Monthly Archives: February 2018

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 20 Joseph 0007 (January 9, 2018)

 

 

 

“Everything that happens, stays happened.”

Pratchett, Terry. Thief of Time: A Novel of Discworld (p. 145). HarperCollins.

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

The old year thankfully has passed away. It was not a good year for me nor was it, I imagine, good for the nation or the world for that matter. Alas, there is little that I or anyone else, can do about that other than to get on with it — our lives or whatever else it may be. Oh, I guess we can also vote — early and often as they say.

The cold white sun glares through the silver overcast sky throwing its shadowless light across the path I walk on during today’s morning stroll around the lakes in Town Center. The leaves from the now mostly denuded trees crackle as I step on them while I amble by. My mind rumbles on inside me while I walk along, preaching about years past and possible futures. It annoys me a lot — like I am in the grip of a malevolent being making me plod, head down, walking faster and faster as it feeds my obsessions. Then, having circled the lake the required number of times, I finally rest. The dark voice dissipates, replaced with simple questions like, “Shall I have coffee now or should I continue on to the health club?”

This Morning, I noticed that Bistro 33, the restaurant overlooking the lake, had closed. I enjoyed eating lunch there, outside near the water, often with Norbert, Stevie, and HRM. In the evenings, the local divorcees would gather around the circular bar inside hunting and being hunted in turn. The food was good. I will miss it.

While doing some research on Julian of Norwich (see below), I came across a blog entitled, Ragged Robin’s Nature Notes written by someone living in Warwickshire, England somewhere near where the good Julian spent her days during the far Middle Ages. It seems the blogger, in proper British countryside tradition, spends most of her time in her garden photographing things and posting them in her blog. There, she happily but unnecessarily describes to all that which clearly appears in the photograph. I found her delightfully odd but serious about her preoccupation so I decided to follow her. Besides, how could you not love someone who gives herself the nick-name Ragged Robin and is infatuated with alliteration?

Speaking of the posting of inane photographs of local interest, here is one taken today on my afternoon walk around the lakes in Town Center. I have no idea what kind of trees those are, so don’t ask.
IMG_3924

Recently Ragged Robin posted the following:

THE BADGER CULL

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New Government e-petition from Simon King to End the Badger Cull instead of Expanding It Into New Areas. Please click on the image for a link to the petition.

Save the badgers

Note: It appears that in this part of England, the government sends out petitions for the general public to comment on pending actions and legislation. What a marvelous idea.

 

This morning on my walk around the lakes, I decided to walk the full three miles and forgo the health club because I still was not feeling right. It was another silver skyed shadowless day, a bit warmer than it had been for the past few days. About halfway through my walk, I received a call from the Good/Bad David. I gave him that name because SWAC would refer to him as either good or bad depending on how she felt about him that week. I had not heard from him in over a year. I was glad he called and took the opportunity to sit on a bench and rest while I spoke with him.

David was a well-known hedonist among the Thailand ex-pat crowd I knew. When he wasn’t carousing in Bangkok or Pattaya, he was working on contract as a supervisor of environment, safety, and security for various oil companies around the world. Because his job at times included leading armed mercenaries through a number of jungle or desert hot spots around the world, I would teasingly accuse him of being a mercenary and CIA spy, which he vigorously denied, as one would expect a proper spy to do. For this reason, I gave him the name “Spy” in the Adventures of the Geriatric Nights of The Oval Table I wrote about here a few years ago.

Anyway, with the collapse of the petroleum exploration industry, the contracts he relied upon for maintenance of his licentious and thoroughly enjoyable lifestyle ended and he was forced to return to South Dakota from whence he came and resume the life of a farmer. Now, I do not really know what a farmer does beyond getting up well before sunrise and developing a close relationship with manure, but I doubt it includes a licentious and thoroughly enjoyable lifestyle. I feel his pain.
IMG_0477IMG_0477.jpg
Spy and I in Jomtien Beach

If upon reading what I have written so far gives you the impression I now do little with my day except stroll around the Town Center Lakes, you would not be too far from the truth. It takes a bit of effort to distinguish the variety of my days this past week from my nights. Actually, the lack if nighttime diversity is not precisely true. For the past week or so, I appear to have come down with the stomach flu that everyone seems to be getting — at least I hope that is all it is. It often wakes me up in the middle of the night. So until the episode lets up, I aimlessly play on my computer — like I am doing right now at 3AM.

