"Spring is sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is." Not that spring is dawdling, but our daffodils have just finished, our tulips may have opened for the first time while I'm writing this, and there ain't much else happening. I've mowed the lawn, as much to see if the lawn mower would start as because there was much to mow.
A good deal of our lawn from last fall, especially in the front, has come back well. You may recall that we started from scratch in front and in a good deal of the back last September, after our new basement work was more or less done. We spent this past weekend reseeding some of those places that didn't do so well, as well as a few pet spots.
The flowers that are blooming are some grape hyacinths, notably in some neighbors' yards, the dandelions, not so many in our yard (thanks, Weed-B-Gon) but most everywhere else, and Creeping Charlie, regrettably in our yard and garden areas as well as everywhere else. There are only two approaches to Creeping Charlie: total war, or learning to like the smell of it as you mow. So far, I've opted for total war: Weed-B-Gon can help if applied repeatedly, pulling can fill up a happy morning, etc. I've heard of solutions of 20-Mule Team Borax, etc., but constant vigilance is a component of all of these. The smell, by the way, is kind of minty.
The leaves are just now coming on many of the trees; the big silver maple by our driveway has thrown down many of its leaf sheaths, the first of its series of messy detritus items for the year. Next come whirlybirds (the seeds), then sap dripping, then leaves in fall. This was a free tree from our friends about 25 years ago, that Wendy brought home in a bike trailer; it's now about 18" in diameter and interferes with every possible angle for jump shots at our backboard.
Our flowering crab is showing buds. Last year at this time it was already done with its spectacular pink blossoms; this year, just warming up. The little crabapples hang on the tree all winter and are eaten by robins and squirrels in March when there's not much else. Sometimes there's a day we call "Robin Day," when a dozen or more hungry birds feed out there.
After the disruption of our garden last year, and the replanting in August and September, it's a treat to see how many things are popping out of the ground this spring. Poppies, peonies, lilies, the lilac bush that sat out of the ground in the neighbor's yard all summer, hen-and-chicks, mint (can't kill it), daisies, Tibetan irises, and some things we don't remember what the hell they are, all showing up. Hey, maybe some are weeds.
About six or seven years ago, the city and Xcel Energy teamed up to chop down all the boulevard trees on our side of the street, because of overhead wires, and to replant with dwarf trees that were supposed to top out below the wires. Carelessly, we watered ours the first two years. They're now the tallest and thickest on the block, and one must be a mutant because this year it's reached the wires. This does mean that some shade is available for the poor lawn on the boulevard.
Now that I mention it, what do you call that piece of land between the sidewalk and the street? We're told that it's part of the right-of-way for the street, and thus under city control, and in theory it doesn't count as our property as far as taxes or title go. But I'd better mow it and maintain it, or I'll get the ticket for too-tall grass, weeds, etc. I've learned to call it the "boulevard." But what if you live on a street called "Something Boulevard?" What about the streets, divided by a raised central strip of lawn, concrete, or, happily, city-managed gardens, which are often named or referred to as "boulevards?" This appears to require research. Or a glass or two of cheap but tasty wine (16 bottles of wine and two six-packs of approved beer at Trader Joe's, plus tax, under $100!)
The news: Wendy has successfully defended her dissertation, and will receive an Ed.D (doctorate) from the University of Minnesota. Laura and Ross roll on towards their September wedding, and they have bought a house in Minneapolis. Wendy and I, and our friend Ed, are off to Istanbul in June for the wedding of our good friends' daughter.
Dear U of Mn Registrar: My daughter graduated from the U in 2007. My wife will earn her Ed.D in 2009. My mother graduated in 1936. My grandmother graduated in 1912. And I believe my great-grandmother attended - may have graduated - in the late 1880's. Is there a prize?
Life is pretty good. See ya next time.
Showing posts with label General. Show all posts
Showing posts with label General. Show all posts
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Return of Driving Me Crazy
It's a simple concept: Stop.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Past Few Days
I was going to subtitle this "Or, What Happens When Old Geezers Try to Party Like College Students" but that's not fair to some of my companions, who have more sense than I do, or to a couple of college students at our event, who partied like old geezers.
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Seasons
And then there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Another Pot of Pourri
Ross, my good friend and my daughter's intended, writes a blog in which he takes on sports, food and movies. Laura contributes occasionally. Me, I like food well enough but tend to be more interested in beer.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Patience
"Patience is a virtue" is one of the oldest of old adages. I remember my grandmother, the queen of old adages, saying this. I remember my parents saying it. I remember teachers saying it. Of course, I also remember my grandmother saying, "For the Land's sake!" And "Is that a diamond on the end of your nose? No, it's snot." And, in her dotage, mistaking me for her younger brother.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Let Me Explain
What is it that makes the Oak Tree Theory useful? Ideally, it has some predictive value: as things contract, you may assume that at some point they will again expand.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Oak Tree Theory
I had better explain the oak tree theory. It says that of all the little trees starting out, some do better than others. They get better soil, better water, better light, or they have better genetics. After awhile these trees become larger than the others. and shade them, basically taking more of the sunlight. The others begin to die out, leaving fewer, larger trees.
This is how Random House and Doubleday end up being owned by the same German firm. This is how the US goes from 2500 breweries to 130. This is how Miller, owned by a South African firm, enters into partnerships with Coors, who is already hooked up with Molson.This is how Anheuser-Busch gets bought.
But then these large oak trees drop their acorns further and further from the trunk, and out near the edges, some new acorns can get started and acquire enough resources to become vigorous little trees. Eventually the large old trees may suffer from disease or storm, and their passing leaves their old spaces available (see: Schlitz, Stroh's). And we begin a new round, with many new trees in competition.
This is how we go from 130 breweries to over 900. This is how new publishers, and new media, got going.
It's just the circle of life.
This is how Random House and Doubleday end up being owned by the same German firm. This is how the US goes from 2500 breweries to 130. This is how Miller, owned by a South African firm, enters into partnerships with Coors, who is already hooked up with Molson.This is how Anheuser-Busch gets bought.
But then these large oak trees drop their acorns further and further from the trunk, and out near the edges, some new acorns can get started and acquire enough resources to become vigorous little trees. Eventually the large old trees may suffer from disease or storm, and their passing leaves their old spaces available (see: Schlitz, Stroh's). And we begin a new round, with many new trees in competition.
This is how we go from 130 breweries to over 900. This is how new publishers, and new media, got going.
It's just the circle of life.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Potpourri
So they found Stanford. How long does it take for the message to sink in: if it sounds too good to be true, it is? It's like the guy doing 90 down the freeway, who doesn't wonder why he's passing everyone else so vigorously and/or doesn't use the speedometer?
Speaking of driving, a longstanding pet peeve area of mine, whatever happened to the complete stop? The evil influence of Boston, where the red eight-sided signs are taken as helpful hints for drivers, has apparently spread to the rest of the nation.
In addition to the initialed diseases I mentioned awhile ago, I suffer from a couple other curious maladies. One indeed bears ititials: CRS (Can't Remember Shit). Another refers to a previous sufferer: Dunlap's Disease (my stomach done lapped over my belt...). I really did have macular pucker, otherwise known as cellophane retinopathy, but it cleared up. This, being inside the eyeball, was for a bit as great a concern as the recent urethral fun became.
And now you need to understand how the universe works, through two theories I have developed and used over the past years and which help clarify things.
First is the Souffle theory, which explains the stock market. In a souffle, there is milk, there are eggs, and there is hot air. Your challenge is to determine how much of each is out there. About eight years ago, I called 7500 as the milk-and-eggs point; that number was tested today. We'll see.
Next is the Oak Tree theory, which covers entire industries and explains contractions and expansions. The examples I have pointed to are the publishing and brewing industries.
Speaking of driving, a longstanding pet peeve area of mine, whatever happened to the complete stop? The evil influence of Boston, where the red eight-sided signs are taken as helpful hints for drivers, has apparently spread to the rest of the nation.
In addition to the initialed diseases I mentioned awhile ago, I suffer from a couple other curious maladies. One indeed bears ititials: CRS (Can't Remember Shit). Another refers to a previous sufferer: Dunlap's Disease (my stomach done lapped over my belt...). I really did have macular pucker, otherwise known as cellophane retinopathy, but it cleared up. This, being inside the eyeball, was for a bit as great a concern as the recent urethral fun became.
And now you need to understand how the universe works, through two theories I have developed and used over the past years and which help clarify things.
First is the Souffle theory, which explains the stock market. In a souffle, there is milk, there are eggs, and there is hot air. Your challenge is to determine how much of each is out there. About eight years ago, I called 7500 as the milk-and-eggs point; that number was tested today. We'll see.
Next is the Oak Tree theory, which covers entire industries and explains contractions and expansions. The examples I have pointed to are the publishing and brewing industries.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
What's In a Name?
