Tag: politics

You Can Have First Shower Today, Dear, I’ll Be On The Street …

jono55

Just study this photo for a moment. Everything you need to know about why the fascists are going to be eliminated is right there in the frame. In frigid Minneapolis a young woman comes out of her house in bathrobe and slippers with her phone in hand to film the goons of ICE. Now look at the number of other people who are also filming this scene.

ICE is an army composed of the sort of humans you find when you turn over rocks, led by cruel people whose grasp on power is slipping away daily. This casually dressed woman knows that she is only one of many but, by God, if her pictures can be of any help she is out there shivering and taking them.

A message for the criminals of ICE and their handlers. Once America regains its sanity, we will find you. We are writing everything down.

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I had another letter to the editor published Wednesday. Not anything earthshaking, just enough to annoy some of the hard-right citizens of Montrose County, which is my principal goal. I’m getting better at the process, and more of these letters are getting through. If the paper doesn’t like one, you never hear back from them, it simply vanishes and is never seen again.

So … I have found a few things that are important if you seek success in having your letters printed. Here’s my personal list.

  • Never drop an f-bomb in your opening sentence
  • Keep the word count well under 9000
  • Do not suggest assassinations as a way of improving society
  • Avoid topics that are ultra-passé. For instance, forget the Barry Manilow stories …
  • Cannibalism, diarrhea, and large pustules have limited audience appeal

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White Rabbit, by Jefferson Airplane

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(Ahhhhhh, that one about the psychiatrist’s couch. Coarse language, I know, but I cannot stop laughing at it.)

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A dusting of snow has fallen over the past 24 hours. Not enough to require anything of me. I can safely ignore it without having to worry about the elderly slipping and falling on my part of the sidewalk. Friday evening was the first fish fry of the year at the local Catholic Church. Each year, during Lent, the church serves up a dinner for $15.00 per person that includes either deep fried or baked fish, fries, coleslaw, Mac n’ cheese, and a delightful selection of desserts made by ladies of the congregation. It is dispensed from a buffet line in a large, barn-like room.

The quality of what is offered varies from year to year, so the first one is the tell. Here’s my breakdown on the offerings.

  • Cole slaw was excellent, with good flavors, bright colors, and someone actually paid attention to proper seasonings
  • French fries: made sometime this week, limp, gaunt, pale in color
  • Mac n’ cheese: baked in a very large pan to the point where the pieces of pasta were beginning to lose their boundaries and were turning into one great twenty pound pasta rectangle
  • Fish: it would seem that the person responsible for the deep fried variety must also operate the local crematorium. My pieces were fried until whatever fish there was had shriveled to a nubbin inside the armor of the breading. The breading was also not penetrable with a fork, but required attack with a knife as well. Some pieces had to be picked up in one’s hands and eaten like fish-on-the-cob.
  • Desserts: superb examples of the best of church basement food

So, the verdict overall for this year is: not bad, better than average. We went with friends and will no doubt attend at least one more session before Easter rolls around to end all the fun. Sometimes it’s about the company, and not the food at all.

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Robin and I will sometimes fill the odd moment playing games on our phones. Each game comes with a free version and a paid version. Take the free one and you get commercials, just like on television. The ads come in waves, and the wave this week is making the assumption that I am a large-breasted woman over 60 years of age. I am offered brand after brand that will make my life a joy, and in each ad there is at least one lady who jumps up and down wearing the bra being offered to show me how little ‘jiggling’ there is with this undergarment.

As a male senior citizen I find all of this interesting, and while at present I have no need for such masterpieces of support, I now know that if things go south and I do need one, I will absolutely go for the model that snaps in front. It just makes such sense.

The last time I really thought about brassieres I was an adolescent, and my concerns at that time were to develop the dexterity needed for the one-handed-behind-the-back-unsnapping from the en face position. The secret, I learned way back in those uncertain years, was practice.

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Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down, by Kris Kristofferson

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Lastly. I think that I mentioned once or twice before that I have learned how to grow mushrooms in my home. The sort that contain psilocybin. The reason? To see if some thorny chronic pain issues could be improved upon, as has been reported in the literature. I am microdosing with the dried mushrooms, and the jury is still out on whether there is improvement. It can take a while.

But I have about a pound of powdered magic mushrooms in my freezer, which is enough for at least a hundred full-blown trips, according to my informants. In Colorado it it legal to grow them, use them however you want, and to dole them out to family or friends. What one cannot do is sell them. Colorado is one of those few states with a relaxed attitude toward psychedelics, but they are very serious about money exchanging hands.

It has occurred to me that I might be able to use my supply to brew up a batch of cream of mushroom soup that would be legendary and be talked about in Lutheran Church basement kitchens forever. Imagine, if you will, one hundred Scandinavian-Americans who have slipped the surly bonds of earth, put out their hands, and touched the face of God … all at one time.**

Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing. Perish the thought. But it would be something to see …

** (Lines borrowed from the poem High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee Jr.)

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Pearl Jamming

jono55

I have a cold. A common cold. Once I realized that my dripping nose and sneezing wasn’t going to heal itself overnight like a mild bout of allergies would, I switched immediately into full whine.

When it comes to personal illnesses my psychological reaction meter only has two numbers on it, one and ten. Robin knows this, and was desperately trying to set up a weekend away with friends when I caught her at it and called in my markers. If I was going to have a fatal upper respiratory infection, by God, she was going to sit with me as I perished. I asked her to recall her wedding vows, especially the “in sickness and in health”part. She feigned forgetfulness.

Maybe this isn’t the BIG ONE, but just another minor URI which will run its course in a few days. Maybe. But why, I ask myself, should I take that chance when I can unfurl the big Pity Me flag that I keep in my clothes closet and get all that lovely attention?

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Quite a performance by Pam Bondi at the recent congressional hearing. In several hours she failed to answer a single question, but instead behaved much like a cat caught in a gopher trap. Snarling and spitting and hurling invectives at all within earshot … I made a promise to myself to stay out of courtrooms altogether until she is safely in Hell.

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This is just the best. Old George Will, who I used to think was just a stuffy old conservative writer (and that was sixty years ago) has come up with this video statement that I agree with completely. One of the best summaries of where we are and what is needed to finish the job. The job? Ridding our country of the fascists and then going coffin by coffin and driving a stake through the heart of racism everywhere we can find it. It is still, 250 years later on, the American cancer, and we will be the healthier for its extirpation, however painful that surgery might be.

But don’t take my word for it, pull up a chair and listen to George himself.

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Update on the “cold” I mentioned above … when the illness reached full flower it became croup, with the barking cough, hoarse voice, mild stridor and all. Robin asked if I should go to the doctor and I had to remind her that I used to be a doctor, and if there is any illness that pediatricians know something about it is croup. So I treated myself, ignoring the old adage that “a doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient.” Because the treatment is to accept the will of the universe and wait until it goes away. And so it shall.

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I was going through some poems I had written decades ago. Basically I only write them when some strong emotion has hold of me, so there are great gaps in the folder marked “Poems,” marking years when life was easy, comfortable. But I ran across this one that thought I’d share with you. Perhaps a bit of background would be in order.

My son Jon had just graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1993 and was coming to Yankton SD for a visit before going off to Greece to teach English. En route he lost control of the motorcycle he was riding and drove into a ditch about twenty miles from where I was sitting up late, waiting for him to arrive. In that accident he was paralyzed from just above the waist.

There followed a very difficult year for him as he tried to accommodate to his new limitations, and in addition had to deal with so many of the medical complications of his paralysis. He became depressed and sought psychiatric help, but on the eve of his 24th birthday ended his own life.

The night before his funeral, I sat down and wrote this, which I read the next day at the service.

When an old man dies
The river enters the sea
The sun sets
The leaves drop from the tree in Autumn
It is an ending
Comforting us even as we weep together
with a sense of rightness and of flow

When a young man dies
The bird falls from the nest
The thunder and the lightning roam the earth
Shadows pass across the sun
It is an interruption
And we are jarred by the reminder
Of how fragile is a future that we take for granted
And that this day
Is the only one we really have

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How long does it take to ‘get over’ something like this? I can only speak from my own experience. Never. You learn some way to live with it, and then you go on. I will be forever indebted to Pearl Jam and Eddie Vedder for this song, which was a perfect match for the emotions I was working with back then, and is a perfect match today for my memories.

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Vale, Robert Duvall. So many roles to think about during that long career, from Boo Radley onward. But my favorite will always be than of Augustus McCrae, in Lonesome Dove. I had loved the book, and was dreading the butchery I expected when I learned than a miniseries was on its way. But Duvall inhabited that role, and helped make television history in the process.

Viva Los Lobos

jono55

Poco is not as happy these days as he once was. He’s nearly 20 years old, has arthritis, cataracts, and some variety of kitty neurologic decline. He is very slender and less steady on his feet. At times he seems to take fright from things I can’t see.

But he sleeps well, still goes outdoors when the weather is clement, takes care of his litter box needs without requiring any help from Robin and I, and l.o.v.e.s to be brushed. His appetite suits his activity level, and he is not fussy about what we serve up.

It is not hard to imagine that his fragile situation could change fairly quickly. An injury, a stroke, a serious illness … any of these could put the thumb on the scale for an old guy like him, and I have wondered … when does the subject of euthanasia become part of the conversation?

If you search the internet for help with these sorts of questions, you aren’t much smarter at the end of your queries that when you started. And don’t even bother to ask “Is there some way I could help my old friend along if I ever decide that it is the kind thing to do?” Because you will only be apprised of the dogma that you should let your veterinarian decide such matters and manage whatever medications and treatments are needed.

I bristle at this a bit. If I were to follow that advice here in Paradise I would have to bundle Poco into a carrier (which frightens him), load the box into the car and drive for ten minutes to the vet (which terrifies him even more), and then hand him over to relative strangers ( very alarming) for an IV line to be placed. Then a barbiturate would be pushed in and that’s all she wrote.

All of this unpleasantness reeks as far as I am concerned. If the need arises, and I hope that it does not, why should a pet’s last hour be so distressing? Surely there are less traumatic ways to take one’s leave.

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Mas Y Mas, by Los Lobos

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I am letting the political cartoons tell most of the story for a while. Our present government is a monstrosity, contaminating everything it touches, and I’ll get back to railing at it again one day. But some of these drawings, my my my, don’t they go straight to the heart of things?

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One of my favorite posters of the anti-Viet Nam War years was this one. I thought it struck just the right balance – the heart and the head at the same time. For me, much more effective than any tirade. I was able to identify without too much trouble that the original was created by a woman named Lorraine Schneider.

Two by two inches — that was the space allotted to artist Lorraine Schneider when making work for a miniature art show at New York’s Pratt Institute in 1965. In that small space, the artist, printmaker and peace and civil rights activist found a message that filled whole worlds.

That artwork, titled “Primer,” features the sentence “war is not healthy for children and other living things” in childlike script, juxtaposed with a black and white sunflower. It was made in response to the Vietnam War, but like other great works of art, has found a life well beyond that moment in history …

Kveller: Lorraine Schneider

Substitute “ICE” for “war” and you have something perfectly applicable to today’s news headlines. In fact, I have done just that for, what else, a button.

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On a wander along the Uncompahgre River last week I was reminded of how little fishing I’ve done over the past year, and how easy it would be to get out there and annoy some fish to no end. I don’t catch very many, but it must be very distracting to the fish to have me bouncing artificial lures of various sizes and colors off their heads. The heads of perfectly serene trout who want nothing more than to eat an occasional insect drifting by and who clearly know the difference between a real bug and a fake one.

But I love the rituals, the casting into tree branches and onto power lines, the regular insertion of sharp hooks into soft fingers while attempting to tie on a new fly. My angling experience has advanced to a whole new level since there is now a tiny hole in my waders, and I am too cheap to buy a new pair. An hour in the stream produces one cup of ice water in that right boot, and from then on it is a race between how much of a cold wet foot I will tolerate and how many fish I am catching. Usually the discomfort wins out.

No matter. Most waders will eventually leak, whether they are the bargain basement variety or a primo set made by Simms or Patagonia. Sun and storage and time are enemies of whatever is used to keep the water out. Part of the game.

BTW, I’m still using the Tenkara style of fishing, rather than a traditional rod and reel combination, and I enjoy it very much. The rod breaks down to fit into a 20 inch case, and with that and a line or two and a handful of flies you are good to go. The whole rig is so easy to throw into a car or a backpack as it is small and almost weightless.

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Emily, by Los Lobos

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Valentine’s Day came arrived and departed. We actually have a pair of chocolatiers here in Paradise, whose services are heavily utilized on this holiday every year. These artistes love their work and will fill your ears with information about every single piece you buy. I made my purchase on Friday and hid the box in a safe place overnight in the garage.

These are not the sort of concoctions you jam into a pocket and munch without thinking as you walk along. They are tenderly taken from the box one at a time and slowly savored. It is not only women who are vulnerable to the mysteries and charms of the cacao bean.

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We have a new restaurant in town, named La Michoacána. It is an ice cream shop, with a few twists Robin and I sampled the ice creams last Friday, and they were very good. While we were eating out treats, we notice a couple of things. One of the menu items was nachos, and here’s how that goes. You take a bag of Doritos or Tostitos, slice open along one side, top to bottom and then pour the queso and extras right into the bag. Then you take your prize and a fork and sit down to stuff yourself.

The other interesting thing was that all of the posted menus were in Spanish. Totally. No English whatsoever. It was Bad Bunny deja vu. We loved it! Takes some cojones to do that in a red town in a red county where ICE might have more supporters than they did in Minneapolis. But for me, one sweet day I’m heading back for one of those nacho bags, and I will report to you all about it complete with any medical complications that might develop. With photos.

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Stand In The Fire

jono55

Yesterday … a February picnic! Amy and Neil had been here for a lovely overnight visit, and we decided on Sunday morning that we’d all drive south to Pa-Co-Chu-Puk State Park, have a walk and some sandwiches, and then they would continue on back to Durango while we returned to Paradise. Since the temperature was brushing sixty degrees and the sun was everywhere, it turned out to be a very good plan.

A handful of magpies hung around our table waiting for handouts, which we eventually provided. They are strikingly beautiful birds, and they’ve been shown to be scary smart as well.

The common magpie is one of the most intelligent birds—and one of the most intelligent animals to exist. Their brain-to-body-mass ratio is outmatched only by that of humans and equals that of  aquatic mammals and great apes. Magpies have shown the ability to make and use tools, imitate human speech, grieve, play games, and work in teams. When one of their own kind dies, a grouping will form around the body for a “funeral” of squawks and cries. To portion food to their young, magpies will use self-made utensils to cut meals into proper sizes.

Magpies are also capable of passing a cognitive experiment called the “mirror test,” which proves an organism’s ability to recognize itself in a reflection. To perform this test, a colored dot is placed on animals, or humans, in a place that they will be able to see only by looking into a mirror. Subjects pass if they can look at their reflection and recognize that the mark is on themselves and not another, often by attempting to reach and remove it. Passing the mirror test is a feat of intelligence that only four other animal species can accomplish.

Britannica.com

After a bit the birds tired of being offered a few meager breadcrusts, and moved on to more promising-looking visitors in the park. There are people who dislike these creatures because they will raid nests of other birds. But really, if we are going to judge what other animals do to survive, how many species carry more baggage than our own?

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What was the worst time in my life? What was the best time?

There is a lot of competition for the best time, and I can’t honestly come up with just one. I’ve been a pretty lucky guy. Truly spoiled by the abundance of unearned gifts that have come my way.

But there is one clear worst time. That’s an easy one. And that was the whole process of becoming divorced from my first wife. A good measure of why it was so bad is that I was so completely unprepared for a failure of that magnitude. When I was married that first time I was … how to say it … unformed. My confidence in myself, in my decisions, in my various roles were all paper thin. And to be set aside in that way pretty much broke everything. I was dissassembled, and for the longest time did not know the way back to being whole again.

