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“The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.”
George Bernard Shaw (26 July 1856 – 2 November 1950)
TODAY FROM AMERICA:
“[O]ur memories are no less real than whatever moment in which we happen to be living.”
Osman, Richard. The Last Devil to Die (A Thursday Murder Club Mystery) (p. 320). Penguin Publishing Group.
A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES: So Long 2023. You Were Merely a Whimper Before the Storm.
“What happens, stays happened.”
Pratchett, Terry. Thief of Time: A Novel of Discworld (p. 298). HarperCollins.
A few days ago, it rained. Unlike the usual mist that often passes for rain here in the Enchanted Forest, actual raindrops fell in our backyard with distinctive splashes. Of course, one could comfortably walk between the drops, but it was indeed genuine rain. The rain was accompanied by two flashes of lightning and some rumbles of thunder. Naida was startled by the storm’s fury, while I, on the other hand, was a bit disappointed that the so-called storm was not accompanied by the earth-shattering cracks of thunder and lightning that used to shred the sky of my youth. Like most old-timers, I miss the good old days.
The worst of my cold or flu seems to have passed, leaving me with just an occasional cough. Naida also appears to be improving, but it seems she’ll need another week or two before it completely subsides. Meanwhile, the news as we enter the holiday season indicates that we are faced with two proxy wars. Vladimir Putin seems to be achieving victory through subterfuge in what he couldn’t win on the battlefield, and the Earth appears to be trying to punish humanity for the damage it has inflicted on the biosphere. It’s the same old story, but as they say, “tomorrow is another day,” and at my age, frankly, I don’t give a damn.
Today is Wednesday, another dark day with wet ground and a grim, grey sky. I’m trying hard to be upbeat, but I must admit, I prefer being a bit grumpy; it suits me better.
It is now Friday afternoon, and I can’t recall what happened on Thursday. However, it’s of no great consequence. In my experience, Thursdays hold little to recommend them, except for the fact that they precede Fridays, when you start pondering your weekend plans. That is, of course, until you retire. Once you retire, every day feels like a Friday, and you find yourself wondering what maladies you will be forced to put up with in the next few days.
Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up around 2:30 AM and dive into the Christmas present George sent me. It’s a book by Christopher Brookmyre titled “Quite Ugly One Morning.” It’s a mystery novel that falls in the tradition of Carl Hiassen, Caim McDonnell, and Declan Burke—slightly over the top and genuinely amusing.
[Y]ou don’t need a southern accent and a pick-up truck to be a redneck. You also don’t need a brain to be a gun-owner.
Brookmyre, Christopher. Quite Ugly One Morning (p. 58). Grove Atlantic.
I read the book until 5 AM before finally returning to sleep. I woke up around noon, and my first order of business was to schedule Naida’s doctor’s appointment and set up one for myself as well. Afterward, I indulged in my customary late afternoon nap.
While I was napping, Naida took the dog for an extended walk, and she didn’t return until well after dark. I couldn’t help but worry about how this might affect her illness. On the other hand, I know that some exercise is always beneficial, advice that I should probably take to heart. She came back, panting and coughing quite a bit.
Couldn’t sleep again that night. Resumed reading the book until four in the morning. There was an interesting riff on surgeons and their psychopathology.
It is now Saturday December 23rd two days before Christmas. Today is Festivus a made-up holiday from the television show Seinfeld that has become an actual holiday for some. Here are the five rules or components of celebrating Festivus:
The Festivus Pole: Instead of a decorated Christmas tree, Festivus is symbolized by an unadorned aluminum pole. It’s meant to be a stark contrast to the commercialism of the holiday season.
The Airing of Grievances: During the Festivus dinner, participants take turns airing their grievances and complaints about each other. This is an opportunity to express any grievances or annoyances from the past year.
The Feats of Strength: After the Airing of Grievances, the head of the household challenges one of the guests to a physical feat of strength. Festivus is not considered over until the head of the household is pinned in a wrestling match.
The Festivus Dinner: Like many holidays, Festivus includes a family dinner.