One of my few readers has complained that during the entries describing my recent medical adventures, I used the word "penis" more often than was wanted.
First off, that was where the problems, both the longstanding one ostensibly under treatment and the various non-helpful bits along the way, presented themselves.
Second, that was the work site. And it was worked on by doctors, nurses, and maybe others (I was anaesthetized three times. And those tiny miners...).
Third, it was the part that should have at least smiled at the attention from all those women, but Noooo... tubes were going to go in and out of it, or were already there, and things were wrong, and it cowered in understandable fear.
But, let's see, maybe there were some other terms available: the male organ, for example, which sounds both prudish and utterly rude all at once, besides which we have a full array of organs, not just the one. Perhaps the member, or male member (what, pray tell, might be the female member? And member of what?).
I could have called it the pee-pee, which might have gotten it confused with the substance it lets out, or the wee-wee, which has the same problem. Or the wiener, which was a popular term in elementary school.
Dick. Prick. Cock. Dong. Schlong. John Thomas. One-eyed trouser snake. Rod. Hose. Tool. Etc. The secret of bodice-ripper novel writing, and some porn, was not in choosing the noun but in dropping at least two adjectives in front of it. Turgid, throbbing, engorged are just a few. Rampant manhood. You get the idea...
Or, as we did in high school, I could have named it. One fellow called his "Sock," because he claimed that's where he had to tuck it in the morning; I thought it was because he stuffed a rolled-up pair in the front of his trousers. Another name was "Charlie Brown," the poor little round-headed bald kid.
Or I could have just used some pronoun, like in the movie, "My Favorite Year." Peter O'Toole, as a washed-up actor, finds himself in the women's room. A woman comes out of the stall, sees him, and complains, "This is for ladies only." O'Toole, partly exposed (or so it's hinted), replies, "So is this, madam, but once in awhile I have to run a little water through it." The obligatory digression: this movie has been a favorite of mine for some time. The leads are O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker (cousin Larry), who is supposed to shepherd the drunken legend O'Toole until he completes an appearance on a 50's TV show. O'Toole also delivers a line which I've stolen: after being thrown out of a New York restaurant for assorted bad behavior on some previous visit, he is greeted by the host with "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Swan." The reply: "Wonderful to be seen." Some fine little performances, and a couple fine big ones.
I think the complaining reader would have preferred to hear much less mention of the "private part" altogether. But it's like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books: if that's what the problem is, you need to call it by name.
First off, that was where the problems, both the longstanding one ostensibly under treatment and the various non-helpful bits along the way, presented themselves.
Second, that was the work site. And it was worked on by doctors, nurses, and maybe others (I was anaesthetized three times. And those tiny miners...).
Third, it was the part that should have at least smiled at the attention from all those women, but Noooo... tubes were going to go in and out of it, or were already there, and things were wrong, and it cowered in understandable fear.
But, let's see, maybe there were some other terms available: the male organ, for example, which sounds both prudish and utterly rude all at once, besides which we have a full array of organs, not just the one. Perhaps the member, or male member (what, pray tell, might be the female member? And member of what?).
I could have called it the pee-pee, which might have gotten it confused with the substance it lets out, or the wee-wee, which has the same problem. Or the wiener, which was a popular term in elementary school.
Dick. Prick. Cock. Dong. Schlong. John Thomas. One-eyed trouser snake. Rod. Hose. Tool. Etc. The secret of bodice-ripper novel writing, and some porn, was not in choosing the noun but in dropping at least two adjectives in front of it. Turgid, throbbing, engorged are just a few. Rampant manhood. You get the idea...
Or, as we did in high school, I could have named it. One fellow called his "Sock," because he claimed that's where he had to tuck it in the morning; I thought it was because he stuffed a rolled-up pair in the front of his trousers. Another name was "Charlie Brown," the poor little round-headed bald kid.
Or I could have just used some pronoun, like in the movie, "My Favorite Year." Peter O'Toole, as a washed-up actor, finds himself in the women's room. A woman comes out of the stall, sees him, and complains, "This is for ladies only." O'Toole, partly exposed (or so it's hinted), replies, "So is this, madam, but once in awhile I have to run a little water through it." The obligatory digression: this movie has been a favorite of mine for some time. The leads are O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker (cousin Larry), who is supposed to shepherd the drunken legend O'Toole until he completes an appearance on a 50's TV show. O'Toole also delivers a line which I've stolen: after being thrown out of a New York restaurant for assorted bad behavior on some previous visit, he is greeted by the host with "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Swan." The reply: "Wonderful to be seen." Some fine little performances, and a couple fine big ones.
I think the complaining reader would have preferred to hear much less mention of the "private part" altogether. But it's like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books: if that's what the problem is, you need to call it by name.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
But Life is Pretty Good, After All...
OK. Lousy contractor, bladder surgery, etc. Economy in the shitter. But hey, where's the actual pain? As of this writing, I'm employed, my wife is well employed, we have health insurance and some retirement benefits, and vacation and sick leave. Our retirement funds have lost much of their value, but they have some years ahead in which to recover somewhat. Even our discretionary investment isn't quite gone yet. The car is OK. The house...well, that's another entry, coming soon.
And, as I start toting it up, life has brought much joy and much of interest. What follows is kind of a life list, in part to remind me and in part to say, hey, cool!
I have heard President Kennedy speak, at the Air Force Academy graduation of my cousin. I've shaken hands with Jimmy Carter and Al Gore. I've heard, live, presentations by Gore, Carter and Norman Schwartzkopf. I was patted on the head by WI Governor Warren Knowles at a Packers preseason game.
Oh, yeah, I was at the Ice Bowl. December 31, 1967. 13 below at kickoff. Packers defeated Cowboys to go on to the second Super Bowl.
Musically I've done fairly well. I have heard concerts by Louis Armstrong and Ray Charles. I've been at performances by Jimmy Buffett, Willie Nelson and Peter, Paul and Mary, The Association, Tom Rush, The Mothers of Invention (three times, twice in Appleton, WI), Peter Nero, The Manhattan Boys' Choir, and several others. And I played string bass behind Doc Severinson. I've seen two performances by Mickey Hart (he was one of the drummers for the Grateful Dead) and his world percussion tours; the concert finales left their venues and closed (1) the Las Vegas Strip (all right, one lane) and (2) part of Times Square.
I've seen live comedy from George Carlin, David Brenner, George Kirby, and David Steinberg. I've met authors Paul Harvey, Isabel Allende, Jeremy Rifkin, John Ciardi and a very drunk Hunter S. Thompson. And Neil Gaiman, who's on a bit of a roll lately.
My great-uncle Chester Colgrove was written up in the Saturday Evening Post in 1949, just before he lost all the oil money. If you go back eleven generations in the Porter family, you'll find folks who fought the injustice of the Salem witch trials. My daughter is the fifth generation of my relatives to attend the University of Minnesota.
I've been to some wonderful places: Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis. My house. Washington, D.C., several times and I want to go again. Cincinnati, with Mount Adams. San Antonio, especially the Riverwalk. Boston, New York. The rockbound coast of Maine. The North Shore of Lake Superior, which some say looks more like the rockbound coast of Maine than the rockbound coast of Maine. Toronto. Montreal. The moonscape of Sudbury (seriously, astronauts trained on the nickel mine tailings). Amethyst mining in Ontario. The POW camp.
The Grand Canyon. Arizona also has Mingus Mountain, Arcosanti, the Sonoran Desert Museum,, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, Sedona and the Red Rocks region, Oak Creek Canyon, and some stuff by the Colorado River. Not to say Phoenix, Tempe, Monte's Steakhouse, etc., etc.
Las Vegas. Los Angeles. San Diego. Tijuana. Laguna Beach. Capitola. San Francisco. Alcatraz. The redwoods. Yosemite. Highway 101 in Oregon. California 1, for much of its length at one time or another.
Mount Rainier and Olympic national Parks in Washington, both about two hours from our apartment in Tacoma. Seattle, and Pike Place Market. The Roy Rodeo, local but great fun.
Tom and Roseanne's Big Food Diner in Eldon, Iowa. Hot Springs, Arkansas. Nauvoo, Illinois.
The Mormon Tabernacle. Lake Coeur d'Alene in Idaho, in perhaps the finest view location anywhere. Yellowstone, the Black Hills, the Badlands, Wall Drug.
And some of the places on the way: Columbus, Indiana, with its architecture; Hannibal, MO; Blanchard Caverns in Arkansas; Branson; Portsmouth, NH; Baltimore; a good deal of Florida; Mammoth Cave; and the homes and chosen restaurants of friends and relations in many great places.
England and Scotland. Paris. Germany, Austria, Switzerland. Turkey. The Dominican Republic.
Just listing these places wakes many memories - and hey, thank goodness for that - and may lead to some storytelling in future entries.