My nights and days were turbulent, regular sleep hours ignored. Drinking myself to sleep but then waking up at three AM in a hyper-alert state. I read, I listened to music, I wrote poem after poem after poem. The writing turned out to be an important way to ground myself, and yet there were mornings when I read what I had written the night before and I didn’t recognize the author.

Eventually the pieces were put back together, but not in the same way they had been before. Some of the old scraps were left on the floor and swept out with the trash, and the result was someone leaner, less encumbered and more resilient. I was still a basket case in many ways, but I at least now I knew what kind of basket I was, and that was an improvement.

Why this confessional? Perhaps there will be someone out there who is going through a similar trial, and who will read it on a day when they were feeling their lowest, maybe at the point where they are looking up gunshops and bridge abutments. They will go through this mess of literary pottage and say to themselves “Well, I’m not that loony! Perhaps there is hope after all.“

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I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain, by Beth Orton and the Chemical Brothers

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(I will share one poem from those troubled years, one written in 1989 that came from a time when I knew that I would survive and could see that there were good things I had learned while coming through the fire. I ask your indulgence of the primitive poesic skills.)

Hides

I have been tanned
I am an animal skinned out
Hanging on a cabin wall
Still recognizable
But tougher now
I’ll wear much
Longer as I am
Than what I was

I am a leaf on the breeze
Lighter than the air itself
Rising on a thermal
Settling
Sailing
Fluttering from the tallest tree of all
Towards the ground all miles and miles below

I am baking bread, rising
Pushing against the confines of the pan
Promises still unfulfilled
A bit more heat and I’ll be done
Then you can take a bite
My friends

I am an empty suitcase open, waiting
Put inside the clothes we need
And we will take that trip
The one that only now
Is possible

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Stand In The Fire, by Warren Zevon

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Past Fast Draws

jono55

The 30-day Paradise weather forecast is for mild temperatures through to March. No one is guessing as to snowfall. Robin and I took a long walk Sunday in 48 degree sunshine. Winter has been no trial at all, although we did have to cancel a weekend getaway at the end of January due to harsh conditions at Monarch Pass. We had wanted to spend time in Buena Vista and Salida, but at the pass were cold temperatures, blowing snow, and twenty miles of the roadway described as snow-covered and icy.

Now for an acrophobe like myself, tell me that there are icy roads for 10 miles before and 10 miles after a pass above 9000 feet and you have talked me right back onto the sofa, from which I cannot be budged without my making an awful scene. If there were lives to be saved by my attempting that drive perhaps I would have taken the chance. But when fun was the only goal, fageddaboudit.

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If I Had A Heart, by Fever Ray

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We have received the official notice that there will be the third national No Kings Day on March 28. So we have two months to plan what our Indivisible chapter is going to do. So much is going on nationally right now, that who knows what will be the burning issues two months hence. Our focus is, as always, getting the tyrant government out of power and replacing it with the regular batch of crooks, posers, and tosspots that we are more comfortable with.

I was dismayed to read today that gun purchases and firearm safety classes have become hot items for liberals to sign up for. In some locations one has to take a number to get a class and a permit. On the one hand, it is easy to understand how the murderous excesses of ICE can make people fearful, make us look around for some way to try to cut the risks of daily life when these rats come to your town by the thousands. On the other hand, yet one more armed segment of the population … . I don’t trust a liberal’s aim or judgment when it comes to handguns any more than I do one of the MAGA morons. Taking friendly fire on Main Street?

I doubt that my buying a pistol would accomplish much for me. ICE has armor, sophisticated weaponry, gases of several sorts, and specialized communication devices. They may be an army of thugs, but they are an army. I think my best defense is to look as pathetic as I possibly can, and to practice loud whimpering as my weapon of choice. If I can assume the posture of someone not worth shooting at and get these barbarians to believe it … then I’ve achieved my tactical goal.

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I did own a handgun once in my life. In the late 1950s television broadcasting was full of western series with names like Gunsmoke, Wanted Dead or Alive, Paladin, Cheyenne, Sugarfoot, Lawman, and on and on. Impressionable young men everywhere were taking up the art of the fast draw, and there were competitions around the country, often associated with saloons and bars.

Being nothing if not an impressionable young man I bought a Colt .22 caliber pistol and a fast draw holster. I would take it to the country and shoot any tin can that moved or threatened me in any way. Then I would come home feeling like a reincarnation of Wyatt Earp and lovingly clean the weapon. Ahhhhhh, the smell of gun oil. More manly than Old Spice aftershave.

One day I was lying in my upstairs bedroom, caught up in my role as a bored and irritable adolescent. The clothes closet door was ajar, and I could see one of the sturdy ceiling beams that supported the house. The longer I stared at it the more it seemed to me that I should shoot it, and so I took that Colt Frontier Scout and plugged the beam dead center.

It turned out that even a small pistol makes quite a bit of noise when discharged indoors, and that thunderclap caught my mother’s attention. There were several discussions about the propriety of shooting at the house from inside (or outside, for that matter). Shooting the house was therefore strictly forbidden from then on, on pain of permanent confiscation of the offending weapon. There were also other conversations about the soundness of my mind, my moral character, and my overall judgment. Many of these tete-a-tetes began with the words: “What in the world.”

But what finally led to my pride and joy being taken away for good was entirely the fault of my younger brother. One afternoon he asked to borrow the gun to go the a local dump and shoot at bottles, and I let him take it. While he was at the landfill accompanied by a cousin of ours, he decided that just shooting bottles was not good enough. He was going to challenge a bottle to a gunfight.

The victim was selected, the paces counted off, and in a flash he drew the pistol. Well, actually, he didn’t … not quite. He only got the gun halfway out of the holster before he pulled the trigger, shooting himself in the leg in the process. The wound was fairly superficial, but was going to need some stitching, so our cousin drove said brother to the nearest hospital emergency room. In Minnesota all gunshot wounds must be reported to the police, no matter how trivial or how stupid the story. This meant a call to the police > who then called our mother > who then confiscated the pistol > and I never saw it again.

Of course I was indignant about the punishment since as far as I was concerned I was a complete innocent. But my parents were now beyond the range of entreaties, and simply didn’t want to hear about that particular item ever again. I can’t tell you what they did with it, they went completely silent whenever the subject came up and took this secret to the grave with them.

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If There’s A God, by Ry Cooder

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So far there has been only one seed catalog in our mailbox this year. This does not bother me at all. Since we moved to Colorado our gardening has been less rewarding than I had hoped. My limited skillset goes like this:

  • dig small trench in ground
  • sprinkles seeds in trench
  • cover seeds with dirt
  • water liberally
  • stand back and be ready at all times to reap bountiful harvests

Any variations from this untroubled scenario are met with ignorance and chagrin. For instance, when one lives in a semi-arid environment, watering properly is a real art. Too little and the plant dies. Too much and the plant dies. Then if you happen to get the watering just right, the plants are now food for an alarming variety of insects big and little. The little ones are the worst, because in many instances once you see their effects the game is already over, and the plant dies.

For the unskilled individual like myself, gardening is a series of disappointments that lasts for months. That kale that looks so good and costs $1.99 a bunch in the market will cost me $3.99 to grow in my own garden. That is, if I get any at all.

We have friends that live only a couple of blocks from us. They have a lush garden each year that could easily feed several families. I try not to visit them during the growing season because if I do I must take the mandatory tour of their many raised beds and somehow come up with compliments while herbicidal (and sometimes homicidal) thoughts are competing for my attention. They are nice people with gardening skills while I am a ill-tempered person with a black thumb. The contrast can be almost too great to bear.

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Romance In Durango, by Bob Dylan

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In the Land of Zoom

jono55

Robin and I attended a Zoom conference this week on taking risks and staying safe. These might seem contradictory goals, but … not really. When authoritarianism descends on a society, there are two basic choices. One is to accept the darkness, and the other is to promote light wherever one can. There is no 100% safety in either choice.

If a person chooses the latter path, they will stand out like candles burning in a darkened church. This would be taking risks, but doing nothing brings its own set of penalties. One of the speakers tossed out a phrase that stuck with me, and still is echoing around my brainpan three days later. The phrase? Joy is coming. That’s it. So simple.

But it helps me focus on the why of resistance. It’s not hard to get disoriented when the insults and assaults come at you as rapidly as they have this past year. Like dried morsels of cowflop fired from a Gatling gun. It’s also easy to become disheartened, until you hear someone start talking about joy. About finding some of that precious substance in every day. Small bites. The hand of a friend or a song that cuts right through the noxious fog emanating from Washington DC. “Joy is coming” resonates because those in the resistance believe that we will eventually succeed, and what a day that will be!

The only questions are when that will happen and how many more tragedies like the murders of Renee Flood and Alex Pretti will take place before it does. The deaths of these two people are drawing much attention because of the their brazenness and the so-easily disproven lies of the administration. But last year there were 32 deaths of men and women held in custody by ICE. Thirty-two! If these ICE goons act so brutally when out in the open, one wonders what horrors are happening inside their walled-off detention centers.

However … joy is coming. Do not wonder if it is. Do not forget what needs doing.

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I recently learned that there is a frontline warrior in our own family. I have a granddaughter who lives in south Minneapolis. Yesterday her mom emailed me this update on that young woman’s daily reality:

“I thought you all would like to know that ***** (and *****) are on the front lines of the Mpls protests. They are trained in safety/medical and carry rapid response gear. ***** has witnessed two abductions and a car ramming by ICE. They have organized grocery delivery for 8 families. They set up a Go Fund Me for their neighbors too afraid to work. At her job, ***** works directly with low/no income brown and black staff and interns under deep stress. She is struggling with keeping a hopeful and helpful attitude. But doing ok. There are more heroes than demons in Minneapolis!”

Warms my heart and gives me so much hope. I am sending every good wish, every scrap of metta that I possess to her and all those who are doing such good work for the rest of the country out there in Minneapolis.

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Ahhhhh, once again, Bruce Springsteen takes his art to the streets, this time those of Minneapolis. His heart has always been with the people, rather than the princes of the world.

And one more thing, my friends. On Friday Bruce went to Minneapolis and played this song on the stage of the First Avenue, a landmark bar and music venue. The First Avenue was where Prince played whenever … .

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A story. I was living and working in Hancock MI, which was at that time a town of 4600 souls located in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. One evening a woman delivered a healthy baby boy in the local hospitl, but I was called immediately because the child and mother had a problem with Rh factor incompatibility in their red blood cells, and the child was affected. I won’t go into detail on the mechanics of this disease but what happens is that the child can become severely jaundiced, to the point where its brain can be permanently damaged if the jaundice level gets too high. Lab tests done on the infant shortly after birth revealed that an exchange transfusion was indicated, the earlier the better.

Pediatricians of that era were nearly all experienced in doing this procedure, and I went to talk to the parents of the baby about what needed to be done. The problem was, and I knew this before I entered their room, was that they were members of the Jehovah’s Witnesses church, which forbids transfusions of blood of any size at any age. I told the parents that my duty was to safeguard the health of the child, and in this case there were no medical alternatives to what amounted to exchanging the child’s blood with that of a donor.

The parents refused to allow me to do the procedure, I told them that I would then contact legal authorities to attempt to override their wishes. By now it was getting pretty close to midnight, so when I called the judge on duty to procure such permission, he was a bit put out at me at having wakened him, and proceeded to instruct me in why it was not a good idea to wake judges from a sound sleep. None of this improved my already low opinion of the legal profession, but I listened with all the humility I could muster to his tirade because I needed something from him that could not wait until morning, and I finally got it. Now all I had to do was to round up the blood and equipment and personnel to do the transfusion and get it done as soon as I could.

But while I was receiving advice on dealing with judges, there was another drama in play. The OB/Nursery area was immediately adjacent to the passenger elevators. The child’s mother, dressed in a nightgown, asked to be given her baby for a feeding. She then walked to the elevator which was being held open by her husband.

The door closed and the trio was whisked down to ground level and from there they walked quickly to the hospital exit, where a warmed car was waiting, being driven by a member of their church.

And off they went into the winter night. In effect, since the courts had just taken custody of the infant, she had kidnapped her own baby.

Down the hall I came still smarting from the judge’s lecture, and when the nurse told me that my patient had now disappeared, I … well … maybe the best characterization would be that I lost my composure. Pretty completely. My normal cool and professional demeanor was nowhere to be found. I ranted, I raved, I asked to be given the papers needed to file a child neglect report. And then I was informed of something I found even more unbelievable. The baby’s father had remained at the hospital after his wife had been driven away, and would like to talk to me.

He and I had an uncomfortable conversation where he repeated his belief that the transfusion would have caused irreparable spiritual harm to his son, and that was why they had acted as they did. He apologized to me for not following medical advice, but was firm in believing that he had done the right thing. I had calmed down quite a bit by the time he was finished, but I told him that I would be reporting him and his wife to social services for exposing the infant to possible great harm, and we went our separate ways.

Six weeks later I was working in my office when my nurse informed me that the family was now in Room 3 with their baby, for a routine well child visit. The child was still slightly jaundiced, but otherwise seemed healthy. One caveat was that if there had been neurological injury caused by a high jaundice level, it might not be detectable at such an early age, so I can’t say that I know the true end of the story, because that was the last time I saw the family or heard anything further about the baby.

And my new BFF the judge? Well, I always hoped that some evening when I was on emergency room call, he would be brought in with some painful malady or another (perhaps having been shot in the ass by Dick Cheney), and that I could have moved oh so slowly, and delayed over the longest time possible, to provide him with the comfort he needed. That opportunity never presented itself.

Petty? More than a little, I’ll grant, but can you recall any time that I claimed I was perfect?

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Another song inspired by the heroic uprising in Minneapolis, this time written by someone less famous but no less skillful, Marc Skjervem.

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May I Have This Dance … ?

jono55
Screenshot

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When the news is merde piled upon merde
what’s left to do but dance
shaking off those flooding tears
and dancing

Angel Dance, by Los Lobos

take your bad knees and your trick hips
and put them through their paces
dancing, forgetting nothing
while body blows are dealt to flooring
and rhythmic shoes and boots pound yesterday’s
unvacuumed mirk into resolve

Mary Jane’s Last Dance, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers


dance like fools, like motes in sunlight
like lovers parting
dance for those whose time is up
their names pressed into ice and asphalt
dance for the Renees that were
and the Alex-es that are yet to come

Cosmic Dancer, by T. Rex

dance for kindness
dance for hope
dance for when you were
a child at a party
unbound, unaware, unafraid

When You Dance (I Can Really Love), by Neil Young


dance that good old Brownian motion
that you do when no one’s looking
dance for those who would but can’t

Dance Me To The End Of Love, by The Civil Wars


in the firelight
in the moonlight
in the floodlights

Dance the Night Away, by Van Halen



in the middle of a berserk world
why, look at us,
with tremors, rage and fear
we’re dancing

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Deja Vu All Over Again

jono55

On Monday we attended all of the several activities available here in Paradise that were celebrating Martin Luther King day. The free community breakfast, the hour of heartfelt speeches by men and women from a wide spectrum of the citizenry, the awards for organizations that help our town be a kinder one, the ten minute march to Centennial Square and then later watching an HBO documentary of the last couple of years of MLK’s life. All in all … six hours of talking about heroes and heroism. There are worse ways to spend one’s time.

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On Tuesday we were part of a political demonstration against fascism that took place on the old courthouse steps.

(Just in case the DOJ might be wondering, we are the couple with the yellow arrows pointing at us.)

After each of these activities we found ourselves wanting to do more, to resist in other ways the insanity of Cluck and the Gang. If you have an appetite for more reading, Rick Wilson has put together an excellent paper entitled A Declaration of Independence from the Mad King.

Read it and then tell me that what we now see every day are the acts of someone who is compos mentis.

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Sons and Daughters, by the Neville Brothers

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Still too little snow to speak of here in Paradise. Mutterings among the citizenry about fears of water shortages are becoming more and more frequent. Most of Colorado is dependent on snow piling up in those beautiful mountains each winter to feed our streams and rivers as it melts in spring and summer. We are way behind this year, locally and statewide. There’s just not enough of that wonderful stuff.