Overcast skies and rain this morning as I left for the first of my medical appointments this week. I left the house before 6AM leaving HRM to rouse himself, prepare breakfast and await his friend tall long haired Jake and his parents to pick him up and drive him to school. Dick is in San Diego at meetings with the University there. I was anxious about leaving HRM alone for the hour until he got picked up. While lying there at the clinic awaiting whatever radio-active substance they injected me with to permeate my body, I called HRM every ten minutes or so to see if he was OK. He was.Then, after being required to lie perfectly still for an additional twenty minutes while being trundled back and forth through the PET scan machine, I was released to continue my day. First to IHOP for breakfast and then home and back into bed to catch up on the sleep I had lost worrying about the results of this week’s tests.

If upon reading what I have written so far gives you the impression I now do little with my day except stroll around the Town Center Lakes, you would not be too far from the truth. It takes a bit of effort to distinguish the variety of my days this past week from my nights. Actually, the lack if nighttime diversity is not precisely true. For the past week or so, I appear to have come down with the stomach flu that everyone seems to be getting — at least I hope that is all it is. It often wakes me up in the middle of the night. So until the episode lets up, I aimlessly play on my computer — like I am doing right now at 3AM.

Overcast skies and rain this morning as I left for the first of my medical appointments this week. I left the house before 6AM leaving HRM to rouse himself, prepare breakfast and await his friend tall long haired Jake and his parents to pick him up and drive him to school. Dick is in San Diego at meetings with the University there. I was anxious about leaving HRM alone for the hour until he got picked up. While lying there at the clinic awaiting whatever radio-active substance they injected me with to permeate my body, I called HRM every ten minutes or so to see if he was OK. He was.Then, after being required to lie perfectly still for an additional twenty minutes while being trundled back and forth through the PET scan machine, I was released to continue my day. First to IHOP for breakfast and then home and back into bed to catch up on the sleep I had lost worrying about the results of this week’s tests.

 

B. THE UGLY MAN SITS IN THE GARDEN:

Well, what a pleasant surprise I received today after waking from my post PET scan nap. In the mailbox, I found a package from Peter. It contained a book entitled, The Ugly Man Sits in the Garden by someone named Andy Weinberger. Andy (I am sure he won’t mind me calling him by his first name) lives in Sonoma and his book resembles a polished and much better-written version of T&T — a humorous gentle recording of Andy’s adventures and musing as he goes about owning a bookstore in Sonoma and doing Sonoma type things.

Maybe if I had a loving long-suffering wife willing to type up my musings and edit them while I putter around my bookstore schmoozing with friends like Andy does T&T could be immeasurably improved. Although several of my wives may have been long-suffering, none, I am sure, would ever have considered sitting around editing and typing up my meanderings.

I think the blurbs on the back of the book capture the book’s essence best. Here are two:

I’m sorry I didn’t get to see this book for myself, but a person can only live so long, and then God takes him away to a better place. Vat can one do? Still it’s a great accomplishment, and of course, I am proud of him. All those fancy schmancy words.
Tillie Seigal, Andy’s grandmother. (JP — Note: Andy’s grandma died many years before the book was written, but not even God can hold back a loving grandma when she wants to praise a favored grandson.)

Who knew then someday Andy Weinberger would turn out to run a famous bookstore in California and write a book? Not me. In fact, after he left Long Island I never laid eyes on him again. But even as a toddler, I could tell he had talent. He could really throw a snowball back then. That’s what I remember.
Garry Gullicksen, Andy’s childhood friend, Huntington, NY

From what appears in his book, Andy seems to be a jovial easy-going guy interested in other people. I do not see myself being like Andy at all. Talent aside, I believe my attitude more resembles Proust, self-important and indulgent, solitary and cynical. Nevertheless, Andy might be right. On the whole, life is good. There is really not that much to complain about — well…no there really is a lot to complain about, but maybe Andy’s sunny amused disposition helps in dealing with it. It can’t hurt.

