaten to drown out the music
  • when just getting out of bed in the morning seems a struggle

It’s all just like the man said – every step you take forward is a little victory.

Little Victories, by Bob Seger

******

It is 82 degrees in Paradise, no wind, humidity 17% , Wes Montgomery playing Down Here On The Ground over the little blue Bose speaker. I’m out in front on the patio with a can of Spindrift. A couple of the neighborhood teenagers are hunched over the handlebars of their bikes, unsure of their next move. They are pretty good kids, so our lives and property are probably not in jeopardy.

Now in the background it’s Ali Farka Touré playing Soukora. Perfect.

Since I am at the time of life that I am, it behooves me to take little for granted. Not an interesting cloud, not a new flower out in the berm, not a single strawberry is ignored.

Soukora, by Ali Farka Touré

******

It tickles me that a columnist for the citadel of conservative fiscalism, the Wall Street Journal, came up with an acronym that apparently does not please His Tangerine Sublimity. It is T.A.C.O.

Translated, it refers to the crazy ups and downs of Cluck’s tariffs. Trump Always Chickens Out is what it stands for. How exceedingly droll and perfectly disrespectful.

The T.A.C.O. Meme has exploded on the web. I gathered a handful for your enlightenment.

******

******

Chicken Train, by the Ozark Mountain Daredevils

******

Today Robin and I hiked on the Upland Trail at Black Canyon National Park. Halfway through the walk I saw a large red fox with a world-class bushy tail. He ran into some scrub oaks and disappeared in a second. First fox we’d seen in the Park.

We had driven up shortly after breakfast because the forecast for the day was to hit the low 90s. Since senior bodies tend to wilt in the heat we took our hike when and where it was cooler.

One unexpectedtreat was the discovery of many small clumps of Claret Cup cacti. They like rocky outcroppings and their brilliant red flowers are exquisite. (For reference: these blossoms are only about 1.5 inch across)

******

Occupy Main Street

jono55

I have a new part-time occupation. I am the official button maker for our chapter of Indivisible, which is a politically progressive and activist organization with thousands of chapters throughout the United States. It is not affiliated with any political party.

Some say that it is primarily anti-Cluck, but it is more complicated than that. If tomorrow Mr. Cluck were to lose his footing and be washed away by the tsunami of bad karma he has accumulated, we would still have a problem, because he is far from the only Ugly American.

So here is what Indivisible is for:

  • Democracy Reform: Advocating for policies that enhance democratic processes, such as voting rights protections and reducing the influence of money in politics.
  • Social Justice: Supporting initiatives that address systemic inequalities, including racial justice, immigrant rights, and LGBTQ+ rights.
  • Healthcare and Economic Equity: Promoting access to affordable healthcare and policies that aim to reduce economic disparities.
  • Climate Action: Pushing for environmental policies that address climate change and promote sustainability.

Now it happens that Cluck is today’s poster boy for opposition to these worthy goals, but one day he will be gone and many of those other less visible bad boys will still be there.

(BTW, Indivisible takes its name from our Pledge of Allegiance: “I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”)

******

I thought that making pinback buttons would be a lark, a mere bagatelle. Turns out that there are several predictable mistakes that button-making newbies commit. I have made all of those and added a brand-new one of my own to the list.

But those pins that didn’t end up in the trash can are beginning to resemble something that a person might actually wear. Who knew? We’re getting these ready for the June 14th national “No Kings” celebration.

Robin and I bought the button press as our contribution to the presently cash-strapped local group. The hope is that there are at least a handful of progressives out there who have not lost everything yet in the tariff wars and who can make a small donation to a good cause, thereupon receiving a button as an expression of gratitude.

Bootstraps, you know.

******

Slouching Toward the Millennium, by Kris Kristofferson

******

From The New Yorker

******

I am confident that the Cluckian attempt at a dictatorship will eventually fail. He’s just so bad at it. What I can’t predict is how much blood, both metaphoric and real, will be shed en route to that good and necessary goal.