Friday mid-day it started to snow the tiniest of flakes, falling straight down on an absolutely windless day. At first they melted away instantly, but by evening there was a coating of white in the valley. Perhaps only an inch, but a precious inch indeed. The climate niche Paradise occupies is entitled “semi-arid,” which translates into almost a desert but not quite.

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We’re halfway through the winter now, moving about town in what must seem unbelievable comfort to our compatriots in Minnesota, those brave souls who are carrying the fight against the autocracy in below-zero conditions. They are up against the weather, tear gas, pepper spray, and thugs with guns yet still they come out to demonstrate and sow discord in the hearts of the enemy … the enemy being other Americans who were sent to control and intimidate them.

I am inspired beyond words. And we are all learning as we watch. Learning how to confront and confound this modern version of the Nazi brownshirts.

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Sons and Daughters (reprise) by the Neville Brothers

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Alex Pretti

Murdered by ICE agents in broad daylight in Minneapolis

1/24/26

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Heroes

jono55

Something I’ve noticed recently out here in Paradise. The nearly complete absence of MAGA caps. For years they were one of the core items of Montrosian male dress. Why, on any trip to the grocery store I would see at least five men wearing them, and interestingly, they were mostly cross-looking senior citizens.

The same thing has happened with the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia , the stars and bars. I would guess that a decade ago at least five percent of pickups in town were daily flying these emblems of slavery and treason. While this might seem a small number, keep in mind that pickup trucks are the signature vehicle of our community. Five percent of a bunch is a bunch.

I don’t know the reasons for the decline, I just make observations. Those crabby-looking older dudes might just have died off of advanced constipation. The flag-waving yahoos might have actually taken a closer look at those banners and decided to be offensive in some less complicated manner. Either way, it is getting that much harder to easily identify the dim bulb segment of our community.

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Lord, this is good. Until today I thought no one would ever touch Emmylou Harris’ rendition of her beautiful song Boulder to Birmingham. Dead wrong is what I was. Here’s Jessie Buckley.

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The pickings were sooo good this past few days. Here’s a prescient prose poem from 2011. Honestly, how could we not see this coming? Terry Ehret did and put it down clear as spring water.

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Wade In The Water, by The Rigs

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ICE in 1933 (reverse metaphor)

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Heather Cox Richardson’s postings Letters From An American have been like flashlights, something to find your way with on darker days. On Martin Luther King Jr. day, Monday, she posted this beauty:

You hear sometimes, now that we know the sordid details of the lives of some of our leading figures, that America has no heroes left.

When I was writing a book about the Wounded Knee Massacre, where heroism was pretty thin on the ground, I gave that a lot of thought. And I came to believe that heroism is neither being perfect, nor doing something spectacular. In fact, it’s just the opposite: it’s regular, flawed human beings choosing to put others before themselves, even at great cost, even if no one will ever know, even as they realize the walls might be closing in around them.

It means sitting down the night before D-Day and writing a letter praising the troops and taking all the blame for the next day’s failure upon yourself in case things went wrong, as General Dwight D. Eisenhower did.

It means writing in your diary that you “still believe that people are really good at heart,” even while you are hiding in an attic from the men who are soon going to kill you, as Anne Frank did.

It means signing your name to the bottom of the Declaration of Independence in bold script, even though you know you are signing your own death warrant should the British capture you, as John Hancock did.

It means defending your people’s right to practice a religion you don’t share, even though you know you are becoming a dangerously visible target, as Sitting Bull did.

Sometimes it just means sitting down, even when you are told to stand up, as Rosa Parks did.

None of those people woke up one morning and said to themselves that they were about to do something heroic. It’s just that when they had to, they did what was right.

On April 3, 1968, the night before the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated by a white supremacist, he gave a speech in support of sanitation workers in Memphis, Tennessee. Since 1966, King had tried to broaden the civil rights movement for racial equality into a larger movement for economic justice. He joined the sanitation workers in Memphis, who were on strike after years of bad pay and such dangerous conditions that two men had been crushed to death in garbage compactors.

After his friend Ralph Abernathy introduced him to the crowd, King had something to say about heroes: “As I listened to Ralph Abernathy and his eloquent and generous introduction and then thought about myself, I wondered who he was talking about.”

Dr. King told the audience that if God had let him choose any era in which to live, he would have chosen the one in which he had landed. “Now, that’s a strange statement to make,” King went on, “because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land; confusion all around…. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.” Dr. King said that he felt blessed to live in an era when people had finally woken up and were working together for freedom and economic justice.

He knew he was in danger as he worked for a racially and economically just America. “I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter…because I’ve been to the mountaintop…. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life…. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!”

People are wrong to say that we have no heroes left.

Just as they have always been, they are all around us, choosing to do the right thing, no matter what.

Wishing us all a day of peace for Martin Luther King Jr. Day 2026.

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Stepping back and looking closely at this post I realize that the quality of writing is definitely improved. That’s the good news. The bad news is … (sigh) … it’s because I did so little of it.

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In The Trenches

jono55

Minneapolis is, right now, the front line of the entire country’s resistance to our fascist government and its agents. Those freezing January streets filled with people and the sounds of whistles and flash-bangs … the thousands of smartphone recordings that have been made and the thousands to come that reveal ICE’s now-naked war on America. There can be no doubt about it after the events of this past week. If you don’t see it, you never will … not until it is your door that ICE is knocking down.

Minneapolis is my old home town, where I spent the first thirty years of my life. I know those streets, recognize those addresses, have walked in areas now lit by police floodlights. Renee Good was shot and killed six blocks from my childhood home. I will never not be a Minnesotan, at least in part. This morning I can’t shake the ridiculous idea that I should be there. That I belong on that line. What is ridiculous is that I would probably be a liability to the those involved in the struggle. Someone that needed tending rather than someone who was good at carrying torches or blowing whistles.

Maybe not. Maybe I could be of some help, but no matter. The line will come to Colorado one day, who knows … perhaps even politically red Montrose will see its share of conflict because the Cluck machine is neither blue nor red. It is out only for itself, serving its masters both visible and hidden. I don’t have to travel across the country to mount the barricades … that opportunity will come to me.

My grandmother would have said: “Bloom where you’re planted.” Good advice, that. I will do my blooming right here.

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Our streets come alive
Injustice quickening cold
Fury in our souls

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Screenshot

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How about something sweet and temperate? One of the best voices of this or any other time. Eva Cassidy singing Autumn Leaves and making it hers.

Autumn Leaves, by Eva Cassidy

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Our local recreation center has been so successful in recruiting members that it is becoming more and more frustrating to try to use its equipment. So far Robin and I have been unable to find some sweet spot in the day when the crowd is thinner and the machines we use in our respective programs are free.

Being able to move smoothly between devices is an important thing for my own training regimen, since at the slightest delay I am prone to simply leaving the building and returning home. Home being any place that doesn’t require physical effort and bulging neck veins.

The perfect venue for me, therefore, would be a large hall completely furnished with the latest and most scientifically studied equipment, with small loveseats sprinkled here and there to rest between exercises … and no one else allowed to be present when I was working out. Bank presidents, governors, and one percenters of all stripes would be shown the door as soon as I appeared.

I know, I know, there are some obvious hurdles to be overcome, but why not dream?

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Another tune from Eva Cassidy, submitted by daughter Kari. Sublime. Cassidy died in 1996 of melanoma, at the age of 33 years. Such has been the respect for and appreciation of her gifts that there have been nine posthumous albums released. Nine.

One of those albums was with the London Symphony Orchestra. A cut from the album was this version of Time After Time.

The story of Eva Cassidy and the London Symphony Orchestra is a posthumous collaboration, bringing her acclaimed voice to a wider audience through the 2023 album I Can Only Be Me, where the LSO performed new orchestral arrangements for her classic recordings, fulfilling a dream she never lived to see due to her early death from cancer in 1996, with technology allowing her isolated vocals to blend with the full orchestra.

Google AI search

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Every once in while I see a film that reminds me why we need filmmakers and darkened theaters to tell some stories. Tales so well told that you know you are a different person when you leave the theater than when you came in. You can feel it. Yesterday Robin and I took in such a performance, when we went to see Hamnet.

It was a tale of love and grief and their inseparability. Wrenching. Soulful. Beautiful.

Wore us right out. To the point where we needed ice cream right away.

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There are many emotions that today’s troubles bring up for me, and I recognize grief among them. There is such a deep sense of loss when I read the headlines, see the videos, hear the spoken cruelties. No matter that this convulsion will be over one day, with the skies cleared and some sanity restored to public life.

I have lost a certain naïveté. Once I realized the sheer numbers of my countrymen who can allow and even support horrors to be visited upon their fellow citizens as long as it doesn’t touch them personally. Who believe that the killings and torturings and imprisonments and the orphans and the lost children are likely deserved punishments. No matter that my ‘innocence’ has been clearly shown to have been always a fantasy, no matter that I now work every day with people who share my convictions, a loss is still a loss.

Music, as always, can be a balm for the wounded spirit. Here’s a bit of that.

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Open Range

jono55

Awright, here’s my opener for today. I have no idea who this woman is, where she is, and I could care less. She is one of the truth-tellers out here on the open range, and they are all over the place if you look for them. This is a saving grace of an otherwise gruesome time, the chance to meet people you admire and band together with them spiritually if not actually.

(sorry about the enormous size of this video, I can’t find a way to make it smaller.)

The ugliest among us are running the show today, but there is some serious reckoning coming, and I hope they all have a good retirement plan … they are going to need it. The man who killed Renee Good has become famous. I saw a video where his name was painted on the side of a van, along with details of his crime. I don’t know where he lives but many do, and his life has certainly changed since he pulled that trigger a few days ago.

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One of the pleasures of daily life here in Paradise has been the proliferation of murals on the bare sides of buildings on the Western Slope. I love it. In Montrose some enterprising artists have painted a bunch of new ones recently. No fanfare, just one day you look up and see something beautiful or interesting where there had been nothing. When it is warm again, I’m going to walk around town and photograph a few to share with you. Until then, here’s three examples.

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My coffee perfumes
The kitchen at four a.m.
Without being asked

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Our more typical and much colder weather this week has prompted some Canada geese who were thinking of setting up permanent homes here in our pleasant valley to get up and go. Large flocks were seen overhead yesterday, moving south.

I love the fact that most of the planet keeps to its ancient rhythms and movements while we humans seemingly cannot find our way. It’s not that there aren’t maps for us to follow, they are plentiful and available everywhere. What is our problem anyhow? Was it when we left the caves that things went sour?

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Both Robin and I are a little under the weather this week, with annoying coughs and just enough malaise to make us cranky. Since I was in my sixth day of this grayness and going about the house mewling about not feeling hungry and maybe we could just skip supper and all, Robin put on her big girl pants and went to the store for … chicken soup.

Two big 22 ounce cans of Campbell Chicken Noodle Soup appeared in the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I had this particular food. Of course I make a decent chicken noodle soup myself, with fresh herbs and the whole show, but this stuff … a connection with the earliest food memories that I have.

Into the kettle went the can’s contents, along with an equal amount of water. That’s it. Apply some heat and you’re done. Campbell’s knew their people back in 1934 when they first put it on the shelves. Make it affordable, make it easy to cook, make it tasty. All of those things were in evidence last night.

One thing. There was almost a complete absence of chicken. From the bits I came upon here and there as I gobbled down my two bowlsful I would estimate that one could make at least three hundred gallons of soup from a single bird. (I am not complaining, just observing.) But no matter, this morning I already feel slightly better, and I look forward to finishing off the leftovers today.

[BTW, Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup was also introduced in 1934, without which Lutheran churches all over Minnesota may not have survived in those early post-depression days. The sheer number of church-basement casseroles using this soup as a base, along with some egg noodles and a little tuna fish … astronomic.]

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There are days when I
Am no more than my anger
In wintry discontent

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Robin and I rented and watched the movie Spartacus this week. Originally released in 1960, it was hugely successful at the box office, took hard shots at the right-wing witch-hunts that were in progress in our country at the time, and was a young Stanley Kubrick’s first big-budget film.

It was the only film directed by Kubrick where he did not have complete artistic control. Screenwriter Dalton Trumbo was blacklisted at the time as one of the Hollywood Ten. Douglas publicly announced that Trumbo was the screenwriter of Spartacus, and President John F. Kennedy crossed American Legion picket lines to view the film, helping to end blacklisting.

Wikipedia

Soooo … a politically astute film filmed by some of the best technicians in Hollywood with an amazing cast, one that won four Oscars and whose creation and showing were surrounded by important off-screen dramas. Not too shabby an origin story.

The only problem for Robin and I was its running time … 197 minutes. This substantially exceeded our attention spans, which typically clock in at around 120 minutes. Therefore we watched it over two successive nights.

The film also had one of the strangest last scenes I’ve ever watched. A combination of horror and inspirational in the frame at the same time. Odd indeed. One felt two wildly disparate emotions simultaneously.

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Vigilante Man

jono55

When I go to the grocery store, I like to think that I am a knowledgeable shopper. I’ve received a smattering of nutritional teaching in medical school, can read most food labels without referring more than three or four times to an encyclopedia, and I can tell a parsnip from a carrot without fail.

But once in a while, serendipity takes a hand in things. Such was the case a few years ago when I was standing in front of the freezer case where the frozen pizzas were stored. Too many choices, thought I, and while some of the old brands that I recognized had memories of lackluster eating attached to them, I was willing to try them again, thinking “maybe they’ve improved in the past twenty years.”

When suddenly a hand was placed on my shoulder, and when I spun around to see where the assault was coming from I found myself facing a young man with wilderness hair, a full beard, cutoffs, and a t-shirt that really needed either laundry attention or to be discarded in the sort of bag one uses to dispose of nuclear waste. This unlikely oracle then spoke: “Screaming Sicilian, man, it’s the only way to go.” He then waited a moment without saying anything more, till finally I caught his drift and reached into the freezer to extract a Screaming Sicilian Supreme, and placed it in my cart. At that moment, he moved away and disappeared. I’ve not seen him since.

At first I was going to put the pizza back, but then I thought “Why not try it? What’s to lose?”

And it turned out to be the best frozen pizza ever. Within a couple of centimeters of being as good as a freshly baked one from the parlor down the street.

All thanks to that stranger’s exclamation: “Screaming Sicilian, man, it’s the only way to go.”

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Feel Your Love, by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

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We’re finally getting some snow here in the valley. It started Thursday as those tiny flakes that might as well be raindrops because they melt on contact. It fell all day, mostly melting away as fast as it came down. At 5:30 a small group of people stood out in that snow/rain and held a vigil for Renee Nicole Good, who had been murdered by an ICE agent the day before.

Most of the candles being “lit” were LEDs and were thus invulnerable to the snow, but Robin and I had traditional candles that we’d purchased ten minutes earlier on our way to the vigil. Their tiny flames were threatened by each wet flake but never went out.

Some of Good’s own poetry was read, and many heartfelt things were said about the death of one of our comrades at the hands of a government thug. She had been doing nothing but non-violently protesting the unjustified and unconstitutional ICE occupation of Minneapolis. In our hearts those of us assembled know that there will be more vigils to come, with more empty chairs at family tables, before the horror passes. We know that the possibility exists that there will be a vigil one night where they say nice things about one of us. Such is life in a Cluckian country.

The ceremony was cut a bit short because of the unpleasant weather. Nearly all of us who were there were senior citizens who really should have been at home by our fires, not out on a Montrose street corner in danger of ‘catching our death.’ But it seems to be one of those odd paradoxes where the generation whose vision is daily failing is the one that can best see what must be faced. I like to think that we are blazing a trail that younger citizens can follow when it comes time to change regimes.

(BTW, I was proud of the Minneapolis mayor, who had used some colorful language at an earlier interview and when he was later asked if he wasn’t going a bit too far with his use of profanity, he answered that if we compare shooting a woman in the face for no reason with the dropping of an f-bomb … which gave the greater public affront?)

