tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25741448472575902852024-03-05T06:50:54.508-05:00Just Sayin'Wandering and wondering...TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.comBlogger444125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-84059745752301012712022-06-17T13:09:00.003-04:002022-06-17T13:09:39.724-04:00The Implausible Admiral<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3M4lYJmqCCWCtBxl2O9ZxAGj9Z16tuJLu3I-mtKP2oECt1OYnqunId9qoWD5KObqhGjKjhRFJo1tMjoWUxiF1yUJbgSIvYe_mWKusxQN0xyRYdPIJ6w0r6qR_vSoqnGzrDYlsZJ8dd8SA5Vy2lXfMfl-Rg26ao5QOcP-q4mXka61hCSem-uVNeIMJ/s800/mw145565.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="571" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3M4lYJmqCCWCtBxl2O9ZxAGj9Z16tuJLu3I-mtKP2oECt1OYnqunId9qoWD5KObqhGjKjhRFJo1tMjoWUxiF1yUJbgSIvYe_mWKusxQN0xyRYdPIJ6w0r6qR_vSoqnGzrDYlsZJ8dd8SA5Vy2lXfMfl-Rg26ao5QOcP-q4mXka61hCSem-uVNeIMJ/s320/mw145565.jpeg" width="228" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">A regular theme here at "Just Sayin'" is the rogues gallery: rascals and larger-than-life characters whose stories are always better than fiction.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Take one Anthony Sherley (1565 - 1635), adventurer, Oxford graduate and son of a wealthy English family. It seems the Sherleys lost their land and fortune (this was during the Tudor era, when such a rude twist of fate was pretty common) and the sons had to take to foreign lands and the seas between to find their way in the world. There is, of course, constant danger; after Anthony was awarded a knighthood by French king Henry IV, Queen Elizabeth back home was so irritated she out jailed him so he could rethink that, which he did.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was time to absent oneself from such vigilance, so Sherley took to privateering on the west coast of Africa and all through the Spanish Main. And then, oddly enough, he went to Persia and so charmed Shah Abbas the Great that monarch made him a prince and his worldwide ambassador. Rebuffed by Muscovy, he was warmly welcomed by the Holy Roman Emperor and the king of Spain. News of his service even led to a mention in Shakespeare's <i>Twelfth</i> <i>Night</i>!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1W_RsLrCDqcJxpDqnhacYja3JH34G-tZN9jBx0yDuMD864scPqJMxGIMC4i6ghq12XnqssXUIn5brccYDdFPIU5mO9RiwQq-5Kj2u_anzilcEPqr2dbmRMuctYUohirgyJoOWVMADNPjjEXPrKfB_O5ai9-_R0a8M1XqF_jGw7h2iy8xe7tq8UY34/s480/fe47aa7b529ecf5864f58fb779fc3896.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1W_RsLrCDqcJxpDqnhacYja3JH34G-tZN9jBx0yDuMD864scPqJMxGIMC4i6ghq12XnqssXUIn5brccYDdFPIU5mO9RiwQq-5Kj2u_anzilcEPqr2dbmRMuctYUohirgyJoOWVMADNPjjEXPrKfB_O5ai9-_R0a8M1XqF_jGw7h2iy8xe7tq8UY34/s320/fe47aa7b529ecf5864f58fb779fc3896.jpeg" width="219" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">How Sherley fooled the savvy Shah, and next the Spanish king, will never be known. But why would the latter appoint him admiral of a fleet being assembled to attack the Turks? After all, there was the memory of the Armada disaster and Sherley's own extensive career raiding his majesty's New World empire. Not mention just having been an employee of an infidel potentate.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now our intrepid Prince and Admiral made a misstep: failing to link up with the naval forces headed to war with the Barbary pirates at Tunis as he was commissioned to do, he instead raided merchant ships and, unsuccessfully, the Greek island Mytilene. Sherley's large expenses were to be covered by new taxes on lawyers in Sicily (then a Spanish possession). The lawyers, churchmen and the nobility-dominated Parliament were incensed. The rich revolted at the very idea of being taxed, and proposed arming the poor as a mob to make sure that did not stand. It worked, then as now (Tea Party...), of course.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Spanish lost confidence in the High Admiral, and he spent the last 30 years of his life barely tolerated at that Court as a supplicant, in poverty.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Stories, maybe true or maybe not, attach themselves to such outlandish actors over time. It is said Sherley claimed to the Sicilian Viceroy that he knew a secret alchemical process for making silver and how to seize the fabled gold mines of Timbuctoo! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-53764683711804567562022-06-09T16:22:00.001-04:002022-06-09T16:24:24.756-04:00The Real Thing<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMckEpF4_d6oM0FJ7koXufvBA8zPOaWA7QlX9WO87UXWjEe11C-FNZ11uJuiTFzBOUb18R-8u40pHMQdpSSpU-MVT7faW-B89BXueERFjFSubpc_fctZbR60Uzi4INlvCJfSeFretd21_kmIFpn_67m0d9eGSm-EUSI4X68ekFIYIP9-Qb3h4zph-/s740/authenticity.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="740" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMckEpF4_d6oM0FJ7koXufvBA8zPOaWA7QlX9WO87UXWjEe11C-FNZ11uJuiTFzBOUb18R-8u40pHMQdpSSpU-MVT7faW-B89BXueERFjFSubpc_fctZbR60Uzi4INlvCJfSeFretd21_kmIFpn_67m0d9eGSm-EUSI4X68ekFIYIP9-Qb3h4zph-/s320/authenticity.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the pleasanter tasks of summer is choosing which treats will go in the choose-your-own six-pack at the grocery store to be enjoyed on the deck in the dappled shade later on. We actually found some Coors Banquet Beer bottles in the cooler last week! Have not seen that in a while. If something is well made and has been for a long time, it has an attractive air of authenticity.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Coca-Cola boasts that it's "The Real Thing," but since it went to all HFCS (high fructose corn syrup) as sweetener by 1984, I don't think it's been real since. Or maybe after 1929, when the last traces of cocaine -- or a very similar substance -- were removed. It was, after all, sold as a stimulant, and coca leaf with caffeine is inarguably that. And I remember being very disappointed when real German Lowenbrau was no longer imported, but made by Miller-Coors just using the name under license. Brands sometimes persist like ghosts, seen as having a built-up value, long after the original is gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wbyDlrCsrXKmI4vByDaY4GB7yMuwI_htRGPQJhynhgPwGqJGfw4U2O6ypO2e-iSeJWrseIBpL3NWPa9QIj_WlrVhA0YPL8Awj6wtW3hLrdzjdJlCSlsDveHFK8a9pburwhcXTKTd_loGCTH8QcDzhrICk1f2cwdWdBuyBxxxZ3OP_3rQYRxi7QD7/s400/IMG_2072.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wbyDlrCsrXKmI4vByDaY4GB7yMuwI_htRGPQJhynhgPwGqJGfw4U2O6ypO2e-iSeJWrseIBpL3NWPa9QIj_WlrVhA0YPL8Awj6wtW3hLrdzjdJlCSlsDveHFK8a9pburwhcXTKTd_loGCTH8QcDzhrICk1f2cwdWdBuyBxxxZ3OP_3rQYRxi7QD7/s320/IMG_2072.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> If you have met a cat or baby, you can see that they are drawn to authentic things. Our one-year-old granddaughter just flies to buttons, zippers, paper, container lids and boxes. And the bought cat toys pretty much lie ignored by Blackberry the cat (a natural thing like a </span><span style="font-size: large;">bug has a lot more appeal). </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORaG0Qd8c3NkvkmGV6yNAZMbi_DqIFYvnWbO3qqxXxg7xwrJgeWq8dGKsspJaKed6Z0iv_PwMVToSb33la4eJJAeEsHDPWOIsjhzEwVNVSxoiO2crieN7mHHqErT7NZua96vsIRAeBXv1cDaiPjc1-WeFnC9yBgMnqOzBH8KDyKFin2uOB5jS2jHq/s863/history-header.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="863" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORaG0Qd8c3NkvkmGV6yNAZMbi_DqIFYvnWbO3qqxXxg7xwrJgeWq8dGKsspJaKed6Z0iv_PwMVToSb33la4eJJAeEsHDPWOIsjhzEwVNVSxoiO2crieN7mHHqErT7NZua96vsIRAeBXv1cDaiPjc1-WeFnC9yBgMnqOzBH8KDyKFin2uOB5jS2jHq/s320/history-header.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> We know places become loved to death by mass tourism, and what was originally the draw gradually, then mostly, disappears. It seems that the tropical island of Bonaire is still an authentic place on the globe, with only about 140,000 visitors a year (HersheyPark, in contrast, hosts three million). It is primarily a divers' paradise, not a mega resort spot or a cruise ship destination, without international chain restaurants and the locals operating their own small businesses. Now forget you ever heard of it.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Growing your food, or buying locally produced, and preserving it at home takes planning and deliberate effort, but the feeling of satisfaction (and the taste) is, well, the real Real Thing. We don't have access to a big garden anymore, but do make a lot of jam, applesauce and sometimes pickles to keep that tradition going.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-91812103853855138422022-05-05T20:19:00.003-04:002022-05-05T20:25:33.584-04:00The Puffin, The Piano and the Pirate<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZJDy67At1vhq2-YzQWoMaPjDVP-KIHhoY9hWo44Rfhez5LzObT6yS7wqpTX20myf_QyIsECzZNz7Z9naIyFXgjNTE8cN_ep-pFL82DAQH_sDKNad8aap4LT-QS3KcWJCzB0PEw46ZDEsgV3GtbOPp7l-wowk93r_Y3tN7g3X_h155_8bg_oXLzj4/s1088/186508493_6225674730791616_1851157391878777084_n.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZJDy67At1vhq2-YzQWoMaPjDVP-KIHhoY9hWo44Rfhez5LzObT6yS7wqpTX20myf_QyIsECzZNz7Z9naIyFXgjNTE8cN_ep-pFL82DAQH_sDKNad8aap4LT-QS3KcWJCzB0PEw46ZDEsgV3GtbOPp7l-wowk93r_Y3tN7g3X_h155_8bg_oXLzj4/s320/186508493_6225674730791616_1851157391878777084_n.jpeg" width="318" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">When visiting coastal places with palm trees, we enjoy strolling around marinas. I'd much rather admire estate homes, impressive cars and boats than own one. Boats, especially, live up to their description as "holes in the water to throw money into." But our recent visit to Hilton Head Island brought forth a memory of one day and night I enjoyed of that diamond life.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIN16CWVWmph6eBnFvkX6kfWyCLezwQknoKCE44q8o3fqALmXxTHrsNZmoZuXadc-kGOHQ69ewZCM52m_qXkbI1B1g2oEfqd3CTk74mWdyrRnjDDAungpC9qPU_kNJbzreXkyaqO39ZHCMb0RedVvcEv_rF-skWGX_Pv1jcupKFDlzleAKJNVlWwEv/s640/PuffinPlate.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="640" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIN16CWVWmph6eBnFvkX6kfWyCLezwQknoKCE44q8o3fqALmXxTHrsNZmoZuXadc-kGOHQ69ewZCM52m_qXkbI1B1g2oEfqd3CTk74mWdyrRnjDDAungpC9qPU_kNJbzreXkyaqO39ZHCMb0RedVvcEv_rF-skWGX_Pv1jcupKFDlzleAKJNVlWwEv/s320/PuffinPlate.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> Way back, growing up in suburbia, we had a neighbor family unlike any other around there. Mr. and Mrs. Bill S. and their two daughters had an ordinary home, but on entering you did not see anything like the ordinary: no furniture in the living room except for a gleaming black Steinway piano and a huge black and white photo of a movie pirate. The piano represented the girls' exceptional musical talent (the younger played a gold-plated flute), and the picture told you something essential about Mr. S. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNo6y8pdFyc-Q8bUj36cai6TJRfDPDiZSI6Fi7pkRsdJlPUkZUaeanjg7EjKy4AdYxQ6UAfLZfmnZoPwtDTi8awDftQaZ7VUOD7YRk0OFpYD_PwHN-hTUItZjJ0VBqVxcM8rYNM1BSdTwr97ON2-aJKAxfqt2zRzGpviv40JkWK0Zb9cfK1oJ7ITF_/s885/MV5BNTk5YjVjZmEtMmI3ZS00OWE2LWI1ZWMtNGIzODMxZWFhYzFhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMDU0Mzg3Nw@@._V1_.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="885" data-original-width="708" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNo6y8pdFyc-Q8bUj36cai6TJRfDPDiZSI6Fi7pkRsdJlPUkZUaeanjg7EjKy4AdYxQ6UAfLZfmnZoPwtDTi8awDftQaZ7VUOD7YRk0OFpYD_PwHN-hTUItZjJ0VBqVxcM8rYNM1BSdTwr97ON2-aJKAxfqt2zRzGpviv40JkWK0Zb9cfK1oJ7ITF_/s320/MV5BNTk5YjVjZmEtMmI3ZS00OWE2LWI1ZWMtNGIzODMxZWFhYzFhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMDU0Mzg3Nw@@._V1_.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">From 1969 to January 1974 he owned a legendary ketch (a two-masted yacht) called the Pious Puffin II, built in 1947 at Amsterdam. The previous owner, Josephine Forrestal, widow of the Secretary of the Navy, had purchased it to donate to Bob Jones College of Jacksonville, Florida. It had a short stay there, as two professors tore the 65' masts off under a bridge (here it is languishing, post-accident:)</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdP71A4GMjkEmqSnhnjZ7uKqQWI3IIpxFfwh_Xahm4Pj6eyHYVeVWudN3aSuanLo1fzgXf7NjGmjzzPktJQfWXB5bXslBvm0xL0bAVPCJrySZlIC5HCf9osWv5GZ9GwbJYWt7up3KY6KXxlHqlQyNnYoqQuIWZkhwx3_Jm-RMvs22Sm3UhZFeXv9M/s267/Front.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="267" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdP71A4GMjkEmqSnhnjZ7uKqQWI3IIpxFfwh_Xahm4Pj6eyHYVeVWudN3aSuanLo1fzgXf7NjGmjzzPktJQfWXB5bXslBvm0xL0bAVPCJrySZlIC5HCf9osWv5GZ9GwbJYWt7up3KY6KXxlHqlQyNnYoqQuIWZkhwx3_Jm-RMvs22Sm3UhZFeXv9M/s1600/Front.jpeg" width="267" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Mr. S. bought it for $64,000 to restore and then put the Puffin into charter service. He had operated a marina and could do just about anything (he had a degree in music education, was a jazz drummer, and at this time was a self-employed telephone systems consultant0. But things went awry, as any foreign-hulled boat could not be used as a charter in the U.S. He took the matter to Congress, but the bill was nixed in committee, since the law was clear and the sort-of association with James Forrestal was not enough to make an exception. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Many friends and family enjoyed the magnificent Puffin anyway, with its built-in piano, stained glass, engraved cocktail shakers and room to sleep eleven and three crew. A couple married on her in 1971.My one day and night on her was devoted to work, sanding, polishing and applying pumice paint to the edges of the deck. The Puffin went up and down the East Coast, to Chesapeake Bay and the Caribbean, and I didn't, but it was the coolest anyway.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihucf0o3m9idZPQunH-eUnmXQXn15NQLm9YAILDqmbqpISG8RMHT2KYg0fmxKxe6jK_Coe18dqLkgEP6ZtQ0pCYPbcTbtSQyZDDiI3ZF4n-EkT8NBhosaZAh3r_XJeBdg2X8_OUAg9VszuY09Xn-JuF6ATTfU5KcyYSofgKxVpWdaDXFFkN6tbNa1G/s800/SaleAd1978.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="800" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihucf0o3m9idZPQunH-eUnmXQXn15NQLm9YAILDqmbqpISG8RMHT2KYg0fmxKxe6jK_Coe18dqLkgEP6ZtQ0pCYPbcTbtSQyZDDiI3ZF4n-EkT8NBhosaZAh3r_XJeBdg2X8_OUAg9VszuY09Xn-JuF6ATTfU5KcyYSofgKxVpWdaDXFFkN6tbNa1G/s320/SaleAd1978.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> A couple from Iowa bought the boat to complete the restoration, but there were not sufficient funds left to make their planned around the world sail. It ended its 33-year career as the official Pirate Week vessel at Grand Cayman; it was scrapped in Miami by 1980.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Looking like Errol Flynn, Mr. S. lived, in a way, the life of the pirate on the living room wall. And I will probably never meet anyone like him again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-82652715749377302052022-04-13T12:20:00.003-04:002022-04-13T12:24:45.431-04:00"The Greatest Liar on Earth"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfE_CZVR5HmTgh_ktuscCqFahc9DDM0Nx9OOHOq7-x90Hz77ETTBOTG7jTDLbLjpmuqasLWc65Fsf604YSvkprv5qeacyMslgJBYivJFyE81M1yaoPQTFlRYmXRSeRgr7z-pf16WaeYn-yBn8xalFMR1BAQFzx8avdYsyagUHCqFByDzGlj-vTlG4g/s835/john_hance_shrine_of_the_ages_grand_canyon_a_course_in_dying.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="835" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfE_CZVR5HmTgh_ktuscCqFahc9DDM0Nx9OOHOq7-x90Hz77ETTBOTG7jTDLbLjpmuqasLWc65Fsf604YSvkprv5qeacyMslgJBYivJFyE81M1yaoPQTFlRYmXRSeRgr7z-pf16WaeYn-yBn8xalFMR1BAQFzx8avdYsyagUHCqFByDzGlj-vTlG4g/s320/john_hance_shrine_of_the_ages_grand_canyon_a_course_in_dying.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(No, not the Mean Tangerine and his gang of mendacious morons. They should remember what Dean Wormer said: "Loud and stupid is no way to go through life, son.")</span></i><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">John Hance was born into a family of fifteen in Tennessee in 1838. Things did not go really well for him earlier in life. After joining the Confederate army, he was captured, imprisoned in the awful Alton, Illinois camp but was fortunately exchanged. He headed West with Wild Bill Hickok's brother as a teamster and scout and escaped death again after being wounded three times in brush-ups with native Americans. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">John then went prospecting, but like most, found pretty much nothing. Did he finally give up? Not at all -- he headed to the Grand Canyon and built a legend for himself as he became a guide and host for visitors. Theodore Roosevelt was so amused by Hance's tall tales while exploring the trails in 1903 he bestowed that "Greatest Liar" title. Well deserved: two that are remembered was that he claimed to have dug the Canyon by himself, and that his horse could fly over it on top of the fog. If he was not used by Mark Twin as a model for a character, he should have been.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy-rSHwccUBbWF1l6fEyqo8ZqL2Hn4ut40GpgvWarKfoFlupGhpuxVHGkt4bZGmyqdMnnV0IjA9b0ezMqVYuDAHHi4Ibd5l1EKNZoKN2VQC3Sg8zuxLJ6J_sDK2zy71wtA072J4IqMa_ohrlgoMhMROgy1-48yMfgJa_owlUqdUJF7I0nCsgaO4vP/s1200/shrine_of_the_ages_grand_canyon_a_course_in_dying_46.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy-rSHwccUBbWF1l6fEyqo8ZqL2Hn4ut40GpgvWarKfoFlupGhpuxVHGkt4bZGmyqdMnnV0IjA9b0ezMqVYuDAHHi4Ibd5l1EKNZoKN2VQC3Sg8zuxLJ6J_sDK2zy71wtA072J4IqMa_ohrlgoMhMROgy1-48yMfgJa_owlUqdUJF7I0nCsgaO4vP/s320/shrine_of_the_ages_grand_canyon_a_course_in_dying_46.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span>John's last home was a cabin at the beginning of the Bright Angel Trail. He was the first person interred, in 1919, in the Grand Canyon Pioneer Cemetery. Would that we had someone like him in the news today.</span></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF9Z82_N8a27M5YDKBlkAcNlzi3CPi7Fsq65z_W1R760msFwFGcKxLFetWEiZkZqtyIPyueXxYhLFsl_0Gs1JiKOuXMuY8exvex3CZUJvwoLOwQLtufZuJsmbtxQFMOEdU8A-oHH-izyUQM2R7_fa1j9syzq-zdrvuHf-poBX6KKusV4YlMzTLN36/s759/ArtBeal.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF9Z82_N8a27M5YDKBlkAcNlzi3CPi7Fsq65z_W1R760msFwFGcKxLFetWEiZkZqtyIPyueXxYhLFsl_0Gs1JiKOuXMuY8exvex3CZUJvwoLOwQLtufZuJsmbtxQFMOEdU8A-oHH-izyUQM2R7_fa1j9syzq-zdrvuHf-poBX6KKusV4YlMzTLN36/s320/ArtBeal.jpeg" width="211" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p> Reclusive artist Arthur Harold Beal, another endearing eccentric, left behind a more tangible legend in the form of gigantic folk art. In 1928 he purchased a steep tract in Cambria, California, and spent the next fifty years building Nitt Witt Ridge, a sprawling "castle on the hill" using only manual tools. It was made of wood, concrete, car parts, appliance parts, stone, cans, shells and beach debris, and supposedly parts of the nearby Hearst Castle where he is said to have worked for a time.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIROqgeyo0R1ol7yKhC7gp4mpRK8ud9ILMOPiL600hZTjluEK7WXYjmLGL2Bz5hi9Ubia5Frk4X2GGxtO2fl4WDN7kWG_kHeaC1M73kaPSLLPGxlUjq5QE7TJHJjwdHVFPKf1LmdnUUXCpccAGN1xa_nZgbfcLPgeBQBFCVRsoIjP5iDkRi5Fek8MK/s1439/Nitwit_Ridge,_Cambria.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1011" data-original-width="1439" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIROqgeyo0R1ol7yKhC7gp4mpRK8ud9ILMOPiL600hZTjluEK7WXYjmLGL2Bz5hi9Ubia5Frk4X2GGxtO2fl4WDN7kWG_kHeaC1M73kaPSLLPGxlUjq5QE7TJHJjwdHVFPKf1LmdnUUXCpccAGN1xa_nZgbfcLPgeBQBFCVRsoIjP5iDkRi5Fek8MK/s320/Nitwit_Ridge,_Cambria.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Neglected and vandalized for seven years after his death in the early 1990s, it was bought and opened for tours. Today Nitt Witt Ridge is a California Historical Landmark. So Beal finally attained some respectability and stature, things he probably could have cared less about!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-14814046490111492422022-03-25T14:52:00.001-04:002022-03-25T14:52:21.619-04:00For Twenty Four Centuries<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUMQlYwylXkxAIzu1k5xd8aO-8L4N8Dw3npKdqnZ8mlSsxNOULPiqLuhZN2Y3lBG87pdLFtQFkQi21-yqkJKq_W9lTgnBu_eKFEpdsKe4eK82h1ariGsUfPuzWwLuQ5pW1OemJz8YyIfsgLnJvNWBHDeZPB_maLfk4Z9w13DXmh9H9s8wTDrPZnSo/s1024/tumblr_b8d13949d40e2ff7920873d0bfeca3b9_f1d9b2b2_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUMQlYwylXkxAIzu1k5xd8aO-8L4N8Dw3npKdqnZ8mlSsxNOULPiqLuhZN2Y3lBG87pdLFtQFkQi21-yqkJKq_W9lTgnBu_eKFEpdsKe4eK82h1ariGsUfPuzWwLuQ5pW1OemJz8YyIfsgLnJvNWBHDeZPB_maLfk4Z9w13DXmh9H9s8wTDrPZnSo/s320/tumblr_b8d13949d40e2ff7920873d0bfeca3b9_f1d9b2b2_1280.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"My intellectual desire is to escape life as I know it and dream myself into that old world..."</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">George Gissing, successful 19th Century British novelist (23 books in 23 years), had reasons for finding comfort in nostalgia for the ancient world. Two miserable marriages and expulsion from the college he had worked so hard to attend, as well as ill health, made a trip to the lands of Magna Grecia in far southern Italy a tempting diversion. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeG5LH4hOs0XE63SflDzrng5H5uiQQjoyCFL46_jxP8TcYbqp0IvqwaZiDBK_r07V6it_OKXrmqJHPSnGQ_X2NA5Yb4MetYGlmQJdnGzejSmmHEMXRVPCD8v93V446AhQuqNa0R4MtVBrJE8pdzL31ksHQnREiKjAiXzsj1GKQxehkqBj3xJL02c4/s566/carte_crotone_ok.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="566" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeG5LH4hOs0XE63SflDzrng5H5uiQQjoyCFL46_jxP8TcYbqp0IvqwaZiDBK_r07V6it_OKXrmqJHPSnGQ_X2NA5Yb4MetYGlmQJdnGzejSmmHEMXRVPCD8v93V446AhQuqNa0R4MtVBrJE8pdzL31ksHQnREiKjAiXzsj1GKQxehkqBj3xJL02c4/s320/carte_crotone_ok.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">His final goal was to visit the sole remaining fragment of the largest temple built in the old Greek colonies, that of Hera Lacinia, at Capo Colonna, the easternmost point of the Calabrian peninsula. The temple had endured from the 5th Century B.C. until the 17th Century, before it was ignominiously dismantled for use in building projects in nearby Cortone. But disappointment dogged Gissing, who had become too ill with malarial fever to go beyond a sight of the lone Doric column in the distance. He did, however, leave a fine account of his travels, <i>By The Ionian Sea</i>, published just two years before his death in 1903. It is still currently available, fortunately, in several reprints. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4X1YdDgZ8glZG7o6NvuiG9PDjRxn9bYFKc5UbN0mZfjcPDLaPbDfqaQzegxl_RWDp7l-KTlYoL1_dc3I8sR0eglMjZKVWl9LmurD1VCBxw7IiroMiFGRxvnWbO-84Gd6Gi5o5hAigXseLGde4Cfkz-z4gYLKfDBbAP8tDFyc7o0uQVSUDkzAzyUZ/s1024/tumblr_0f7c2c1e3c20d66dfa6b39a113d934ea_871b1e74_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="1024" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4X1YdDgZ8glZG7o6NvuiG9PDjRxn9bYFKc5UbN0mZfjcPDLaPbDfqaQzegxl_RWDp7l-KTlYoL1_dc3I8sR0eglMjZKVWl9LmurD1VCBxw7IiroMiFGRxvnWbO-84Gd6Gi5o5hAigXseLGde4Cfkz-z4gYLKfDBbAP8tDFyc7o0uQVSUDkzAzyUZ/s320/tumblr_0f7c2c1e3c20d66dfa6b39a113d934ea_871b1e74_1280.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">An excavation in 1910 revealed a good many objects from the vanished temple of surprising artistic quality; above is a gold diadem that crowned the statue of Hera. While it seems impossible that it was not looted long ago, ancient coins showing it in place on the statue seem to prove its authenticity. Votive offerings also found, now in the local archaeological museum, were far above the level of the usual terracotta or minor jewelry items:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigI1UnP9px3F_ZPhsgX8aqeQmP9myKitzMe--nnYYvR3MViWTCIwggbwFTGgZbaLDzEeRYZyttLqkdqRwVwU1QiDyRbrtvSwwa0EEg94rlGX6QhTextfb6VSy0Ja5uL8zf2Nqk-kTBCyZ1jQXnEu2UGM9z2QQq1URKAR6MxL_2j_a5prDgWwqu0r7/s1121/tumblr_68473e46062e3bcaf24ae117bddc4a00_71623b67_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="1121" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigI1UnP9px3F_ZPhsgX8aqeQmP9myKitzMe--nnYYvR3MViWTCIwggbwFTGgZbaLDzEeRYZyttLqkdqRwVwU1QiDyRbrtvSwwa0EEg94rlGX6QhTextfb6VSy0Ja5uL8zf2Nqk-kTBCyZ1jQXnEu2UGM9z2QQq1URKAR6MxL_2j_a5prDgWwqu0r7/s320/tumblr_68473e46062e3bcaf24ae117bddc4a00_71623b67_1280.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfge8hS9Cdm_IimUrjVrnEor1gp4QEGxlPVZ-F7tolb0pwoGe6NgtFuhCehOImLQPFUjq4GUoFmNG_X0_VsAByhfWzz_--X0igjasdo3hBY3hw2553375QFzScSCTRSiPh9DEGmuushe10batzQNkHsy0NqCHGcSV-ht4odgJZpVrEWqi80qvSz1FT/s1044/tumblr_9f168b3e026e1e141ea8b587f810412e_062aff56_1280.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfge8hS9Cdm_IimUrjVrnEor1gp4QEGxlPVZ-F7tolb0pwoGe6NgtFuhCehOImLQPFUjq4GUoFmNG_X0_VsAByhfWzz_--X0igjasdo3hBY3hw2553375QFzScSCTRSiPh9DEGmuushe10batzQNkHsy0NqCHGcSV-ht4odgJZpVrEWqi80qvSz1FT/s320/tumblr_9f168b3e026e1e141ea8b587f810412e_062aff56_1280.jpeg" width="294" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> A 1095 review in <i>The Nation </i>stated "The book is worth reading from beginning to end." Rather faint praise. But like the stalwart temple column, Gissing's work will stand the test of time.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-61081701612423675602022-03-18T21:52:00.001-04:002022-03-18T21:52:25.771-04:00I Want To Believe<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLCguYbkHzoCMrY93dQS5nmTKk4q1Uv9lwsrtCNl1MMOGQygWM4dS_Ysa-C8JQuxF0mJzd_EAqnHpJgam2dVRdz74fucEoQGqm0HbejmeeUmPjcRtgdBt2pc08wUy1o9Dghu9jfXWuoQvW7h5zCfPH1SpLNr6Ts-UgOylCBtdH_znuQRXklb511lam=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="929" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLCguYbkHzoCMrY93dQS5nmTKk4q1Uv9lwsrtCNl1MMOGQygWM4dS_Ysa-C8JQuxF0mJzd_EAqnHpJgam2dVRdz74fucEoQGqm0HbejmeeUmPjcRtgdBt2pc08wUy1o9Dghu9jfXWuoQvW7h5zCfPH1SpLNr6Ts-UgOylCBtdH_znuQRXklb511lam=s320" width="248" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">People want to be fooled. The fun ways include April Fool's jokes, magic acts, haunted house attractions, and movie magic (heroes, fantastical superheroes and action-adventures). Other situations are dangerous, morally ambiguous or just a waste of money: carnival sideshows, patent quack medicines, mass scams and speculative bubbles like the South Seas and tulip hysterias, and more recently the 1920's stock market and the 2008 real estate blowup. And many do fall for telephone and e-mail frauds because it just may be that this time you win and get something for little or nothing. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgapceLY9PR6QrLKMmudAzZ79VLNAa82NDvGKdpnAeuL-4Nus4Q0ZmL0RahuNZWiOKDEopYI8y4s2jXWxvr16C5fbjvoBhiKpsxGUt7t2QvjaeC7EPfeiidI3rs-GqJO7wQYDZ4s5xZsu4zsjC2XkzVBfdOCKIdZino84DHFmpRSS3wX8T1xhjmLbE_=s378" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="378" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgapceLY9PR6QrLKMmudAzZ79VLNAa82NDvGKdpnAeuL-4Nus4Q0ZmL0RahuNZWiOKDEopYI8y4s2jXWxvr16C5fbjvoBhiKpsxGUt7t2QvjaeC7EPfeiidI3rs-GqJO7wQYDZ4s5xZsu4zsjC2XkzVBfdOCKIdZino84DHFmpRSS3wX8T1xhjmLbE_=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Shamans and priests throughout history have leveraged knowledge of mysteries, herbs and hallucinogens to gull generations. People <i>really </i>want to believe that sort of thing. Psychopaths are highly skilled in fooling and manipulating others; even the educated and savvy can fail to detect one in time, or at all. They can take a lot more than your money, as any viewer of <i>Dateline </i>is aware.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Psychopathic dictators and strongmen can fool masses of people to reach for their guns and act completely against their own interests. Such people want a strong leader in total control who will defend them from imagined enemies and allow them to escape mundane reality by roiling in emotion. Easy to fool people consumed by fear and absolute conviction. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRIUQJpX1xNPzf99YMtqCTVL8QyB_KWjjwVRT8cUXhTyokLPk6eDdG8MUFCstyeJM4LMcr2ugPi7p6xsFQMGhzGFnIle4obPMe8IXXJEmLNmyryY0YG2Bj-STqClJo09kpptV70kIGRPh6fcCke73UyrCLackX_tL3obqieDCPIyze2Q352aOvaJ-5=s700" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRIUQJpX1xNPzf99YMtqCTVL8QyB_KWjjwVRT8cUXhTyokLPk6eDdG8MUFCstyeJM4LMcr2ugPi7p6xsFQMGhzGFnIle4obPMe8IXXJEmLNmyryY0YG2Bj-STqClJo09kpptV70kIGRPh6fcCke73UyrCLackX_tL3obqieDCPIyze2Q352aOvaJ-5=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> They hate educators and "experts" (after they're told to) because they do not want their dreams, hopes and beliefs to be discredited by the facts. They badly want to be fooled.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As another blogger advised so well: <i>Act rationally in an irrational world.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDYpeAJr5oc6VKMlPluj3rhBUk2BXrtZ3261PXfZ_a2aMDuQl26DlhZyU7x2H6vf-nrhl0nQHXRfadDMUwxY-V_0VRM3_oez9NKiJrFLJ91qAUG6yoYihBQ89dpRPFL3mQm_d3bxMmmVzTzbk_iaV7mDt75g48Q5-mDQDiAVMc6CdH52iIw7qrVAC9=s278" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="182" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDYpeAJr5oc6VKMlPluj3rhBUk2BXrtZ3261PXfZ_a2aMDuQl26DlhZyU7x2H6vf-nrhl0nQHXRfadDMUwxY-V_0VRM3_oez9NKiJrFLJ91qAUG6yoYihBQ89dpRPFL3mQm_d3bxMmmVzTzbk_iaV7mDt75g48Q5-mDQDiAVMc6CdH52iIw7qrVAC9" width="182" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-28249856695660369512022-02-24T12:51:00.003-05:002022-02-24T12:51:45.122-05:00Fools' Gambit<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfhyyiPMiNNKLngB4a3cuGZxz4drkLrW5Ok4CIoGZsdjHsKAytYfVuiZWAXuXiX0zCfstMm-SOPgbUVbem1pP1xsiI15J3HHKEU5AVuFa3nWwI_NbTsRfB2fL9eh2u91BzM1wurUNWms-LrlWD3hleY21q0vvfrDj9aAlnqq-ffh8DFN_sL1ERAEgA=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfhyyiPMiNNKLngB4a3cuGZxz4drkLrW5Ok4CIoGZsdjHsKAytYfVuiZWAXuXiX0zCfstMm-SOPgbUVbem1pP1xsiI15J3HHKEU5AVuFa3nWwI_NbTsRfB2fL9eh2u91BzM1wurUNWms-LrlWD3hleY21q0vvfrDj9aAlnqq-ffh8DFN_sL1ERAEgA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today is the 50th anniversary of President Nixon's visit to open up China and welcome it into the world community. Unlike other grim anniversaries such as 12/7/41 and 9/11/01, it was not a call for unity but just an unnecessary surrender in advance. "The U.S.president put himself in the position of supplicant to Beijing. Chinese state media said a prosperous China would be a peaceful China, and it would be a huge market for American exports." (June Dreyer of the U. of Miami)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But the exact reverse happened. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Domestic big business saw a large untapped market in China as well as a source of very cheap outsourced labor. Nixon thought he could pry China away from the Soviet Union (they had a little tiff going) and possibly get some cooperation in ending the Vietnam War, in addition to advancing those big business dreams. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What we got instead was a disastrous trade imbalance in China's favor, closed manufacturing plants, loss of jobs and hope in cities and rural areas, and a tsunami of inexpensive low-quality goods that do not last. My grandparents had several Vornado floor fans, built like tanks, for the summer. They worked for decades. Now all you can find is Chinese-made ones that are wobbly plastic contraptions whose switches will fail in a few months, and are of course unrepairable. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNNIMHDSqJJx-7bYTppAV-srjK0UYCXyf7ZNkBesJsUuFrIHyiGbSytdVyO_V2otf5Mdu2jYCD8RhhrYnPZ2kJoxHc124QrescvWGCBabIKqULNgtMYhecL9ftnUMH_w5x8mYonOZ49nNRhMJLfWCOSX6wKX2Djk7zh-oq1b2y62JbYmtXa2uC2EPn=s960" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="960" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNNIMHDSqJJx-7bYTppAV-srjK0UYCXyf7ZNkBesJsUuFrIHyiGbSytdVyO_V2otf5Mdu2jYCD8RhhrYnPZ2kJoxHc124QrescvWGCBabIKqULNgtMYhecL9ftnUMH_w5x8mYonOZ49nNRhMJLfWCOSX6wKX2Djk7zh-oq1b2y62JbYmtXa2uC2EPn=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> And there seems to be no way out now. In answer to Trump's retaliatory tariffs, China put the brakes on American grain imports, devastating the Midwest. I saw this myself on the Mississippi River, where loading stations were deserted and barges, normally following each other closely, were nowhere to be seen. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In 1972, China was divided by its Cultural Revolution and despite saber-rattling was not a credible regional threat. Now they have a large, very modern Navy and Air Force -- and guess who paid for it. Masters of the long game, after 72 years Taiwan and the South China Sea are easily within their grasp.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFgWi0poMolWM7k12wPw9Ct6Om731WK93rPC8SjS9SLDl0bQlx50BlF90PwTrAaQ5vxXdTGL0HD6vkIFIZAr2DSXUsCNMXU44orLXcDk_qe5FfVwt9UM-Ny26_Yw3T_QATqoVaMLBzYkjQKTOPZW4Z-naurOkezsSUxMOxBhSOqJkJ18i_LSPvZ13s=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="1200" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFgWi0poMolWM7k12wPw9Ct6Om731WK93rPC8SjS9SLDl0bQlx50BlF90PwTrAaQ5vxXdTGL0HD6vkIFIZAr2DSXUsCNMXU44orLXcDk_qe5FfVwt9UM-Ny26_Yw3T_QATqoVaMLBzYkjQKTOPZW4Z-naurOkezsSUxMOxBhSOqJkJ18i_LSPvZ13s=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Like hornet nests and sleeping junkyard dogs, some things are best left alone. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-66011763016525403082022-02-09T20:37:00.001-05:002022-02-09T20:37:19.553-05:00"The Verb 'to be' Never Takes an Object"<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgziGRnr6kSHccodyA1xTXXYInsoGGWW89oCjXnw0vvKfB9CMBzVzBA2-GivyWR77sPvNU1GKCxsPEMusA1oJ-8GD117rQ_f-SH8YgJXOVgmAhnEioFhz61e4SP-hMos3QOXRv9tmCOxr4Gqqv3QwjRi5YiEO4Ku8Aj9LRwUvS8O713XKATYSLC6Adk=s300" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="300" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgziGRnr6kSHccodyA1xTXXYInsoGGWW89oCjXnw0vvKfB9CMBzVzBA2-GivyWR77sPvNU1GKCxsPEMusA1oJ-8GD117rQ_f-SH8YgJXOVgmAhnEioFhz61e4SP-hMos3QOXRv9tmCOxr4Gqqv3QwjRi5YiEO4Ku8Aj9LRwUvS8O713XKATYSLC6Adk" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"What we do not call education is more precious than that which we call so."</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Emerson</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We recently picked up a copy of this book at the local library sale, and it brought two thoughts to mind. The first was, where you when I needed you? If I had gone through this thoroughly in high school, how much easier and clearer those English classes would have been. You <i>need</i> context to learn something. Emerson again: "No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning." </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjII8PWAxoQAlzhvCIhR2yIavOLuVFN4q-7m4u10-3rB6r9eRKTb0gzL0LPFDweKMkQHNLm-IXXdqFM38U2g8kb1DkKzbnjWXJ32iCNBTr5Wc6dJIfeHY6qUW46dsp5ZmM2SZNw8mveOFbIgKFuRRtq-LLUPnjVFbBnQbvprXdkEqBGOlJ2s1vJgSRE=s500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjII8PWAxoQAlzhvCIhR2yIavOLuVFN4q-7m4u10-3rB6r9eRKTb0gzL0LPFDweKMkQHNLm-IXXdqFM38U2g8kb1DkKzbnjWXJ32iCNBTr5Wc6dJIfeHY6qUW46dsp5ZmM2SZNw8mveOFbIgKFuRRtq-LLUPnjVFbBnQbvprXdkEqBGOlJ2s1vJgSRE=s320" width="218" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The second thought was, what moments or books or teachers stand out in your memories of formal education (after all these years)? That one is easy for me. Mrs. Neidermayer at Tuckahoe Junior High School, who said emphatically that if we took one thing from her English class it should be that rule about the verb 'to be.' Her combination of sternness and self-deprecating humor endeared her to my immature little heart. Although Mrs. N didn't know it, she also launched me on a lifelong (so far) interest in the origin and meaning of sur- and place-names when she said her own name meant "lowland farmer." I had no idea at the time that names meant anything or so often have fascinating histories. Go ahead, ask me what the -ez ending on Hispanic names means.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I also remember Dr. See and Dr. Blake fondly from college -- and almost no one else except for the Art History professor whose class was nothing but a treat. Jansen's<i> History of Art</i>, the large and expensive textbook, was the only one of all those in four years I should have kept forever. But, I had to sell it in order to eat that week. At least one thing I had learned by then was to be pragmatic. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The best textbook I <i>do</i> have, though, also acquired a few months ago at the library sale, is an 1871 volume, <i>A Brief History of the United States</i>. I haven't seen all U.S. history texts, of course, but I doubt it has been surpassed. Not many of us will re-read any of our old schoolbooks, ever, but I'll probably go through it again one of these days. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, Mrs. Neidermayer, wherever you are, know that your work was appreciated and lives on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-67396835601485089652022-02-02T15:15:00.004-05:002022-02-02T15:16:52.546-05:00More Jibber-Jabber<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEine9Wi4jrIKNqeZAOwtoy3PSE_ZRvh0aMyPxGh1CPMk10vons6m2XS2nA32OftISi7MkBHBH_odj6K1wxWN-vKR3OU1O0JH6lifSwbrExBTVGO8G273Pk6nqS0eWZZACZdxdKpr5Kg-fxSBBVmYgyMkDM2WNIk4v_g2TMumhjPMEkJTT2UhGBs8X_r=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEine9Wi4jrIKNqeZAOwtoy3PSE_ZRvh0aMyPxGh1CPMk10vons6m2XS2nA32OftISi7MkBHBH_odj6K1wxWN-vKR3OU1O0JH6lifSwbrExBTVGO8G273Pk6nqS0eWZZACZdxdKpr5Kg-fxSBBVmYgyMkDM2WNIk4v_g2TMumhjPMEkJTT2UhGBs8X_r=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">272 words -- that's all of the Gettysburg Address. The previous orator went on for two hours. Who better said what the occasion called for?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No lesson learned, though: today's fresh hell is <i>podcasts</i>. Easily available technology has enabled over two million more gasbags to be broadcasting than we ever needed. And the U.S. has about half of the worldwide listeners. I'll admit there are many more blogs, but they're not the hot thing anymore (as this one with between 10 and 20 readers proves). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe Rogan's is the number one 'cast, but he's just another in a long line of radio shock jocks like Stern and Limbaugh back to Father Coughlin. Same drivel, different package. The others in the top five are more intelligent, so we can take some comfort in that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Beyond being another form of self-expression, there is money in this. Podcast ads work: $2 billion in revenue last year, and 60% of listeners bought something.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQeEYwbZIvHt14LN0N3dv53HO1BqGZ493E2UFipOeDsminaGE_P1fOyHpZs2LmSNAfQh96vu7wQ7MJtXg1wup9vfXkTmdCFB_MNzuW0oy-n7DU1RYCBDr1WZaRJDHpv-35UJFMt4HWXak4wL6Bmuq8Jen0oWk5Vd9xjN1fFdBjjFIzzf6m50KUaebq=s1000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQeEYwbZIvHt14LN0N3dv53HO1BqGZ493E2UFipOeDsminaGE_P1fOyHpZs2LmSNAfQh96vu7wQ7MJtXg1wup9vfXkTmdCFB_MNzuW0oy-n7DU1RYCBDr1WZaRJDHpv-35UJFMt4HWXak4wL6Bmuq8Jen0oWk5Vd9xjN1fFdBjjFIzzf6m50KUaebq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">TED Talks are wisely limited to 18 minutes in length, enough time to make your point without going on and on. Some of what are overlong and pointless: sports talking heads, the screaming money guy, evangelists, and chat shows like "The View" and the many morning and late night ones on each network. And...infomercials,<i> looonng</i> home improvement company ads, and almost everyone you see texting and talking on their smart phones beyond any reasonable need. Of course, people are free to speak and to listen to all this, but I can't understand why.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg0Z5hLBfQgtRECaLoIPgR8qb3NAS_08KvKyuWs-2WG3aVSkf_MmiyyBFC5krgD8uQidN4M7V4-LTdDVlPd1CU7XKN6TmkQzb_G9iAjzqOi3POjN0QcjM1URVoldxgRrMZ2fa8MGV7gcmpwG8FSZ2PifzC1B34ytJArN-JYXfa3trrKbo5gdht2XGJ=s300" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg0Z5hLBfQgtRECaLoIPgR8qb3NAS_08KvKyuWs-2WG3aVSkf_MmiyyBFC5krgD8uQidN4M7V4-LTdDVlPd1CU7XKN6TmkQzb_G9iAjzqOi3POjN0QcjM1URVoldxgRrMZ2fa8MGV7gcmpwG8FSZ2PifzC1B34ytJArN-JYXfa3trrKbo5gdht2XGJ" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> I am going to do my part and shut up now.