A man who will snatch up innocent people and transport them to hellish prisons in another country is certainly capable of violence if threats to his power become something he can no longer ignore.

Someone asked me the other day if she should worry about some of her posts on Facebook that were negative re: Cluck. She was serious. Her question took me by surprise. Here … in America … to worry about posting on social media being a dangerous thing to do? To me it showed how far we’ve come along a very bad road. When good people are starting to practice self- censorship lest they find themselves on a midnight flight to El Salvador. Unfreakingbelievable!

I told the lady that I thought we were such small potatoes that we would not be picked up on Cluckian radar, unless they were looking for some random schmo to use as an example of how powerful and all- seeing they were. That may not have been reassuring to her.

******

Friend Neil has introduced me to something amazing. the world of Raspberry Pi. It is a world of computers that you can hold in your hand. What caught my attention was a setup that would use microphones to record birdsongs, and then identify the birds for you. Easily transported to woodlands, prairies, wetlands – wherever birds are, the device records the calls and then feeds them to Birdnet at the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology which makes the identification. If you record all night, It can generate a list of every bird that had sounded off while you slept.

This video has more information than you might need, and certainly more than I completely understood. But what came through was the relative ease of doing something truly remarkable.

S.w.e.e.t!

Should you find yourself sniffed at by true-blue birders deriding the use of technology to find and identify birds, just point out those binoculars they have hanging around their neck. Ask them what tree they plucked those from?

BTW, you can get Birdnet as a free app for your phone, and anytime you are listening to a birdsong you don’t recognize just bring up the app and it will start making a recording and eventually tell you what it is.

******

From The New Yorker

******

This next offering is in the nature of a Public Service Announcement. There was a piece written a couple of weeks ago by Timothy Snyder, a historian who is an expert on tyranny and terrorism. The piece is a longish one, but it’s worth taking the time to read it. Its title: The Next Terrorist Attack.

The people who have pointed out the menace that the Cluck administration represents are already out there writing, marching, giving speeches, telephoning, doing whatever is in their power to do to limit the damage that Cluck and his band are causing. They want and need all of our out-of-tune voices, our inexperience, our sore and tramping feet.

Read the column and then seriously consider joining one of the organizations that are working to preserve our democracy. It is a powerful thing to be part of, this saving one’s country.

******

Bullet the Blue Sky, by U2 (live)

******

When Authority Always Wins …

jono55

There’s a person who posts on Substack as “Rosie the Resister.” On Thursday she came up with the beauty at right.

My comment on Rosie’s post is that America wasn’t ready for Cluck. Too many didn’t believe that fascism could happen here. Next time someone like him comes along, hopefully, we will smell them coming in time.

**

The first election that I ever voted in was in 1960, when the question was “Is America ready for a Catholic president?” There were pamphlets placed on public buses in my hometown of Minneapolis suggesting that if JFK were elected we’d all become subjects of the Pope, and after that it would be all fish on Fridays and burnings at the stake and everything.

Well, Kennedy was elected and, mirabile dictu, that particular nightmare never happened. Turns out that our society makes progress by fits and starts rather than smooth transitions. On Monday being Catholic was an obstacle, but on Wednesday it’s a fading line in the sand. It’s what we do.

My first choice back in the 2020 election season was Amy Klobuchar (woman), and my second was Pete Buttigieg (gay). Both lost. Really, as if sex was the most important thing to consider when it comes to choosing leaders. How quaint. The all-male game is doomed to die an ungainly death and all one has to do is check the numbers. Within a generation women will make up an overwhelming majority of educated persons. Add to that the fact that they have always been better at networking and it’s Katie bar the door for bearers of the Y chromosome.

My own opinion is that this will change the sum of political life very little. For instance, by taking a close look at some of the women already in Congress we can see that stupidity, inanity, and cowardice are not exclusively male virtues. We can also see that steadiness, compassion, and common sense can be brought into the mix no matter what our genders might be.