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Helpless, by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

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Our cats don’t seem troubled by today’s politics at all. None of their habits have changed. None of their demands can be ignored lest they decide to rip open a sofa or forget where the litterbox is located. They trade purrs and snuggles for food and shelter and are content. As are we.

This snow that has fallen makes them think deeper before they venture out through the cat door to answer nature’s calls. They stare through the opening for a moment or two, and the expression on their faces is omigod … again? Were we not done with this?

One of the least lovely features of sharing spaces with cats and being responsible for their nutrition is a certain fickleness. A food that has been accepted for months or years is suddenly treated like it was nuclear waste and they walk away from it. A year from now that same dish of ‘toxic’ shreds might be just what it takes to make them ecstatic at mealtimes.

Now, the truth zone. I look at what I just wrote and realize that it applies to me as well. When Robin and I first got together she had two teenaged daughters still living at home. These three women had decided that the only meat that was safe to eat for any person who didn’t want to turn into a walking bag of suet was chicken. As a result, chicken was served at almost every meal but breakfast. After a few months of this, I had reached a point where even the mention of that medium-sized squawking bird was enough to provoke nausea and a near-seizure involving trembling of the extremities and paralysis of speech.

Once this trio was separated by time into three households and thus the influence of chicken monomania was broken, I slowly began to appreciate it as a part of a healthy diet. I can now hold a chicken sandwich without wondering where to throw it, and even occasionally order one in a restaurant without being forced or shamed into doing it.

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While I am on the subject of body weight, I am going to have to drop a couple of pounds. To my chagrin I have discovered that I have exactly the same BMI as the Pillsbury Doughboy.

What happened to me can be described by the following equation: mildly plump + Halloween candy + Thanksgiving poundage + Christmas poundage + less activity = all my clothes have shrunk.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more …

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Political cartoonists have never had such riches to work with. It is impossible for them to keep up with the daily misdeeds and outrages committed by Cluck and his gang.

Screenshot
Screenshot
Screenshot

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Ry Cooder has always been one of the good guys in music. This video is from 1973 and was originally shown on the BBC. Rings just as true this morning as it did then, and also as it did in 1940 when it was first recorded.

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On Saturday Robin and I drove to Grand Junction to take part in yet another rally, this time honoring Renee Good and more than thirty others who have died at the hands of ICE. An affecting bit of cold weather theater was where each of their names was held up by a member of the local Indivisible group. There was a moment where each name was read aloud to the assembled crowd, which numbered pretty close to 1000 (by our estimation).

The anger that these senseless and lawless acts of our federal government provoke was obvious in the expressions of crowd members. We were told to take that anger and let it be part of the energy we bring to our engagement, in whatever role we are playing.

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On the Road

jono55

It was noon on Sunday and Robin and I were lined up along Highway 550 as it runs down into Ouray from the north, protest signs in our hands. At times the breeze demanded a firm two-handed grip on the sign’s post. All told, there were 34 of us out there to show our opinion of Cluck’s mucking about in Venezuela.

But the amazing thing about the whole afternoon was that it was 58 degrees and sunny. In January. We had made plans to suffer for our cause in a whirling snowstorm, or at least a freezing drizzle, but nooooo, we were denied the opportunity to feel heroic. Instead, we basked.

As cars pass by, there are several types of driver responses that we have observed. Among them are:

  • The driver stares straight ahead and refuses to make eye contact with low creatures like ourselves
  • The driver extends a middle finger as a sign they see what we are doing and need to express disagreement
  • The driver revs his engine as loudly as they can to register contempt in an adolescent way
  • The driver gives us a vigorous thumbs-up
  • The driver honks joyfully
  • The driver waves happily

Overall the responses are more often positive than negative. We’ve noticed that we are statistically more likely to get a warm response from occupants of a Subaru than a pickup truck. (We noticed especially yesterday that the drivers of Land Rovers, and there were many, ignored us 100% of the time. Draw whatever conclusions you wish from this. I have my own unflattering opinions)

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We are watching the television series “Victoria,” which started out its life on PBS and is now on Netflix. It tells the story of Queen Victoria of England, beginning when she ascended to the throne at age of eighteen years. It’s a romanced version of her life, but still a great deal of fun. A very high-class soap opera, if you will.

I have only one caveat. Although Victoria is positively smitten with her husband Albert, I find his character as played is a wavy-haired pompous ass. It is irritating enough to make me want to toss pillows at the television screen when he goes on one of his broom-up-the-butt Teutonic rants.

Victoria, on the other hand, is played by Jenna Coleman, small but spirited. I never want to toss pillows when she is on screen.

There is a lovely soundtrack for the series , which I also have found captivating. (Mediaeval Baebes indeed!)

Victoria, the Suite, by Martin Phipps and the Mediaeval Baebes

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There are times when I am embarrassed for the media, especially that part tilting ever so slightly to the left. I count those among my friends, so it is especially hurtful to me whenever one of them begins to Rumpelstiltskinize on the outrage of the moment. This is where we have an event, say, like the kidnapping of the leader of another country after having invaded such country. These chatterers begin to try to turn straw into gold, postulating and pontificating in every direction about international this and international that but all they manage to do is to create an atmosphere filled with dusty golden fibers that dance in the wind they have created.

I would give an “A” and shout out a lusty “Amen, brother!” to any online ‘columnist’ who could turn their microphone on and say “You know, I don’t know squat about that, and neither does anyone else here in the room, so instead of droning on we will play some great recorded music rather than waste your time. I’ll be back when I have something to say.”

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You Pass Me By, by Lonnie Donnegan

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I ran across this post on Substack the other day, written by Sober Dude. Its title was: A Dozen Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me About Sobriety. The writing was warm, filled with good humor, and told some truths I hadn’t thought about in years. Especially #1.

#1. You’re about to have a shocking amount of spare time. Drinking is a full-time job. Planning it. Hiding it. Recovering from it. Apologizing for it. Thinking about it. When you stop, entire hours appear out of nowhere. Whole evenings. Weekends. Empty space. At first, this feels like boredom. Or restlessness. Or existential dread. It’s not. It’s opportunity without a syllabus. Fill your schedule early. Walks. Meetings. Gym. Writing. Coffee with humans. Structure isn’t prison—it’s scaffolding. You can decorate later.

Sober Dude

A couple of decades ago when I hung up my drinking duds for good … there I was, blinking in the full light of day and wondering … now what? All of those hours I had previously spent walking around in general anesthesia were staring me in the face and it was going to be forever before I could go to bed. And, BTW, I thought, what does one drink when one doesn’t have access to _____________ ? (You may fill in any of the following: whisky, gin, vodka, beer, stout, ale, wine, sherry, cordials, Listerine, vanilla extract, et al)

While some of these choices may seem trivial or obvious or even ridiculous to the unaddicted, they are quite real, and I can tell you that from remembered experience.

So if you know someone that you care about who has recently put down their glass and seems a bit at loose ends, you could send this link to them. It’s kind of a love letter, really.

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For What It’s Worth

jono55

Although celebrating New Year’s Eve quietly without Señor Ethanol anywhere in view rarely gives us those colorful stories to tell, we are content.

What we did do is drive to Delta CO and take a left turn out into the rural, looking for the resident population of sandhill cranes that live there all year. And we found them, in groups ranging from a dozen to fifty individuals, all feeding in picked-over cornfields. If we added them all together I would say that we saw more than five hundred birds in all. At times they were only a few yards from the car as we pulled over for closer looks.

Marvelous birds. Stately movements, smooth plumage, with that striking prehistoric voice of theirs. When new birds were coming in to land with their wings set, the scene was one of slow-motion grace, carrying serenity to the observer.

After this satisfying period of bird-watching we dropped into a restaurant in Delta and ordered some Navajo tacos that were … just okay … but which still qualified as solid comfort food. By now it was full dark for the drive back to Montrose, where we watched a couple of television programs until the call of a warm bed could not be ignored.

See, I told you, not colorful at all. But here I am, typing away on New Year’s Day. No hangover, full memory of the preceding evening’s events, and no new amends to make. Life is good.

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Screenshot

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I dunno, maybe not everybody gets off on the stories behind the songs like I do, and truth be told, there aren’t a whole lot of tunes whose history even I will pursue. But beginning back in the late 60s I began singing along with For What It’s Worth. It was at a time when every day’s news was filled with tales of protest and fires and marches and shootings and responsive brutality. I listened to the lyrics and took it for an addition to the literature of that time.

Now, it turns out that it was a protest song, but not about the Viet Nam war or the national unrest dealing with civil rights, but something else. Here’s a bit of explanation from Wikipedia:

Stephen Stills was inspired to write the song because of the Sunset Strip curfew riots  in Los Angeles in November 1966, a series of early counterculture-era clashes that took place between police and young people on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood, California, the same year Buffalo Springfield had become the house band at the Whisky A Go Go . Local residents and businesses had become annoyed by how crowds of young people going to clubs and music venues along the Strip had caused late-night traffic congestion. In response, they lobbied Los Angeles County to pass local ordinances stopping loitering, and enforced a strict curfew on the Strip after 10 p.m. The young music fans, however, felt the new laws infringed upon their civil rights. 

Wikipedia: For What It’s Worth

Sooo, civil rights, perhaps, but on a narrower scale. No matter. For me, in my ignorance, its message was easily applied to those larger theaters of unrest.

In my mind I am now applying the lyrics to today’s political situation. And the fit is nearly perfect. A really good song like this doesn’t go out of style but can be recycled in new ways, new places and times. Why is that? Well, child, because we human beings keep making the same mistakes over and over would be my answer.

Here is Buffalo Springfield singing the original version, from 1966.

As you listen, think about the invasions of our cities by Cluck’s armies, about ICE’s depradations being visited upon innocents across this country. Think about a national health department made up of quacks which is promoting unscientific health practices using stuff they just plain made up, stuff that is killing people at home and across the world. Think about … we could go on and on. There’s something happening here for sure, and there is very definitely a man with a gun over there.

Here is a lovely cover version by the Del McCoury Band, from eight years ago.

BTW: just in case you didn’t know the origin f that original group’s name, here is the Buffalo Springfield steam tractor.

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I’ve been doing this thing, this blog, for nearly twenty years. I’ve gone through three software changes during that time, things that I accepted only when there was no choice. That’s my uneasy truce with change … resist as long as I can, then going along with it when the feces is just about to hit the fan.

I archive an entry for a couple of years, and then delete it. This was my deal with myself, to create something that was the verbal equivalent of a Buddhist prayer flag. To hang out there in the wind and rain and freezing weather as thread by thread was teased out to drift away, leaving less and less behind. Eventually to vanish.

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Of course, I can do this because what I write is so perishable. If there is meaning in it on a given day, that meaning is for the day alone. A man like Tolstoy writes for the ages, I write for the forenoons. And in twenty years some of what I believed so strongly at the time is in the dustbin today. My body is certainly going the way of the prayer flag, why not my thoughts as well?

At any rate, this blog is mounted on WordPress, which has been kind enough to ask me to change only once. I refused, of course, because there was an out. A back door I could use. I could maintain the legacy theme if I called it “customizing.” Perhaps one day WordPress will message me one morning and tell me that I am no longer worth their trouble and would I please choose one of the other fine themes that they offer? When that moment comes I will move on to the new with what grace I can muster. And some grumbling, spread with a veneer of profanity.

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So now the Soprano family has taken over the territory of the Corleone family. Criminals fighting among each other, while ordinary citizens stand blinking in the searchlights and the bomb flares. Just another day in Cluck’s perverted version of America.

A couple of tunes come to mind on after yesterday’s ugly news.

Lives In The Balance, by Jackson Browne
Bullet the Blue Sky, by U2

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50% Less Cluck

jono55

We are finally getting a taste of winter here in Paradise. Temperatures are down in the teens at night, although snow is still playing hard to get here in the Uncompahgre Valley. Last weekend we were supposed to rendezvous with daughter Allison in a small town named Rangely, northwest of us about three hours. But we dropped those plans when a snowstorm of about four inches came into the forecasts. Rangely is in a lonely part of the state, and services are thin up there for stranded motorists. Taking into consideration that my whole thrust in travel for the remainder of my life is to not become a stranded motorist in a lonely area in the winter, we cancelled and stayed right here in good ol’ Montrose.

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It’s New Year’s Eve and we have no plans. It turns out that senior citizens often have no plans for New Year’s Eve, so we are not alone in this. The raucous and often tipsy parties of the past have evidently lost their luster, whether one is in recovery or not. Staying up until midnight to watch a mechanical ball fall in New York City seems a scant way to spend one’s time. We are aware of the change of the years, of course, it’s just that wNewhen the ceremonies are over, there you are. Take away the calendar and December 31 is just like January 1. Not one problem or opportunity had changed one jot or tittle.

There are many New Year’s Eve parties that I would like to forget but the vagaries of memory keep them on file. Those are the ones where I learned what alcohol can do to the brain, stomach, and one’s behavior. I will not go into details, in the unlikely case that children might be reading this.

But one that I do remember in a mildly fond manner is the millennial change, 1999-2000, when we stayed up to see if the world came, not to an end, but to a colossal cluster-freak as all of the computers on the planet lost their minds. Mercifully that did not happen, but there was a good lesson in the fact that those geniuses who set up all those programs that we depended on didn’t have a clue as to what was going to happen at midnight 1999 because they hadn’t coded proper time changes into them. The geniuses turned out not to be gods, after all. Strangely reassuring.

The last New Year’s Eve Party we personally threw was more than fifteen years ago. We had several couples over and it was very nice but we found that by the time that the magic hour had rolled around everyone had left for the comforts of home and their own warm beds. By midnight every single one of the seasoned wastrels at the party was fast asleep, including the hosts.

And yet, here I am feeling all well-wishy and hoping that you all have a warm and lovely new year celebration, and a 2026 with 50% less Cluck in it.

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So Much Trouble In The World, Lucinda Williams with Mavis Staples

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Our national Department of Justice is moving right along developing its own variety of Newspeak. As of today, the definition of domestic terrorist includes just about anyone who is doing something that President Cluck doesn’t like. To the Attorney General, this definition seems tidy and is flexible enough to suit her. She knows that eventually they will run out of immigrants to abuse and be on the lookout for new victims, so creating a sizable pool of them in advance is a necessary strategy.

It pretty much goes without saying that our friends in the Indivisible organization will be on the naughty list. Almost everything this disreputable and seedy bunch does is deemed undesirable by the Cluck regime, especially their annoying insistence that the government ought to follow the Constitution in its actions. Cluck finds this document way too confining for a creative gentleman like himself, so he has tossed it into the bin and has the Department of Minions at work on a new one which will be out in Spring. Rumor has it that in the NEW CONSTITUTION the President is to be called GOD OF ALL THINGS, and worship services are to be held continuously.

Stay tuned.

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There are a thousand voices out there trying to tell the Democratic Party that business as usual isn’t working at all, and that their keepin’ on keepin’ on brings to mind the old definition of insanity: Doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results.

What those thousand voices haven’t come up with yet is a clear statement of purpose for the party they hope to enliven. I couldn’t help notice that the infamous Project 2025 that the Republican white-power-faux-Christian nationalists came up with gave them a real headstart once Cluck was in office. All they had to do was hand a page to each henchperson along with a sledge hammer and tell them to go to work.

Every four years at the national conventions it has been traditional for parties to draft a platform, but nothing like Project 2025 had come along before. So … what if the Democrats came up with a Let’s Be Gettin’ Down To It 2028? A clear statement from a party that hasn’t completely lost its mind and actually has clearly stated goals which include working to benefit the people who get things done. Something you don’t need a doctorate in political science to understand.

The Democrats can’t afford to wait until 2028 actually arrives, but should be hammering out their proposal right now. Or else why should we respond to those incessant calls for donations that they send out?

Donate to what? The same old same old? No thanks, guys. I’d rather fold that money into paper airplanes* and see how far they would fly in the San Juans on a breezy day.