Festivus Miracles: Participants may also keep an eye out for “Festivus miracles,” which are seemingly random, everyday occurrences that are seen as special during Festivus.
I hope you all enjoyed your Festivus. It is also NATIONAL PFEFFERNUSSE DAY in Germany where the celebrate pfeffernüsse a fluffy cookie made with ground nuts and spices and covered in powdered sugar. It is also National Roots Day when families are encourage to delve into their family history, heritage, and ancestry.
Christmas Eve once again, and I found myself immersed in a night of reading. There’s something special about being alone in the dark and engrossed in a novel that brings a unique depth to your life experiences. However, the downside is that you often miss out on the early morning hours. But, at my age, mornings aren’t the most exciting part of the day. Nevertheless, there’s nothing quite as delightful as a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel with cream cheese and gravlax, whether it’s at 7:30 AM or noon. The key is to savor it when you’re fully awake.
As for the book, I was transported to Edinburgh, Scotland. The hero emerged victorious, although not without a fair share of bloodshed – and yes, some passionate moments too, though not nearly as much as the blood. It was merely hinted at as the bedroom door closed on the hero and the aging ingenue in the final sentence of the novel. It was indeed a fantastic way to spend the hours from midnight to 3 AM on Christmas Eve in 2023.
Later, I took the dog for a walk. It marked the first time in over three weeks that I was able to complete our walk without needing to rest on every bench we passed. When we’re younger and recover from an illness, we often eagerly return to our routines. However, at my age, we simply realize that we’ve just grown older and and still waiting to see what happens next.
Tomorrow Christmas Day will be quiet one for Naida and me. Many of her family with whom we usually spend the holiday with are down with COVID or one of the flu varieties ravaging the country.
Christmas morning began with me waking up to Naida announcing, “I’ve steamed your bagels. They seemed hard, so I steamed them.” This Christmas story will undoubtedly be remembered for both its fame and infamy. It achieved fame because it serves as proof that in life, there’s always something unexpected. As for its infamy, well, have you ever tried to toast a soggy bagel?
After our bagel breakfast, Naida and I discussed how we would distribute Christmas presents to her family. This was a significant question, as most of them live nearby, and almost all of them, including Naida and myself, had come down with some dread disease, making in-person celebrations and gift exchanges unwise. This situation differs from my family’s, where everyone lives at a distance from each other, making in-person festivities impractical. Nevertheless, we decided to drive over to her daughter’s homes, leaving our presents outside their doors while picking up their gifts for us, also left by their doors. As far as I’m concerned, this is shaping up to be a wonderful Christmas so far.
Well, alas the Niners lost badly. So it was not that good of a Christmas.
Later that night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went downstairs and with the help of Mister AI wrote the following sonnet to Naida about our time together this Christmas:
In our twilight years, by Christmas’s sweet grace,
At eighty-four, in Naida’s warm embrace,
Like seasoned oaks, our hearts together find,
In love’s sweet song, our souls forever bind.
With snowy hair, our laughter fills the air,
Your smile, so dear, beyond compare,
In wrinkled hands, our fingers gently lace,
A testament to our enduring grace.
Though time has etched its lines on life’s grand stage,
With you by my side, we turn each page,
Each Christmas Day, in your love’s warm array,
My heart’s light will stay, come what may.
So hand in hand, as life’s sweet chapters roll,
With you, my love, I’ve found my heart’s true goal.
The following morning I got out of bed at about noon, After breakfast, we listened to some Louie Armstrong — Chloe, Mac the knife and others. I had promised myself last night I would get some work done today. There could be worse things than failing to achieve ones goals. Pleasant lethargy has its merits. Where would we be without Louie Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald? Well, Frankie also.
Naida sitting next to me singing along with Frank’s version of “It Had To Be You,” suddenly turned to me and exclaimed, “I can sing again.” Let’s hope our flu month is over.
We just listened to Jimmy Durante’s “Make someone Happy.” He did.
Damn, Durante was followed to Frank’s version of “The Birth Of The Blues.” It’s like having an hour long orgasm. After this I will have to go upstairs and rest.