After the present season of Cluck, I will be ready for almost anything and anybody as an improvement. Perhaps, since humans have brought this chaotic circus into existence, we should be considering other primates as candidates for public office.

I would have no trouble voting for the fellow at right, for instance. He has what is now in short supply on the national stage – an intelligent gaze.

******

From The New Yorker

******

There seems to be something about being the wealthiest people in our country that makes them insatiable. There is never enough of anything for them. Whatever machinations that Cluck is doing today to shovel more and more of our nations’ treasure into their bank accounts, all but a few of them seem to want more. An even more monstrous share.

They live in a completely different world than the rest of us, which would seem to make them unqualified to make the rules that we live by, but that’s not what happens. Right now our social safety net (which has never been up to the job at best) is being in danger of being completely shredded. Hundreds of billions of dollars are scheduled to be removed from health insurance programs like Medicare and Medicaid, for instance, if the Republican budget bill is passed. Money is to be taken from children’s food programs to be funneled into the pockets of billionaires.

Unfortunately many of us will perversely persist in becoming ill even if our health insurance is taken away or cut back severely, and too many will eventually become unable to work or support our families or take care of ourselves. Well, I guess we should have planned better, is the refrain echoing down Republican halls. Even though history has repeatedly shown this only means that small problems will become larger ones as people are forced to prioritize, and more immediate needs like food and shelter must be met.

Even as I type this stuff, eventually I have to take a break because too much thinking about our present circumstances is just that dreadful an enterprise. I have no idea why I don’t have a feeling of hopelessness, even though I admit that I can’t see a clear way out of the godawful mess Click and his troupe of bozos have created. Maybe we’re like John Mellencamp’s protagonist … too dumb to know when we’re beaten and should just give it up … instead we turn up our collars against the wind, put our heads down, and soldier on.

******

Yesterday we took a very nice bicycle ride, thank you very much, into the countryside. It was a total bird show. We heard but did not see a Gambel’s Quail. Meadowlarks provided glorious background music for our trip. A huge, and I mean HUGE, Great Blue Heron had been hunting in a small creek when it took off right in front of us.

And then along came a large Red-tailed Hawk, at first flying just a few yards over our heads, giving us a great look at the patterns of its feathers, and then it began to ride the thermals, rising in lazy circles without so much as a wing flap until it was no longer visible.

******

Where The Hawkwind Kills, by Daniel Lanois

******

Yesterday was the 33rd wedding anniversary for Robin and I. To repeat an old story, after our respective former spouses left us for what they thought were greener pastures, she and I began to “date” and one thing led to another and a wedding became imminent. The counselor that Robin was seeing told her that making such a move might be unwise, that it was too soon after her divorce. He told her that this new relationship was a “transitional” one for her.

We have obviously been very slow about the whole thing, because it’s now 33 years on and we’re still transitioning. I’m not sure we’ve enough years left to make it to whatever the next level is supposed to be.

Oh well. One does what one can.

We celebrated quietly with supper at a new Italian restaurant in town. The food was delicious. I had the carbonara and Robin the mushroom tortellini, and our waitress couldn’t have been more pleasant.

Really, she couldn’t have. Would I lie?

******

From The New Yorker

******

When asked a question several years ago, the present Dalai Lama responded with the famous line: “My religion is kindness.“

This week the Senate is considering one of the unkindest budget bills in a long, long while. It strips money from health care, food programs, and childhood enrichment programs to pass the funds along to the very wealthy in the form of tax cuts. It is so blatantly unwise and unfair that it is a nightmare caricature of what a thoughtful government might do.

There is still time to telephone our senators and ask them to do the right thing. For some of them, our call might be just the nudge they need.

******

1984 Revisited

jono55

I am watching with great interest the political goings-on regarding a post on Instagram that James Comey had made. In the post he placed a photo of some seashells that formed a number.