*N.B.: The bill in the graphic is a C-note. This graphic was taken from the web, and is somewhat more generous than a typical donation of the writer would be.

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(My favorite cartoon du jour)

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Magnolia, IMHO, is magnificent. My favorite of Lucinda’s.

Magnolia, by Lucinda Williams

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The Fragrant Bowl

jono55

My cooking skills, which I have now spent many decades perfecting, are … sorta okay. If the subsistence level of chef-craft is a score of 2, and this means that you can reliably serve food that will not sicken your guests, I am perhaps at a 4, maybe a 5 on a good day (on a scale of 10). By the amount of time I spend talking about food preparation you would expect a much higher score, else why am I daring to speak about it at all? My problem is that I truly enjoy messing about in the kitchen, even if the output is not always legendary.

It’s very much like it is with my poetry, or my prose-writing. I can clearly SEE the enormous gap between myself and a Leo Tolstoy or a Robert Frost in those areas, and yet I enjoy doing what I can do very much. So I’m thinking that makes me a chef de peuple, rather than a chef royal. With a smile on my face and a Michelin 0.000005 star to boot.

Remember way back in time when I told you that my favorite meal, the one I would ask for on the eve of my hanging, was one of bread, soup, and cheese? It still is. But not just any old loaf, lump, or bowl, nossir.

I would be looking for a crusty loaf of bread, a crumbly wedge of cheddar or gouda cheese (the kind with a flavor that makes your eyes roll back in your head), and a soup that has already filled the kitchen air with amazing aromas all afternoon and now quivers in the bowl in front of you, with here and there a shred of carrot or potato peeping above the broth?

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I love making soups, especially those that force me to drag out the seasonings that I use so seldom that dust has collected on the caps of their bottles. I can dice and slice and chop all afternoon, watching small piles of onions and potatoes and celery and carrots rise in front of me. If I am careful, there is now a 99% certainty that I can do this prepping without lopping off and adding parts of my own body to the mixtures. (If you come to my home for dinner, just ask me to show you my hands. A complete lack of Band-Aids should reassure you on this subject. You might also count the fingers just to be certain).

My favorite soup recipe? There is no such thing. That honor is divided between so many as to be meaningless. My favorite so far this cooler season? That’s an easier question to answer. Last week I made Hungarian Mushroom Soup . Robin and I spooned up our portions and then shamelessly licked our bowls and spoons clean. It’s that good. I came across the recipe many years back and the soup has never failed to inspire.

I provide here the stovetop directions and the Instant Pot version of them.

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Low Low Low, by James

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I don’t ordinarily just post others’ photographs, but this one caught me and held on. It was taken in Yellowstone National Park by photographer Tom Murphy. The title given was “bison at 35 below.”

What extraordinary animals these are! I have seen them by the thousands driving through the Black Hills of South Dakota over the years, and have stopped hundreds of times to admire them.

(I have no photos of my own like this one, and I never will. Because at 35 below zero I would be quivering indoors and wearing anything warm I could get my hands on.)

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One For My Baby, by Josh White

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Mark Twain was a man of so many parts that I didn’t know about at the time I first read about the adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

Later in life I ran across a bit of his writing so startling that I had trouble reconciling it with the humorist I thought I knew. But Twain was vigorously opposed to war, and wrote The War Prayer, which I now recommend to those of you who know of him only as a teller of amusing tales.

Like I said, it was startling.

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MUSHROOM NEWS

A reminder from the state of California that unless you are well trained in identifying fungal species you should not eat them. Some twenty-odd persons were stricken when they ingested death cap mushrooms, with fatalities.

Amanita phalloides is the most poisonous of all known mushrooms. It is estimated that as little as half a mushroom contains enough toxin to kill an adult human.  It is also the deadliest mushroom worldwide, responsible for 90% of mushroom-related fatalities every year.

Wikipedia: Amanita phalloides

When I lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where its forests were a sort of wild mushroom paradise, I learned how to safely recognize a half dozen species that were safe to eat and were delectable as well. There were many more species that were delicious as well but were difficult to pick out from the unsafe ones, and I was advised not to take a chance on them.

My teacher taught me this categorization, which I have kept in mind all these years even though I no longer go wild-gathering for fungi.

  • Safe to eat but inedible
  • Safe to eat and tasty
  • Sickeners – those which made one briefly ill, often with beaucoup vomiting, but not lethal
  • Killers like the death caps, which typically did not make one feel ill for several hours, and by that time one began to have symptoms one’s fate was pretty much sealed

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A group of hikers in New York state decided to combine walking in the Catskill Mountains with ingesting “magic mushrooms” containing psilocybin. They were, need it even be said, young men in their twenties, one of the least cautious subspecies of humans in existence.

Eventually they had to be rescued because they had lost their way. Instead of following the clearly outlined trail, they made the group decision to travel in a straight line back to their car, which included crossing a bridge that one of the members of the party could see but could never get them to (and which did not exist).

This episode falls into the category of Type 2 fun. (It might be Type 3 for some people, depending on how embarrassing it would be to admit what an idiot you’d been.)

  • Type 1: enjoyable both at the moment and in the retelling
  • Type 2: difficult or uncomfortable while you are doing it, but can produce great stories to relate afterward
  • Type 3: no fun when occurring, and you don’t want to talk about it later

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Frankie and Johnny, by Lonnie Donnegan

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The button picture today is of the monarch butterfly, which has become a symbol to many immigrant communities. The butterfly migrates freely between Mexico and the U.S.

The artist has incorporated images of a family moving cautiously within the wings.

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Shinola

jono55

There are days when it is hard to begin to tell tales from my simple sort of life, when each day’s assaults on decency, morality, and just about everything I regard as the glue that holds things together is so incessant, it really has the character of a nightmare. One of those where you know you are still sleeping and hope someone wakes you up pretty soon … .

If it weren’t for my working with our Indivisible group here in Paradise getting out of bed in the morning would be a lot more difficult. But I have regular contact with people who are decent, unselfish, honest, and trustworthy. Their goals are largely the same as mine. To rid our country of this blight and re-establish our democracy. Not to go back to some old golden days, but to set in place a structure that allows and encourages us to move forward in the job of working toward a country which matches its promises.

These folks are willing to take their un-ease and translate it into works.

That’s what I find in our meetings and events. Ordinary people who can tell “shit from Shinola*“ and are not afraid to take some heat in speaking out. Although we live in what has come to be called a “red” city and county, we know that not everything “red” is awful. Not everyone who is a conservative is a bad guy. Among them are those who want exactly what we want but have different views as to the best way to get there. They are not filled with hate and vituperation. They are not grifters. They are not MAGA fools. They are potential allies.

Eventually I hope that these variant streams will join together, recognizing that we have a common enemy in the Cluck regime, and that any progress toward ideals we hold in common means that there is some serious clearing away to do before we can get back to constructive squabbling.

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WARNING! METAPHOR ALERT!

in South Dakota, where I used to live, there is a place where the silt-laden Milk River flows into the Missouri River. Where they meet you can easily see that the two streams are still largely separate because of the difference in the color of the water. But go a few miles downstream and it is now just one unified stream, a bigger and perhaps better Missouri.

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Memphis in the Meantime, by John Hiatt

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At an AA meeting this week, I observed out loud upon the similarities between a typical meeting and a typical Christian church service. A meeting goes like this:

  • We start with the Serenity Prayer
  • Next there are readings from our most important texts, including the Twelve Steps, Twelve Traditions, and How It Works
  • We then take up a collection among the members present
  • Now comes a period of 40 minutes of sharing, with testimonies, observations on the meaning of AA in our lives, strategies for staying sober … anything at all that has a connection with alcoholism and/or sobriety.
  • Lastly, we close with a prayer once again.

There is a rule in meetings about something called crosstalk. It is not allowed. Crosstalk means that when one member shares, another then comments on what they have said. To avoid such incidents, which could sometimes be criticisms or attacks, we simply disallow them. Many of our members are shy people, and would avoid sharing if it meant they would be subject to cross-examination. Like most rules, there are occasional gentle breakages, but for the most part groups adhere firmly to this important working principle. It creates a safe space.

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Tip Of My Tongue, by John Hiatt

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The Serenity Prayer, written by theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, is among the wisest I know. Short and sweet it is, but loaded.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Sometimes when I am saying the prayer I smile at the last line because that is where the kicker is, isn’t it? Knowing the difference between what must be accepted and what can and perhaps should be opposed. Oh, my, my. That Reinhold was a caution.

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Thank You Girl, by John Hiatt

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When daughter Kari introduced me to John Hiatt back in the 80s, I’m not sure that the genre “Americana” had been invented yet, but now I have learned that Hiatt’s music is firmly planted in it. What you get when you listen to a Hiatt album is a raspy voice, lyrics that tell a clear story, and some really good guitar.

Today’s tunes are from the album Bring The Family. It’s the album that made me a Hiatt fan.

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More about Shinola.

*

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M.U.G.

jono55

On Sunday we had our first taste of snow here in Paradise. Only couple of inches fell, which is a good thing. This way we get the lovely landscape change without the hassles associated with larger amounts.

First warm day it will all melt away, and that’s okay too.

And look at this … how gorgeous! The combination of the snow/rain combination coupled with no wind at all has left windrows of snow along each branch.

The cliché that older people have nothing to say to each other than to talk about the weather has some truth in it. And a recurring theme is that there was much more snow when they were kids than there is now. For some locations this is true, although the reductions are modest, at best.

Conversations like this: “When I was a kid I remember the snow being so deep that we built igloos just by digging into the side of a drift. The snowdrifts along the road to our house were taller than I was.”

Well, I found the most amazing website dealing with snowfall*, going back to 1900, and I think that it explains a lot of things. For instance in Minneapolis, my old home town, the average yearly snowfall for the period 1981-2019 was 53.4 inches. The least amount fell in 1931, when only 14.2 inches fell. The greatest amount fell in 1983, and it was 98.6 inches.

If I were a kid in the 80s in Minneapolis what I would remember was that astounding year when 98 inches fell, forgetting about all the so-so years before and after. That’s how memory works. We recall the outliers and make them the norm until some know-it-all comes up with a chart than tells the truth.

Now comes the bragging, done by a licensed braggart. Here is a number to cause ooooohs and ahhhhhs to be uttered.

The record for total seasonal snowfall in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is 390.4 inches, set during the winter of 1978-79. This record was set in the Keweenaw Peninsula, which is known for heavy snowfall due to its location. 

AI query

In the winter of 1978-79 I was living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, on the Keweenaw Peninsula, to be exact. And I shoveled every last one of those inches.

We lived in a one-story house which required that someone climb onto the roof periodically to remove the snow lest the weight literally break through into the house. By February, when I stood on the roof and shoveled the snow into the back yard, I was throwing snow UP! The pile was already taller than the house. And when I … I could go on but that’s enough about this topic.

*The chart is for US cities only. We’re a parochial bunch here in the States. We get crazy only about our own weather.

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Wintertime, by the Steve Miller Band

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I went to the Apple app store today to do a little shopping (for free stuff because I am incurably cheap) and failed. What I wanted for my Mac was available only for my phone or an iPad. But it started me reminiscing about the early days of personal computing. At least of my early days, which began with the first Macintosh, in 1984.

Once I had purchased the machine, along with the very few pieces of software that it could run, I buried myself in finding out just what it could do. I had prepared myself to be amazed and I was.

Fast forward to wanting to have more … more … more information so I joined the tiny MUG (Mac User Group) in our small town. There were only five of us, and one member was the states attorney for our district.Why do I single him out? Because he had already acquired a considerable library of pirated software which he was willing to demonstrate and share with any in the group who were as open to intellectual theft as he was. The irony of a member of the justice system being an accomplished intellectual thief was noted but not discussed.

This all happened at a time when the total library of software that a Mac could run could easily be owned by any individual who had a few extra bucks around to spend. But it grew so rapidly that within a year our user group disbanded. Our interests now diverged because each of us had a flurry of apps to choose from, and they were being developed at a pace that was impossible to keep up with.

But the fun that we had when all was new and exciting … I can remember the feeling even now.

BTW, this all occurred in the village of Yankton South Dakota. It wasn’t the only time that an officer of the law was involved in illegal activity had come to my attention. During the period when I was looking for a place to relocate to from Michigan, I was watching television in my motel room on a visit to Yankton, and one news item was of a group of men who had been arrested for operating an illegal poker game from a motel somewhere in the state. One of those men arrested was the South Dakota state attorney general.

Hmmmm, I thought, that’s colorful. Then I heard about a pair of bank robbers who were apprehended a few doors down from that very bank where they were already spending the loot. In a bar. On beers. But the best SD crime story of all at that time was the discovery of a large jet cargo plane in a field along the interstate. It had landed and been abandoned. Why, you might ask would a huge cargo plane in a beanfield be of special interest? Because what this particular aircraft was filled with was marijuana.

How could I miss the opportunity to live in a state with such a fine Wild West litany of crime stories coming at you every day? I packed up my family and my books and moved to South Dakota forthwith.

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I will admit that the extensive library of cat and dog videos has provided laughs for yours truly, but this one is a little more interesting. It suggests very different processing by cats and dogs. Is this true? Anybody know?

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Swingtown, by the Steve Miller Band

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It’s the second of December and we’re still not at war with Venezuela. I have no idea what the Cluck administration is waiting for, because I have my bags packed and am waiting for the national call-up of retired and seniorized medical personnel to begin.

President Donald Cluck wearing his war camouflage and showing his willingness to lead the charge up the Venezuelan beaches. However, apparently his bone spurs have acted up again, so he will be there in spirit when our armed forces go ashore, rather than in person.

It has been years now that I have had trouble sleeping because of Venezuela. Not that the people of the country had ever done me harm of any kind … I just didn’t like having that country out there existing without proper American meddling. It vexed me. Thank heaven that President Cluck has a clear vision of the threat that Venezuela poses, and was only waiting until he could round up a bunch of ships and planes and stuff and also had a Secretary of War and Dim Offensives who could be counted on to do his bidding.

Secretary of War and Dim Offensives Pete Hegseth at work on battle plans for the upcoming war with Venezuela.

But no matter. I am sitting by the door with my Google Spanish-English Translator in my hand. I have my electronically-sound-boosted stethoscope around my neck. I have a month’s worth of my blood pressure pills, my anti-stroke pills, my cholesterol-reducing pills, and my Metamucil safely stowed in my duffel bag. I checked and was disappointed to learn that there isn’t a Golden Age version of the Air Force uniform for those of us who are being recalled, one with all Velcro closures. But hey, it wouldn’t be a war without hardships, would it?

Now where is that darn transport, anyway?

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A brief note about those little round images over there on the right side of the page. Those are examples of my button-crafting, done in support of our Indivisible group here in Montrose County. My fervent hope is that each one of them will go on to annoy the very hell out of the opposition.

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And a brief note about today’s music. I like many of the tunes that the Steve Miller Band recorded. They put out smart pop-rock as far as I am concerned. But I had a good friend who used to tell me that this affection of mine for the band meant:

  • that my brain had already turned into pablum (this was twenty-five years ago)
  • that it showed that I had no taste at all in music
  • that having a handful of SM songs in my library put my immortal soul at risk

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The Stake, by the Steve Miller Band

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Pawn to King 13

jono55

The trip to Durango was beautiful and free of winter hazards. Above 9000 feet there was a thin coating of snow everywhere but the highway, and when you combined this with the leafless aspen trunks it was like driving in a brown/black and white photograph.

On this latest journey we deliberately gave ourselves two extra hours, which allowed stopping in places we’d only driven by in the past. Nothing spectacular, just nooks that had raised our curiosity.

(Robin and I are definitely at the Ferdinand the Bull stage of life, where sniffing deeply in one field of flowers is preferred to motoring past a dozen.)

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When I made reference to Ferdinand the Bull above I had no idea of his whole history. I looked him up and found that both Hitler and Franco of Spain had banned the book as anti-fascist propaganda.

Sooooo … GO FERDINAND! HOO-RAH!