I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Space Needle, the Empire State Building. the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building in Chicago. I've set foot in the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Caribbean, the mediterranean, and the Aegean, and Lakes Michigan and Superior. I walked across the headwaters of the Mississippi at Lake Itasca. I visited Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.
What's most exciting about all of this is that there's so much more to do.
And, as I start toting it up, life has brought much joy and much of interest. What follows is kind of a life list, in part to remind me and in part to say, hey, cool!
I have heard President Kennedy speak, at the Air Force Academy graduation of my cousin. I've shaken hands with Jimmy Carter and Al Gore. I've heard, live, presentations by Gore, Carter and Norman Schwartzkopf. I was patted on the head by WI Governor Warren Knowles at a Packers preseason game.
Oh, yeah, I was at the Ice Bowl. December 31, 1967. 13 below at kickoff. Packers defeated Cowboys to go on to the second Super Bowl.
Musically I've done fairly well. I have heard concerts by Louis Armstrong and Ray Charles. I've been at performances by Jimmy Buffett, Willie Nelson and Peter, Paul and Mary, The Association, Tom Rush, The Mothers of Invention (three times, twice in Appleton, WI), Peter Nero, The Manhattan Boys' Choir, and several others. And I played string bass behind Doc Severinson. I've seen two performances by Mickey Hart (he was one of the drummers for the Grateful Dead) and his world percussion tours; the concert finales left their venues and closed (1) the Las Vegas Strip (all right, one lane) and (2) part of Times Square.
I've seen live comedy from George Carlin, David Brenner, George Kirby, and David Steinberg. I've met authors Paul Harvey, Isabel Allende, Jeremy Rifkin, John Ciardi and a very drunk Hunter S. Thompson. And Neil Gaiman, who's on a bit of a roll lately.
My great-uncle Chester Colgrove was written up in the Saturday Evening Post in 1949, just before he lost all the oil money. If you go back eleven generations in the Porter family, you'll find folks who fought the injustice of the Salem witch trials. My daughter is the fifth generation of my relatives to attend the University of Minnesota.
I've been to some wonderful places: Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis. My house. Washington, D.C., several times and I want to go again. Cincinnati, with Mount Adams. San Antonio, especially the Riverwalk. Boston, New York. The rockbound coast of Maine. The North Shore of Lake Superior, which some say looks more like the rockbound coast of Maine than the rockbound coast of Maine. Toronto. Montreal. The moonscape of Sudbury (seriously, astronauts trained on the nickel mine tailings). Amethyst mining in Ontario. The POW camp.
The Grand Canyon. Arizona also has Mingus Mountain, Arcosanti, the Sonoran Desert Museum,, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, Sedona and the Red Rocks region, Oak Creek Canyon, and some stuff by the Colorado River. Not to say Phoenix, Tempe, Monte's Steakhouse, etc., etc.
Las Vegas. Los Angeles. San Diego. Tijuana. Laguna Beach. Capitola. San Francisco. Alcatraz. The redwoods. Yosemite. Highway 101 in Oregon. California 1, for much of its length at one time or another.
Mount Rainier and Olympic national Parks in Washington, both about two hours from our apartment in Tacoma. Seattle, and Pike Place Market. The Roy Rodeo, local but great fun.
Tom and Roseanne's Big Food Diner in Eldon, Iowa. Hot Springs, Arkansas. Nauvoo, Illinois.
The Mormon Tabernacle. Lake Coeur d'Alene in Idaho, in perhaps the finest view location anywhere. Yellowstone, the Black Hills, the Badlands, Wall Drug.
And some of the places on the way: Columbus, Indiana, with its architecture; Hannibal, MO; Blanchard Caverns in Arkansas; Branson; Portsmouth, NH; Baltimore; a good deal of Florida; Mammoth Cave; and the homes and chosen restaurants of friends and relations in many great places.
England and Scotland. Paris. Germany, Austria, Switzerland. Turkey. The Dominican Republic.
Just listing these places wakes many memories - and hey, thank goodness for that - and may lead to some storytelling in future entries.
I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Space Needle, the Empire State Building. the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building in Chicago. I've set foot in the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Caribbean, the mediterranean, and the Aegean, and Lakes Michigan and Superior. I walked across the headwaters of the Mississippi at Lake Itasca. I visited Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.
What's most exciting about all of this is that there's so much more to do.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
OMG
Has it been that long? Things have been a little weird.
The house: the screening is still to come for the front porch. All the wood involved has been painted, but the work is still to be done. The heating ductwork is all done, and it makes for a low ceiling in some places in the basement but it's really shiny and it isn't filled with dust and mouse turds. And we don't have TV cable, electrical cords, and whatnot running through ripped-out corners of the old ducts. One outdoor water spigot needs to be replaced, but the plumber, HVAC guy and electrician are all done otherwise, and we're only out $12,000 above our contractor's bid - which failed to mention any of this stuff.
The yard: after the contractor brought us "lots of good dirt," we had to go out and get 24 yards of black dirt and regrade the whole yard (OK, 3/4 of it) just to restore some flow away from the house. Then we laid patio block under the drip line, as much of the house doesn't have gutter. Then, on Sept. 7th, we began seeding. We actually have some lawn, and along with the return of some garden plants and the gift from friends of others, the yard is beginning to look semi-normal. We may actually have to mow a time or two before the end of the season.
The exchange student: Lena is still with us. She's a sweetheart, eminently self-regulated, finishing the tennis season, playing violin in orchestra and percussion in band. We think she'll move to an actual host family soon, but she wouldn't be the worst person we've had live here.
The world: oh, for God's sake. You name it: Teapot Dome, Saving & Loan in the 80's, any sports book. Some crazies invented a new way to bet on money, and the first few got out before it blew up. Remember the mergers & acquisitions madness of the 80's? Buyers would acquire a company which had a little debt but was paying its way. But the acquirer would rack up so much new debt to make the buy that the acquired couldn't pay both its old debt and the new debt. So the acquirer would go belly-up, and take the solid acquired company with it. Same stuff with the mortgages: a gamble, too many layers of debt on re-packaged "securities," and we're all in the shitter. Doesn't anybody ever learn? If any package involving my tax dollars is created, any company taking part had better pay their CEOs no more than I make... all right, no more than the President makes. Anybody makes $10 million off my taxes, I might reconsider my position on guns.
The house: the screening is still to come for the front porch. All the wood involved has been painted, but the work is still to be done. The heating ductwork is all done, and it makes for a low ceiling in some places in the basement but it's really shiny and it isn't filled with dust and mouse turds. And we don't have TV cable, electrical cords, and whatnot running through ripped-out corners of the old ducts. One outdoor water spigot needs to be replaced, but the plumber, HVAC guy and electrician are all done otherwise, and we're only out $12,000 above our contractor's bid - which failed to mention any of this stuff.
The yard: after the contractor brought us "lots of good dirt," we had to go out and get 24 yards of black dirt and regrade the whole yard (OK, 3/4 of it) just to restore some flow away from the house. Then we laid patio block under the drip line, as much of the house doesn't have gutter. Then, on Sept. 7th, we began seeding. We actually have some lawn, and along with the return of some garden plants and the gift from friends of others, the yard is beginning to look semi-normal. We may actually have to mow a time or two before the end of the season.
The exchange student: Lena is still with us. She's a sweetheart, eminently self-regulated, finishing the tennis season, playing violin in orchestra and percussion in band. We think she'll move to an actual host family soon, but she wouldn't be the worst person we've had live here.
The world: oh, for God's sake. You name it: Teapot Dome, Saving & Loan in the 80's, any sports book. Some crazies invented a new way to bet on money, and the first few got out before it blew up. Remember the mergers & acquisitions madness of the 80's? Buyers would acquire a company which had a little debt but was paying its way. But the acquirer would rack up so much new debt to make the buy that the acquired couldn't pay both its old debt and the new debt. So the acquirer would go belly-up, and take the solid acquired company with it. Same stuff with the mortgages: a gamble, too many layers of debt on re-packaged "securities," and we're all in the shitter. Doesn't anybody ever learn? If any package involving my tax dollars is created, any company taking part had better pay their CEOs no more than I make... all right, no more than the President makes. Anybody makes $10 million off my taxes, I might reconsider my position on guns.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Let's See, Where Were We?
It's been awhile. Things have been happening, some too fast, some not fast enough.
Our friend Hasan has come and gone. You need to have a Turkish farmer as a friend: he didn't want to sit around doing nothing, so he rebuilt our brick front sidewalk, helped with some of our painting, and painted his friend (and ours) Beth's front porch. He and I visited his friends on a farm near Woodville where he worked nearly thirty years ago - this was to be a one hour visit, but it lasted five and a half hours. Other friends came to visit him. We dined out, we had dinner guests, we had picnics, I managed to not gain weight. Today the three of us took him to the Mall of America and then to the airport.