I may from now on add a section to Pepe’s Potpourri called, Andy’s Musings and upgrade things a little. It can’t hurt.

 

C. EDH ANCORA:

Still raining. No walks around the lakes today. Nevertheless, for the first time in a long while, I enjoyed myself exercising at the Health Club. Spoke with Naida. She seems to be getting on with her life. Still cleaning up the old but I am pretty sure she will soon be getting on with the new. HRH after two days of rain seems to be coming down with a bit of cabin fever. He is eager to get back to blowing off his excess pre-adolescent energy at the skate park, Tomorrow comes the biopsy — the joy of having one’s neck stuck with needles.

You all have a good day now.

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

 

On Bitching:

The new year has begun. The quote by the ever-delightful satirist Terry Pratchett that begins this post might lead one to conclude that bitching about the past changes nothing. Nevertheless, true or not, I like to bitch. It is my default setting. I always found it made me feel better. Admittedly, it usually made everyone else feel worse. Still, I believe bitching is a good thing. Even if I had nothing to bitch about, I would still bitch about that.

On the other hand, way back in the Middle Ages, Julian of Norwich who wrote the first theological book written in English by a woman opined, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.” These are words to live by — to ponder. They are after all ponderous indeed.

One could argue that not only would accepting Julian’s view of things (and even often reciting her words now and then instead of, “Ohm,” “Wow,” “Oops” or the like) be a good way to start off a new year, it would seem to represent the exact opposite of or an antidote to bitching as a means of handling the stresses of life. In other words, a yin to my yang. Or is it a yang to my yin?
Pasted Graphic
In case you are curious about the difference.

Julian was an Anchoress (a special kind of female anchorite — you wouldn’t think there would be rules about having yourself bricked up in a cave, but there are). At an early age, she was bricked up into a small cell where she spent the rest of her life accessible to the outside world only through two small holes, one to allow food to be inserted and refuse removed and another to allow seekers of wisdom and penitents to receive her advice and counsel.
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Julian’s window on the world.

Julian could have bitched about her circumstances. I would have. She certainly appeared to have a lot to bitch about. But, she didn’t. On the other hand, maybe, she was nuts. Wouldn’t you be, bricked up in a tiny dark cell like that for most of your life?

Anyway, Julian’s lifestyle choices aside, to bitch or not to bitch that is the question (I could not resist). Since, as Pratchett assures us, neither bitching nor enduring can change the past, can either change the future? I maintain that in at least 8 out of 10 cases bitching will prompt change where grim acceptance would not.

So, for the new year, be happy and bitch, bitch and bitch.

And, more importantly, make sure you do not forget to vote.

pew-pew-pew-thats-the-sound-of-me-blocking-your-4054975
Julian Before She Became an Anchoress.

 

DAILY FACTOID:

“According to a 2014 Pew survey, the Americans who most frequently ‘feel a deep sense of wonder about the universe’ are agnostics.”

Andersen, Kurt. Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire: A 500-Year History (p. 440). Random House Publishing Group.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blogs of the Week:

 

1. http://www.resilience.org/stories/2018-01-04/systems-suck-less/

An interesting article that promotes Syndicalism (worker ownership of individual businesses) as an alternative to the current debate between Capitalism and Socialism about control of the means of production. I am not too sympathetic to the author’s arguments. They fail, I think, in part because they avoid the inescapable political problems raised by the inevitable centralization, over time, of power in ever larger more successful entities (by business in the case of Syndicalism and liberal Capitalism and bureaucrats in the case of Communism and Socialism). Power not only corrupts it metastasizes. Also, the inevitable conflict between the self-interest of individual entities and the public good,— e.g., the ability to effectively deal with things like Climate Change, welfare, migrations and so on — seems to be no better handled than the current systems that govern us today. The hope that these current problems and the controversies they engender will somehow be handled better by one or another of these isms, seem to me to be almost like mysticism. I get the feeling that when one peels back the layers of all these isms, one discovers wriggling at the center of it all, that irrepressible maggot our old friend, the Invisible Hand in one form or another. It seems as though the advocates for these isms are not too far removed from the promoters of most religions, “Believe what we tell you and believe only us. The rest is in God’s hands.”