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Born to Lose, by Ray Charles

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Any thoughtful person who has been watching the quasi-military and perhaps illegal National Guard maneuvers of the Cluck regime knew that a tragedy like the one this week would eventually come in one form or another.

Either a civilian would be shot by a nervous guardsman or soldiers would become targets and be harmed by some unhinged individual. It was inevitable. Using the young men and women of the National Guard as pawns has been Cluck’s transparent tactic all along. One more reason, as if we needed another, to remove him from office ASAP.

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When I was an aimless undergraduate I heard about the book All Quiet on the Western Front, and that it was a classic. At the time I was looking for anything that would help me put down roots in this new and unclear world that growing up and separation from my family of origin had turned out to be. I thought perhaps reading “classics” would be one place to begin.

I read the book and was blown away by its beauty. So much so that I chose to immediately read another of Remarque’s books, Three Comrades. This time I was BLOWN AWAY!

Life is a disease, brother, and death begins already at birth. Every breath, every heartbeat, is a moment of dying – a little shove toward the end.

Erich Maria Remarque, Three Comrades

For weeks I couldn’t get these characters out of my mind. Something about their struggles seemed achingly applicable to my own. They seemed more real to me than the people I saw shuffling about on campus every day.

Then when I am sad and understand nothing anymore, I say to myself that it’s better to die while you still want to live, than to live and want to die.

Erich Maria Remarque, Three Comrades

Well, you can see by the quotes what morose neighborhoods I was inhabiting during those years. Obviously I made it through, although I think that I have been as much the antihero as the hero of my own story.

Time to re-read Three Comrades, I think.

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What’d I Say, by Ray Charles

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It was Thanksgiving evening around eight o’clock, and the call came from an emergency room at a small hospital in a small town fifteen miles north of where the pediatrician was comfortably lounging at home. Two pre-school children had been brought in, and there was no doctor available in that community. Could he come and see them?

Grumbling and in a very ill temper, the pediatrician got into his car and made the twenty minute drive on the narrow and snow-lined road.

He entered the examination room where he asked a few questions curtly, then looked the children over. One had a cold and the other an ear infection. He wrote out a prescription and then proceeded to give a stern lecture to the middle-aged woman who was with the kids.

“These children had their complaints all day long, and now you bring them in late, on a holiday … this is thoughtless planning.”

“We’re so sorry, doctor. I’m their aunt, and we’ve been taking care of them just since this afternoon, when their parents were killed in a car accident. We were just worried about the kids. Thank you so much for coming in to see them, we really appreciate it.”

The pediatrician mumbled something low and unintelligible, then slunk away, having gone in a heartbeat from an indignant and self-righteous ass to some low and nameless form of life, the sort you scrape off your shoes as soon as you become aware of its presence.

So often one learns their lessons after they have opened their mouths. How much better it would be to do the thinking before.

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Damn You, Richard Gere

jono55

The movie Ordinary People came out in 1980. It was the first film that Robert Redford directed, and won four Academy Awards. For me, the most memorable takeaway was a piece from the soundtrack, a work entitled Canon in D Major, by Johann Pachelbel. For a few months anyway, it might have been the most often-played classical selection in the country.

Even today I play it regularly, and there are several interpretations of the short composition in my music library. “Music library” has become one of those phrases that definitely dates a person, hasn’t it? I wonder how many songs a Gen Z actually owns, rather than rents? Never mind, here is a recording of “the Canon” that I own and can share with you. It’s from the soundtrack of Ordinary People.

Canon in D Major, arr. by John Williams

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This past week Robin mentioned in passing that she would like to see the film An Officer and A Gentleman again. It was one of those times that I instantly made it a quest for myself, to set up a romantic evening with my bride, perhaps to slightly burnish my image in her eyes. I had no trouble finding it, however, since it was available on six subscription services. Not much of a quest, really.

But when I presented it as the evening’s television watching I took full credit, much more than I deserved … that’s me all over. Puffing up my accomplishments and glossing over my failures has worked for me for the longest time, why would I change now?

The film was released in 1982, and starred very young versions of Richard Gere, Debra Winger, David Keith, and Lou Gossett Jr. Not a bad film at all, even if a bit formulaic, but formulas often do work well. It was the final scene that made it a classic date movie, maybe in the top ten.

Got your lady handy? Play the video below. A typical American female will become very pliant upon viewing it. One caveat, however. While she might be embracing you at the moment, she is almost certainly imagining you are Richard Gere.

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I learned this week that there has been considerable research over the years on finding substances that smell so bad that they are actually incapacitating. Substances that cling to the victim, resisting being washed off. The use would predominantly be in crowd control, rather than at the battlefront. I found this idea amusing, although I can easily imagine that it could be a powerful deterrent. One man doing much of the research around World War Two eventually came to smell so bad he had to sleep in a public park.

Let’s suppose that I am twenty years old and participating in a vigorous civil protest against some authority. Let’s also suppose that I have a very promising date next Saturday night with someone I have been pursuing with great ardor for months. Now, if I knew that there was a good chance that I would be sprayed with something that would make me smell like a “rotting corpse lifted from a stagnant sewer” for the next month, I might skip the event altogether.

For some reason this all reminded me of the Monty Python sketch about the killer joke. Warning, do not watch this if you understand the German language. We’re not sure about the safety of the video even now.

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Our American Comic Opera production is not as yet entitled or completed, but the script is being added to daily. Most recently we have yet another Ukrainian “peace plan.” The origin of the plan was apparently in Russia and was leaked to someone on the American side who brought it to Cluck’s aides. Although he hadn’t actually read the program itself, Cluck became a great fan and has told the Ukrainians that they better wise up or the plan will be implemented. Word is that it gives Putin everything he wanted and more, which bothers Cluck not a bit.

The only problem with all of this is that there are some groups of people who think that the plan stinks to high heaven. Here is a partial listing:

  • More than three-fourths of the American public
  • Most members of Cluck’s own party
  • Every Democrat in existence, even unborn ones
  • All of Europe
  • The Falkland Islands
  • et al

If you disagree with the peace plan, there are Cluck-ers who have signaled that there might be a special gallows erected where the Rose Garden used to be at the White House, just for you (although I admit that this is more conjecture than fact).

Casting for the opera’s production will begin whenever there are more than two succeeding days which pass without an atrocity being committed by the Cluck regime. Hopes are therefore dim that we will ever hear a single note.

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What Are Their Names, by David Crosby

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We will be spending Thanksgiving with the Hurley family In Durango this year, and are grateful for the invitation. Whenever we do this, Robin and I are asked to bring the same two items. The first is a cranberry-marshmallow dessert salad that was Robin’s mother’s contribution for years. The second is a stuffing recipe made with pork sausage and safe as prominent ingredients.

We partially construct both of them here and then finish them on Thursday as the turkey roasts. It’s pretty easy to keep them cold for the two and a half hour journey. So far there have been no problems with snow on Highway 550, the road that still puts lumps in my throat, so we’ll probably go that way. The alternative route is an hour longer, and although less hazardous even that way requires prudence and planning when making the trip in winter. Both roads must cross mountain passes. Both have been problematic in the past.

I never have any difficulty coming up with a gratitude list on Turkey Day, because my cup truly overfloweth. First and foremost each year I spend time wondering how it was that Robin ever decided that marrying me was a good idea. For her, that is. For me it was unbelievably good fortune because, no exaggeration here, she had saved my life.

I know that there have been moments when she has wondered about her selection as I am not a great prize but more a thing cobbled together of many parts, like a shorter and less murderous creation of Victor Frankenstein. But here we are, on our thirty-third Thanksgiving together. And so down the road we go, salad and stuffing in hand. If we ever are stranded by car trouble on these trips there will always be something to eat in the cooler in the back of the car.

May your holiday go well and your clothing be elastic enough in the waist to accommodate a bit of excess.

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… there are places I’ll remember …

jono55

The following clip made me into an instant Elissa Slotkin fan. It also reminds me that there are plenty of men and women out there who can point the way for those working in the resistance to the Cluck regime. Who are they? Well, comedians like Jimmie Kimmel and Stephen Colbert, for instance. And the editorial cartoonists that I’ve been posting more of recently, and now the six serving members of Congress who made a video reminding members of the armed forces that not only can they refuse to obey illegal orders, but they are obligated to do so. Anyway, here’s the clip.

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Garrison Keillor came to Montrose this past Wednesday evening to present his one-man show to a respectful sellout crowd. He has been a beloved entertainer for nearly fifty years. There were many moments I could relate but I’ll pick just two.

All in all, Robin and I found the evening to be a moving experience. An elderly man of eighty-three years pacing the stage for nearly ninety minutes while basically giving a humorous and often touching autobiographical recitation. What made it so special was that as he did so he was also retracing parts of our own lives, since we have been fans of his for from the beginning.

Early on in the show he was talking about admiring the more popular hymns sung in his church and when he began to sing a line from one of them the entire audience sang quietly along with him as if we were being given cues and there was an invisible conductor. There was a soft murmur in the hall … a moment.

After speaking for nearly an hour and a half without an interruption he again lapsed into song and began to walk up the aisle toward the entrance to the auditorium. Just before he disappeared through the entry doors he shouted back to us “Goodnight, Everybody.” And he was gone.

The song was In My Life, by the Beatles.

In My Life

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There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better;
Some have gone and some remain.

All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living,
In my life I’ve loved them all.

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you.
And these mem’ries lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new.

Tho’ I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before,
I know I’ll often stop and think about them,
In my life I love you more.

Tho’ I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before,
I know I’ll often stop and think about them,
In my life I love you more.

In my life I love you more.

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Okay, this is where I get serious. Don’t panic, it will be for only a moment. I’m a small-town boy in a small town in a part of the United States that is far enough from the seats of power that even ICE has trouble finding it when they want to persecute someone. I have no special talent for political divinations, no secret knowledge.

But I believe that Cluck is done.

He was never more than a bag of gas, like an ugly balloon sold at a holiday store. Inside there is nothing of substance. And the knives are in. It’s only necessary that we allow enough time to pass that the contained effluvium can make its way to the outside and he will collapse. At least politically. MAGA won’t disappear, but they are a mad minority, a delusional contingent that is forever stampeding in one direction or another, and without their figurehead they will retreat to where they came from, simmering in their own hatreds and looking for Cluck’s replacement.

But that leaves a whole lot of people who have found themselves standing up to their waists in a manure lagoon and wondering how they ever got there and how do they get out of it?

They know right from wrong, they know what putrefaction smells like, and they have been looking for an exit, a way back to fresher air and clearer thinking.

Don’t ask them what political faction they are in, that’s a waste of your time and theirs. Ask them instead if they want to get back to work they respect and understand. If they want solid schools for the children of their communities to attend. If they would like a return to living their lives as private ones, without government interference. If they would be willing to sacrifice when they could see the reason they were being asked to do so was real and worthwhile.

There is a Lakota saying which I first heard from the leader of a musical group of indigenous Americans called Brulé. The saying is Mitakuye Oyasin, and it translates into We are all related. It is what Mr. Schiller was thinking when he wrote the poem Ode to Joy which contains the line Alle Menschen werden Brüder … the translation is: Every man becomes a brother. It is a part of most of our religious traditions.

Point out what we need to do, show us the why we are doing it, and then stand back. We’ll figure it out from there. (Would someone please pick up that collapsed balloon and toss it in the trash? Thanks, I know I could count on you.)

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We Are All Related by Brulé

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With our national holiday devoted to eating nearly upon us the cartoon at right below says it all, really. It’s a parody of the Normal Rockwell painting that is entitled Freedom From Want. This Thanksgiving we have plenty of want around the good ol’ US of A, and a whole lot of it has been deliberately engineered by Cluck and his Claque.

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We offer thanks for the sun and the rain and the earth and someone else’s hard work.

Buddhist table grace

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Brains on Autopilot

jono55

Today I feel nostalgia for events that have not happened.

I do not know what the previous sentence fully means, but I wrote it down just as I heard it in my mind as I stood in my garage staring out through the open overhead door at dark skies and a rainstorm moving east toward Montrose.

Sometimes you wake in the morning and read what you’ve written and it is as novel to you as it will be to the next person to see it. Thoughts, insights, inspirations can arise in my own brain completely ex nihilo. I know that I could not have written them because they are conveying information that is news to me.

I’ve read that this is not uncommon among writers, and their interpretations are always interesting. Some claim that it is “the Muse.” Some say it is God whispering. Some just admit that they have no idea how it occurs which is mostly the case with me, but … hey … what if …

We know that as long as we live that our brains never go totally dark. They are always at work at mundane things like keeping us from falling out of bed. They are always aware of time and this explains why we wake up so often a minute before the alarm is scheduled to go off. But I have a strong suspicion that our brains also never forget, even though we may. That they are always receiving, always cataloging, always filing away everything that our ears, nose, eyes, and skin bring in. And once in a great while they give us a phrase or a paragraph and we wonder, WTF?

So this afternoon I am being made wistful by hearing this phrase: Today I feel nostalgia for events that have not happened.

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For those who might also be wistful right now, here’s a good tune for the moment.

The Beautiful Lie, by the Amazing Rhythm Aces

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It’s mid-November and the kids are riding bicycles around the neighborhood while wearing t-shirts. It’s been that kind of month. I can handle warm without breaking stride. It’s freezing drizzles that get me down, and those are front and center in most of my memories of past Novembers.

I own two coats that are proof against really cold weather. Last winter I didn’t wear them at all. One is an old-fashioned thick woolen one, of a style that used to be called a Loden coat. The other is a “puffy,” a down-filled thing that weighs nothing and works wonderfully. I don’t love the look but I do like the comfort.

But if we’re still wearing t-shirts outdoors at Christmastime I will have to rethink my entire cold weather wardrobe. That will be a wrenching thing to have to do. Some of those garments I have owned for more than thirty years. Heavy and sartorially obsolete they might be, but they have served me well and will still be wearable when I am off walking those streets of gold.

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It came to me out of the blue as I fought with the treadmill at the recreation center yesterday. The treadmill, like all of the other machines in the building, is trying to kill me, I know it for a fact so don’t even bother trying to defend them.

I exercise wearing headphones, with basically all of the upbeat songs that I own in a single playlist, and the result is that tunes I haven’t listened to in years get their moment onstage once again. As this one played I realized that it was a perfect metaphor for the dilemma facing all of the lickspittle Republicans in Congress. See if you agree. The music is provided by the Clash, a British chamber music group of the 70s.

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[The following is information I gathered about something I had never thought I would have to deal with in the United States, a secret police force. Of course I was being naive, because although overall I have had great respect for the FBI, there have been times, especially under former director J. Edgar Hoover, when its behavior warranted such a definition.]

Secret Police, Police established by national governments to maintain political and social control. Generally clandestine, secret police have operated independently of the civil police. Particularly notorious examples were the Nazi Gestapo, the Russian KGB, and the East German Stasi. Secret-police tactics include arrest , imprisonment, torture, and execution of political enemies and intimidation of potential opposition members.

Britannica: Secret Police

The much maligned (deservedly so) Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency of the Department of Homeland Security is thought by many to be a secret police force. I am one of those many. If we examine the quote above we know that ICE is guilty routinely of all but assassination. Which brings up our own los desaparecidos … what of them?

Here in Paradise we have had only one ICE encounter that I know of. Statewide there are several organizations that keep pretty good track of their depredations. If anyone observes any ICE activity in their community that person is urged to report it to the Colorado Rapid Response Network (CORRN) at their hotline which is operated 24 hours a day by volunteers. Their number is 1-844-864-8341.

There are many worthy organizations providing advice to us to follow if we are detained by ICE agents. One of them is the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and I have included a link to their PDF delineating what we can do if we find ourselves involved with these criminals.

When the present regime falls, as it will, the agencies of repression that it has spawned will be disbanded and their members brought to justice. That, my friends, will be cause for outrageous and intemperate celebration. I am already planning some outrageous for myself, I will leave the intemperate to others.