Three of us? Meet Yelena Chikulaeva, Lena (Lee-ehna) for short, 15 years old, from Petrozavodsk, Russia. That's several hours' drive north of St. Petersburg, so she'll be ready for the cold weather. She is in an exchange program, and we volunteered to be a "paper" host family, and the paper has taken human form. We don't know how long she'll be with us before the program can place her with a family with school-age kids, but we're getting her set up for school as if she's here for the year. She has been here for a week. It turns out that she and I have similar tastes in music. We had to pry her out of the Mall of America. Seems like a great normal kid.
We still have no furnace or air conditioner, but we have some shiny sheet metal and some hope. The laundry is going great. Most of the exterior paint is done, but we have some stain to apply on the porch deck and steps. Someday we hope to get some more dirt, and get it leveled for proper drainage, and start some grass, and replant the garden. And, just maybe, the contractor will show up and put up acceptable screening on our front porch.
It's all too much. I tend to shut down a little bit when too much is happening all at once, and if I'm in the middle of something I've been told is important, like painting, I might keep doing that or go back to it too soon instead of visiting with friends or family. Now, give me one thing to do, and one person to go have a beer with instead of doing it, and my priorities straighten out right away. But two or more things and two or more people, and forget it. Gimme the brush.
Our friend Hasan has come and gone. You need to have a Turkish farmer as a friend: he didn't want to sit around doing nothing, so he rebuilt our brick front sidewalk, helped with some of our painting, and painted his friend (and ours) Beth's front porch. He and I visited his friends on a farm near Woodville where he worked nearly thirty years ago - this was to be a one hour visit, but it lasted five and a half hours. Other friends came to visit him. We dined out, we had dinner guests, we had picnics, I managed to not gain weight. Today the three of us took him to the Mall of America and then to the airport.
Three of us? Meet Yelena Chikulaeva, Lena (Lee-ehna) for short, 15 years old, from Petrozavodsk, Russia. That's several hours' drive north of St. Petersburg, so she'll be ready for the cold weather. She is in an exchange program, and we volunteered to be a "paper" host family, and the paper has taken human form. We don't know how long she'll be with us before the program can place her with a family with school-age kids, but we're getting her set up for school as if she's here for the year. She has been here for a week. It turns out that she and I have similar tastes in music. We had to pry her out of the Mall of America. Seems like a great normal kid.
We still have no furnace or air conditioner, but we have some shiny sheet metal and some hope. The laundry is going great. Most of the exterior paint is done, but we have some stain to apply on the porch deck and steps. Someday we hope to get some more dirt, and get it leveled for proper drainage, and start some grass, and replant the garden. And, just maybe, the contractor will show up and put up acceptable screening on our front porch.
It's all too much. I tend to shut down a little bit when too much is happening all at once, and if I'm in the middle of something I've been told is important, like painting, I might keep doing that or go back to it too soon instead of visiting with friends or family. Now, give me one thing to do, and one person to go have a beer with instead of doing it, and my priorities straighten out right away. But two or more things and two or more people, and forget it. Gimme the brush.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Wednesday, Wednesday
It's a slow news day, except it's not all that slow. Big news: Ross popped the question. He and Laura are now officially and for real engaged! Wendy and I like how he managed it: it wasn't exactly a surprise, since both of them were in on the making of the ring, from a stone from his grandmother, and this had been ready since early summer. But he found a nice setting with meaning for them, and Laura could hardly talk when she called.
Our friend Hasan, from Turkey, will be here this weekend and stay for about 9 days. His elder daughter, Canan (pronounced "Janahn"), is enrolled in Ann Arbor at the Ross Graduate School of Business, University of Michigan, and they are getting her settled there. Getting a Ceylan ("Jaylahn") daughter settled is a little more of a project that it might be for some other families, but Canan has a week of activities so Hasan can come visit. I'm a little surprised that Hasan's wife, Ayse ("I-sheh"), isn't here. Hasan is the wise man who taught me to drink Raki ("Rockeh"), the anise-flavored drink, very Turkish, and live to tell the tale. I have taken a couple of days off to enjoy his visit.
We may or may not be at least a welcome host family for a young lady from Russia. If she comes to us at all, it will be next week, for a period of time not yet determined. Lena is from a city north of St. Petersburg, plays the violin (our contact was Laura's Suzuki violin teacher), and does a pretty good job corresponding via e-mail in English.
It's Dunn County Fair week, the only week that our neighborhood worries about closing the garages, locking the houses, and keeping the carnies out of the shrubbery. We live near the fairgrounds, and the walk to the downtown taverns goes right past our house. It's a small county, under 40,000 population, so the fair does what it can but isn't as exciting as it was when we had a small child in the house. We'll go down one evening for fair food.
We keep finding out more about how our contractor didn't do a good job for us. We had to have some repair to several floor joists; not that Larry broke them, but they were just hanging there and he didn't even mention them, much less try to address the problem. I think the problem was hidden when the house was held up by crappy old walls, but those were removed and this was a remediation that should have been done but wasn't. There's also a bit of a problem involving the treated lumber boards between the old sill and the new block foundation: the treated lumber is considerably too narrow to do its intended job. This also means that the contractor straight out lied to me when I asked him about the apparent poor fit. The accumulation of flaws and problems is reaching the point that lawyers may have a chance to make some money.
The electrician is done. We have power and lighting in the basement, and some other additions and corrections that, hey, as long as he was here... and the heating guy isn't done, but he got our dryer vented, and we can do laundry at home. Now, if the washer will work properly (may have some issues with the spin cycle), we'll be happy about something.
So: some up, some down, but the engagement news is the big story, and it makes my daughter happy and makes my wife cry (joy, of course..?..).
Our friend Hasan, from Turkey, will be here this weekend and stay for about 9 days. His elder daughter, Canan (pronounced "Janahn"), is enrolled in Ann Arbor at the Ross Graduate School of Business, University of Michigan, and they are getting her settled there. Getting a Ceylan ("Jaylahn") daughter settled is a little more of a project that it might be for some other families, but Canan has a week of activities so Hasan can come visit. I'm a little surprised that Hasan's wife, Ayse ("I-sheh"), isn't here. Hasan is the wise man who taught me to drink Raki ("Rockeh"), the anise-flavored drink, very Turkish, and live to tell the tale. I have taken a couple of days off to enjoy his visit.
We may or may not be at least a welcome host family for a young lady from Russia. If she comes to us at all, it will be next week, for a period of time not yet determined. Lena is from a city north of St. Petersburg, plays the violin (our contact was Laura's Suzuki violin teacher), and does a pretty good job corresponding via e-mail in English.
It's Dunn County Fair week, the only week that our neighborhood worries about closing the garages, locking the houses, and keeping the carnies out of the shrubbery. We live near the fairgrounds, and the walk to the downtown taverns goes right past our house. It's a small county, under 40,000 population, so the fair does what it can but isn't as exciting as it was when we had a small child in the house. We'll go down one evening for fair food.
We keep finding out more about how our contractor didn't do a good job for us. We had to have some repair to several floor joists; not that Larry broke them, but they were just hanging there and he didn't even mention them, much less try to address the problem. I think the problem was hidden when the house was held up by crappy old walls, but those were removed and this was a remediation that should have been done but wasn't. There's also a bit of a problem involving the treated lumber boards between the old sill and the new block foundation: the treated lumber is considerably too narrow to do its intended job. This also means that the contractor straight out lied to me when I asked him about the apparent poor fit. The accumulation of flaws and problems is reaching the point that lawyers may have a chance to make some money.
The electrician is done. We have power and lighting in the basement, and some other additions and corrections that, hey, as long as he was here... and the heating guy isn't done, but he got our dryer vented, and we can do laundry at home. Now, if the washer will work properly (may have some issues with the spin cycle), we'll be happy about something.
So: some up, some down, but the engagement news is the big story, and it makes my daughter happy and makes my wife cry (joy, of course..?..).
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
More Roommates
It seems that I forgot a few folks who are worthy of a mention in a discussion of roommates. Some weren't exactly in the room or apartment, but count; some were in the same place but...ah, that's not fair. Everybody counts.
In my freshman year, Larry Nowlin was my roommate but Pete Aschoff and Paul Rock were my buddies. Rock lived in the room next door, with his roommate Ted Chapin. Ted was from New York City, and his dad was, in later years, director of the Metropolitan Opera after Sir Rudolf Bing retired. He had a postcard from his family, with a corner note scribbled by Peter Ustinov. Rock, Aschoff and I engaged in a contest to see who could grow a zit on the end of his nose. Nobody won, but we all had a few extra zits in non-scoring places. Aschoff and I tried to brew Applejack in his closet, with apple cider, yeast, sugar, and his closet light staying on 24/7.
Aschoff also got his parrot stoned, twice. The first time, it stood on the floor of its cage and didn't move except to the music of the Rolling Stones. The second time, it died.