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-8123497496789804582022-01-29T14:24:00.002-05:002022-01-29T14:27:10.280-05:00Escape Velocity<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo71SgB97AtXYW3_9t_cmMsZ1FdyM6ILHCzRUp1Xk3V1Qxrz47n0mfMEvB9usN4W9ITwbez-4eO3tzU9F1EfLjBekPqojGdZ3fGIjacx9AKF4PBgNGdzxwvy5iAIpQ5Sn3JG3ppNYqCe_zedubJvybZKkgjKKnACmp-J8DJtLRYmwwlRD8FkwqYRhf=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo71SgB97AtXYW3_9t_cmMsZ1FdyM6ILHCzRUp1Xk3V1Qxrz47n0mfMEvB9usN4W9ITwbez-4eO3tzU9F1EfLjBekPqojGdZ3fGIjacx9AKF4PBgNGdzxwvy5iAIpQ5Sn3JG3ppNYqCe_zedubJvybZKkgjKKnACmp-J8DJtLRYmwwlRD8FkwqYRhf=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was nearly midnight, and while an episode of "Rumpole of the Bailey" murmured on the Talking Pictures television channel, Richard Troup, M.D. retired, was lost in a very pleasant daydream though day was long over. He had put a deposit down on a holiday in the eastern Mediterranean, where he would soon be on a terrace overlooking the Aegean from Rhodes, the water a kaleidoscope of unnameable blues and greens, with just the right sprinkling of jolly cotton-white clouds drifting by. He would make the acquaintance of an olive-complected lady, worldly, distant, even dismissive at first. One could see in her visage the heredity of centuries: Greek, Roman, Anatolian, maybe some ancient Phoenician. Things to guess, not to know.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The phone was ringing, rudely evaporating his reverie. <i>What now? </i>A distressed-sounding son Arthur needed him, he said, and could he bring a certain sum of cash? He gave the location to meet but no further explanation. Click. <i>No lawyers or guns? </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There was, of course, only one source of cash (not only at this hour but due to circumstances Richard faced these days after the divorce): the holiday fund. He <i>was</i> going to enjoy spending it on a delightful trip since, as it had been built up from his cash-paying private patients, and neither ex-wife nor the Revenue had any knowledge of it. One had to keep some things for one's self. <i>Well, maybe not.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Next door, Mrs. Swann was also up unusually late due to the Agatha Christie in her hands. There was little point in going to bed before the ending -- how could there be any sleep! Neighbor Dr. Troup's headlights swept an arc by the window. <i>What could that be about? </i>she thought, always on the alert for an intriguing story. Turning her attention back to the old paperback, she would at least find out what the deadly party guest was really up to. Mrs. Swann had been up to something herself, with a mortifying, but not mortal, result.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdK8rsCObQHWBoSzMtv0bL5QNHSM-CyoQRg951Qajpxz_C58oE-nusyOq-KJH5wmVfzlqOIwC5V3kgmJxZu0hI-DQnIof-Wol185mVuXnqN1oh1m2BegIJSlh9zEd8jyQ572d72iE5EkmCm2A0zm-YF4Avk9FCASvzhy80n3sgAiRypVWg35QxBoBT=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdK8rsCObQHWBoSzMtv0bL5QNHSM-CyoQRg951Qajpxz_C58oE-nusyOq-KJH5wmVfzlqOIwC5V3kgmJxZu0hI-DQnIof-Wol185mVuXnqN1oh1m2BegIJSlh9zEd8jyQ572d72iE5EkmCm2A0zm-YF4Avk9FCASvzhy80n3sgAiRypVWg35QxBoBT=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Upon Richard's arrival at the old church he drily called Our Lady of Modest Aspirations, the man present (who most closely resembled a potato) explained the situation while Arthur kept silent and fiancee Helena glared. Arthur, a freelance advertising rep for several local publications by day, ardently pursued his passion, a music career, at most other times. He had recently convinced this promoter (instant relief at this revelation -- not a kidnapper, drug dealer or loan shark) that he would bring enough of a crowd to bigger venues beyond Cranleigh village -- Barnstable and Woking, for example, then on to London -- to make an investment in him worthwhile. <i>Ever the salesman! </i>thought Richard. The crowds had not appeared.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I should have known better, even with a signed contract; I'll admit it. But I'm out a considerable amount. Considerable. You can make it -- some of it, anyway -- good or I can go public with a civil suit. My lawyer has had these want-to-bes for breakfast before."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Richard, after a frozen moment of hesitation, handed over a thick envelope. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Well call it even, then," the potato allowed. "Best not to say another word, all of us."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After a straight gaze lasting several seconds directed at Arthur, the promoter got in his small van and headed back home, smacking both his forehead and the steering wheel.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I am beyond embarrassed," Arthur said to his father. "And I just wrecked everything, Hels. I'm so sorry."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, you are! And don't call me 'Hels' ever again! I hate it. Better -- don't call me again at all." She would have thrown her engagement ring in his face before she stomped over to Richard's car, if she'd had one. <i>It looks like none of us is going anywhere but home.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXiHxK80ffGpsp88xQfgVFGw58Ux61EJR7DIp_HGU1DNHcYTwRLGE5D27nhlVk5Zz79ZT-BfmFSdFNZMUGcLBBwi-F61IIpnLub7rLcytfXZJv8nhQxTDo81bKuE7Ps6Eg6wBtDRpuBbwEpZGFjQyWsEg_Z6CSGfqiof1Or-uaC8y4tJffXCKOw4zc=s4000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2666" data-original-width="4000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXiHxK80ffGpsp88xQfgVFGw58Ux61EJR7DIp_HGU1DNHcYTwRLGE5D27nhlVk5Zz79ZT-BfmFSdFNZMUGcLBBwi-F61IIpnLub7rLcytfXZJv8nhQxTDo81bKuE7Ps6Eg6wBtDRpuBbwEpZGFjQyWsEg_Z6CSGfqiof1Or-uaC8y4tJffXCKOw4zc=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Mr. Swann, retired from HM Revenue and Customs, happily spent time working on the detailed Waterloo diorama which had taken over the den and at The Richard Onslow with his mates. The silence around the house discomfited his wife not so much in itself, but did allow for too much solitary time for regret. After years at the newspaper writing articles that quickly ended up in dustbins, she, in retirement, finally finished her mystery novel (with some added romance threaded in) and her agent got to a publisher. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then the roof fell in, or so it felt. Her manuscript was rejected; some junior reader there found it was too similar to one of Emma Frances Dawson's short stories. She could not argue her case. It was. The rare, obscure 19th Century volume she had found in a village used bookstore should not have been known to anyone anymore. What luck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mrs. Swann had an even grander plan than a big city book signing or two. With the proceeds from what she was sure would be at least a modest success, she was going to visit a good friend from youth who was now living in Queensland. Tropical trees, flowers and birds...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Having to tell her husband she was not going to be published (carefully editing out the reason why), or going to Queensland, was deflating.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Well, we can all just enjoy who we are where we are," was Mr. Swann's honest attempt at comfort. <i>Ugh. Old Sartre got it right.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBSWV_9LmUMA4iRQW6Cq0E1bWURLqhl1PPcEl_YDKQeo7dJhVJiWgfGG3cEjZOZEE2zyDjNNhhdI8TpqePWJhtIF5BC8bo9I0f4rvATJIKebfQFQxKrsFyShFiwxpYHIPA5wdwnLqbKalWnbIN3PceUAil-U8H2eL4t4WfTYg8zbO7-i1b1rktvbj7=s357" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="357" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBSWV_9LmUMA4iRQW6Cq0E1bWURLqhl1PPcEl_YDKQeo7dJhVJiWgfGG3cEjZOZEE2zyDjNNhhdI8TpqePWJhtIF5BC8bo9I0f4rvATJIKebfQFQxKrsFyShFiwxpYHIPA5wdwnLqbKalWnbIN3PceUAil-U8H2eL4t4WfTYg8zbO7-i1b1rktvbj7=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-24073513078308906252022-01-20T20:27:00.005-05:002022-01-20T20:30:34.126-05:00Warrior Princess<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxHZz6S3tLRj2Za4DN3WJbmwdZAAH8GpUcfQiTZpN8-NByg55R7QtV-Y_VeN3Z6bkY3OP1bDGFvbQd_HwnlT5Onwx9b_tSS_YqrEuOpuwFUNOCeqT9uAHp_WHGRRsvqN6NA8d2F7lpgTYReq7DL_DAFM0kaWxEQQ1IBE6REO-3TfVxHwOEpyT6y5tD=s264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="200" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxHZz6S3tLRj2Za4DN3WJbmwdZAAH8GpUcfQiTZpN8-NByg55R7QtV-Y_VeN3Z6bkY3OP1bDGFvbQd_HwnlT5Onwx9b_tSS_YqrEuOpuwFUNOCeqT9uAHp_WHGRRsvqN6NA8d2F7lpgTYReq7DL_DAFM0kaWxEQQ1IBE6REO-3TfVxHwOEpyT6y5tD" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A local high school senior wrote a newspaper essay recently about the problem of women in history still being passed over or getting very few words in books and articles written by men. We're missing out on true stories that make mass-market fictional characters look pale by comparison. Let's take the Way Back Machine to a thousand years ago to meet "the closest approximation in history to a Valkyrie."*</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Lombard princess Sikelgaita of Salerno (Italy) was titled the Duchess of Apulia when she became the second wife of the Norman Duke Robert Guiscard. He divorced first wife Alberada to make this union, and he could not have found a closer equal. Guiscard was called "the weasel;" despite the nickname he was anything but, being much more like a Kodiak bear. "He had a thoroughly villainous mind...was a man of immense stature...his bellow put thousands to flight.," according to a contemporary Byzantine account. Not content with his domain in southern Italy, after taking Bari, the last Italian outpost of the shrinking Byzantine Empire , he crossed the Adriatic to begin a conquest of the rest of it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdXeLftckN80s2QubFCWZNxa99y_nEsL0TlFY1RkurBC8aDHtsg84hk0Y1NoehTgkY3x5oy8ZWvHJLbKbSevcJGwfW3Ci6KPZRB67eN7Y_ezjR1KBq32NvL4vuk_-f17a6ZtFpbpOOF_Qc0c0Lr-OwYqLfHyb-FFZNrQoR4s6ZbQFjWlBIcM_AGFnt=s556" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdXeLftckN80s2QubFCWZNxa99y_nEsL0TlFY1RkurBC8aDHtsg84hk0Y1NoehTgkY3x5oy8ZWvHJLbKbSevcJGwfW3Ci6KPZRB67eN7Y_ezjR1KBq32NvL4vuk_-f17a6ZtFpbpOOF_Qc0c0Lr-OwYqLfHyb-FFZNrQoR4s6ZbQFjWlBIcM_AGFnt=s320" width="236" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Sikelgaita was right by his side in all her six feet of armored glory, charging into the battle for the port city of Dyrrhachium shouting, long hair streaming, a real life Brunnhilda and true daughter of Wotan. When the Anglo Saxon axemen in the employ of the defending Byzantine Emperor boldly attacked the mounted Norman knights, sending them running (they were still pretty ticked off about the Norman conquest of their England fifteen years earlier), "Gaita" loudly called on her horsemen to return: "Stand and fight like men!" When that did not have an effect, she seized a spear and took after them. Shamed or inspired, they returned and destroyed every one of the Saxons.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Guiscard had to abandon the invasion to deal with rebellion at home. Gaita accompanied him on his return three years later to trash the Empire again. And once again Fate intervened to stop his victorious advance, when Robert and many of his army succumbed to a typhoid epidemic. His loyal wife and warrior was with him until the end.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That was not all Sikelgaita was, although she had even commanded a successful siege of the city of Trani by herself. She had also studied medicine in the most advanced school of the time, and somehow found time to have eight children! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After spending time in religious seclusion in the Abbey of Monte Cassino, the princess, duchess and general died five years after Robert. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe Sikelgaita should return to educate some male writers (this one gets a pass).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">_________________________</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">*from author John J. Norwich</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-50185457088072974252022-01-06T09:47:00.000-05:002022-01-06T09:47:00.990-05:00Das Rad<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjji51mrgpjiESxUuUp04ajS6ssFBj9_BAOKDcRkBi97TBVZFxevzyVl1mUhcl6bZL6ekAQgckT5hl3Tfsyf2SA5N1xacOI2Srhy3Thv8PGEMGnIoWmmRmHDOzH7LEkrsdH03nGVGdBZbCiO-vmx-PA5jrFTdMnJR4UsDlgBPzf7fATdBgBftGsBtDa=s600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjji51mrgpjiESxUuUp04ajS6ssFBj9_BAOKDcRkBi97TBVZFxevzyVl1mUhcl6bZL6ekAQgckT5hl3Tfsyf2SA5N1xacOI2Srhy3Thv8PGEMGnIoWmmRmHDOzH7LEkrsdH03nGVGdBZbCiO-vmx-PA5jrFTdMnJR4UsDlgBPzf7fATdBgBftGsBtDa=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Though the child's year is slow</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And the aged one's runs fast,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Serf and king alike must go</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">All that lives must pass.