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White Cliffs of Dover, by Vera Lynn

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Sandwich News

jono55

We had guests recently, and it turned out that we had some tasty pastrami left over, and I wanted to do something out of the ordinary (for me, that is) with it. So I decided on making Reuben sandwiches. For no good reason at all we never do Reubens so I bought some sauerkraut and thought I was okay. But I learned that there was more to it than I imagined, including the fact that Reubens are not made with pastrami but corned beef.

Oy! as my friend Rich Kaplan would have said while shaking his head in such situations, you are the whitest person I know!

Here is what the recipe called for:

  • rye bread
  • Russian dressing
  • Swiss cheese
  • corned beef
  • sauerkraut

Here is what I had on hand and made into our sandwiches:

  • rye bread
  • mayonnaise
  • pepper jack cheese
  • pastrami
  • sauerkraut

Not even close, was I? I was almost ashamed to put them on the table and I explained to Robin how it all happened and I hoped she wouldn’t think less of me and they were probably going to taste ridiculous and could we go out to eat if the sandwiches were inedible?

But … they were totally delicious. Not wishing to confuse the issue any further, I decided to give them their own name. Now, Reuben is a name taken from the Old Testament, and means “Behold, a son.” So I thought I’d turn to that august resource in my quest.

I picked Samuel. It was also Old Testament in origin and one of its meanings is “God has heard.” As in prayer. As in what I did when I realized that I was short several key ingredients.

So, my friends, if you drop by any time soon unannounced you might be served something like a Samuel. Let me know a day ahead and I’ll round up the right ingredients and make you a proper Reuben.

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Low Low Low, by James

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At the Thursday morning AA meeting this week, there were only six of us, all over sixty years old. It was a particularly enlightening get-together, starting with a reading from the book Daily Reflections. The last line of the reading went as follows:

… I practice a discipline in letting go of selfish attachments, caring for my fellows and preparing for the day when I will be required to let go of all earthly attachments.

The line struck me as soooo Buddhist, and I mentioned my feeling to the group. As we went around the tables each of us picked up on the theme of living a life with an eye cast toward its end, and it was interesting to hear from each member as they made their contributions. If there had been a younger member in the room that morning, they might have been repelled or bored to death by such musings, I don’t know. But to the six of us present talking of life and death was as natural as breathing.

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Brown Eyed Handsome Man, by Buddy Holly

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I do try to keep you all abreast of significant happenings in the world of cheese. I really do. But this year’s world competition sneaked up on me and dang, it was all over before I knew about it. This year a Swiss Gruyere won, but I’m not racing down to my local grocery store to look for it, because the production is small and the chances of a sample making its way to Paradise are the same as Kristi Noem being named Animal Friend of the Year by the ASPCA.

But there was a link in the article that caught my eye, suggesting something was the most dangerous cheese in the world. I mistakenly read the article, and now I am trying to find something to read that erases what I learned from my memory completely. All I will say is this – no freaking way would I knowingly have a bite. My suggestion would be to not follow the link I have provided and definitely not read the article.

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I’ve been a fan of the group U2 for more than forty years now. There have been a few albums that really hooked me and a few that I let slide and forgot about, but overall I notice that I responded most to those that explored social justice or spiritual themes.

Favorite album = The Joshua Tree, from 1987, no contest. Favorite song on the album … one of the most moving tunes I’ve ever heard … Mothers of the Disappeared.

.

I would never have guessed that one day I would be playing that song while listening with new ears and appreciation. Because now we have our own version of Los Desaparecidos taking place here in America, what with the criminal gang ICE wandering our cities wearing masks and pulling people off the street without any pretense of following the law.

There will be a reckoning for these mobsters one day, their members’ names are being taken, in spite of the masks. But in the meantime brave citizens across this country are doing what they can to make ICE’s predations as difficult for them as they can.

What a challenge it is to live in what only can be called a rogue country and be governed by people you wouldn’t offer shelter to from a blizzard. There will be an end to this, I know, but Lord does it ever add a bitter taste to each day. When this rancid lump of spray-tanned avoirdupois is finally out of office and off the front pages perhaps we will have learned some lessons we need to learn to prevent another such dark time.

I say perhaps because if there is a lesson that I have taken to heart in my time on earth is that we know … the knowledge exists … of how humanity can live together in peace. We know how to feed one another, shelter one another, support one another, respect one another. We could do it. The problem has always been that we allow selfish considerations to keep us mired in mistrust and conflict.

A line from the King James version of the Bible offers a way of looking at the otherwise incomprehensible mess that is planet Earth, at least for me.

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Indeed.

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Mothers of the Disappeared, by U2

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Here’s one of those true stories that can get friends going on for hours in a friendly fashion on a winter’s evening. Sigurd Olson was a northwoods guide, professor at a community college, author of more than a dozen books on wilderness, and a major player in getting the Boundary Waters area of Minnesota declared as a wilderness.

Any bookstore in northern Minnesota will stock Olson’s books, and I have read several. His first was named Singing Wilderness, and was published in 1956.

Olson lived with his wife in a modest home in Ely MN. Out back of the house was a small shack where he did much of his writing. On January 13, 1982 he had been working in the shack but decided to do a little snowshoeing and died out there of a heart attack.

On attending to his affairs this exact note was found which he had written earlier that day on his old typewriter.

(The print in the photo is rather small, so I will repeat it: “A new adventure is coming up and I’m sure it will be a good one.”)

Soooo, friends, did he have a premonition of his death? Or do people … some people anyway … read more into these few words than Olson meant? If you came over to visit this winter, we could make hot cocoas and argue about it until we tired and took to our beds. If we found that we really liked each other, we could argue about it the next night as well. I think that two successive nights would about do it.

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Impostor Syndrome

jono55

Yesterday was Veteran’s Day. I am a veteran, so I can legitimately stand up with other vets at public occasions when asked to do so. And although I did serve, wear the uniform, and go wherever the USAF wanted me to go, I always feel a bit of an impostor. Why, you ask?

Because:

  • I ended up in Nebraska, not Viet Nam.
  • I was never injured in action.
  • I was never under fire.
  • I spent the two years sleeping in my own bed, with my family comfortably nearby.
  • For me the worst part of national service was the inconvenience of a two-year interruption in my career plans. Pretty puny when put up against the sacrifices made by thousands of my brothers and sisters.

But technically speaking I am a veteran, and if you want to give up your seat at the opera or strew rose petals in my path, go right ahead. I would not be so rude as to correct you.

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Well Come Back Home, by the Byrds

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I have feelings galore about the weekend display of cowardice of many Democrats in the Senate, but Jon Stewart says it way better than I ever could.

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This has been a banner season for those who like political cartoons. At least for progressives. I like them because they cut right through any attempts at subterfuge and skewer those most in need of that attention.

The first one in the series is actually not a cartoon, but the back of a pumping truck seen while waiting for the light to change in Grand Junction this past Monday. It is the line at the top of the truck: “Filled with political promises” that started me laughing out loud.

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No snow as yet at the ski resorts nearby, Telluride and Powderhorn. The owners aren’t hopeful for Thanksgiving, but that’s not too unusual. Robin and I skied Alpine for the first 20 years or so we were together, but tired of the lines and the ever-increasing lift ticket prices. This year they are around $245 for a single day. We still enjoy Nordic skiing, but last year there were only a few days here in the valley that were good for that.

We are pretty demanding of perfect snow conditions, preferring days when the skis glide slower and control is as good as one can get. The idea of plowing into anything solid while wearing thin bits of wood and plastic on our feet is less and less attractive each year. When I lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where several hundred inches of snow fell each year, Nordic skiing was wonderful. By December there were several feet of snow on the ground and new snow fell nearly every day. Going through a forest was almost surreal. All of the underbrush was buried and you moved silently through the trees, which were the only things protruding from the snow.

There was one drawback to this serene beauty, however, and that was that it attracted snowmobiles. Not content with the hundreds of miles of trails dedicated to their use, they brought the smell of exhaust and the deafening roar of their engines everywhere. Each time a line of them passed me I quietly wished I was armed with a rifle of a caliber large enough to pierce the motor of those beasts and send terror into the hearts of the riders. Yes, yes, I admit to violent reveries back then. And the language that echoed in my brain is embarrassing to recall.

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Snow (from the film Brokeback Mountain), by Gustavo Santaollalla

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talkin’ about your Madison shoes …

jono55

It’s now a couple of days since parts of America went to the polls and I am still basking in the warm glow that came from the burning of tyranny in effigy that took place on election day. It’s only a step, but as that guy Armstrong said in 1969: ” one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Of course there is still such a long way to go, and the outcome is still uncertain, but, hey, let’s just lie here for another few moments, sipping on our iced coffees and wondering whether Haagen-Dasz ice cream will ever come packaged with an Ozempic chewable nestled inside.

Here in Paradise there were mixed messages. The people whose first impulse at every election is to cover their fences with banners declaring “No New Taxes” even if there aren’t any tax-related issues on the ballot were successful in locally defeating a couple of state tax increases while across Colorado they passed handily. Our school board elections went entirely for conservatives and the hope is that at least they are among the Republicans who can read. It’s a high bar, but one can dream.

We had a recall election for a county commissioner who has been in office for only a year, but ha managed to reveal himself as incompetent, a bully, and a complete fool in that short time. He was recalled, and his replacement is an Independent who actually has credentials, experience, and can properly say the words aluminum and anonymous, which puts her above 99% of Americans in intellectual achievement.

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With our great leader now using children as pawns and denying food to millions of them just for spite, around our community people are bumping up their contributions to the local food banks.

Robin and I and some of our friends from Indivisible set up a table outside our City Market grocery on Friday loading as many canned goods into the back of the Subaru as the good people of Paradise will contribute.

We collected more than $1000 in canned goods and other non-perishable foods in just three chilly hours. It filled the back of our Subaru and spilled over into two more vehicles. When we delivered our stuff to Shepherd’s Hand, a local food bank, we were greeted by the workers with relief, for their shelves were becoming bare. At least two of them had tears in their eyes, and I scored three major hugs by large, strong, and grateful women.

It is beyond disgusting that our government is using the well-being of children to try to achieve their sorry ends. There appears to be no level of depravity too low for them. Really, it makes me wish I believed in Hell, that I might contemplate their futures with unholy glee.

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Let’s suppose that you are being interviewed by a visitor from another galaxy altogether. Let’s suppose that among the questions they put to you is this: “We keep hearing about something called rock and roll … what is that?” My suggestion would be to remain completely silent and play the following video for them. For me this is rock’s essence, being done by what must almost surely be one of the best American bar bands of all time. George Thorogood and the Destroyers.

Here they are playing I don’t know where at sometime in the past and when they were at their peak. I will now be completely silent.

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We had guests staying with us this weekend. Robin’s daughters Amy and Allyson were able to get away for a couple of days to come help Robin celebrate her birthday week.* A good time passed too quickly. Saturday we drove to the Black Canyon National Park to tour the burned areas and take the hike at the end of the road, which is named the Warner Point Trail. It winds through one of the remaining unburned sections and ends with a precipice on two sides.

Brisk autumn weather, good company, enough food to munch on and a warm place to do it in. Gracias a Dios.

*Robin and I are not sticklers for needing everything to happen on the actual anniversary of the date we were born, so we have renamed it birthweek. It is a much more flexible way to look at it as far as scheduling events, and you can have cake on enough successive days to be a serious health hazard. I am typing this while in the doctor’s office where I am being given purgatives to treat a bad case of the butter frosting blues..

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The Indifference of Heaven, by Warren Zevon

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We are slowly coming to the end of one of the most perfect Fall seasons I’ve experienced. Loooong slow turning of the leaf colors, along with cool days without the winds or freezing rains that tear the leaves from the trees prematurely. A slow-motion autumn.

I’ll close this post with a haiku by Matsuo Basho, an old friend of mine, notwithstanding that he passed away in 1694. We’ve had our moments together.

on a leafless bough
the perching and pausing of a crow
the end of autumn

[The photo was taken on a walk at the Black Canyon National Park in the year 2015.]

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Famous Last Words

jono55

Last night Robin and I watched the most unusual videotaped interview. It is apparently the first of a series, and it is presently available on Netflix. We thought it beautifully done. The title of the program is Famous Last Words. It was recorded in March 2025, and it had been deliberately planned that it would not be shown until after the interviewee had died. Throughout the hour there were numerous references to death, what it meant to her, what it would mean to those she left behind.

‘Twas a really remarkable summing up of the life of a really remarkable woman, Jane Goodall.

At one point she was asked if there were people that she didn’t like. Without missing a beat she listed several of them, and wouldn’t you know it, they were several of my least favorite people in the world as well.

Throughout the interview she sipped whiskey from a small and elegant glass, and she wanted us to know that she wasn’t an alcoholic, but that there were days where the cumulative insults to the planet called for a lot of sipping.

“You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”

Jane Goodall

Such a good program, such an interesting premise for a series.

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Leire Gotxi is a young woman who has made a career so far of. busking on the streets of London and posting videos of her performances. Her YouTube channel contains a surprisingly large catalog of covers and originals.

This one came to my attention quite by chance and well, it’s sharing time once again. This is a lovely cover of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.

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One of Colorado’s members of Congress, John Hickenlooper, is thinking of leaving the Senate and running for governor of the state. He is a Democrat, has actually been good for Colorado over a longish career now, but I hope that I don’t have to vote for him. He is not a “wartime consigliere.”

So far this year, he has largely been absent from the fray, posting perfunctory statements here and there. But we definitely need more vigorous prosecution of resistance to the Cluck regime than he is providing. We need warrior-statesmen, with emphasis on the warrior part.

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It’s the End of the World As We Know It, by R.E.M.

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Every once in a while somebody brings up the 25th Amendment to the Constitution as a way of removing Cluck from office. If he was deemed incapable of performing his duties, there is a mechanism for such removal, even if it is against his will.

One problem is that the mechanism requires that the vice-president and members of his cabinet must do the initial voting for removal. There is a built-in issue here, because it is this very group of incompetents that is part of the evidence for his incapacity.

This is Section Four of the amendment and has never been invoked.

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It’s uncanny how sometimes we will read of some new creature and then step out the door where BAM, there are two of them right on the lawn. Or think of a person who then proceeds to call you before you can even put the thought to bed.

That’s how I felt this morning, which was Robin’s birthday. Mine was just a week ago. But today I ran across a cassette which, if I can believe the identifiers on the tape, was recorded in the Garden of Eden. There is reason to believe that Adam and Eve set it up in secret, hoping to catch God out in some ungodlike pronouncement that they could use in the future. Politics was born right there.

But I digress. Here is part of the transcript, you can make up your own mind as to whether it sounds believable or not.

Adam: Birthday? What’s with that? Just this morning you told us that we were going to get old and wither and wrinkle and die. And for what? Stealing one apple. And now you say that each year we have to remind ourselves of our impending doom by counting off the trips around the sun.

God: Don’t come whining to me. We had a deal and you broke it. I can’t say “Oh Well Adam No Problem”, just go on as if nothing has happened and enjoy your eternal life in a body that will always be beautiful. If I let you two off the hook, one by one all the other animals will want special treatment.

Adam: It was all Eve’s fault, you know. I was happy with just the grapes and pomegranates. Didn’t need that apple at all.

God: You were in charge. You had the responsibility.

Adam: She’s not trainable

God: Part of the penalty

Eve: Hey, I’m right here! I can hear everything you say. It was a fake rule. The snake is probably a plant of yours. I agree totally with Adam. It’s bad enough to be mortal without having to talk about it every year in front of others. There is no good side to all of this.

God: Okay … because there is some truth in your feeling of being mistreated, I have created cake.

Adam and Eve: Cake? Wot … ?

God: I’ll send some over. You’ll like it.

And God saw that it was good, and Adam and Eve saw that it was good. And then God rested … with a small slice and some good black coffee.

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On our last trip to Grand Junction I snapped these photos in a single short alley. Murals are very popular out here in western Colorado, even in the smaller towns. This set has a definite indigenous flavor.