In the apartment with Don Lee, we had a couple of roommates after Mike and John moved out. We had Dean Merwin, a nice enough guy whom Don still runs into once in awhile. And we had Howard Kaufman. Howard was from Appleton, and he was blind. Two hours after beginning to move in, he had his stereo set up and knew his way to the kitchen, the bathroom and the beer. One evening he had a party, hosting his blind and partially-sighted friends.
Do you know how, in a group, you watch for non-verbal signals to see who is eager to speak, who is bored, who is interested in whom, and other sorts of dynamics? These don't work so well in a gathering of blind people: although they all give off the signals, nobody sees them. In order to get the next turn to speak, they interject, interrupt and jack up the volume to talk over each other.
Alcohol only pushes up the volume even more, although I got caught at my little joke. I had stuck around to bartend, and I started pouring things together in a non-directed version of "wap" ("wapituli," or however it's spelled, which generally refers to each guest bringing a bottle of booze and all of them being dumped together to make a hideous punch). Howard called my bluff: he said it was great, and could I make more of the same? I had no idea of the recipe.
Howard walked all over the East Side of Milwaukee, to UWM and to stores and wherever. He found his way to Wendy's and my wedding party at the Y-Not Bar; we have a picture of him offering us the wedding gift of a pack of Trojans. Not that he's ever seen it... Do you know how blind people check to see if food on the stove is hot? Howard would just stick in a finger. I hoped it wasn't his reading hand. I never asked him if he learned to read with both hands.
Wendy had a roommate, Cindy, while I was moving into the relationship. Cindy painted her bedroom purple, with white trim. Do you know how hard it is to paint over purple? Cindy worked with Wendy at a popular Milwaukee steak restaurant frequented by various celebrities including a few Milwaukee Bucks; I met one while wrapped in the sheets and saw the backside of another on a bathroom run.
I hope this takes care of the topic. If someone feels neglected, let me know.
In my freshman year, Larry Nowlin was my roommate but Pete Aschoff and Paul Rock were my buddies. Rock lived in the room next door, with his roommate Ted Chapin. Ted was from New York City, and his dad was, in later years, director of the Metropolitan Opera after Sir Rudolf Bing retired. He had a postcard from his family, with a corner note scribbled by Peter Ustinov. Rock, Aschoff and I engaged in a contest to see who could grow a zit on the end of his nose. Nobody won, but we all had a few extra zits in non-scoring places. Aschoff and I tried to brew Applejack in his closet, with apple cider, yeast, sugar, and his closet light staying on 24/7.
Aschoff also got his parrot stoned, twice. The first time, it stood on the floor of its cage and didn't move except to the music of the Rolling Stones. The second time, it died.
In the apartment with Don Lee, we had a couple of roommates after Mike and John moved out. We had Dean Merwin, a nice enough guy whom Don still runs into once in awhile. And we had Howard Kaufman. Howard was from Appleton, and he was blind. Two hours after beginning to move in, he had his stereo set up and knew his way to the kitchen, the bathroom and the beer. One evening he had a party, hosting his blind and partially-sighted friends.
Do you know how, in a group, you watch for non-verbal signals to see who is eager to speak, who is bored, who is interested in whom, and other sorts of dynamics? These don't work so well in a gathering of blind people: although they all give off the signals, nobody sees them. In order to get the next turn to speak, they interject, interrupt and jack up the volume to talk over each other.
Alcohol only pushes up the volume even more, although I got caught at my little joke. I had stuck around to bartend, and I started pouring things together in a non-directed version of "wap" ("wapituli," or however it's spelled, which generally refers to each guest bringing a bottle of booze and all of them being dumped together to make a hideous punch). Howard called my bluff: he said it was great, and could I make more of the same? I had no idea of the recipe.
Howard walked all over the East Side of Milwaukee, to UWM and to stores and wherever. He found his way to Wendy's and my wedding party at the Y-Not Bar; we have a picture of him offering us the wedding gift of a pack of Trojans. Not that he's ever seen it... Do you know how blind people check to see if food on the stove is hot? Howard would just stick in a finger. I hoped it wasn't his reading hand. I never asked him if he learned to read with both hands.
Wendy had a roommate, Cindy, while I was moving into the relationship. Cindy painted her bedroom purple, with white trim. Do you know how hard it is to paint over purple? Cindy worked with Wendy at a popular Milwaukee steak restaurant frequented by various celebrities including a few Milwaukee Bucks; I met one while wrapped in the sheets and saw the backside of another on a bathroom run.
I hope this takes care of the topic. If someone feels neglected, let me know.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Roommates
I think I'm on safe ground here, since I am in touch with only two (if you count my spouse) of my roommates through the years, and I don't believe any others have found this blog. One, I believe, is deceased. Donny, I apologize right now.
I grew up an only child. Still am, and since my parents are gone, I think I'm safe there. I had two cousins that lived within hailing distance for awhile, and two more that I saw some summers, and six more that I met when I was ten (give or take Peggy's birth year), but I was quite used to having my own room and not so much used to having others around who were on my level. I used to, when I was six or seven, have an occasional overnight with Joellen Peters, or with Ron Quimby. You could hit a golf ball through their windows from my house, and our parents were friends.
I went to Boy Scout Camp, Gardner Dam in north central Wisconsin, and our troop went on campouts to that site and others, and our DeMolay chapter took a couple road trips. But I seldom had to deal with anyone else's needs or stuff in my room - or tent - for more than a week until I went off to college (two miles from home). A sleepover, camping trip or the like was a treat, a special event, with late night conversations, fart contests in the dark, and other markers of something beyond the normal.
My first roommate in the true sense was Larry Nowlin, in our freshman year at Lawrence University. Larry was from Minneapolis. We went through an alcohol adjustment; Wisconsin served beer to 18 year olds in beer bars, and I had turned 18 during my senior year of high school. Minnesota didn't serve legally until 21, so Larry's experience was from house parties.
The first weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I cleaned it up. The second weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I left it for him. It didn't happen again.
We never really bonded, but we got along. Each of us tried to back off of our worst traits, and we each tried to enjoy something about the other. Larry liked my wall of Playboy foldouts, and we made up a scoring system for the darts we threw at that wall. We did have some plaster repair to do at the end of the year.
I've not seen or heard from, or of, Larry since then, but he left me with a particularly rude but high compliment which may be said of an especially lovely lady. I will answer individual inquiries, or I may just do a list of rude sayings to get them out of the moustache. Not tonight.
For the sophomore year, I moved into the Phi Kappa Tau house with Pete Aschoff, a friend from down the hall in the freshman year. Our room was about 9'x9', with two desks and two dressers. We began the year by trying to sleep in bunks on the "cold porch," which was just that, a room of six or seven bunk beds with no heat. By late October, we were on quilts on the floor of our tiny room. This wasn't bad, except for the night Pete brought back his girlfriend: I woke up folded neatly between the legs of my desk. For reasons related more to money and grades than to room issues, I moved home at Christmas.
While between colleges, I took an apartment with my childhood friend Bob Verhage. We got along all right, except for money and boundaries. I piled up his car at a drive-in; we subtracted the repair from what he owed me and it still took his girlfriend two years to goad him into paying off the debt of six months. After asking him to keep out of my stuff, I came home one day to find him wearing my best shirt and my only cufflinks (interesting fashion era), I went over the coffee table after him, perhaps my worst act of violence ever. Money and stuff... I moved home again.
My first lodging at UW-Milwaukee was in a rooming house. I had my own bedroom, and the several tenants shared a bath on the second floor and a kitchen in the basement. I almost never saw the other tenants, and only occasionally saw the resident landlord family, the Chuppas.
I stumbled across the ad seeking a roommate. Don Lee was looking for a fourth to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a large building on Milwaukee's East Side, not too far from campus. This turned out well. Mike Rockel and John Kiedrowski had one room; Don and I had the other. Mike and John kind of went their own ways, although we had some good group drunks. Don and I found our way into a friendship that is now at 36 years and counting. He stood up at our wedding, I stood up at his a few years later, and he and Helen, with their son Mark, joined us for dinner last Friday. I don't see him as often as I might like, but when we get together, there's not much need to fill in the gaps.
It was while I was in the apartment with Don that I met Wendy. After awhile, I had what amounted to two roommates at two addresses, and after a bit longer, things took their course and I found my long-term roommate.
So, to sum up, I've had two decent roommate experiences, one that went south for the usual; reasons, and two that have stuck. I guess that's a pretty good track record.
I grew up an only child. Still am, and since my parents are gone, I think I'm safe there. I had two cousins that lived within hailing distance for awhile, and two more that I saw some summers, and six more that I met when I was ten (give or take Peggy's birth year), but I was quite used to having my own room and not so much used to having others around who were on my level. I used to, when I was six or seven, have an occasional overnight with Joellen Peters, or with Ron Quimby. You could hit a golf ball through their windows from my house, and our parents were friends.