Later, we spent the afternoon listening to the music of Turlough O’Carolan, the great 18th-century blind Irish harpist who lived through the period of oppression when the English declared playing the harp to be a capital offense in an effort to suppress Irish culture, much as they did with Celtic culture in Scotland. O’Carolan even attended the last gathering of Irish harpists in Belfast, and thanks to his remarkable memory, some of the ancient music from that time continues to survive today. Patrick Bell, who plays Carolan’s music, is a modern performer of the Irish harp and a storyteller. Naida and I saw his performance in Mendocino a few years ago. Alas, once again, the work I had planned to do today remained undone. Meanwhile, 2023 continues to stoically progress towards its end.
On Tuesday, we were not feeling well and feared a relapse. In the evening, we watched “Maestro,” Bradley Cooper’s opus about Leonard Bernstein. While it may not be ranked among the greatest movies ever made, it is nonetheless marvelous. It will revolutionize the way biographical movies are made. Some critics have complained that it should have focused on his music, creativity or humanitarian activities rather than the realities of his life. That would be the conventional approach in biographical movies, where the character’s accomplishments are often embellished with a mostly fictionalized personal crisis that they overcome. While there was plenty of Bernstein’s music in the film, it prominently showcased Bernstein’s personal demons.
Back when I was in college in the late 1950s and early 1970s, I used to hang out with a diverse group of Jewish and Italian-American students, most of whom lived in Manhattan. They were all quite athletic, assertive, and brilliant, with many having graduated from the Bronx High School of Science. What attracted me most to this group was their knowledge and passion for classical music and opera. We would often spend our time together, enjoying beer and singing opera. We even had a game where one of us would sing a snippet of an opera, and the others would try to guess which opera it came from. Two members of the group knew Bernstein quite well and described him and his sexual escapades as far more assertive than portrayed in the film.
I loved New York during that era. From the mid-1950s until the 1980s, it was the epicenter of the world, especially in the realm of music. The influx of refugees from Eastern Europe contributed to a renaissance of classical music, in which Bernstein played a significant role. And then there was jazz. I would visit jazz clubs alone as often as I could. After I became an attorney, I would stop by the Ember’s restaurant, which was near my office, once or twice a week to have a drink or dinner and listen to Oscar Peterson. He sat at his piano on a platform above the bar, playing some of the sweetest music around. Those were truly good times.
The next day, I drove to the Sutter Health complex for one of the many health examinations and procedures that seem to occupy much of my waking hours now. This time it was for my heart. The technician informed me that the process, which would take about three hours or so, would simulate a fake heart attack to determine if a real one was imminent. That did not fill me with confidence. They injected some radioactive materials into me, and I was surrounded by various machines to record the effects. After the exam, I found myself pondering why so much time, effort, and money were being expended on me and other decrepits like me, solely so that we could return home and watch television all evening.
Since I had not been allowed to eat for 24 hours prior to the procedure, on my way home, I stopped for lunch at my favorite Czech-Italian restaurant (in fact, the only one around). I had a caprese salad and some spaghetti Aglio e Olio, which I washed down with a good Czech lager. That evening, we continued watching more episodes of “Universe,” narrated by Morgan Freeman. During the night, my sleep was disturbed by dreams of heart attacks and by pains in my right arm.
The following morning, which was a Friday, the house cleaner arrived. As we had become somewhat indifferent to housekeeping, the house cleaner’s appearance was a welcome relief. It allowed us to enjoy our coffee and watch “The View” without too much regret. Regarding the challenges of aging, George shared an article by Rupert Brooks from The Atlantic that had a thought-provoking piece of information:
“When Americans were asked in 2009 what ‘being old’ means, the most popular response was turning 85. Yet the average lifespan in the United States in 2022 was only 76. Apparently, then, the average American dies nine years before reaching old age.”