Ideology, like religion, is not science. Science is something on which we can rely without resorting to Invisible Hands or mysterious beings. Unfortunately for us, science is still far from knowing all the secrets of the human heart. So, like it or not, we’re still all fucked.

 

2. https://mises.org/blog/could-banks-become-public-utilities

This post discusses with approval the possible conversion of the banking sector of the economy into a public utility, a proposal I am in general sympathy with. What is especially interesting about this article is that it appears in a blog devoted to the opinions of free-market conservative economists. I assume from the article that the authors separate personal banking (which would become the public utility) from commercial banking.
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

Sooner or later, we humans always manage to find ourselves balanced on the edge of sustainability and little more than one step from starvation.

Trenz Pruca (Malthus by way of Sanderson)

 

C. Giants of History:

Donald Trump will go down in history as the most despicable leader of a democracy to sell out his country to its adversaries since Alcibiades sold out Athenian democracy to Sparta.

 

D. Andy’s Musings:

Andy writes that his mother would often take foreign language courses in Pasadena Community College just so that if she met someone from a country that spoke the language she had studied she could then say, “how are you” in their language. That did not always work Andy admits.

“I remember her saying that the hardest course she ever took was Arabic, from which she only could retain one exasperating sentence: The ugly man sits in the garden.”
E. Today’s Poem:

The King of the Seas – Poem by Stephen Crane

The Ocean said to me once,
‘Look!
Yonder on the shore
Is a woman, weeping.
I have watched her.
Go you and tell her this-
Her lover I have laid
In cool green hall.
There is wealth of golden sand
And pillars, coral-red;
Two white fish stand guard at his bier.

Tell her this
And more-
That the king of the seas
Weeps too, old, helpless man.
The bustling Fates
Heap his hands with corpses
Until he stands like a child
With surplus of toys.’

 

F. Excerpts from Comments on the Previous Post:
Neal

Will you send my regards and condolences to Naida. Bill was a great friend and mentor to me in the early years after you sent me up to Sacramento. He and Naida were both very kind to me when I had nothing to offer back I always wished I knew what he knew. I was also so impressed that Bill would just walk around the Capitol in his street clothes (no tie or suit). He had been around so long that he didn’t need to play the game anymore. He had complete confidence in his understanding of the political world that he worked in. I’m sad for his loss.

 

Fede.

Hi, Joe and Happy new year!!!
I’m sorry for your friends… this year hasn’t started well for you 😌
Sending you a kiss and I hope to see you soon!
Ps.
On Feb 24th I’m going to Thailand with some friends, but only for a week 🤷🏼‍♀️

 

Peter.

Condolences on Bill’s passing. I know you were very close. I am glad to see that, even at the end, he retained his sense of humor.

Hope you are on the mend; you sounded like a foghorn reject on the phone the other day.

More Peter.

It’s Oy Vay. [Technical Note: I had to type this twice because the code-writers, who want to be So Helpful, made the unilateral decision to make this machine show Oy Way (and right here just now, it tried Oy Bay!). This helpful intention results in inefficiency and irritation. Of course, the code-writers are all goyem. (Get this: it just typed “gooey” instead of goyem.) Start a movement: More Yiddish-fluent code writers needed. Fill the Washington DC Mall with hundreds of thousands chanting and waving banners emblazoned with “Oy Vay! All The Way!” (it just tried Oy Bay again).

My response.

Thank you for the book. I love it. I bet Andy Weinberger does not have trouble with auto-correct. He probably writes in longhand on a  yellow pad and his long-suffering wife has to type it up. Recently when I typed the word — edit — the auto-correct printed — toe dit. I tried to work that into what I was writing but it was beyond me. Now with — toe did — I could probably work something out, but the Gods of computer-talk are never so helpful.

Take care. I will try to deliver the cane to you this weekend if you are around.

Still more Peter.