I went to Boy Scout Camp, Gardner Dam in north central Wisconsin, and our troop went on campouts to that site and others, and our DeMolay chapter took a couple road trips. But I seldom had to deal with anyone else's needs or stuff in my room - or tent - for more than a week until I went off to college (two miles from home). A sleepover, camping trip or the like was a treat, a special event, with late night conversations, fart contests in the dark, and other markers of something beyond the normal.
My first roommate in the true sense was Larry Nowlin, in our freshman year at Lawrence University. Larry was from Minneapolis. We went through an alcohol adjustment; Wisconsin served beer to 18 year olds in beer bars, and I had turned 18 during my senior year of high school. Minnesota didn't serve legally until 21, so Larry's experience was from house parties.
The first weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I cleaned it up. The second weekend, he blew chow in our wastebasket, and I left it for him. It didn't happen again.
We never really bonded, but we got along. Each of us tried to back off of our worst traits, and we each tried to enjoy something about the other. Larry liked my wall of Playboy foldouts, and we made up a scoring system for the darts we threw at that wall. We did have some plaster repair to do at the end of the year.
I've not seen or heard from, or of, Larry since then, but he left me with a particularly rude but high compliment which may be said of an especially lovely lady. I will answer individual inquiries, or I may just do a list of rude sayings to get them out of the moustache. Not tonight.
For the sophomore year, I moved into the Phi Kappa Tau house with Pete Aschoff, a friend from down the hall in the freshman year. Our room was about 9'x9', with two desks and two dressers. We began the year by trying to sleep in bunks on the "cold porch," which was just that, a room of six or seven bunk beds with no heat. By late October, we were on quilts on the floor of our tiny room. This wasn't bad, except for the night Pete brought back his girlfriend: I woke up folded neatly between the legs of my desk. For reasons related more to money and grades than to room issues, I moved home at Christmas.
While between colleges, I took an apartment with my childhood friend Bob Verhage. We got along all right, except for money and boundaries. I piled up his car at a drive-in; we subtracted the repair from what he owed me and it still took his girlfriend two years to goad him into paying off the debt of six months. After asking him to keep out of my stuff, I came home one day to find him wearing my best shirt and my only cufflinks (interesting fashion era), I went over the coffee table after him, perhaps my worst act of violence ever. Money and stuff... I moved home again.
My first lodging at UW-Milwaukee was in a rooming house. I had my own bedroom, and the several tenants shared a bath on the second floor and a kitchen in the basement. I almost never saw the other tenants, and only occasionally saw the resident landlord family, the Chuppas.
I stumbled across the ad seeking a roommate. Don Lee was looking for a fourth to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a large building on Milwaukee's East Side, not too far from campus. This turned out well. Mike Rockel and John Kiedrowski had one room; Don and I had the other. Mike and John kind of went their own ways, although we had some good group drunks. Don and I found our way into a friendship that is now at 36 years and counting. He stood up at our wedding, I stood up at his a few years later, and he and Helen, with their son Mark, joined us for dinner last Friday. I don't see him as often as I might like, but when we get together, there's not much need to fill in the gaps.
It was while I was in the apartment with Don that I met Wendy. After awhile, I had what amounted to two roommates at two addresses, and after a bit longer, things took their course and I found my long-term roommate.
So, to sum up, I've had two decent roommate experiences, one that went south for the usual; reasons, and two that have stuck. I guess that's a pretty good track record.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Rated R for Language Issues
I know most of the words. The F word. The S word. The C word. Multiple terms for multiple body parts, elimination functions, sexual connections, and, in the words of J.P. Donleavy, "vilenesses various." I quoted, in an earlier blog, George Carlin's take on one of the stronger rude terms. I drop more than my share of F-bombs in conversation. And I enjoy a rude jest, if it involves clever wordplay or exceptional meanness of spirit, whether or not it uses "bad language."
None of these words or phrases are necessary to basic communication. I can go all day, as indeed I must in the workplace, without using them. Of the twenty-odd preceding blogs in this collection (Holy Crap! Thirty-couple!), less than half use such terms at all, and only a few feature them in any way.
But there is a subtle difference between basic communication and effective communication. I remember a rubber stamp that Gordy Baird, a dorm-mate my freshman year, carried and used to great effect, and many are the times I have longed to have that stamp. It said only one word: "Bullshit ." Come on, now, you want it, too. And you wouldn't overuse such a precious tool, you'd be judicious. Only one memo...well maybe two. And a copy of an ordinance, or a so-called news story that is nothing but a press release in the paper's stock type. Or most anything put out by the Bush Administration, those poor lost bastards.
Oops! That's one of those terms that may or may not be offensive. Did you know that one type of file used in metal shops is called a mill bastard? Learned that in junior high. In class. It wasn't explained: what did the poor file do to earn such a term of disrespect? The word used to refer simply to someone whose parents weren't married to each other, and was often used to explain why some young British fellow wasn't coming into the family money. Now it's in wide use, generally to express disapproval or to explain that someone has done someone else, who is probably closer to you, dirt.
It's also one of the words that is part of the creeping decline of TV standards. You'll hear it, along with "ass," "penis," and others like you never heard them even ten years ago. So maybe what's filthy now isn't the same as what was filthy back then. But the standard is so loose, and individuals' standards are spread over such a spectrum, that it's impossible to know exactly where the bounds of good taste lie. Bodily functions, sexual connections, and "vilenesses various" appear nightly in ways I don't recall from years past.
Even at work, the standard moves all over the place. I work with a range of people from 17 to 60, from cussing dockworked to professing Christian. We generally use the terms "HR-friendly" and "HR-free;" you might guess that I try to maintain a ten-foot perimeter of HR-free. This refers to language, joke and other issues that may or may not offend someone to the point that they bring action under the arcane and remarkably biased rules of harassment and discrimination; HR-free means that I hope I can speak freely and not get myself hauled in for some ill-chosen word or joke. "HR-friendly" means that everyone treads awfully lightly, and fun suffers as well as effective transmission of ideas or training. You can say otherwise, but it's like saying that tortilla chips taste just as good without salt.
Mostly I have no desire to offend or hurt anyone. Except, of course, when they have it coming. There's a lovely, if HR-free, description of stress that defines it as "the mind's struggle to overcome the body's natural desire to choke the living shit out of some asshole who richly deserves it." While that's a little over the top for most situations, once in awhile you'll resonate with the sentiment and appreciate the directness of the expression. And what, pray tell, do you say when you catch your thigh on the corner of a table, or stub your toe, or nail your thumb with a hammer, or spill the red wine on the white carpet, or step in the middle of the night on the cold pile of dog barf? "Oh, golly gee?"
I think not. I bet that a good old Anglo-Saxon plosive of one form or other slips past your lips before you can gather yourself, or you consign the event or its perpetrator to Hades, or suggest that one parent may be canine.
I make a reasonable effort to describe events, tell stories, give opinions, or generally blog away without slipping into language that may put readers off. But sometimes I can make a point, or more effectively emphasize it, or tell a story with more truth, if I throw in a word or a phrase that may run a little rough. Effective communication is more important than "appropriate" language.
None of these words or phrases are necessary to basic communication. I can go all day, as indeed I must in the workplace, without using them. Of the twenty-odd preceding blogs in this collection (Holy Crap! Thirty-couple!), less than half use such terms at all, and only a few feature them in any way.
But there is a subtle difference between basic communication and effective communication. I remember a rubber stamp that Gordy Baird, a dorm-mate my freshman year, carried and used to great effect, and many are the times I have longed to have that stamp. It said only one word: "Bullshit ." Come on, now, you want it, too. And you wouldn't overuse such a precious tool, you'd be judicious. Only one memo...well maybe two. And a copy of an ordinance, or a so-called news story that is nothing but a press release in the paper's stock type. Or most anything put out by the Bush Administration, those poor lost bastards.
Oops! That's one of those terms that may or may not be offensive. Did you know that one type of file used in metal shops is called a mill bastard? Learned that in junior high. In class. It wasn't explained: what did the poor file do to earn such a term of disrespect? The word used to refer simply to someone whose parents weren't married to each other, and was often used to explain why some young British fellow wasn't coming into the family money. Now it's in wide use, generally to express disapproval or to explain that someone has done someone else, who is probably closer to you, dirt.
It's also one of the words that is part of the creeping decline of TV standards. You'll hear it, along with "ass," "penis," and others like you never heard them even ten years ago. So maybe what's filthy now isn't the same as what was filthy back then. But the standard is so loose, and individuals' standards are spread over such a spectrum, that it's impossible to know exactly where the bounds of good taste lie. Bodily functions, sexual connections, and "vilenesses various" appear nightly in ways I don't recall from years past.