(You can read the full article here: https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2023/12/happiness-time-aging-mood/676964/?gift=ZQb7QPALswyGdo9MKPYBj4RYknaaBMPm4RQKUIPcsGM)
The day after tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and 2023 comes to an end. In my opinion, it was neither distinguished nor memorable. It did signify, however, that my generation was approaching its end. We didn’t accomplish as much as we had hoped, but the music was great. Moreover, that day also marks something unique, which may never come around again – the last day of the year is 12/31/23 — 123123.
Today, I indulged in a leisurely morning, staying in bed well into the afternoon. After finally rising, I spent a few hours perusing the internet voraciously, akin to a ravenous wolf who had not eaten for days. Later in the day, Naida and I watched some TV before retiring to bed around 9:30 in the evening.
The following day marked New Year’s Eve, and I woke up around 11 AM, feeling refreshed after what seemed like a restful night’s sleep. Following breakfast, Naida shared with me one of her reports from her doctoral studies in sociology, conducted sometime during the late 1970s or early 1980s. She had been a brilliant student, specializing in women’s studies well before it gained widespread recognition. However, the responsibilities of marriage, motherhood, and the enduring gender bias faced by women pursuing professional careers led her to forgo that path in favor of becoming an accomplished author of historical novels.
In her report, she critiqued the anthropologists and sociologists of her time who condemned the treatment of women in African tribal cultures. She highlighted the contrast between Western European culture, where women had been deprived of their economic power, and many African tribes, where such power was preserved. For instance, in one cattle-based economy tribe, men owned the cattle but were prohibited from milking them. This meant that women retained crucial economic power, enabling them to negotiate with men. In Western European culture, it could be argued that women of the upper and bourgeois classes had, over the centuries, been stripped of any independent economic influence, other than their perceived value in matrimony. Women who managed to free themselves from this economic and political oppression were rare and truly deserving of recognition and acclaim.
We spent the remainder of the day watching television and sibling on snacks. I read a little more of “Touch” a fascinating mystery novel by Clare North that was one of the Christmas presents my daughter Jessica sent me. Then at about 10PM or so, we went upstairs to sleep and slept our way into 2024.
On the first day of the 2024, after Naida and I pleasantly greeted the new year, I got out of bed at about noon. For about an hour, Naida regaled me with stories of old Idaho, when men were men and women were chattel and adolescent boys dreamed of sheep. I then went downstairs for breakfast and wondered about the significance of having breakfast at that time of day, but not for long. And so the new year begins.
B. MOPEY’S MEANINGLESS MEANDERING MUSINGS:
I find myself at a point in life where many individuals begin to contemplate that elusive question: “Who am I?” or perhaps “Why am I here?” Then again, perhaps not everyone does. Who cares?
Let’s get straight to the point. I’ve always thought of myself as… Well, in a quantum world, the concept of “always” doesn’t quite apply in the same way. So, as I write this, I consider myself something of an ascetic hedonist. You might wonder how one can be both ascetic and a hedonist simultaneously. I suppose someone who derives pleasure from self-inflicted discomfort might fit that description.
Let me clarify my self-perception using an analogy that I often ponder. I envision my ideal life as dwelling in a remote cave in the heart of a vast desert. Each morning, I’d rise just before sunrise, venture out to some rocky, inhospitable spot, assume an unnecessarily uncomfortable position, and spend the day in contemplation or humming or engaging in some introspective pursuit.
During these contemplative moments, I’d grapple with profound questions about existence, like the purpose of my chosen path, whether I might be considered a somewhat unorthodox individual, and what lies beyond this earthly realm.
On the hedonistic side of my identity, I’d desire my cave to be equipped with creature comforts: a comfortable bed, an internet connection, convenient food delivery, maid service, a sauna, and, of course, a reliable source of hot water. At the very least, I’d tolerate a well-padded sleeping bag, provided that all the other amenities were present, especially that luxurious hot water, either in a tub or a pool.