Glad you liked Andy’s musings. Thought you would. I haven’t seen him/them in several years. They’re back in Sonoma running the bookstore; his brother John and wife live nearby. John was our neighbor in New Delhi in 1972-4. That’s where I met Howard, convalescing from dysentery acquired in Nepal.

I’ll be around next weekend, except for a Saturday night gig in Kensington (North Berkeley). Alex’s girls will be up then; looks like we’ll take them to the Discovery Museum at Fort Baker (Sausalito) at some point. Anyway, if you are in town, we can hook up somehow.

I am in the middle of “Fantasyland”- fascinating book, compliments of our local library branch. Makes stuff seem even more amazing and hopeless. Thanks for the tip in previous TAT.

 

Terry.

So sorry to hear about Bill. How is Naida doing? Let me know if there is a memorial service.

Bill was one of the funniest people I ever met. Sometimes without meaning to be funny. But often just being so understated in such a high-stress profession. It was quite humorous to watch him interact with agitated people in a very calm manner and seemingly always get his way with them. Like your Denny Carpenter story. God Bless him!

I’m on my way to Dunsmuir and my new apt. If you want a break from the EDH, come on up. I have not been out your way lately but as soon as I am, I’ll give you a ring.

Don’t get too depressed about losing friends. THEY REALLY ARE NEVER GONE. Most of my old friends are still alive to me in my dreams and rambling thoughts. They are not gone, just on a lengthy vacation. And having been “gone” myself and brought back by a great paramedic, I can tell you the other side appeared very blissful and relaxing. So don’t worry. And our friends will be there in whatever form “The Great One” allows. We are the chosen survivors. And that’s not so bad!

More from Terry.

As I said, modern medicine creates miracles. Throat cancer does not seem to be a large part of cancer fatalities. Of course one never knows, but I’m optimistic about your prognosis. And the stats don’t lie.

Here’s a story from The New York Times that I thought you’d find interesting:

More than two million patients have been saved by advances in diagnosis and treatment since 1991, according to new data.

Ruth.

I’m sorry to hear about Bill Geyer’s passing. I’m finding with respect to Moe, as I know you are with respect to Bill, that knowing it was coming does very little to cushion the blow. I barely knew Bill, but I’ve heard you talk about him for years and I know he meant a lot to you.

Let us hope that 2018 is an improvement over its predecessor!

 

Ann.

I am so sorry to hear of your friends passing. May he rest in peace.
I wish you Blessings in the new year, with good health and happiness.

 

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

 

“As long as there are fools and rascals, there will be religions. [And Christianity] is assuredly the most ridiculous, the most absurd…religion which has ever infected this world.”

Voltaire (1767)

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:
IMG_3912
Trouble…

 

 

 

Categories: January through March 2018, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 13 Joseph 0006 (January 2, 2018)

 

 

 

GOOD RIDDANCE TO 2017

 

“We all do no end of feeling, and we mistake it for thinking. It is held in reverence. Some think it the voice of God.”
—MARK TWAIN, “Corn-Pone Opinions” (1901)

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

Bill.

I went to see Bill on Thursday having received an email from Naida asking me to come to visit him as soon as possible and containing the following:

“I have been sitting with Bill next to his bed. His coughing woke me at 5 a.m. He asked me what my name was. I told him and, when asked what I’ve done all day, explained that I am his wife and I’ve been taking care of him. He said he’d been put away into in some attic. I told him he’s downstairs. He said he wants to see out the window. I explained that the sun wouldn’t come up for a couple of hours. He said, ‘OK. When it’s light I want to see out the window.’ He also said, ‘I feel weird like I’ve been separated from all civilization’— followed by his characteristic sarcastic ‘huh’ of a laugh.”

I found Bill lying in bed. He appeared relatively upbeat. While Naida was out of the room scurrying about with the two full-time caregivers and the visiting nurse, I sat with him and held his hand. Later, Naida brought us some cookies and milk. As we drank the milk and ate the cookies, Bill turned to me and said, “You know, I always thought I was going to die with a shot glass full of whiskey in my hand, now it looks like instead, I will go out holding a glass of warm milk and a soggy cookie.”