Even at work, the standard moves all over the place. I work with a range of people from 17 to 60, from cussing dockworked to professing Christian. We generally use the terms "HR-friendly" and "HR-free;" you might guess that I try to maintain a ten-foot perimeter of HR-free. This refers to language, joke and other issues that may or may not offend someone to the point that they bring action under the arcane and remarkably biased rules of harassment and discrimination; HR-free means that I hope I can speak freely and not get myself hauled in for some ill-chosen word or joke. "HR-friendly" means that everyone treads awfully lightly, and fun suffers as well as effective transmission of ideas or training. You can say otherwise, but it's like saying that tortilla chips taste just as good without salt.
Mostly I have no desire to offend or hurt anyone. Except, of course, when they have it coming. There's a lovely, if HR-free, description of stress that defines it as "the mind's struggle to overcome the body's natural desire to choke the living shit out of some asshole who richly deserves it." While that's a little over the top for most situations, once in awhile you'll resonate with the sentiment and appreciate the directness of the expression. And what, pray tell, do you say when you catch your thigh on the corner of a table, or stub your toe, or nail your thumb with a hammer, or spill the red wine on the white carpet, or step in the middle of the night on the cold pile of dog barf? "Oh, golly gee?"
I think not. I bet that a good old Anglo-Saxon plosive of one form or other slips past your lips before you can gather yourself, or you consign the event or its perpetrator to Hades, or suggest that one parent may be canine.
I make a reasonable effort to describe events, tell stories, give opinions, or generally blog away without slipping into language that may put readers off. But sometimes I can make a point, or more effectively emphasize it, or tell a story with more truth, if I throw in a word or a phrase that may run a little rough. Effective communication is more important than "appropriate" language.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Holiday Weekend
It's Sunday of the 4th of July weekend. I have Monday off as well, so I can slough off longer than some of you. We've already had a good time, but we also opened the question, is the 4th of July a great holiday?
Our town has a very nice set of July 4th activities, going on all day, in our big lakeside park. There's food and drink, softball, fire department-sponsored hose battles, a kids' pudding-eating contest (courtesy of the local Swiss Miss pudding factory), live music, a petting zoo, crafts, a water-ski show, etc., and fireworks at night. On the other hand, it's been the same for a number of years, so we go to have a little lunch, see who's out and about, and watch an event, then we go home for a nap. The fireworks are better viewed from the downtown lake overlook, as it has fewer mosquitoes and fewer crazies setting off their own fireworks, which they do right among the viewers in the park; we didn't even go downtown the past few years, as the folks they hire seem to set off about one shot a minute. We had dinner at a friend's house and went home just about at dark.
Ah, but I opened the day with a stint at the laundromat (appliances still in garage). And I ran some shopping survival errands. Then there was the sign at the park entrance: "Welcome to Freedom Fest! No coolers. No carry-ons. No parking in beach area." Independence Day, my ass. So, all in all, I had a very nice day but not a thriller.
Yesterday, we went up to see our daughter and her boyfriend in the Twin Cities. We visited the "Taste of Minnesota" festival in St. Paul, and spent too much money for parking, too much money for food and drink tickets and beer wristbands, and too many tickets for most food and drink. Ah, but the "Little Charlie" filet sandwich, the shrimp skewer and the deep-fried lobster on a stick were tasty, and the Element 115 beer was dark and full-flavored but well-hopped, so crisp and thus good on a hot day. Then we went to the Twins' baseball game at the Metrodome. This would have been a lovely evening for outdoor baseball (the Twins' new outdoor stadium will be ready for the 2010 season), but we got $7 seats (outfield upper deck), and had some hot dogs and beers, and we got to see a fun ball game. The Cleveland Indians went up 5 to 2, but the Twins came back gradually and won 9 to 6. I didn't hear the attendance, but Ross and I guessed that something over 30,000 were there (31,887 as reported in the box score this morning). Food lines were long, as it seemed many of the upper deck concession stands were closed, but all in all it made for a fine evening at the ballpark.
So we had a very nice day.
It came up that one of our friends remembers not liking the 4th of July. This led us to think back about how each of us ranked the day. Was it a special holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving? No. Was it just a day off? In my case, not always. Was it, like our day this year, nice but not outstanding? Was the celebration of our nation's declaration of independence an important part of the day? Nobody mentioned that at all.
Every one of us, however, thought back to our recollections of the 4th when we were kids. Did we go to the park, did we remember fireworks? Pretty much yes. Did anyone recall special family customs? Wendy remembers the bike and wagon parade for kids at her local park; there wasn't anything else.
So: we take the day off (many of us), we grill out, we go to the local park, we drink some beer or lemonade, we watch fireworks or shoot off our own, and we don't get too worked up. Uh, I should probably mention our neighbors here. They have their biggest gathering of the year, with plenty of friends and family. They drape the house and fence in bunting. The guy mows a mini golf layout in his lawn and sets up the obstacles, which are reminders of US history (he's a teacher). And they have a bit of a ground fireworks show. So it may be more fair to say, some of us don't get all worked up.
Is the 4th of July, Independence Day, anyone's favorite or most meaningful holiday? I'll take input, but I'm starting from no. Maybe we need to take a little more time with the civics.
Our town has a very nice set of July 4th activities, going on all day, in our big lakeside park. There's food and drink, softball, fire department-sponsored hose battles, a kids' pudding-eating contest (courtesy of the local Swiss Miss pudding factory), live music, a petting zoo, crafts, a water-ski show, etc., and fireworks at night. On the other hand, it's been the same for a number of years, so we go to have a little lunch, see who's out and about, and watch an event, then we go home for a nap. The fireworks are better viewed from the downtown lake overlook, as it has fewer mosquitoes and fewer crazies setting off their own fireworks, which they do right among the viewers in the park; we didn't even go downtown the past few years, as the folks they hire seem to set off about one shot a minute. We had dinner at a friend's house and went home just about at dark.
Ah, but I opened the day with a stint at the laundromat (appliances still in garage). And I ran some shopping survival errands. Then there was the sign at the park entrance: "Welcome to Freedom Fest! No coolers. No carry-ons. No parking in beach area." Independence Day, my ass. So, all in all, I had a very nice day but not a thriller.
Yesterday, we went up to see our daughter and her boyfriend in the Twin Cities. We visited the "Taste of Minnesota" festival in St. Paul, and spent too much money for parking, too much money for food and drink tickets and beer wristbands, and too many tickets for most food and drink. Ah, but the "Little Charlie" filet sandwich, the shrimp skewer and the deep-fried lobster on a stick were tasty, and the Element 115 beer was dark and full-flavored but well-hopped, so crisp and thus good on a hot day. Then we went to the Twins' baseball game at the Metrodome. This would have been a lovely evening for outdoor baseball (the Twins' new outdoor stadium will be ready for the 2010 season), but we got $7 seats (outfield upper deck), and had some hot dogs and beers, and we got to see a fun ball game. The Cleveland Indians went up 5 to 2, but the Twins came back gradually and won 9 to 6. I didn't hear the attendance, but Ross and I guessed that something over 30,000 were there (31,887 as reported in the box score this morning). Food lines were long, as it seemed many of the upper deck concession stands were closed, but all in all it made for a fine evening at the ballpark.
So we had a very nice day.
It came up that one of our friends remembers not liking the 4th of July. This led us to think back about how each of us ranked the day. Was it a special holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving? No. Was it just a day off? In my case, not always. Was it, like our day this year, nice but not outstanding? Was the celebration of our nation's declaration of independence an important part of the day? Nobody mentioned that at all.
Every one of us, however, thought back to our recollections of the 4th when we were kids. Did we go to the park, did we remember fireworks? Pretty much yes. Did anyone recall special family customs? Wendy remembers the bike and wagon parade for kids at her local park; there wasn't anything else.
So: we take the day off (many of us), we grill out, we go to the local park, we drink some beer or lemonade, we watch fireworks or shoot off our own, and we don't get too worked up. Uh, I should probably mention our neighbors here. They have their biggest gathering of the year, with plenty of friends and family. They drape the house and fence in bunting. The guy mows a mini golf layout in his lawn and sets up the obstacles, which are reminders of US history (he's a teacher). And they have a bit of a ground fireworks show. So it may be more fair to say, some of us don't get all worked up.
Is the 4th of July, Independence Day, anyone's favorite or most meaningful holiday? I'll take input, but I'm starting from no. Maybe we need to take a little more time with the civics.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fixing the World...
Sometimes you have to see something a number of times before your brain kicks in. This is the premise of advertising; they believe that you get the impact of the ad on about the 12th or 13th viewing. Tonight I saw a blip from a news story about third world and developing nation having increasing energy demands that may impact the availability and price of energy for all nations. The item focused on someone saying how we needed to make some changes in our usage.
The synapses finally fired. I recall discussions of the total penetration of cellular phones in Scandinavian countries being driven by the problems of constructing traditional infrastructure, and how they ultimately were able to skip the wired step and go right to wireless in reaching difficult locations.