The symbol “86/47” is being regarded by the Trump administration as a referring to assassination, and they are accusing Comey of fomenting violence. I am especially interested because my homemade sign says exactly the same thing, and I have now carried it in two rallies.

I had seen 86/47 in a post somewhere, thought it a clever symbol, and copied it for my own use. I frequently copy other people’s work and claim it as my own, so I thought nothing more of it. (I’m not too worried because in the photo above I had given the sign to Robin to hold for me, and thus I have plausible deniability.)

But before I ever went out with that placard in my hand I had checked out the definition of the “86” part of it and found no references to assassination or killings or violence of any sort. It appeared to have been an anonymously originated term without any sinister implications whatsoever.

Eighty-six is slang meaning “to throw out,” “to get rid of,” or “to refuse service to.” It comes from 1930s soda-counter slang meaning that an item was sold out. There is varying anecdotal evidence about why the term eighty-six was used, but the most common theory is that it is rhyming slang for nix.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

I doubt that the Department of Justice is going to come to Montrose to examine my sign and haul me off to the Grand Inquisitors of the Cluck administration. But in the present era of newspeak in Washington D.C., we really don’t know what to expect, do we? I shudder at the thought of being chained in a dank dungeon while Kristi Noem parades in full tactical gear sputtering things her dog and goat once overheard and then she had to shoot them.

I offer a gallery taken from a Google search for the term 86/47 that I just performed. There were no mentions of assassinations in any of these products being sold. Could it be that it’s just another of Cluck’s diversions, another smoke screen to cover his rampant incompetence? Could it possibly be?

******

Another Brick In The Wall, Pt.1, by Pink Floyd

******

If George Orwell were still alive, and if he got a penny for every time his novel 1984 was referred to in metaphors or political discourse, his fortune would exceed that of Elon Musk, I think. Too bad for George that the novel was published in 1949 and he said his last goodbyes in 1950.

But I will send $0.01 off to the Orwell Foundation instanter because I am going to use it again. The novel casts such a helpful light on our present government (I use the term “government” lightly) that I can’t help myself.

Nineteen Eighty-Four (also published as 1984) is a dystopian novel and cautionary tale by English writer George Orwell. It was published on 8 June 1949 by Secker & Warburg  as Orwell’s ninth and final completed book. Thematically, it centres on the consequences of totalitarianism, mass surveillance, and repressive regimentation of people and behaviours within society. Orwell, a staunch believer in democratic socialism and member of the anti-Stalinist Left, modelled Britain under authoritarian socialism in the novel on the Soviet Union  in the era of Stalinism and on the very similar practices of both censorship and propaganda in Nazi Germany.  More broadly, the novel examines the role of truth and facts within societies and the ways in which they can be manipulated.

Wikipedia: 1984.

Rather than subject you to more of my tedious ranting at this time, I have gathered a gallery of cartoons prompted by the novel with which to assail you.

******

Another Brick In The Wall, Pt.2, by Pink Floyd

******

******

Another Brick In The Wall, Pt.3, by Pink Floyd

******

I found while putting this piece together that George Orwell was the pen name of Eric Arthur Blair. (Why do the British seem to be forever taking pen names, anyway? For myself, I would have been quite happy with Eric Arthur Blair.)

While digging around I found this gem, an interview of Orwell on his deathbed, dating back to 1950. It was chilling to listen to, as he predicted a future that we live in today.

Can I have a double OMG, brothers and sisters?

******

In a sometimes glum season, it helps to occasionally bring out something anthemic and get lost in it. At least for me it does. For today I went back to the Glastonbury Festival in 2014 for Arcade Fire’s performance of “Wake Up.” Nothing intimate or quietly thoughtful here, but loads of showmanship, percussion, color, very costly costuming … a bright bit of rock and roll theater.