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-21755962955465900032022-01-05T16:33:00.000-05:002022-01-05T16:33:09.694-05:00Some Wise Guys<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiG6DLrrHwtgObCt6iZ_6oGWw9lzPpzPhV_qmHnXOhq1GgboQZdlvz-kSQqArtLN3rACVAGDs7OvMGt3jIi5G122c-BCGut1mg9yGW2QcP6iSg5rQ6GQlYR1Tf_M2IOn6Sk3_1kQmVWVPEGCDsYm18BrUR-il6fyM3nV86CLDyo2A7HGlM7pm5y65N=s1296" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="1296" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiG6DLrrHwtgObCt6iZ_6oGWw9lzPpzPhV_qmHnXOhq1GgboQZdlvz-kSQqArtLN3rACVAGDs7OvMGt3jIi5G122c-BCGut1mg9yGW2QcP6iSg5rQ6GQlYR1Tf_M2IOn6Sk3_1kQmVWVPEGCDsYm18BrUR-il6fyM3nV86CLDyo2A7HGlM7pm5y65N=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"These may be platitudes, but they are framed in wit, the swift phrase firmly lodged in the brain." -- Louis Untermeyer</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">From distant Epictetus to Washington (<i>Rules of Civility) </i>and Franklin, to the more contemporary Ambrose Bierce, Mark Twain, H.L. Mencken and Will Rogers, aphorists and writers of epigrams have surely been better guides to ethics and living than those who suck up our airspace such as celebrities, economists, evangelists, dunces and murderous dictators.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A while back, we took a look at another gem of this genre, <i>The Wisdom of Amenemopet </i>from ancient Egypt. I had not heard of this before; it's always surprising to discover how the more you know about a subject you discover how much more you don't know. It would have been a much better use of time to have read this in school rather than <i>Great Expectations.</i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVGlCWpCVjZIzzGfym0i7IkMoS-og4q4xa-yhlJzePNbZ_LkQQTDZED3WRONd8k0bkVc_320rDG1KDzMqL66S3JItZWFUVg8bFp9SxAYdZKGLv1yTWiYkxF7ppuhf4JRMiss9b-NOmvE1pNMhKH5-AHx0PNixl8jY-yDaQrqrFt3FCTvoaOvZLX4EB=s1380" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="1086" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVGlCWpCVjZIzzGfym0i7IkMoS-og4q4xa-yhlJzePNbZ_LkQQTDZED3WRONd8k0bkVc_320rDG1KDzMqL66S3JItZWFUVg8bFp9SxAYdZKGLv1yTWiYkxF7ppuhf4JRMiss9b-NOmvE1pNMhKH5-AHx0PNixl8jY-yDaQrqrFt3FCTvoaOvZLX4EB=s320" width="252" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">And I had never heard of Balthazar Gracian's <i>The Art of Worldly Wisdom </i>either. This volume of 300 maxims was published in 1647 by Gracian, a Jesuit teacher and preacher, under a pseudonym as with all of his other books but one, because his sort of Rabelaisian satire and irreverence was not appreciated by his employer. After he read a "letter" supposedly sent by the Devil from the pulpit, however, he pushed the unamused Church too far and was censured and sent into internal exile. Gracian won this tiff in the end; his <i>Wisdom </i>was a best seller in both 1892 and 1992! Some examples:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Never compete with someone who has nothing to lose</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- A synonym is a word you use when you cannot spell the right one</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Never open a door to a lesser evil for other and greater ones slink in after it</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- A single lie destroys a whole reputation of integrity</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- The wise at once does what the fool does at last</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Dreams will get you nowhere; a good kick in the pants will take you a long way</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Every fool stands convinced...the faultier a person's judgement the firmer the convictions (T. S. Eliot completely agreed)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Always act as if you were seen...if you can't be good be careful</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">-- Politeness is the chief sign of culture (That one's for you, Canada)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">***</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And from our more misanthropic and cynical countrymen:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Bierce: He who thinks with difficulty believes with alacrity</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Twain: Never refuse to do a kindness unless the end would work great injury to yourself, and never refuse to take a drink -- under any circumstances</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Rogers: Diplomacy is the art of saying "nice doggie" until you can find a rock</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mencken: Puritanism -- the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wit and wisdom make a perfect cocktail.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-56088211919019621962021-12-24T20:05:00.004-05:002021-12-24T20:08:59.757-05:00DTRT<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOD0Ej1MN1oJbTt7jDHULJhPnrCXp4AgARp4BA_R9s8lfXBi6_ykHwtqLsO97eqDw0YsYOIgYZAHzck7zdkrguL9w_pXYPuhJb17QVVj8SQzcp1z3etbFeldwLoHFTAi9HhSjB0UsgBbBq3LTB2iAjuGiQP1s9VuL2B7Hd7MskdVb5Il0PeAgih8mQ=s294" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="294" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOD0Ej1MN1oJbTt7jDHULJhPnrCXp4AgARp4BA_R9s8lfXBi6_ykHwtqLsO97eqDw0YsYOIgYZAHzck7zdkrguL9w_pXYPuhJb17QVVj8SQzcp1z3etbFeldwLoHFTAi9HhSjB0UsgBbBq3LTB2iAjuGiQP1s9VuL2B7Hd7MskdVb5Il0PeAgih8mQ" width="294" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I once mentioned to a co-worker, just as idle conversation, that I had observed there were usually from one to three churches on most corners of a city that was (and still is) awash in violence and crime, and it looked like no one was learning a whole lot on Sundays. He did not like that much, stating that "church is for sinners." I thought "wha...?" but said (and this was the wrong thing to do, judging from his reaction) one could ignore the twisting toils of religion and philosophy by substituting four words: Do The Right Thing. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But...while that should prevent a lot of bad behavior if practiced, I have found it often does not work out too well for you. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Once while I was picking up car wreck litter on the boulevard -- it is banked the wrong way and about once a month a speeding car goes off the road into the drainage area or hops the median. Someone stopped and accused me of being the driver who made the mess and wanted my information. A block closer to home, I once picked up some litter caught by a parked car's wheels (the wind always blows on trash day); the owner came out of his house, followed me home, and demanded to know what I was doing to his car.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Many years ago during a very bad snow and ice storm, I received a frantic call from the person on duty at the radio station where we worked. The studio had moved to the middle of nowhere behind a farm and was no treat to get to, especially at night. He had been trapped there long beyond his shift, probably quite hungry, and needed me to relieve him. It would not have been right to not help, so I headed out in my mother's car with bald recapped (remember those?) rear tires. On the way, a VW was sitting at the bottom of an icy hill with no brake lights on. Too late, I realized it was not moving; it did move when I slid into it. A bogus "neck pain" law suit later, I found my insurance cancelled and had to give up my own new car (not the accident one). No good deed goes unpunished, as they say.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Away from vehicular to-dos, there are many more examples, which I will spare you, except for these: I found a Social Security card near the local library on a walk. I returned home, got on the computer and found an address for it, walked back and returned it, asking if this was the right residence. The man who answered was extremely suspicious and unfriendly, but carefully took the card before shutting the door quickly. That was sure worth all the effort. And once I complimented a stressed mother (a relative) who was dealing with a shrieking toddler at a big noisy event just with the motivation to make her feel a little better. Big mistake, as it was taken the wrong way. No more unsolicited encouragement from me anymore!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't know why things play out this way. Despite the evidence, I still think DTRT is a valid common-sense guide. That ol' karma is tricky, though.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-10939767567534150342021-12-15T16:05:00.011-05:002021-12-23T17:14:45.340-05:00What You Say?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtszRKQ6mHI1wibLCJYP775KL3WcSWDI2dqSbPhldecID7paE7NoLascfMNYexpfF-xElgurJfkF2TgDVygdFfFWt-nTg7tubVSG7UdTWdkdmE1lxnKLMfnSo4ohq1guWxbjRlH7FtfV3CGqL79Q0TeXWPaAAz2oj_KL6fVRkuC-_T9b5ZdbntweQC=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtszRKQ6mHI1wibLCJYP775KL3WcSWDI2dqSbPhldecID7paE7NoLascfMNYexpfF-xElgurJfkF2TgDVygdFfFWt-nTg7tubVSG7UdTWdkdmE1lxnKLMfnSo4ohq1guWxbjRlH7FtfV3CGqL79Q0TeXWPaAAz2oj_KL6fVRkuC-_T9b5ZdbntweQC=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We saw surf music legend Dick Dale perform in cozy local venue nine years ago. A serious guy, he did little patter, made one joke (not repeatable here) and reminded us that "Thoughts become words, words become actions and actions have consequences." There are many versions of this (one carrying it further: actions--habits--character), and the basic idea goes back at least as far as the Buddha, two and a half millennia ago. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">So, the words we use -- they are powerful. Amateur linguist Benjamin L. Whorf put forward a hypothesis ("linguistic relativity") that one's language influences and molds one's cultural reality by <i>limiting</i> our thought processes. For example, sexism seems built into languages with gender (Romance, that is, Latin-based ones, Hindi and Arabic); the male version of a noun or pronoun is the default. Think of the term "mankind," or that doctor, actor or nurse have until recently pretty clearly indicated the person's gender who is being spoken of. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">German is well known for its use of long compound terms for precise description. In this case, though, it is probably scientific and psychological thought which have influenced the language rather than vice-versa. The Whorf hypothesis is better understood as a correlation or in a reciprocal way than as deterministic, like the old nature vs. nurture debate*. But think about the corrosive effect of foul language in all-male environments and hip-hop music. It is like, on a physical level, a neighborhood of empty lots, weeds and broken glass. Both do clearly have strong negative influence.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Hopi and Mandarin languages do not have tense. But those who speak them do indeed know what time is and what is past or present. So does the world look the same in different languages? The ancient Greeks did not have a specific word for "blue." An Australian aboriginal group thought of the sky as black.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ55Zw_kPq1wejjF2gcRU_bafiKWcy9S7DV4Zi68mfoCnq4RYGiz_L_jOzN2dWPBmKEZblQxOxHR_WLMHbv6OSTAPz8MbgqyG3r_bb9uL96g3wrcmIR92aucow4JpPUybBodfm1yfODdIdYohcyZjndwT6208ExdIb5_Ys7vb4sc2JlEPxDJ98KrYX=s399" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="399" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ55Zw_kPq1wejjF2gcRU_bafiKWcy9S7DV4Zi68mfoCnq4RYGiz_L_jOzN2dWPBmKEZblQxOxHR_WLMHbv6OSTAPz8MbgqyG3r_bb9uL96g3wrcmIR92aucow4JpPUybBodfm1yfODdIdYohcyZjndwT6208ExdIb5_Ys7vb4sc2JlEPxDJ98KrYX=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: x-large;"> In <i>1984</i>, Orwell made a strong case that language can and is used as a malignant tool to shape and control what we think:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgts7qE0xfG2WaiOC4j2zDS6MaTG10R8qlvX4M-crGulLbGD5e0Tg2mPoDBy3BdZIDCwhK8n2eWo87p389rth0ktZ1yvDFpQ9twhD6ClyahNlUhb7S5I3GR70cnklBBtkbS88JrQc8imm1cbjvkcjPyaC1tp9u_HhNnjMDalaeUlioGIqtSzQCapDmg=s358" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="122" data-original-width="358" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgts7qE0xfG2WaiOC4j2zDS6MaTG10R8qlvX4M-crGulLbGD5e0Tg2mPoDBy3BdZIDCwhK8n2eWo87p389rth0ktZ1yvDFpQ9twhD6ClyahNlUhb7S5I3GR70cnklBBtkbS88JrQc8imm1cbjvkcjPyaC1tp9u_HhNnjMDalaeUlioGIqtSzQCapDmg=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of control, it is said that cats have 40 or more vocalizations. They mostly mean "Feed me," and you had better get up and do it.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;">_________<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">*</span><span style="font-size: medium;">The subject of one of the Three Stooges' best films.</span></p><p><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></span></p></div>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-61966449511320282022021-12-04T15:45:00.003-05:002021-12-04T15:53:01.389-05:00A Real Wonder Woman<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGwlvYo1uvwhZNvrhTn7ML1BENpYn4DvfV3343CZix2LdX4Z0PXYqglW8-utP7DCG3dwPl6N8zEulTfcpZjE3emqRMN6VikHeP86vm_Ph96So6OaTsVuimKi1TP3aYyJxFRF9QoBr5Bw/s2000/La_defensa_de_Zaragoza%252C_por_David_Wilkie.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1327" data-original-width="2000" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJGwlvYo1uvwhZNvrhTn7ML1BENpYn4DvfV3343CZix2LdX4Z0PXYqglW8-utP7DCG3dwPl6N8zEulTfcpZjE3emqRMN6VikHeP86vm_Ph96So6OaTsVuimKi1TP3aYyJxFRF9QoBr5Bw/s320/La_defensa_de_Zaragoza%252C_por_David_Wilkie.