Then I recall that the island of Madagascar is nearly denuded of its once-thick forests because the ever-increasing population keeps chopping them down for firewood, for simple heat and cooking.
Then I think of China, a number of other countries, and the US itself constructing or planning new energy-generation facilities using traditional fuels. Xcel Energy just fired up a new plant that uses natural gas for fuel; this replaced an old coal-fired plant whose 570-foot chimney was imploded the other day. The new gas-fired plant went into construction before natural gas prices doubled and more.
The technology exists to produce energy from so many other sources: solar, which has been badly handled instead of avidly pushed; wind, which is huge in many countries and is blocked by such concerns as the blades on the turbines kill birds; geothermal; tidal, such as with the Bay of Fundy with its 40-foot tide swings; and hydroelectric, which works incredibly well with small impoundments as well as with the misguided dammings in the desert. Not to say nuclear, which is on the upsurge for traditional reactors as well as the new pebble reactors.
Where are the developed nations, where are the environmental NGOs, where is the US with its vaunted inventive and innovative powers - about all we have left as a leadership position now that we've suffered the Bush Presidency - in taking these technologies to the rest of the world, helping them to avoid our mistakes, avoid the expense of infrastructure that's fated to be obsolete before it's built out, avoid the unnecessary expenditure of limited capital? If China has to spend a, well, shit-ton (that's technical language for a whole bunch) of money on new energy generation, why aren't they skipping the bad tech step and grabbing onto the new?
When I think that nothing's happening on the energy front, I remember all the wind turbines I saw in the Netherlands as we flew into Schiphol Airport. Hundreds! Now, they may simply be powering the pumps that keep the sea at bay, and with global warming they may need twice as many and more before they light a single new bulb on dry land, but they weren't any more obtrusive on the landscape than warehouses or cell towers and they gave me hope.
Then, of course, if we can save the developing world some grief and some money by helping them skip forward to the new alternative energies, why can't we make that happen right at home?
The synapses finally fired. I recall discussions of the total penetration of cellular phones in Scandinavian countries being driven by the problems of constructing traditional infrastructure, and how they ultimately were able to skip the wired step and go right to wireless in reaching difficult locations.
Then I recall that the island of Madagascar is nearly denuded of its once-thick forests because the ever-increasing population keeps chopping them down for firewood, for simple heat and cooking.
Then I think of China, a number of other countries, and the US itself constructing or planning new energy-generation facilities using traditional fuels. Xcel Energy just fired up a new plant that uses natural gas for fuel; this replaced an old coal-fired plant whose 570-foot chimney was imploded the other day. The new gas-fired plant went into construction before natural gas prices doubled and more.
The technology exists to produce energy from so many other sources: solar, which has been badly handled instead of avidly pushed; wind, which is huge in many countries and is blocked by such concerns as the blades on the turbines kill birds; geothermal; tidal, such as with the Bay of Fundy with its 40-foot tide swings; and hydroelectric, which works incredibly well with small impoundments as well as with the misguided dammings in the desert. Not to say nuclear, which is on the upsurge for traditional reactors as well as the new pebble reactors.
Where are the developed nations, where are the environmental NGOs, where is the US with its vaunted inventive and innovative powers - about all we have left as a leadership position now that we've suffered the Bush Presidency - in taking these technologies to the rest of the world, helping them to avoid our mistakes, avoid the expense of infrastructure that's fated to be obsolete before it's built out, avoid the unnecessary expenditure of limited capital? If China has to spend a, well, shit-ton (that's technical language for a whole bunch) of money on new energy generation, why aren't they skipping the bad tech step and grabbing onto the new?
When I think that nothing's happening on the energy front, I remember all the wind turbines I saw in the Netherlands as we flew into Schiphol Airport. Hundreds! Now, they may simply be powering the pumps that keep the sea at bay, and with global warming they may need twice as many and more before they light a single new bulb on dry land, but they weren't any more obtrusive on the landscape than warehouses or cell towers and they gave me hope.
Then, of course, if we can save the developing world some grief and some money by helping them skip forward to the new alternative energies, why can't we make that happen right at home?
Friday, June 27, 2008
When is nothing something?
Nothing happened on our house project today. Or yesterday, or Wednesday. Today it took an act of the concrete people, who didn't deliver due to the prediction of rain, to make nothing happen. Is it nothing when it requires a decision or an act? Where's Sartre when you need him? It finally rained this evening. It rained like a son of a bitch for about ten minutes. I was driving home during the rain, and I drove through rain for about two miles: a few drops, then a shower, then a heavy rain, then such a downpour that several drivers pulled over because they couldn't see, then 150 yards later, down to nothing. Remarkable.
Bad philosophy joke. "To do is to be." - Descartes. "To be is to do." - Sartre. "Do be do be do." - Sinatra. Another: "Nietzsche is pietzsche."
Wendy is taking faith that most of the settling has taken place, She is putting items back into the dining room hutch, which displays them in an enclosed lighted cabinet. We managed to break one piece while packing them for safety; the reloading is going better.
The nothing of the house project allows me to reflect on the passing of George Carlin, and on how many disparate sources note his passing and how he spoke to their field of interest. Sports Illustrated made mention of his marvelous take on football vs. baseball. I had forgotten the part they mentioned, but I remember "Football is played in a Stadium. Baseball is played in a park. "
And something on the order of " in football, they have blitzes. The offense drives through the opponent's territory, throwing bombs...in baseball, they're trying to get home safe." Carlin was a master at emphasizing these with nuances of voice: you can hear the aggression in his descriptions of football and the instant change to gentle innocence when he speaks of baseball.
I remember his reflection about the glass: "some people say the glass is half-empty. Some people say the glass is half-full. I say the glass is TOO BIG." He loved language and ripped on its misuse, and noted some interesting contradictions: all he had to say was 'jumbo shrimp" and you knew that something didn't quite fit.
And he understood dogs and cats. I don't have his exact words, but: A dog will walk into a table, and cry out to show pain and come to be petted and pitied. A cat will walk into the same table, and stalk off as if to say, "I meant to do that," then go behind the couch and say to itself, "oh, MEOW."
I remember him from 60's shows, portraying Al Pouch, the Hippy-Dippy Mailman, or Al Sleet, the Hippy-Dippy Weatherman; from the latter came his famous forecast of "Tonight, dark. Dark through the night, followed by increasing light toward morning." We saw him in Milwaukee, in his first visit to that city after his arrest for the fabled seven words. Of course, he had to explain them and defend himself. You only need to remember that "a cocksucker isn't a bad man, it's a nice lady."
I got a little bit exasperated with the near-canonization of Tim Russert of NBC, especially by that network but all through the media. I believe that the loss of George Carlin has a broader cultural impact, and that more people will remember him fondly without having to be sold on it.
Bad philosophy joke. "To do is to be." - Descartes. "To be is to do." - Sartre. "Do be do be do." - Sinatra. Another: "Nietzsche is pietzsche."
Wendy is taking faith that most of the settling has taken place, She is putting items back into the dining room hutch, which displays them in an enclosed lighted cabinet. We managed to break one piece while packing them for safety; the reloading is going better.
The nothing of the house project allows me to reflect on the passing of George Carlin, and on how many disparate sources note his passing and how he spoke to their field of interest. Sports Illustrated made mention of his marvelous take on football vs. baseball. I had forgotten the part they mentioned, but I remember "Football is played in a Stadium. Baseball is played in a park. "
And something on the order of " in football, they have blitzes. The offense drives through the opponent's territory, throwing bombs...in baseball, they're trying to get home safe." Carlin was a master at emphasizing these with nuances of voice: you can hear the aggression in his descriptions of football and the instant change to gentle innocence when he speaks of baseball.
I remember his reflection about the glass: "some people say the glass is half-empty. Some people say the glass is half-full. I say the glass is TOO BIG." He loved language and ripped on its misuse, and noted some interesting contradictions: all he had to say was 'jumbo shrimp" and you knew that something didn't quite fit.
And he understood dogs and cats. I don't have his exact words, but: A dog will walk into a table, and cry out to show pain and come to be petted and pitied. A cat will walk into the same table, and stalk off as if to say, "I meant to do that," then go behind the couch and say to itself, "oh, MEOW."
I remember him from 60's shows, portraying Al Pouch, the Hippy-Dippy Mailman, or Al Sleet, the Hippy-Dippy Weatherman; from the latter came his famous forecast of "Tonight, dark. Dark through the night, followed by increasing light toward morning." We saw him in Milwaukee, in his first visit to that city after his arrest for the fabled seven words. Of course, he had to explain them and defend himself. You only need to remember that "a cocksucker isn't a bad man, it's a nice lady."
I got a little bit exasperated with the near-canonization of Tim Russert of NBC, especially by that network but all through the media. I believe that the loss of George Carlin has a broader cultural impact, and that more people will remember him fondly without having to be sold on it.
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