The message of the song’s lyrics? To forgive our own past mistakes and be more open to life before we get older and eventually drift away. (Some of us have to hurry, because drifting away is a wee bit closer.)

******

It Is Written

jono55

One morning this week I was looking to find something cheerful in the newspapers at around 6 o’clock A.M.. The first thing I learned is that the rice that I love to eat is loaded with cadmium and arsenic at “dangerous“ levels. So, to be an informed rice-eater, I researched and made a short list of what cadmium could do to me:

  • Pulmonary edema
  • Chemical pneumonia
  • Nausea
  • Vomiting
  • Diarrhea
  • Kidney disease
  • Osteoporosis
  • COPD
  • Lung cancer
  • Dysfunction of my liver, pancreas, and testes
  • Death

I was going to check on arsenic’s toxicity as well, but by the time I finished with cadmium I was already bummed. Hmmmmm … let’s see … a choice between shrimp fried rice and a trip straight to metabolic hell …

This information comes on the heels of my learning a couple of days ago that eating bagged lettuce is also more dangerous now because the Cluck administration has so reduced the number of food inspectors who protect us as our veggies make the long trip from farm to table that the hazards are increased. So I guess it’s back to good ol’ Soylent Green for me …. wait, what’s that … a little louder, please …

******

Grift, graft, corruption, schmorruption … who is surprised by any of Cluck’s vigorous attempts to stuff money into his pockets in these days of dishonor and disrepute? He is a crook, a draft-dodger, a convicted felon, an adjudicated rapist, and one of the champion liars of any generation. He is a caricature of a man. An empty suit.

******

From The New Yorker

******

Omigosh, our secrets are out! Here is Springsteen opening at a concert in Manchester, England. Damn. Now everyone will know what a bunch of twits are running our show here at home.

******

Springsteen is catching four kinds of hell from MAGAland for his speech at the concert. (Because he called American out in a foreign land, he is even called a traitor, as if every word of every celebrity isn’t available instantly worldwide wherever it is uttered.) Over decades, maybe centuries, each time any singer brings up an issue that is in the forefront at the time this sort of reaction happens. And the criticisms are always the same: “He should just sing and leave the politics outside!” They try to ignore one important point, which is that music and politics have a long history together.

Pete Seeger made an entire career out of reminding us of the place that songs had in our own history, especially in labor and antiwar movements. Bob Dylan picked up that torch and carried it for years. Crosby Stills Nash and Young sung beautiful harmonies over sharp words dealing with the Vietnam War and social unrest. Sooo many others.

Music is powerful, and we all know it. It can change minds, sooth or inflame, elevate or depress moods. I don’t pretend to know why, but the far right has much more difficulty coming up with something a guy can hum than the other side does. Seems they are a hort on creativity, as it were. Perhaps that’s one reason they resent it when a Bruce or a Bob or a CSNY belts out yet another moving anthem. They know they have lost another round.

Chimes of Freedom, by The Byrds

******

Every year it is the same. In the spring we sort out the camping gear, toss out the broken items, and replace those as well as the ones we just lost somewhere. We arrange the stuff perfectly logically and neatly until it is a joy to behold. By mid-summer chaos has sneaked in and taken over everywhere. As we set up our tent it becomes obvious that neither of us knows where the rubber hammer the we use to pound tent stakes into hard ground has got itself.

We find that if we are to eat anything which requires a tool we must make do, because all we have are spoons. The rest went into the house after the last camping trip and never made it back into the storage boxes. There are now six bottles of insect repellent and no sunscreen at all in the bag of necessaries. A cut finger provokes a search for a Band-Aid and we can only come up with two of them. Where is the First Aid Kit? Abducted by aliens is what we deduce. The first night of any trip when we can’t find the small flashlights that we need to find a bathroom during those early morning hours … it’s not the predators we worry about as much as rocks, cacti, thistles, and tripping over those accursed tree roots.