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Augustina Raimunda Maria Saragossa i Domenech was celebrated by Byron in one of his best-known poems:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>"Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul? Foiled by a woman's hand before a battered wall..."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">When Napoleon invaded the Iberian Peninsula in 1808, driving all the way to Lisbon and forcing the flight or abdication of Spain and Portugal's kings and installing brother Joseph as the new ruler, Augustina accompanied her husband, Sergeant Juan Rosa, immediately to the resistance, bringing along their young son. The desperate defense of Zaragoza, which they joined, was mostly up to civilians facing an overwhelming French force. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohx8AvHS5vpJiaS5c1Uof_8JPNqocR2MVRCr-unlPdioFlDL1fjpMb00VfZmIjudlOXddPNTEzlvQTo-xTXYMiXeHFpSRCHJxWNoWmnDB4AqkcANW7HcblLYCmorYpXNsAcmQVYR6luc/s662/Agustina_Zaragoza_%2528cropped%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="470" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohx8AvHS5vpJiaS5c1Uof_8JPNqocR2MVRCr-unlPdioFlDL1fjpMb00VfZmIjudlOXddPNTEzlvQTo-xTXYMiXeHFpSRCHJxWNoWmnDB4AqkcANW7HcblLYCmorYpXNsAcmQVYR6luc/s320/Agustina_Zaragoza_%2528cropped%2529.jpeg" width="227" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">After heavy bombardment, the invader attacked at several points. At Portillo gate, those gunners and militia who were not already dead fled to the central town square. The abandoned 24-pounder cannon Augustina was near had been loaded with canister (shrapnel) shot; she touched it off and fired right into the face of a dense enemy column, driving them back with great loss. The citizen defenders, inspired, rallied and returned to the barricades, holding the besieging army at bay for three months. But their home was left in ruins. Napoleon was informed of the high casualties, and that "It is impossible that Zaragoza should ever recover; this city is a horror to behold. "</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Amazingly, Augustina and Juan escaped and later participated in the second siege of Zaragoza, the defense of Tortosa and the decisive battle of Vitoria. She became so ill she almost died, and their son did.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Honored as La Artillera and Maid and Defender of Zaragoza, Augustina was made a lieutenant and granted a lifetime pension by the grateful king -- the only female officer of the Peninsular War. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhE5ZlJQ63YIuSAaw4YRny5wc7G66ROyNo5C11s_Dm3B5joE17cpTWaP3r7k2HSsu476_lGPa-TPZLXqqOThdiOE3-5zdAHVdaJRU45kIzr5zP50hN6zifn922JnxlLYRiCdTAiEXe3jk/s372/ada4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="256" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhE5ZlJQ63YIuSAaw4YRny5wc7G66ROyNo5C11s_Dm3B5joE17cpTWaP3r7k2HSsu476_lGPa-TPZLXqqOThdiOE3-5zdAHVdaJRU45kIzr5zP50hN6zifn922JnxlLYRiCdTAiEXe3jk/s320/ada4.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Juan was also promoted to lieutenant and survived the war by eight years. Augustina remarried a doctor, had a daughter, and lived to be 71. She is buried near the scene of her brave stand, at the parish of Nuestra Senora del Portillo.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2FqdL60ngAlG6elxU1Rw8pRo6Fdf-CMoyfrsKuI4H-_73B6P6vWSzLxa32nB5y_ZjaWycB5k8XNoxFTVMsJlmypJcgS23-FO8qSo6J4CUU7DC9GXurvE6aQu3IY3kFFOXVHZ4xa4wBQ/s960/ddfffggfg.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="960" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2FqdL60ngAlG6elxU1Rw8pRo6Fdf-CMoyfrsKuI4H-_73B6P6vWSzLxa32nB5y_ZjaWycB5k8XNoxFTVMsJlmypJcgS23-FO8qSo6J4CUU7DC9GXurvE6aQu3IY3kFFOXVHZ4xa4wBQ/s320/ddfffggfg.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrayed by Goya</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /> </span><p></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-48664906827629667142021-11-27T15:24:00.002-05:002021-11-27T15:24:31.893-05:00This Is New<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRsgXDcBvFryvzLuhte5oQ_9_uhDrJLQ4uDz_aWxW4XWP2KLA55wAvS9M2N-nZtpMLLadCizj5U5uzfpXhlkmm6K21tDsJQO367Eb81k-6FCiwpPahoL3KyxLTmCNWCj3ac_bupkYDrc/s612/cde4e66f-8a69-4074-99d7-da994c59533d_1.74e7cb66920dabdab0b31deb9ba93250.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRsgXDcBvFryvzLuhte5oQ_9_uhDrJLQ4uDz_aWxW4XWP2KLA55wAvS9M2N-nZtpMLLadCizj5U5uzfpXhlkmm6K21tDsJQO367Eb81k-6FCiwpPahoL3KyxLTmCNWCj3ac_bupkYDrc/s320/cde4e66f-8a69-4074-99d7-da994c59533d_1.74e7cb66920dabdab0b31deb9ba93250.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">We had two guests this Thanksgiving, one familiar and one brand new. For eleven years, Blackberry the cat has been quite enthusiastic about sharing some turkey, for which he is quite thankful (you can tell by the purrs). In her new Bumbo chair (above) 5 1/2 month old granddaughter Lucielle sat perched on the table, about to enjoy some of her first big people food, mashed sweet potatoes, like her a local, organic product.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6N93IWtt1133ut6REmX6Dd9RLnlabUcr0LxtfwXzT6PACrGjJJjDikXzSrZFh4jGLvGHXuvhs7wEBUOMaaI_3Y_Z2Jbl_CjWdDLjV0oLdmkjIB8B7g9l3JBprZJkF0IQO6Qouc_UGa0k/s2048/IMG_0423.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6N93IWtt1133ut6REmX6Dd9RLnlabUcr0LxtfwXzT6PACrGjJJjDikXzSrZFh4jGLvGHXuvhs7wEBUOMaaI_3Y_Z2Jbl_CjWdDLjV0oLdmkjIB8B7g9l3JBprZJkF0IQO6Qouc_UGa0k/s320/IMG_0423.HEIC" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> At first she rolled it around in her mouth, warily checking it out, followed quickly by wide open eyes and a big grin. More, please! She ate the whole little bowlful, then eyed all the other dishes on the table: "Okay, what's next?" Someday, she and Blackberry might be competing for that turkey.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Having a fast-developing baby around has been quite a change. Corners have filled up with child furniture and equipage, including a stroller that we still have only half figured out. The Bumbo chair and changing table/crib combo are huge improvements on the cheap, clanky things we had when her father was little. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lucy's changing and growing at an astonishing pace. Where a few weeks ago her hands were swinging around randomly, she can now spy my sweatshirt zipper pull looking up sideways, go for and grab it accurately on the first try. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We're looking forward to more Thanksgivings, as well as other occasions and milestones, with this happy little sweet potato eater.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJwsYkPtIQqm1bcu5w0C4o4qsypGEmbcQsOKumWK-4ORQrxNBeTU3ntX3j2j79uF1UvoKwAwB8YC6LtCFOK8MASZ5WWmHNxF9UoJEAV-L9uHhN98IwdIKUbLEdFeK-n8X5dBh5kN1_To/s2048/IMG_0276.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJwsYkPtIQqm1bcu5w0C4o4qsypGEmbcQsOKumWK-4ORQrxNBeTU3ntX3j2j79uF1UvoKwAwB8YC6LtCFOK8MASZ5WWmHNxF9UoJEAV-L9uHhN98IwdIKUbLEdFeK-n8X5dBh5kN1_To/s320/IMG_0276.HEIC" width="240" /></a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-37516133262529196312021-11-13T12:06:00.004-05:002021-11-13T22:42:57.900-05:00Olio*<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJowNeFF7qFmT9ZhT0GBLKfhJMclXvDG4vRR1Ps9hWfhknUv7nKyjJBd1Rp8d2RWCtUw0HwTdVN19Ipxkch1AaH91oHe4sGFnfRd9Ymx0E0VKRPTXGyzIRqDQW4F2GOGYibrGEa33tn8/s747/TroyesRuelleDesChats.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJowNeFF7qFmT9ZhT0GBLKfhJMclXvDG4vRR1Ps9hWfhknUv7nKyjJBd1Rp8d2RWCtUw0HwTdVN19Ipxkch1AaH91oHe4sGFnfRd9Ymx0E0VKRPTXGyzIRqDQW4F2GOGYibrGEa33tn8/s320/TroyesRuelleDesChats.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's time once again to clear out the attic here at "Just Sayin'." So, here are three sort-of blog ideas, apropos of nothing:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Going Medieval</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The list of very old places in Europe I want to see keeps growing. Just found about the "Ruelle des Chats" -- Cats' Alley -- in Troyes, France. It is about seven feet wide, and the house tops lean into each other. Guess there wasn't good urban zoning in place back in the Thirteenth Century. They did, however, place stones along the bases of the buildings so people could get up out of the way of horses. The structures you see today are reconstructions after the great fire of 1524, but certainly look old and odd enough for those of us who like this sort of thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What If?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What if we had accepted the 1954 election in Vietnam, which chose Ho Chi Minh as president as the French closed up shop? Would anything have turned out substantially different if we had not decided on twenty years of war instead? The result was the same, except maybe Laos and Cambodia might have gone a different, much less miserable and violent, way. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What if the French (maybe we do have a blog theme here) had not tried to claim and conquer the Ohio Country in order to link up their colonies in Canada and Louisiana? Losing the latter to either the British or Americans later was probable, but they may have kept Canada more or less along its present borders and not have instigated the French and Indian War, which certainly contributed to the beginning of the American Revolution. Several French Canadian officials did see and express that they did not nearly have the resources or manpower to make the Ohio expeditions turn out favorably. But the 1789 Revolution and Napoleonic wars would have resulted in Canada's loss in any case.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Big List</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was thinking about favorite books yesterday; here are mine. What would you add or subtract?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Story of Mankind (Van Loon), History of Greece (Bury), The Great Game (Hopkirk), The King Must Die (Renault), Memoirs of Hadrian (Yourcenar), Studs Lonigan (Farrell), In Our Time and For Whom the Bell Tolls (Hemingway), Dubliners (Joyce), On the Road (Kerouac), A Small Town in Germany (Le Carre), Voyage of the Beagle (Darwin), The Wind in the Willows (Grahame), Death Comes to the Archbishop (Cather), Rome Across the Euphrates (Stark), Translations and Selected Poems (Pound), The March of Folly (Tuchman), Translations from the Chinese (Waley), Iberia (Michener), South Wind (Douglas), Raintree County (Lockridge), Treasure Island and The Black Arrow (Stevenson), The Golden Bough (Frazer), Julian (Vidal), Caesar (McCullough), August 1914 (Solzhenitsyn), The Farfarers (Mowat), The Alexandria Quartet (Durrell), The Fatal Shore (Hughes), The End of the Road (Barth), and Circe (Miller). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">________________</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">*Olio = miscellany. A very useful crossword puzzle word.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-79030131491479566412021-11-02T16:33:00.003-04:002021-11-02T20:05:56.738-04:00Your Fourth-Quarter Game<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ie6ApcBCFNN2sKtVxUHd2-pVIXRM2np9bdbDKvFGaW2DNkNXKGJdMJWqQhr46uwFvWGgVXTNE1maEUF6MhGMhj7KHJPvlqgNfv31bga_VWroXyABnVFUiu_d6eCCkB6zTb8j0bV_m1Q/s1001/71iMqFPnhzL._AC_SL1001_.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="1001" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ie6ApcBCFNN2sKtVxUHd2-pVIXRM2np9bdbDKvFGaW2DNkNXKGJdMJWqQhr46uwFvWGgVXTNE1maEUF6MhGMhj7KHJPvlqgNfv31bga_VWroXyABnVFUiu_d6eCCkB6zTb8j0bV_m1Q/s320/71iMqFPnhzL._AC_SL1001_.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It may not seem so when you are looking at it in your future, but retirement doesn't mean you get off the train and sit on a bench. Change doesn't stop and planning, adaptation and decision making are challenges you must, not might, deal with. For example, grandchildren: our home is now crowded with new baby furniture after all these years! And all that landscaping that you ambitiously planted over time? Now it's huge and not the weekend outdoors entertainment it used to be.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Many relocate, especially to a latitude without winter or to a lower cost of living area. We researched and visited, but with all the pros and cons (the latter often</span><span> no</span></span><span style="font-size: large;">t clear early on), it would have worked out about the same. If we had to shovel the snow, that would outweigh things like mosquito-borne disease -- but not hurricanes. We pay our association fee and do not worry about blizzards or Category IV storms.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Social Security and Medicare (you know, those dangerous slides into Socialism) made the modern idea of retirement possible. Before, if you did not possess wealth, you got to work yourself to an early death or move in with the children. If you were just on your own and lived too long, well, you were on </span><span style="font-size: large;">your own and not in any kind of good way. When our grandfather was working as a young man in the early 20th century, it was 10 - 12 hours a day six and often seven days a week. He did survive until the 40-hour week (opposed as socialist, of course) came to be and finally enjoyed a </span><span style="font-size: large;">retirement with a pension. He was smart, but lucky too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Life can be slower and simpler in retirement; you can finally embrace Thoreau's advice. If you cling to status and have not eliminated debt completely, either you can afford it or it sinks you. What would the bill be for replacing this roof?