We mostly sat in silence but now and then we talked about old times or about our respective maladies. After a few hours, the skies began to darken and I left promising to return again tomorrow or Saturday on my way to San Francisco to return the cane Peter left behind at my sister’s house.

On my way home, I wondered about how brave people die and why we do not throw up monuments to all those who face the endless dark with grace and humor.

I have not gone swimming in the pool since I returned from Mendocino. It is not that it has been too cold. It is more than I have felt too cold. I walk and lift weights but I feel especially tired and lethargic. Is it a harbinger or merely a result of sleeplessness? My nights are spent in repetitive dream states both exciting and disturbing. I wake often and now and then fear going back to sleep. I have a disturbing feeling in my stomach — heavy like constipation but it does not move.

Moe.

Moe has died. I received this from Ruth today:

“I’m not sure how far the grapevine has already reached, so you may already know that, alas, Moe passed away yesterday afternoon.”

“His last round of difficulties began a few days after Thanksgiving with overwhelming inability to breathe. Luckily the property manager stopped in as he was gasping and called 911. I didn’t find out about any of this until the following Monday, by which time Moe was able to talk on the phone. He made it out of hospital into rehab a few days after that, and Jeoff and I visited him on Saturday 12/15 where we ran into Olga and Marshall. He was to go home, with help, the next Thursday–which was the day I flew to Vancouver, where I still am. Apparently, he did go home but then had another no-breathing episode which put him back in the hospital. He was in a ventilator, but they were unable to wean him from it and he seemed to lose brain function, at which point friends and family did what they (and I) were sure he would have wanted.”

“All I have heard so far is there will be a memorial but not immediately.”

“Please notify anyone you think may not already know and would want to.”

“And I wish you a happier year next year.”

More than an acquaintance and less than a companion, Moe was someone whose life and mine have intertwined or another one way for over 40 years. Rest in peace Moe.

Is it my age or the time of the year that is bringing such sorrow and loss? I do hope it will be a happier year next year.

HRM’s winter vacation is drawing to a close. I do not see him too often. He is at the age where he drifts in and out of the house, a sly smile on his face as though he has just discovered something that the rest of us could not possibly know or understand.

Bill.

I was too ill on Friday to drive to Sacramento and visit Bill but on Saturday, feeling a bit better, I set off again. I first stopped at Raley’s and bought some cookies, candies, and dates for them. Remembering Bill’s quip about milk and booze, I purchased a small bottle of Jack Daniels.

When I got to the house, I found Bill fairly comatose and Naida understandably distressed. When I showed Naida the whiskey and explained my reasons, Bill, who we had thought was asleep, let out an explosive laugh and whispered something that sounded like, “I don’t believe it.” Naida found a shot glass and we put it into his hand, filled it with the Jack and helped guide it to his lips. He drank it down, gave the expected cough and went back to sleep. It was probably my imagination but I thought I saw a bit of a smile play across his lips.

Back in EDH, I drove HRM and his friends here and there, read a bit, and spent more time than I would like in bed feeling a bit under the weather. On New Year’s Eve, we all retired early. The next morning I drove HRM and his friend, Tyson, to the Skate Board Park. From there I called Naida to see how Bill was doing. She told me that he had died in the middle of the night just as the old year also passed. She was understandably quite distressed. During her ramblings about his last hours, the many things that need doing now and reminisces she mentioned something about Bill that I had not known before.

Apparently, many years before Bill, Naida and many other parents in the neighborhood were upset with Little League because its rules and regulations excluded many children from participating, so Bill created and for several years managed a youth baseball league open to everyone, boys, girls, and those too young or too un-athletic to thrive in the Little League. The kids loved it. Naida added that throughout the years since they would run into people who had played in that league who would tell them how much it meant to them and how much they enjoyed it.

I spent the rest of the day moping around the house.

2017 was an awful year. It began awful and ended even more so. It began with “Not My President” taking the oath of office and me in treatment for throat cancer and ended with the death of friends, fear of cancer’s return and “Not My President” still in office. I hope for all our sakes we do not experience its like again.

2018.