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Zombie, by The Cranberries

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Capitalist … Moi?

jono55

So I’m driving to the grocery store which is in the midst of a major reconstruction and rearrangement, so much that each trip there is like taking part blindfolded in a mad scavenger hunt where the host changes the location of everything every day. But that’s my pain and why should I make it yours?

On the drive over I heard a song on the radio that contained a line that caught my attention. Really, a great line, one that the song does not fully explain. But I have been there many, many times in my short life. Here’s the chorus:

I’m living a war with time
I could still reach out and touch you and I
Wish I didn’t know the things I know
I’m standing in an open door
None of it was overrated and I
Never gonna wanna let you go
But I want you to go
Don’t even ask me, just go

It’s the line “Wish I didn’t know the things I know” that opened the door of a room filled with recollections and remembrances for me … knowledge I could have happily done without … learning from experiences I didn’t plan to have.

In AA meetings I often hear the expression “I have no regrets.” I think to myself – are they bonkers? Is that really possible? Because it’s a bit of bravado that I certainly don’t share. I don’t dote on them, ruminate on them endlessly, or become entrapped by them, but regrets … I’ve had a few. But then again, as Frank Sinatra often sang, too few to mention.

Wish I didn’t know the things I know. Quite a line.

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The song I’m talking about, BTW, is entitled War With Time, by Brandi Carlile.

War With Time, by Brandi Carlile

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For me, at least, there is a short list of voices that I read nearly every day during these awkward times. Among them is the indestructible ancient Robert Reich, who wields a fiery pen and draws on a long lifetime hanging around politicians of all stripes. Right up there with him is Heather Cox Richardson, with her cool and level-headed assessments of the carnage as it happens. Next would be Timothy Snyder, whose book On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century I read last Spring to fortify myself against the avalanche of horsepucky that Cluck and his enablers were bringing down upon our heads.

I came across the trenchant comment on the right, and even though it relates to No Kings by name, it could have been applied to the reading I do without changing the meaning one bit.

It helps to know that some very intelligent people are walking point for us, and that they can see that a positive resolution is possible, down what they predict is going to be a rough road. But success will come only if we are intrepid.

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What a striking image it is that accompanies the article on Mike Lee’s war on wilderness.

Woof.

I love it.

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A recollection dusted itself off and presented itself last Thursday, unbidden and unwelcome. Because it reveals that at heart I am just another damned capitalist.

When I was around six years old, my family acquired a new puppy named Mollie. She was, like all the dogs in our extended family were, of mixed parentage. We brought her to our home on Second Avenue, and she was the darling of the family for the week that she lived with us. Her visit was cut short by her escaping through the backyard gate and running into the street where a passing car … you know the rest.

I was heartbroken. I gathered her up and placed her small body in a shoebox, to be buried in the backyard later that morning. At some point I decided that a creature as cute and lively as she had been deserved a funeral, so I scheduled one which was attended by the other boys my age from the neighborhood. There was a eulogy (me), some memorial stuff on display (collar, food dish), and then the interment.

Where does the capitalism come in, you ask? Well … I charged a five cent admission.

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Once a year, because I don’t want to spoil you, I serve up this song of songs. It goes beyond being a favorite of mine, whatever the next rung up would be. I think it was CRISPR-ed into my DNA while I slept.

Magnolia, by Lucinda Williams, who is an American original.

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Leanin’

jono55

It’s 1946 and my family is decorating the Christmas tree while Perry Como is crooning songs from his new holiday album being played on an ancient 78 rpm record player which had been rescued from a rummage sale.

I am seven years old and this is the first Christmas that I know there is no Santa Claus. I don’t remember who told me, but no matter, I am still as excited as if that dreadful information had never reached my ears. I have chosen to accept both the literal truth (no Santa) and the imaginative truth (Santa) at the same time. Today, December 24, 1946, the imagination is holding perfect sway, and the power of Santa Claus is everywhere.

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Dreaming My Dreams With You, by Cowboy Junkies

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Came across this short film shot entirely with an iPhone.

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What we have all learned together these past years is that capitalism has a bunch of dirty secrets. One of them is that once you reach a certain level of wealth, you are almost immune to the problems that ordinary citizens face every day. And I’m not just talking about how much money they have. I’m talking about access to the levers of the machines that run the country, the stock market, the court system, etc. I’m talking about access to the politicians who are largely your own creatures, picked to do what you want to have done.

Turns out that the majority of people in politics seem unable to resist the smell of currency and the possibility of one day having piles of it around the house.

When Robin and I moved to Montrose, we considered ourselves Democrats, and once everything was unpacked we began to seek out others of our kind. Each year the local Democratic Party would put on a barbecue dinner for the membership, and we found it a very pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. But each year we would look at the attendees and knit our brows.

Those sitting at the tables were very nice people, but almost all of them were white and either senior citizens or on the brink of becoming one. Youth was absent. People of color were largely absent. All in all it looked like a political party on its way to self-extinction.

And the came the year when the casual barbecues of the past were left behind. Now it was to be a 50 dollar a plate dinner at a “better” venue. That was the point we stopped going to these yearly get-togethers. If anyone needed to see why the Democratic membership was such a narrow slice of the electorate you didn’t have to look any further than the ticket price. It was automatic exclusion of anyone for whom that was a significant amount of money.

So the two of us became Independents, and remain so.

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That’s All You Need, by Faces

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Sunday was my birthday and Robin and I decided to celebrate by taking a hike at the Colorado National Monument. The trail we took wasn’t a long one, and we’re still feeling the COVID effects just a bit, but it was a beautiful day and the scenery was grand. We hiked the Serpent’s Trail, named because within a relatively short distance there are sixteen switchbacks.

We may have overdone it, feeling some mild malaise when we had returned home, but ’twas well worth it. And at the end of the day there was cake. Of course there was cake. You may leave off the gifts, the cards, the well-wishing, the parties. But if there isn’t cake a birthday simply does not happen.

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One of the facts of living at altitude 5900 feet is that we can see winter for weeks before it gets to us here in the valley. Because we have those magnificent San Juan Mountains in view. First a tentative whitening on the mountaintops that goes away with the first sunny day, then a snow covering that remains … at around 11,000 feet … then 10,000 feet … 9,000 feet. Then a few flakes on a chilly morning whistling down the streets of Montrose. A very gradual introduction to the winter season.

With all this warning going on, there is really little excuse for being caught short. If you haven’t got the snow shovels out and placed them where you will need them, if you haven’t winterized your lawn sprinkling system, if you haven’t checked the tread on the tires of your car for seasonal suitability … well, I just don’t know.

And yet every year there is something that I don’t get done. Something that didn’t get put away well enough. I like to think that these minor mistakes are part of a built-in DNA package that keeps me from becoming too satisfied with myself. The question becomes: How could I ever think that I was perfect if I did that? It’s what a boob would do.

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When Bill Withers wrote “Lean On Me” in 1972, toying around on a small piano with only the phrase ‘lean on me’ to guide him, he never could have expected the song — about a rural man’s loneliness in the big city — would become an inspirational anthem to those rising up after tragedy, or a celebratory rallying cry of togetherness and resilience in times of trouble.

Rolling Stone Magazine

Re-listening to this tune 53 years after it was first released I am struck by how well it fits our time. It is a song made for those loneliest moments in life. Simple lyrics but man, what comfort (and solid advice) they have to offer.

Lean On Me (Carnegie Hall concert), by Bill Withers

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Venom

jono55

When I was living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, my family did a fair amount of camping. The territory was beautiful, the streams clear, and the evenings reliably cool. There were a lot of black bears around, enough that we would see one about half the time when we camped out. Be careful, give them their space, and never get between a mother bear and her cubs were common bits of advice.

Then on one camping trip, when we were two families backpacking to a cabin in the Porcupine Mountains, we encountered a puzzlement. Miles into the forest and walking on a good path we came across two small black bear cubs in a tree. Our kids were young and very excited, dancing about the tree in hope that these cute little critters might come down where they could get a good and proper petting.

The adults in the party were not as charmed by the situation. The puzzle was this. When you are looking UP at the cubs and have no idea where their mother is … which way do you go now?

We resolved the dilemma by deciding that where we were standing was the worst place of all to be, and without any more information to guide us than that, we pushed on ahead toward the cabin. We never saw the mother bear.

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Crunchy Granola Suite

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I’m not quite sure what variant of ADHD I have, but I’m pretty sure I am somewhere in the spectrum. Finding out exactly which niche isn’t important at my stage of life, and so I am not pursuing it. But it does get in my way at times. Not because it has held me back in my education or profession, but … let me give a for instance or two.

Flickering images draw my attention immediately and drown out other stimuli. What’s the problem? It means that having lunch and a conversation in a sports bar is nearly impossible. Having a dozen television screens all screaming silently “LOOK AT ME” simultaneously is completely distracting. I mean completely. Robin and I avoid such places whenever possible, but even our favorite pizza emporium (The Brown Dog) in Telluride has several screens going and I wouldn’t consider it a “sports bar” at all. What I must do (to indulge myself in the pizza that I am certain is the one served in Heaven) is to turn my chair to where I can’t see any of the screens. It works but also means a lot of staring at unadorned wall coverings. A compromise.

These days the political circus is much like the sports bar. There are myriad voices shouting at the same time “Here … here … watch … listen … I’m talking to you, dammit.” Not just the “bad” voices, but the “good guys” as well. When I click on a link indicating that I will attend a virtual discussion on, let’s say, the problems posed by ICE, I immediately get an email advertising a half dozen other worthy discussions in the future that I can also sign up for right this very minute. Each of them offers six more opportunities … there is no end to it.

Some early mornings, like this one, I get drawn down one rabbit hole after another by this cacophanous din. My filters can’t keep up with the stimuli, and I have to just shut things off. The computer, the television set, my iPhone … all of them. I step outside and shiver in the night air … looking up at more stars than this Minnesota boy ever saw growing up in a big city. Nature allows me to compose myself and get a bearing. Just before hypothermia sets in I go back indoors and attempt to keep the clamor at low volume by turning one thing back on at a time.

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Cherry, Cherry

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Our yearly war with the yellowjackets, those creatures that come straight from Hell without stopping, has become little more than a series of light skirmishes for the past two years. A change in strategy has made the difference. There is a company that makes plastic devices which you hang about the yard.

You next open the small sealed packet and take out a pod that contains a potent enough attractant that it warns you to handle it carefully and wash your hands after you are done to avoid becoming very interesting to the pests. You put the pod into the device and walk away. Hundreds of the wasps come in and can’t find their way back out.

But the change we’ve made has been in the timing. Very early in the season the queens show up looking for places to set up housekeeping. They build their nests all over the house, the backyard fence – anywhere they get a little protection from the elements. If you get the traps out and catch the queens before they get a chance to fully establish themselves and raise their families, your summer is much more serene.

Oh, you don’t have yellowjackets where you live and aren’t sure what I’m talking about? Well, o thou inquisitive one, here is what they look like. They each come with a potent offense, can sting you several times, and are exceedingly cranky. You don’t need to do anything to get stabbed except to be outdoors.

Like I said … from Hell.

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In late 1972 Neil Diamond brought out a live album called Hot August Night. At the time I was an impressionable lad of 33 years with a family, living and working in Buffalo, New York. I was really just beginning my exploration of alcohol back then, never thought of it as a problem, even though if my life was a movie and I was watching it now I would say “Of course … there it is.”

After everyone else was in bed and asleep I would take my beverage of choice to the small attic room on the third floor of our home and put this album on, cranking the volume to the point where the groundwork for the ringing in my ears I now enjoy every day was laid. I did love that album then, and even now it can stir me.

I’ve included three cuts from Hot August Night here today. I suggest playing it loud enough that you can’t think of anything else. At that point it became, at least for me, an almost transcendental experience.

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Holly Holy

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Adrenaline Junkie

jono55

I woke last night out of one of those reality-based dreams where for a moment or two after waking I was still half in it. It went like this.

A friend and colleague of mine who was working with me in pediatrics called me on the phone to tell me how my patients were doing. At the time I was out of town bicycling somewhere with Robin and staying in a small cabin.

As he was talking I became overcome with guilt and worry. When he told me that baby Murray was doing okay I thought who the heck is baby Murray and why haven’t I been going in to see him? How long have I been AWOL? Whatever am I going to tell his parents now when I do make rounds tomorrow? That I’ve been ill? Away on a vacation?

I got up and walked into the kitchen with a head full of miseries but as I was filling a glass with water I realized – Hey! I haven’t been practicing for twenty years. There is no baby Murray that I have been neglecting. It was a dream! I am off the hook!

I might also add that the colleague who had called me died eleven years ago.

But some of the emotional charge of the dream is still with me as I type this. Whatever chemicals are released in such a fight or flight fantasy-drama take time to dissipate. But they are being tempered by the huge sense of relief that came over me when I fully realized that I had done nothing wrong and there was nothing that I needed to atone for.

I’m not one to parse dreams looking for why this or why that or any kind of meaning. The fact that my brain is not wholly in my control becomes obvious every time I sit down to meditate. As I am trying to clear my mind that gelatinous ball of mischief keeps on spinning yarns and making stuff up. I assume that it loves when I go to sleep because it can then create scenarios without being interrupted.

Anyway, how are things with you? I am just peachy here.

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Do I miss practicing pediatrics? Yes. No. Actually I’m still doing it, just secretly. If there is a person standing in front of me who is talking about some puzzling symptom their children are dealing with my mind takes the facts and runs with them, working to come up with a set of diagnoses. Happens automatically. Like a ChatGPT that is never off duty.

But, and this is a big one. I have no medical license any longer (too expensive to keep as a memento) and my clinical skills are -shall we be kind – rusty. Only if one of the diagnoses that I have come up with is a serious one that deserves being explored right now do I speak at all. And then I recommend that they see their physician ASAP. Otherwise I nod and listen without really listening.

I loved the challenges of emergency situations. This was when my variant of adrenaline junkie came into play. When you don’t know yet what is going on but you know that the clock is running and you get the chance to take everything you have learned up until that moment and bring it into play to try to solve a very high-stakes problem … that is a real high, my friends.

But there are those times when the clock runs out too soon and there is a crash to deal with. A version of depression mixed with self-recrimination sets in. I never learned to handle the losses well, but lordy did I love the wins.

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Fearless, by Pink Floyd

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By any account you are to read, except those emanating from Club Cluck, No Kings 2 was a dramatic and positive event. Prompted by the unholy mess that the New Fascist Party is making of our country, we found ways to rejoice in the feeling of solidarity that comes from finding thousands upon thousands of people who, like us, are shocked at our leaders’ bad behavior, ashamed of what is being done in our name, and resolute in taking the steps needed to replace this regime with thoughtful, firm, and honest leaders.

We are figuratively marching toward Washington DC right now. And we can already hear the mewling of the cowards there as they stare into crystal ball after crystal ball trying to find one with a good future in it for themselves.

Perhaps one day we will need to march there in person to show them where the door is and to turn them into the street where they can spend the remainder of their lives snapping at each other in dishonor and disgrace.

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I was introduced to Sister Rosetta Tharpe way too late in my life. Here’s a link to a recent article on Substack with a whole bunch of videos of this amazing musician.

She told the truth about her craft in a way only the greats dare to: “These kids and rock and roll—this is just sped up rhythm and blues. I’ve been doing that forever.” And she was right. Before Presley shook his hips, before Berry duck-walked, before Little Richard shrieked his way into immortality, Sister Rosetta had already been there, guitar in hand, voice like a hurricane, planting seeds in soil that would grow the rock and roll forest.

Bill King, Substack

BTW, if you need more, there is way more. All you have to do is go to YouTube and type in her name. Riches will flow into your life.

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There is record of only one protestor being arrested during the national No Kings event, and that was a woman in Fairhope, Alabama. She was carrying a sign that read NO DICK TATOR! However, it wasn’t the sign that got her arrested, but her costume. If there is to be a No Kings Hall of Fame one day, surely this courageous and resourceful lass will be one of the very first to be inducted.

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Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd

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