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1L7-OvVqxpF_Uv3FsdxLRs9sdyCAP6Ncfl6L9BI43lkHwhEg42jL4HDkj3RW7T_acbBvd65EaYpfm5U8cuO0EeXUpKTrf-VGZ2WhdZcyzGe6Lf0B8AQnHUKzdIo1lFnPiKxKlriTmNE/s1000/2018-05-tulsa-home-roofing-asphalt-shingles.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="1000" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1L7-OvVqxpF_Uv3FsdxLRs9sdyCAP6Ncfl6L9BI43lkHwhEg42jL4HDkj3RW7T_acbBvd65EaYpfm5U8cuO0EeXUpKTrf-VGZ2WhdZcyzGe6Lf0B8AQnHUKzdIo1lFnPiKxKlriTmNE/s320/2018-05-tulsa-home-roofing-asphalt-shingles.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not dealing with commuting traffic or overpaid co-workers who do very little work or not having to schedule a few vacation days twelve months in advance? Yes, please.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Except... that big fresh breeze of freedom often will be counterbalanced with the chill wind of increasing health problems. It's always <i>something. </i> That rule of this life is not one of those things that change. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still, it's a good deal and I'll take it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-G-2_No3WYRMmjrSmMsF3e8Dg0sYQPlwQlpHH3lOtXlDjTu88BX4QRqDP6LfpNrzswt0e8AcD7Zi1-wz62h7e_C-sFDKI-YO9rezTP7_u7uOhYt8FxsWxxy8wpVr9T1WodAANUsV-PrY/s960/retirement.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-G-2_No3WYRMmjrSmMsF3e8Dg0sYQPlwQlpHH3lOtXlDjTu88BX4QRqDP6LfpNrzswt0e8AcD7Zi1-wz62h7e_C-sFDKI-YO9rezTP7_u7uOhYt8FxsWxxy8wpVr9T1WodAANUsV-PrY/s320/retirement.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><p></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-80914525532053308922021-10-27T16:00:00.004-04:002021-10-27T16:00:59.409-04:00Nine Lives<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbM8Xwbh8kWZJlDIaSlZjRHvwa8Lb5b8v72zfr0aZ8hrqeKZG1vJBqjWObjtvpkkf79eUJjZrXBAnejnDSvef79ykKsMzHlc93zuLdvrPUl0xodfP3lLjBK-JUVsKCFp5ZS_wAyLwjLQ/s358/Chao_Kung.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="254" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbM8Xwbh8kWZJlDIaSlZjRHvwa8Lb5b8v72zfr0aZ8hrqeKZG1vJBqjWObjtvpkkf79eUJjZrXBAnejnDSvef79ykKsMzHlc93zuLdvrPUl0xodfP3lLjBK-JUVsKCFp5ZS_wAyLwjLQ/s320/Chao_Kung.jpeg" width="227" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chameleon Trebitsch as Chao Kung</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Many people follow the same occupation for most or all of their lives. But one Ignac Trebitsch was quite the opposite as he was, successively (quoting author and scholar John Lukacs), a petty thief, journalist, Presbyterian missionary, clergyman, councilman in Halifax, a vicar in Kent, researcher for a philanthropist, member of the House of Commons in 1910, oil drilling speculator in Eastern Europe, a defendant in criminal fraud lawsuits, promoter of a WWI scheme against the German fleet, British prisoner for three years, press secretary in Germany, military advisor to Chinese warlords, and Buddhist monk with a small sect following. This chaotic journey across the globe ended with his death in a Shanghai hospital in 1943. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Born to a well-off Jewish family in Hungary, he began his first occupation, that of a thief of gold watches and jewelry, after they were ruined by a stock market crash. As religion and politics are the natural refuges of scoundrels, Ignac went to England in the 1890s to begin conversion to Christianity with the Society for Promotion of Christianity Amongst the Jews. He stole from them, of course, and high-tailed it back to Hungary and Germany where he met his future wife Margaret Kahlor. Not surprisingly, Ignac abandoned her and their two sons at various times in various countries, even as far away as Java.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHd1lBnWIzi9y3J5AsD83pBdJkLaBToLGj5iiMfYOFKFQmehOe11Y1ue5_xHigic9kIq0qtvMR6DNPPjKEnNrQt7RqFSp02qUs-yiVPSMAsoXVTzvTY4H990AG4NnnFAUmi5FZyIQXLY/s1024/Ignatius_Timothy_Trebitsch-Lincoln_circa_1915.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="744" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHd1lBnWIzi9y3J5AsD83pBdJkLaBToLGj5iiMfYOFKFQmehOe11Y1ue5_xHigic9kIq0qtvMR6DNPPjKEnNrQt7RqFSp02qUs-yiVPSMAsoXVTzvTY4H990AG4NnnFAUmi5FZyIQXLY/s320/Ignatius_Timothy_Trebitsch-Lincoln_circa_1915.jpeg" width="233" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">In case you might still give our ramblin' man some benefit of the doubt, consider what he wrote in a pamphlet during the Japanese occupation of China: "They molest nobody...they are kind and helpful to the people..."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In China during WWII he conspired with German agents to install himself as leader of Tibet under the Reich after the untimely death of both the high lamas. His life ended not as king of the Himalayas, but as a Buddhist monk named Chao Kung (he styled himself an Abbott) with only two followers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzjkAvdbX3S2r9z22gUapJgzXezQFa6WjpDjX-puDBUft9AXA56lAVhmbC44n0PgRLTdcksm8Rbpn_R6m7epwU-LmzqOznctnkCABN0C5R-3dcaf1NRIP5-n7YrIXE5glUUOs26kGYuvQ/s1199/1028px-Paks-voriscum.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1028" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzjkAvdbX3S2r9z22gUapJgzXezQFa6WjpDjX-puDBUft9AXA56lAVhmbC44n0PgRLTdcksm8Rbpn_R6m7epwU-LmzqOznctnkCABN0C5R-3dcaf1NRIP5-n7YrIXE5glUUOs26kGYuvQ/s320/1028px-Paks-voriscum.jpeg" width="274" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Punch magazine had some fun with the unusual Member of Parliament</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> In between being a Christian and Buddhist, he joined the Theosophist religious movement, which is the source of today's New Age culture, believe it or not. One might, maybe, question his sincerity in any of it. But he probably enjoyed the wild ride.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-77320882353769244242021-10-18T20:55:00.002-04:002021-10-18T20:59:07.035-04:00De Gustibis<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRib7Mhgl1xMJUwlWp2XDMlbwV_JUtv9ZlpKAy9hMqLfQcypEOugCwGGiV-KCUKxnC54aVlWWvsaBoFq4jr7jlHPt6qT9AmwDwn84ReyQsjOtj2RJZ9BxgLt5oF0ddmVrfBmNYKeEx6po/s640/Leisure+Suits+1970s+%25280%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="640" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRib7Mhgl1xMJUwlWp2XDMlbwV_JUtv9ZlpKAy9hMqLfQcypEOugCwGGiV-KCUKxnC54aVlWWvsaBoFq4jr7jlHPt6qT9AmwDwn84ReyQsjOtj2RJZ9BxgLt5oF0ddmVrfBmNYKeEx6po/s320/Leisure+Suits+1970s+%25280%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes we keep the same tastes most or all of our lives (like I can't stand celery and won't change that), sometimes they evolve as we mature, and many times they are dictated by current trends and we have to go along with the fads to get along. Looking back on many of our choices (especially the 1970s fashion above), all we can say is <i>What was I thinking?? </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tastes in the arts are harder to explain. I am attracted to paintings and drawings which suggest a story, or tell that story strikingly well (like the illustrations of N.C. Wyeth or Dorothea Lange's photographs). Implied stories include the Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile<i>, </i>the question of what "The Thinker" was pondering so deeply, and one of my favorites, "Sun on Prospect Street" by Edward Hopper:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SV51h-SLe7K4zTw_B92uiMDDteqmYnM9gN_mOo9pz_M-tC1-27OkS3W_9HLFKiivNGPGG8g83_ODpz6TVQp5KRWXFdmBxvJqrOgrx3UnBzSKr9DwlI1hF_0SmnpHJGYmDsiZ4Cz4bKU/s750/sun-on-prospect-street-gloucester-massachusetts-1934.jpg%2521Large.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="750" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SV51h-SLe7K4zTw_B92uiMDDteqmYnM9gN_mOo9pz_M-tC1-27OkS3W_9HLFKiivNGPGG8g83_ODpz6TVQp5KRWXFdmBxvJqrOgrx3UnBzSKr9DwlI1hF_0SmnpHJGYmDsiZ4Cz4bKU/s320/sun-on-prospect-street-gloucester-massachusetts-1934.jpg%2521Large.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The quiet may be deceptive. Something seems off. What is it?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Abstract artist Rothko is probably more highly regarded in critical circles than Mr. Hopper, but what does one get out of this?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkHqS4Bbx29XZGbKez_b__0kSVSdcXcBOiOgaF9UiTAfZO4G2W3vpyFhlKHTKBeDfOAI8VPo3C2RQxRlaEv9QEfC0FM6jr2A5gFi-uZNrLbeKg6LgClqY6sehWkYSNbayXhegqPLGHvA/s1200/rothko.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1200" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkHqS4Bbx29XZGbKez_b__0kSVSdcXcBOiOgaF9UiTAfZO4G2W3vpyFhlKHTKBeDfOAI8VPo3C2RQxRlaEv9QEfC0FM6jr2A5gFi-uZNrLbeKg6LgClqY6sehWkYSNbayXhegqPLGHvA/s320/rothko.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">And some people's taste may be much more for the simple, literal and sentimental. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">General Motors long ago said they made a car for every type of customer and every budget. The target audience for a 1960 Cadillac would have been... a wealthy Batman?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcXUYLkM2Y1d-8k7hHhl66ZFC12KuB0SoA3W0aw0cYQql2y-fkYCiIcIa9I0Q_9AdckqTtc7tP8YnqXggtOCmyizmI6nWAo1MNqUcZMH6MD272AM_17tcMjF-MAiMovO9IKHvtEoQKZ4/s500/001.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcXUYLkM2Y1d-8k7hHhl66ZFC12KuB0SoA3W0aw0cYQql2y-fkYCiIcIa9I0Q_9AdckqTtc7tP8YnqXggtOCmyizmI6nWAo1MNqUcZMH6MD272AM_17tcMjF-MAiMovO9IKHvtEoQKZ4/s320/001.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">I could never have seen myself, way back, listening to Sinatra and sipping a rye whiskey Old Fashioned. But there is always something new to discover and try out if you preserve an open mind. At eleven years old, our cat Blackberry is as curious and flexible as ever; he sets a good example. Actually, I have learned a lot from him (but probably will not develop a taste for bugs).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-90810262610278643272021-10-02T15:09:00.001-04:002021-10-02T15:11:45.860-04:00Trippin'<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBgRX9ePGFLo-mLy0fo7WZtMmOUvrHauQG-arqdNFp5V1aue9SyJg-h7e83fKEsKwSKHWOZ2epduNN_iP9O7Rh5DIp0a5LH8-HEpr3_nbIu3SeKJN4KWYAZmosgPOvby0lG-ti5NAeos/s450/b_450_450_16777215_00_images_deutschland_bremen_bremer_stadtviertel_schnoor.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBgRX9ePGFLo-mLy0fo7WZtMmOUvrHauQG-arqdNFp5V1aue9SyJg-h7e83fKEsKwSKHWOZ2epduNN_iP9O7Rh5DIp0a5LH8-HEpr3_nbIu3SeKJN4KWYAZmosgPOvby0lG-ti5NAeos/s320/b_450_450_16777215_00_images_deutschland_bremen_bremer_stadtviertel_schnoor.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Like a lot of people, we haven't been too far from home in a while, and when I find out about someplace fascinating it exerts a pull (until the idea of going to an airport sinks in). What I have in mind right now is the oldest district of the northern German city of Bremen: the Schnoor. It was a fishermen's village until the River Balge silted up and disappeared, and like Bruges in Belgium for a like reason, has been frozen in time. In the late 1950s it was preserved and rebuilt and in 1981 they put the brakes on further commercial development. And the streets are too narrow for vehicles!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You may remember that this city is famous for the Grimm fairy tale "The Town Musicians of Bremen," but I'll bet you didn't know that decaffeinated coffee was invented here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Speaking of Bruges (more properly Brugge, its Flemish name), one place we remember there fondly is the very old De Garre pub, which is at the end of a long, hard to find alley off the square. Above its entrance you will find no hint it is in there; in fact there was a small sign that said "Tacos" (??) when we visited.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC83wf6Y-dPQ27U0Yf31U9879IoaUvxhipkvqfnk_AY1A2rjU4qJrCMZBU6Kio25ul1fNk1QLp0EjMaS07eyKUlece9lfGNhhuR8CCSLfHCH0nhuYRB7V37Fx4q7jaeooZDPalq81gQUw/s2048/IMG_3880.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC83wf6Y-dPQ27U0Yf31U9879IoaUvxhipkvqfnk_AY1A2rjU4qJrCMZBU6Kio25ul1fNk1QLp0EjMaS07eyKUlece9lfGNhhuR8CCSLfHCH0nhuYRB7V37Fx4q7jaeooZDPalq81gQUw/s320/IMG_3880.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">The house beer is an amber Belgian Trippel, and is probably the best we have ever had (so, worth a flight to Europe). But have some respect: it is 11% ABV (alcohol) and if you have another one, you'll never find your hotel. But you will be quite happy none the less.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjs48beZB732XVBZ0ksm5E_L_YPy_j62Z6-2j0tEoNp62gJ2t3mPngNFe6Gryr0Qd-fkgg8mR09ayx4GXNFgQQxEIPrV5i7zkYsgfqMai9OgkdkK6ByYUZatg_6WislwZAK5YMxPP71G8/s2048/IMG_3883.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjs48beZB732XVBZ0ksm5E_L_YPy_j62Z6-2j0tEoNp62gJ2t3mPngNFe6Gryr0Qd-fkgg8mR09ayx4GXNFgQQxEIPrV5i7zkYsgfqMai9OgkdkK6ByYUZatg_6WislwZAK5YMxPP71G8/s320/IMG_3883.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><i><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Our Dutch guide, Arjan, without whom we would have never found De Garre.