January 2, 2018, began with clear cold sunlight slashing through the windows. Dick had already left for work and Hayden was still asleep in his room. I puttered around a bit hoping that H would wake up soon so that I could take him and his friend Tyson to the Skate Park. After all, this is the first day of the rest of my life and I am determined to make it a good one. A great day is not required, pleasant will do —even better than average would be acceptable but I will try for great. I think I will do the laundry today.

As that great American philosopher Scarlett O’Hara opined, “Tomorrow is another day.” I certainly hope so.

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

 

Who am I?

I am at that point in my life where, I suppose like many people, I begin to contemplate that ineffable question, “Who am I?” — or perhaps “Why?”— then again maybe not. Who cares?

Let’s cut to the chase. I have always thought of myself as… Well, in a quantum world “always” does not exist or matter. So let me instead begin with — As I write this, I think of myself as an ascetic hedonist. That makes no sense you may say. How can one be both ascetic and a hedonist at the same time? (I guess, a person who gets pleasure out of self-flagellation can be described that way. But, that is beyond what I can handle right now.)

Anyway, let me explain the image I have of myself. I picture myself as a hermit living in a remote cave in the middle of a great desert somewhere. Every morning I get up just before sunrise, go out to some miserable rocky place, contort myself into an unpleasant and uncomfortable pose and contemplate or hum or something else all day.

I would contemplate life’s meaning — real meaning like, “Why was I doing this in the first place?” “Am I just a sick human being?” “What happens after this, whatever this is ?”

If I may digress from my digression, let me discuss my problems with what some large groups of people say comes after this, whatever this is?

There are, for example, a large group of people who believe that if you are male and an efficient killer after you die you get to be locked up forever with a bunch of young virgin women who probably will not remain virgins for long. Everyone else, other than other killers locked up like you, gets to sit on the outside doing nothing apparently except wondering what you guys are doing inside. I think I would prefer to be with the outsiders, at least we probably get to shrug our shoulders and roll our eyes now and then.

Another large group seems to believe that if in your life you get to avoid people who disagree with you, or force them to agree with you, or kill them if they don’t or they get too close to you, you then get to spend all eternity staring a some self-important serial killer surrounded by armed hermaphrodite thugs and listening to Gregorian Chant. Those not so lucky get to spend their time boiled in flaming vats of sulfur and oil. Now I have nothing against Gregorian Chant, but I think I prefer being boiled in sulfur and oil if I could not hear something else now and then — even country and western. Well, maybe not that.

Then, there are those that believe if you do nothing but not hard enough or if you do something during life after you die you return as a maggot. If you’re lucky, you get eaten by a crow before you do anything and if you come back again, say a thousand times, doing nothing you may get to be good enough at doing nothing other than thinking about yourself so that after you die you then get to come back as… well, nothing, forever. What’s the point?

There are also those who believe that, if you spend your life running around killing people and you get to be so good at it that other people make up songs about how efficient you were at mayhem, or they erect statues to you, you then get to spend all eternity with homicidal maniacs like yourself in a sunny place with a lot of grass playing something like football and drinking warm beer. Everyone else gets to live in a cold dreary place weeping and crying forever, except for one or two who get to push rocks up hills or have their liver torn out every day by hawks. Given the choice of eternal football and warm beer or weeping and crying in a cold dreary place, I’ll take the latter. It seems more like life, doesn’t it?

Well, enough of that. Let’s get back on topic, “Who am I?”

On the Hedonist side, I would want my cave to have a nice bed, internet connection, food delivery, maid service, a sauna and of course hot water. Even at a minimum, I could tolerate a well-padded sleeping bag as long as all the other things were included especially hot water preferably in a tub or a pool and in my espresso.

Once a week, I would travel to nearby podunk town, go to a loud crowded bar (if loud and crowded were unavailable any bar would do) order a beer, take it to a table in a far corner or the far edge of the bar and sit quietly nursing my beer and watching everything or if there is no one but an old drunk sitting at the other end of the bar then staring at my beer wishing I were back in my cave tucked warmly in my bed. Later, I would return to my cave and, after a warm bath and a joint, crawl into bed, spend a few moments of what is euphemistically called self-love and then drift off to sleep contemplating the pleasures of crouching on the stony ground pondering “what’s it all about?”