Once a week, I’d make the journey to a nearby, unglamorous town, seek out a bustling, raucous bar (or any establishment resembling a bar if such a place were otherwise unavailable), order a beer, and retreat to a remote corner or the farthest edge of the establishment. There, I’d quietly nurse my beer while observing the diverse array of patrons. Subsequently, I’d return to my cave, indulge in a warm bath, and perhaps partake in a relaxing joint. Afterward, I’d crawl into bed, dedicating a few moments to what is euphemistically referred to as self-care, before spending the following day contemplating the pleasures of hunkering down on the stony ground, pondering life’s intricate mysteries. (And let’s not forget the presence of a higher power.)
So, in essence, this is how I perceive myself. Then again, maybe it’s not quite as straightforward as all that. I seem to be merely a self-centered Ponderosa Pine. There are worse things.
DAILY FACTOID: The Dispute About the Share of the top 1% of National Income.
Brad DeLong in a recent blog post described the conflict among economists regarding the estimated increase in share of national income going to the top 1% of earners. The more conservative economists say that the increase is no more than 9% while the more liberal claim it may be as high as 15%. The real question in my mind is why should it increase at all? We are all citizens in the same economy. So why should one segment of the economy receive an ever increasing share of its total income. After all given that the total personal income of all Americans totals about 22 trillion dollars why should about 1 to 2 trillion of it be raked off by the top at the expense of the rest of us. In terms of national interest there is nothing that demonstrates that justifies them receiving a bonus over what they already make at the expense of all of us.
“As I understand things, Thomas Piketty, Emmanuel Saez, and Gabriel Zucman (PSZ) have corrected some errors they made in calculating the top 1% after-tax-and-transfer income share that were pointed out by Gerald Auten and David Splinter (and others).
PSZ now think the top 1% post-fisc share has risen from 9%→15% over 1960→2019.
But Auten and Splinter are not satisfied, and claim the post-tax-and-transfer income share rose only from 8%→9%.
Now come Gale, Sabelhaus, and Thorpe (GST) to keep score. And I am here to score their score…
My conclusion: The numbers to keep in your head for the top 1% are: 9%→14.2%.
But—and all this is really important!—there is a bunch of uncertainty about levels and differences and about the difference between post-fisc income and what we would really like to measure that either substantially attenuates or substantially amplifies that rise in inequality. And I would bet on “amplifies”, but not with a great deal of confidence. And I would say that the sociology of inequality changes in America since 1960 is probably at least as important as the money flows, and that I get confused about it whenever I try to think about it…”
PEPE’S POTPOURRI:
A. The Ponderosa Pine on Top:
The following is an edited version of Gar Smith’s eulogy on the death of Keith Lampe, The Ponderosa Pine followed by Keith’s last post:
The message from Ponderosa Pine’s “Double Helix Office in the Global South White House” struck with the force of a majestic redwood falling in the forest. Keith Lampe, also known as Ponderosa Pine, Ro-Non-So-Te, and the Transition President of the Government of the USA in Exile, was a remarkable individual whom I had known long before we became friends and colleagues.
In 1969, during my time as a staffer at the Berkeley Barb, I first encountered Keith through his unique self-syndicated fortnightly column, Earth Read-Out. It was the first “environmental column” in the Underground Press and beyond. A few years later, I had the pleasure of meeting Keith in person during an All Species Day Parade in San Francisco.
Spotting a fellow who stood out from the crowd, I couldn’t help but ask, “Might you be Ponderosa Pine?” My guess was easy, as the person I was talking to was the only marcher barefoot and dressed entirely in an outfit fashioned from tree bark. With a beaming smile and mischievous eyes peeking out between strips of tree-gleanings, he looked like a walking elm, both deciduous and impish.
Keith Lampe had a unique career journey, transitioning from a reporter to a soldier, then an activist, media mentor, social critic, philosopher, eco-guru, and even a musical pioneer.
Keith’s journey began in 1950 when, at the tender age of 18, he secured a job as a reporter for the Detroit Free Press. By 1957, he found himself in Paris, serving as a correspondent for the Hearst empire’s International News Service (INS), covering NATO. As he once recalled, “every time my byline appeared in the newspaper anywhere on the planet, a clipping of it was rushed to me by diplomatic pouch in order to feed my ego and keep me obedient to [Hearst’s] right-wing corporate values.”