</span></i><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A world away, another favorite of ours is the Marriott Marquis hotel in Times Square. When we went out on the balcony/patio outside its Broadway Bar, there was only one other person -- very different than when they broadcast "New Year's Rockin' Eve" from there. It's the best view of the famous ball drop there is. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-IkrwGgQRuezOcZ1vGxSvKQi7MDbwRyp1nx5T4Wc62DcM-2BoiD0a9tlt7jZnsRrCbMthhlDjx8ZiBIrxY7wjEBuhwt1WpLIOnRaBFnSfzVADhts3H8P_uGLzTnWGmlg_enDte73bCg/s750/162-2-marriott-marquis-nyc.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="750" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-IkrwGgQRuezOcZ1vGxSvKQi7MDbwRyp1nx5T4Wc62DcM-2BoiD0a9tlt7jZnsRrCbMthhlDjx8ZiBIrxY7wjEBuhwt1WpLIOnRaBFnSfzVADhts3H8P_uGLzTnWGmlg_enDte73bCg/s320/162-2-marriott-marquis-nyc.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">So much for cities; let's go to where the sand and palm trees are. Da Conch Shack is on the Blue Hills beach on Provodenciales island in Turks and Caicos. It's an old fishing settlement, and seafood and rum are in plentiful supply. With reggae music floating on the breeze, it's a wonderful spot in the bright sunlight or through the warm night. We were excitedly told that Keith Richards was there the previous day. They may say that to all the tourists, but with its funky pirate vibe, Da Shack looks very much like his kind of place.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKG53U5mQTZ1hH8oCAuGRuzFkxqck1wYIgXmUBDI8Q1HHlDHOt7Tm_7yuWaS4IEJ0WxRaVsi94ppWJFpKbfwyddISM634hRkuRE8AwDSVtuiX1lEdjqZCBoAIPeXcghXtqKSXwmnArgs/s900/palms_900x600.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKG53U5mQTZ1hH8oCAuGRuzFkxqck1wYIgXmUBDI8Q1HHlDHOt7Tm_7yuWaS4IEJ0WxRaVsi94ppWJFpKbfwyddISM634hRkuRE8AwDSVtuiX1lEdjqZCBoAIPeXcghXtqKSXwmnArgs/s320/palms_900x600.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-20640621428063795512021-09-14T16:38:00.003-04:002021-09-20T10:02:16.593-04:00Jay is Fay (The Broadway Gangster)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Max-shuxY9w6lf_vDSTCOEz5CcuH4C0UpFI7O8wCziG-xz0lODrLg40MZKqGVofpCSoCN2ynyLMtQwMITReS77hNvB5aiXlxaf8WOIfJaeYNOuLhSv4fmwMOyQg_HJv13b48XnunyRE/s760/index.php.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="542" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Max-shuxY9w6lf_vDSTCOEz5CcuH4C0UpFI7O8wCziG-xz0lODrLg40MZKqGVofpCSoCN2ynyLMtQwMITReS77hNvB5aiXlxaf8WOIfJaeYNOuLhSv4fmwMOyQg_HJv13b48XnunyRE/s320/index.php.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i> Larry Fay Live fast and die young</i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was, very likely, a real-life model for Jay Gatsby (<i>The Great Gatsby, </i>1925), forgotten today, whose life was as colorful as they come. Larry Fay, like the fictional Jay, made his money the old fashioned way -- from bootlegging, bringing liquor in from Canada and from the rumrunner boats. He sold it at his nightclubs in New York, the Casa Blanca and the El Fey, playing the part of the fashionable bon vivant dressed in custom Bond Street clothes. Like Gatsby, he had a mansion on Long Island where he threw lavish parties.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And he had a Daisy of sorts, former showgirl Evelyn Crowell, who quickly became a mistress of Joseph P. Kennedy and then married another rich man after Fay's dramatic death. He was shot four times by his club doorman, Edward Maloney, on New Year's Eve 1932, because he had reduced employee hours and pay.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_oDfw-0nGn_dX90Z1lGQiqcR6ET-Ue4tH-3MpfN10RlCrBZowVQsXNlpDDfh0jhy_iDRciM-qZaJuqbGNcpQEo2AWiFT9e13tqZhU9Cn0XcoEe8Yw4OfuCOXaNwL5pMwrOO9Pq03oJg/s327/Unknown.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="154" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_oDfw-0nGn_dX90Z1lGQiqcR6ET-Ue4tH-3MpfN10RlCrBZowVQsXNlpDDfh0jhy_iDRciM-qZaJuqbGNcpQEo2AWiFT9e13tqZhU9Cn0XcoEe8Yw4OfuCOXaNwL5pMwrOO9Pq03oJg/s320/Unknown.jpg" width="151" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Fay had hardly made a mistake before in the dangerous life he lived. In the early twenties he made so much from a winning 100 to 1 odds bet at Belmont Race Track he bought a taxi fleet. Then came his scheme to corner the New York milk market and fix prices, for which he was indicted but skated away free. </span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY1K0ONwvgVEDRuzgoQMU9XqcIgew7kvw_ks-8usSY4Yd4Vqpz2oVij1J7PzP4-dly9IMCEpudW19D4GBySEmHth2woFwV0TbkNjqAHcJ4z3o9Vaj-MTsgc_0HQTgtlT37KqH3wq3iF8/s550/prohibition-09-texas-guinan-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="430" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimY1K0ONwvgVEDRuzgoQMU9XqcIgew7kvw_ks-8usSY4Yd4Vqpz2oVij1J7PzP4-dly9IMCEpudW19D4GBySEmHth2woFwV0TbkNjqAHcJ4z3o9Vaj-MTsgc_0HQTgtlT37KqH3wq3iF8/s320/prohibition-09-texas-guinan-2.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mary Louise "Texas" Guinan, former stage and film star, headlined at Fay's establishments -- so successfully that she took half the profits. "The Queen of the Nightclubs" was the epitome of the Jazz Age, still remembered for her catchphrase greeting, "Hello, suckers!" Barred from bringing her road show to France because of her reputation, Texas opened a new one back home called "Too Hot for Paris." The 300 Club, often raided, was all hers, but there was little time left to enjoy it as she died shortly after Fay, in 1933. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Since Prohibition was over, maybe their time was up, too. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonS7of5OR5x2P6qli8reHhMS34zym8iZ4NCWD4hF2DT_gfVl3nJowWSHU-INrPE-yTZYFWYvwml177q1-oNp0UhTWAAEgawdAW4iDo9K4kVniR5xIVuH1gffedJiL8zb2J6AtHHTU2d4/s796/screenshot-2015-03-17-14-00-01.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="796" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonS7of5OR5x2P6qli8reHhMS34zym8iZ4NCWD4hF2DT_gfVl3nJowWSHU-INrPE-yTZYFWYvwml177q1-oNp0UhTWAAEgawdAW4iDo9K4kVniR5xIVuH1gffedJiL8zb2J6AtHHTU2d4/s320/screenshot-2015-03-17-14-00-01.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-36020139256823836572021-09-06T15:47:00.005-04:002021-09-06T15:47:48.071-04:00Prime and Plus<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CLl1PJa-g5AS2x7FGfyOEfkoUNav2W4ojUKHOtSVryBmVabLsLGVDnLv-5c0VT0Ym8i7EQgurvN3_INs4SV-DDSfbCYK6y_zhU-BgoYfSBR3jrir1hzR7bsvBsgxg9cbKNSBiuJNwjU/s500/566713_1-459x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="459" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CLl1PJa-g5AS2x7FGfyOEfkoUNav2W4ojUKHOtSVryBmVabLsLGVDnLv-5c0VT0Ym8i7EQgurvN3_INs4SV-DDSfbCYK6y_zhU-BgoYfSBR3jrir1hzR7bsvBsgxg9cbKNSBiuJNwjU/s320/566713_1-459x500.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">How many times a day do they come at you through advertising (in any of its myriad forms)? Unless you have the radio off driving through western Nebraska, it's endless. One thing I've learned is that anyone proffering an unsolicited sales pitch does not have a good deal for you. If you wanted and needed something, you would have already done your research and gotten it yourself. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Take Amazon Prime "membership" or all the "+" streaming channels. You can get free shipping without a whole lot of effort and don't need any Prime. And Disney+ (and all the others): first, do you need any more content or entertainment? There is always a lot that needs to be done, and you're not doing anything productive for yourself or your family by sucking in all those empty electronic calories. The local library donation sale has all the Disney productions you might want, and they probably will be the older, really good stuff. For a dollar or less.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We will never figure out why people fall so completely for the clever words and exhortations of others, be it a dictator or a marketer. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Single-use small kitchen appliances, recreation vehicles which lose their value quickly and either must be maintained, insured and licensed or they will become yard clutter, big houses, luxury cars, vacation homes...nothing you need, and the satisfaction felt after acquiring them is brief. We used to think we needed a television in every room; it became clear they were really just ugly and space-wasting dust catchers. We keep reducing the number of cable TV channels, but can't just get down to the half dozen we actually watch, which is undoable and may lead to the return of the cable box someday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Unfortunately, novelty and quantity trump quality for the most part in an overheated global economy. Two examples why quality is always the best route to go: I have my father's WWII uniform jacket, made by Hart Schnaffner Marx (officers buy their own uniforms) -- it still looks great, actually new, after all these years. I had several pairs of Florsheim shoes and they were near perfect many decades after they had gone out of style.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Less stuff is so much more. This fellow knew what is needed and what is not --</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo1j293-O2lLdfjzYe_rcxQadWmr8D-gKCDWrk1tL8EPgTD0tK1dii9zcWkordSFS5430rGd3rRSIIs5aT3CkJ3vWs4IGbiMjDz2O9bTd8wp3bv_rtgB8PNaLLF4BuTD-K9LjBbqECt0/s634/32295340-8656889-image-a-98_1598224787776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="634" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo1j293-O2lLdfjzYe_rcxQadWmr8D-gKCDWrk1tL8EPgTD0tK1dii9zcWkordSFS5430rGd3rRSIIs5aT3CkJ3vWs4IGbiMjDz2O9bTd8wp3bv_rtgB8PNaLLF4BuTD-K9LjBbqECt0/s320/32295340-8656889-image-a-98_1598224787776.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Let me tell you about the bear necessities..." </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2574144847257590285.post-69878509849913142242021-08-31T15:59:00.001-04:002021-08-31T16:07:10.601-04:00That's Just Silly<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl_BKvTiygYbSfqVrTfuVbbo0wy25XO68EdsVca8xBD9ZvENqA017K8pfcZL47-H2H-gxpUyDyZX0PRzRO9EySrEN8Xo9aMOyb3BDnYN8WARBFZrsBgYTAzAiaUNTpQALutdD2lwmVMU/s585/ITMA+that+man+again.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="585" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibl_BKvTiygYbSfqVrTfuVbbo0wy25XO68EdsVca8xBD9ZvENqA017K8pfcZL47-H2H-gxpUyDyZX0PRzRO9EySrEN8Xo9aMOyb3BDnYN8WARBFZrsBgYTAzAiaUNTpQALutdD2lwmVMU/w400-h259/ITMA+that+man+again.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It surprised me that the Beatles didn't lose their popularity when their work went in unusual new directions after "Rubber Soul." "Yellow Submarine,""Sergeant Pepper's" and "Magical Mystery Tour" sounded more like musical theater than what we were familiar with from the lads. We had heard of Gilbert and Sullivan, but thought that to be antique and quite dead. But that tradition was long (operetta, minstrel shows, commedia del 'arte, all the way to the scatological Roman popular stage) and lived on in all the media forms of the 20th century -- vaudeville, radio, movies and television.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The appeal of irreverence, satire and skewering bureaucracy and especially officiousness increases in trying times. The tragic events and head-turning rate of change of the last 110 years called for an antidote in the repartee of Burns and Allen, the fast paced exchanges of Abbott and Costello, the madcap hijinks of the Marx brothers, Monty Python, Benny Hill and Robin Williams. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Beatles would have known about a fellow Liverpool native and multitalented singer, Tommy Handley, whose show "It's That Man Again" held the record for the largest radio audience ever. It ran on the BBC from 1939 to 1949. Absurdity reigned at 8:30 on Thursday nights, helping in no small way to get Britons through terrible times.</span></p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsEYmV_N8d5lERFi1LZGo0KHACMA0K7EvngPhSPvKE-qm11nqoor4CQfmunmkUU8oJObagS_DTNNMVfOyJ4yRkolUXspBJ9CGn85taLTnYBSBY08K7JdcImpiy9pSQeey3BzZNNYZsUwQ/s399/odnb-9780198614128-e-1005826-graphic-1-full.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsEYmV_N8d5lERFi1LZGo0KHACMA0K7EvngPhSPvKE-qm11nqoor4CQfmunmkUU8oJObagS_DTNNMVfOyJ4yRkolUXspBJ9CGn85taLTnYBSBY08K7JdcImpiy9pSQeey3BzZNNYZsUwQ/w215-h320/odnb-9780198614128-e-1005826-graphic-1-full.jpg" width="215" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A crew of 70 characters presented a rapid fire, up-to-the-minute topical comedy sketch show -- doesn't that seem a lot like "Saturday Night Live"? One of the most popular, Mrs. Mopp, with all the double-entendres, had to have been the model for the randy Mrs. Slocombe on the 1970s television riot "Are You Being Served?" Her famous tag line "TTFN" spoken as she ended a scene, went on to become part of the language. Television and movie characters have since <i>had</i> to have one ("Dynomite!" "All right all right all right" "Bond. James Bond" -- the list is endless). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wherever it's found, </span><span style="font-size: large;">we can always use a little </span><span style="font-size: large;">silliness. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><p></p>TripleGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06057036500299186500noreply@blogger.com0