In short, we go from perfection to woefully unprepared without even noticing, and we do it every blessed year. As of this writing, I have all our stuff laid out in front of me on the garage floor and am preparing to put it back just the way that the universe knows that it should be done … all the while aware that ultimately I will find myself this autumn with only two Band-Aids and no sunscreen once again.

As Sharif Ali says to Major Lawrence in the movie Lawrence of Arabia:

It Is Written.

******

Chimes of Freedom, by the Lynne Arriale Trio

******

On Perspiring

jono55

We’re coming on the time when temperatures will get high enough that people begin to think about turning on their air conditioners. I’m not one of those that waits until the last minute to do so. At the first bead of sweat on my forehead in the middle of the day, I’m reaching for the switch on the cooling system.

I’ve had friends in the past who made it a point each year await absolutely as long as they could to turn on the air conditioning in their home. This wouldn’t have been so bad, but they also made a point of telling every single person they were doing it, including myself, as if this was some sort of public virtue.

I call this delay in accepting the blessing of air conditioning as comfortus interruptus, and classify it under mental aberrations. Why someone would have air conditioning that could make them comfortable and keep them from sweating and becoming rancid and not use it I doubt that I will ever completely understand. All I know is that I will never be an entry in the sad race to be the last person to turn on their AC in Montrose County. In fact, I may well be the first.

******

There are times, however, when sweat is admirable. Desirable. Delightful in the recalling. And it all has to do with s.e.x. My personal favorite movie that intricately weaves enough perspiration to fill a pool with the slip-slap clash of testosterone and estrogen is Body Heat. It’s a noirish kind of thing with sweat-stained shirts and ceiling fans galore. Here’s a scene that is an illustration of why prudence and chastity require air conditioning.

******

Surely by now the Republicans who have fastened themselves like ticks to Emperor Cluck are wetting themselves regularly as they see their political futures becoming cloudier and cloudier. His latest offense against taste and ethics is that he wants to accept an airplane from Qatar. A really BIG airplane.

I keep forgetting … how do you spell putrescence, anyway? This is way beyond ordinary corruption.

******

There was an article in Monday’s Times of New York that brought a smile. For those who have not heard of Rhiannon Giddens, she is a woman who has spent her adult life bringing music to us all. And she does it with class and humor and scholarship and style. The news that she has recently started a festival is the point of the article. The gathering is called the Biscuits and Banjos Festival, and it took place in Boone, North Carolina. A high point was the reunion of members of the group Carolina Chocolate Drops.

You know when you see those pictures from space of the earth at night and there are these points of light? Giddens is one of those points. She contributes, contributes, contributes. That’s a very nice thing to see in an era when so many are subtracting, subtracting, subtracting.

******

Cartoon du Jour

******

Today’s entry in the chucklehead sweepstakes is an article at CNN online entitled: “Why men are shaving off their eyelashes.”


From stopping dust and dirt getting into the eyes to prompting our blink reflex, eyelashes do more than just look pretty. Which makes it hard to explain the social media trend of men trimming down — or even entirely shaving off — their eyelashes in a bid to look “more masculine.”

CNN Online, May 13

Staggering. To look more masculine we need to cut away a major protector for the only two eyes we’ve got? I know that as a group we males aren’t too bright, but … does being “masculine” require that much stupid?

Now, I know that to take any advice on personal adornment from a man who still thinks cargo pants don’t look all that bad may not be the wisest course. But please, if you know someone who is considering eyelash-shaving, try to talk them into doing something else just as ridiculous but less harmful. Like wearing elephant pants. I did that in 1972 and lived to tell about it.

******

On our camping excursion last weekend we saw two creatures that were new to us. The book says that neither of them is a rarity, but no member of our party had seen them before.

The Long-nosed Leopard Lizard.

(Say the name out loud. Sort of rolls off the tongue.)

The Great Basin Gopher Snake. Harmless. Beautiful coloration.