What’s it all about? Well, it’s not existentialism. After all, I think I have meaning even if you don’t. It’s not about, oh,… say solipsism. When you think about it, when you’re deaf dumb and blind crawling face down through a sea of mud and you strike something else, it is not just you alone, is it? There are other isms too, a lot of them, but I think they all end up in more or less the same place— usually not someplace I want to end up. As for a Supreme Being who actually cares for you, I think we’ve disposed of that above.

So what else is there? There’s you and there’s me. We may never meet or be the same, but I think that’s the way it should be, don’t you?

And, that is who I think I am —then again, maybe not.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

America was built on the premise of avoiding the question of whether something is true or is fantasy. Whenever, however, such questions could not be avoided, Americans usually chose fantasy.

 

B. Today’s Poem:

The God Who Only Knows Four Words

Every
Child
Has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does
Anything weird,
But the God who only knows four words
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come dance with Me.”
Come
Dance.
Hafiz (14th Century Sufi poet)

 

 

C. Some Comments on Previous Post:

Ann Marie.

I loved reading about Christmas in Mendocino, brings back many wonderful memories. We always said it doesn’t feel like Christmas until Christmas Eve at MaryAnne’s. The sentiment remains true. I am thinking next year I’d like to go away to Mexico.

Reading about Molly warmed my heart. She has indeed been like a daughter to me since the first summer she spent here with us.

I’m so sorry to hear about your friend Bill. Much love to you ❤️

Let me know if there’s any possibility of traveling with you in September. The kids & I will look forward to it.

From Peter.

We returned then because Blind Lemon Pledge had a street gig on 24th St the next day. The Noe merchants each year in this holiday season promote some music in the mini-parks on the street where car parking used to be. We’ve played these a couple of years now. Small world frolic — or, a vigorous response to the stochastic dreariness of large numbers – During our performance, a man came up, listened, and after the song introduced himself as a music writer (among other things). Turns out he wrote the article in the recent N.V. Voice that mentioned that Chez Marius, our local bistro, was having music. I had read this and arranged for us to play there (including last night!) and told the writer that he, and his article, were responsible for that.

More Peter.

All those Buddhist monks in their gompas have it, but they have to do a Lot of work, drink that nasty yak butter tea, and wake up at 3 a.m.

Still More Peter.

On the other hand, non-Americans look bemused at Americans’ apparent overriding fixation on money. What is happening just now with the recent American elections and the now-very visible triumph of The Oligarchy of the Billionaires couldn’t make this fixation clearer.

Even More Peter.

Consider: Rather than face the prospect of continued human existence within a limited, enclosed artificial environment where you never feel the fresh sea breeze blow in (assuming, of course, that you had a ticket to ride), people could stop burning fossil fuels, causing droughts and mass migrations, and other suicidal nest-fouling activities. But, seems there are too many who say “apres moi le deluge” and carry on. Survey question: How many of them think that (a) they will go to heaven, or (b) come back as a boddhisatva, or (c) simply don’t give a shit?

Peter Once Again.

It’s Oy Vay. [Technical Note: I had to type this twice because the code-writers, who want to be So Helpful, made the unilateral decision to make this machine show Oy Way (and right here just now, it tried Oy Bay!). This helpful intention results in inefficiency and irritation. Of course, the code-writers are all goyem. (Get this: it just typed “gooey” instead of goyem.) Start a movement: More Yiddish-fluent code writers needed. Fill the Washington DC Mall with hundreds of thousands chanting and waving banners emblazoned with “Oy Vay! All The Way!” (it just tried Oy Bay again).

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“Marx famously called religion the opium of the people, and when Lenin founded the Soviet Union, he agreed, saying it was ‘used for the…stupefaction of the working class.’ But neither man had ever been to the United States, to see that for Americans it was as much or more a stimulant and hallucinogen than a stupefying opiate.”

Andersen, Kurt. Fantasyland: How America Went Haywire: A 500-Year History (p. 292). Random House Publishing Group.

 

 

 

TODAY’S CHART:
DQ9rJW2XcAAzXuK

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:
images

 

 

 

Categories: January through March 2018, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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