******

Two of a Kind, by John Kay

******

BEBOPALULA!

jono55

Our first campout of the year, and we’re meeting Amy, Neil, and Claire at Hatch Point Campground in Utah. It’s located about an hour’s drive south of Moab. This same group camped there once before, in 2019, except that Aiden was with us back then. At present Aiden is frittering away his life at college in Austin TX. God knows what they are putting in his head.

The campground contains only ten sites, and has no water or electricity, but there is a privy and trash service. That’s it. The surrounding desert countryside is striking, with beaucoup trails for hiking or biking . The weather promises to be in the middle 80s with nothing but sunshine in the forecast.

The map at left shows no roads, but there actually are some. It is at least that civilized.

It’s one of those times where making that all-important list of what you need and bringing it with you is crucial, because it’s an hour back to Moab for supplies if you forget something.

No matter how much you plan, the first campout of the year is when you find that you forgot something which every other person in the group now wants desperately. They give you glances for the rest of the event, glances that either say “I trusted you but never again,” or “If I get a hemorrhage it’s your fault!”.

******

I Lied, by Lord Huron

******

There’s a thoughtful article in the Times of New York on presidential overreach, making the point that Cluck may be the latest and most egregious example, but the groundwork had been laid for him over decades by others of both major parties. Title of the piece: We Have To Deal With Presidential Power. I almost didn’t read it, what with my short attention span and all, but I’m glad I did, because it provided some perspective. And perspective is a quality very short in supply right now with the available oxygen nearly completely taken up with constant awfulness on one side followed by alas and lack we are undone on the other.

Wouldn’t it be sweet to have a Congress where each member had a head, a spine, and a very low level of mendacity? What wonderful things we could do with such an instrument! We could fix this presidential thing and then get on to trying to repair the damage done everywhere you look on the planet.

One could almost despair every time we see a member of Congress being interviewed by media magpies trying to goad him/her into saying something impossibly inane or stupid and succeeding nearly always. I find myself way too often wondering either How did this doofus get elected? or Can this person even tie their own shoelaces?

******

From The New Yorker

******

Yesterday as I was scurrying about the grocery store rounding up things with which to feed us, I heard something really unusual on the radio. It was the song Be Bop A Lula, by Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps.

The tune was recorded in 1956 when every record label was looking for its own version of Elvis Presley.

It is awfully good rockabilly music, and no, the lyrics are never going to win a Nobel Prize. However, they are perfect early rock and roll. Dumb as a fencepost but easy to remember.

.

Well, be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe
Be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe

Be-bop-a-lula
She’s my baby doll, my baby doll, my baby doll

Well she’s the girl in the red blue jeans
She’s the queen of all the teens
She’s the woman that I know
She’s the woman that loves me so

Be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe
Be-bop-a-lula
She’s my baby doll, my baby doll, my baby doll
Let’s rock!

Well now she’s the one that’s got that beat
She’s the one with the flyin’ feet
She’s the one that bops around the store
She’s the one that gives more more more more

Be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe
Be-bop-a-lula
She’s my baby doll, my baby doll, my baby doll
Let’s rock again now!

Well, be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe
Be-bop-a-lula, she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula, I don’t mean maybe

Be-bop-a-lula
She’s my baby doll, my baby doll, my baby doll

Even though it is a staple of rock and roll history, and is cited in Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, you almost never hear it played on the radio. But here it was, right there in front of my ears and I could sing along lustily on every repetition of “she-he-he’s my baby doll, my baby doll, my baby doll” right along with Vincent. (Lustily was the only way to sing it, since it’s basically about lust in the first place.)

Be Bop A Lula, by Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps

Remember that famous line from St. Paul who said: When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things? Remember that? Well, Paul wasn’t talking about me. I never put them away. Don’t intend to. I have studied adulthood thoroughly and it looks like a poor fit for me.

******

Hería small gallery from the Utah trip, posted from Hatch Point.