Understanding early on that fame was a “trap,” Keith left INS and began freelancing. He adopted the habit of writing under various pseudonyms so that “whenever one of them started showing up in corporate media too frequently, I could always slip into something more comfortable.”
In 1964, during his third globe-hopping journey through Scandinavia, Keith learned of the murders of three civil rights workers in Mississippi. Rushing back to the States, he joined the Student Nonviolent Organizing Committee in New York, where he signed up to register voters in Mississippi. During this time, he worked alongside Francis “Mitch” Mitchell, who was handling SNCC’s press relations, filling in for Julian Bond.
Keith’s early awareness of global warming came through Allen Ginsberg, whom he had met in Kolkata in 1962. Ginsberg passed along Gregory Bateson’s warning that, within a few decades, the polar ice caps would start melting, leading to continental flooding.
In late 1965, amid the Vietnam War, Keith co-founded Veterans and Reservists to End the War in Vietnam. Having served as an Army officer during the Korean War, where he acted as an artillery forward observer, he was no stranger to the military. In 1966, he and a group of anti-war veterans made headlines by publicly setting fire to their discharge papers, service medals, and campaign ribbons.
Keith was no slouch when it came to activism. He even called out Dave Brower, the legendary founder of Friends of the Earth and Earth Island Institute, for never having gone to jail as part of a pro-Earth protest.
Pondo’s first arrest occurred in the 1960s when he was apprehended in front of Dow Chemical’s New York Office for protesting the company’s “obscene manufacture of napalm.” Over the next two years, he faced arrest twice during Stop the Draft Week demonstrations, was jailed following a protest at an Army Induction Center, and was handcuffed for trying to delay the departure of a Vietnam-bound Navy destroyer berthed in the Hudson River.
In September 1967, Keith was part of a group arrested in the Senate Gallery for tossing anti-war leaflets onto a chamber full of Washington politicians. A month later, he was busted for protesting the war at the Pentagon, alongside luminaries like Norman Mailer, Noam Chomsky, Terry Southern, and fellow Yippies, Jerry Rubin, Abbie Hoffman, and Stew Albert.
In 1987, Keith was thrown into jail for protesting the World Bank’s plans to subsidize the construction of a large highway through the heart of the Amazon rainforest.
Naturally, Keith was on the ground in Chicago for the 1968 demonstrations outside the Democratic Party’s nominating convention. He later learned that the New York City police had compiled a 40-page dossier on his activist history and provided it to the Chicago police. The report identified him as “an especially dangerous leader” because he encouraged people to follow their own path, a sentiment he famously expressed as: “Do your own thing.”
In 2000, Keith, along with Bill McKibben, Granny D, and 30 others, were arrested in the White House Rotunda for demanding campaign-finance reform.
In 1968, Keith, along with his wife Judy and daughter Issa, left Manhattan and settled in Berkeley. It didn’t take long for him to join poet and activist Gary Snyder and others in risking arrest for a principled stand in defense of Nature. This time, they blocked a logging truck, with Keith’s evocative translation describing it as blocking “a truck carrying redwood corpses from a nearby tree-slaughter site.” Many argue that this radical act marked the beginning of the modern U.S. environmental movement.
In 1969, Keith gravitated to Woodstock, a transformative Counter Cultural event where everything seemed to shift. As Paul Krasner recalls, “Hippies became freaks. Negros became blacks. Girls became women. Richard Alpert became Baba Ram Dass. Hugh Romney became Wavy Gravy. . . . Yippie organizer Keith Lampe became Pondorosa Pine, and his girlfriend became Olive Tree.”
Over the next decade-plus, Pondo was arrested numerous times for putting his body between bulldozers and the redwoods. In 1991, in response to the bombing of Baghdad, Pondo founded the U.S. Pro-Democracy Movement. He declined an offer to have his collected environmental essays turned into a book when his publisher refused to print it on tree-free paper.
Looking back on his long history of activism, it’s easy to believe Pondo’s estimation that he was likely responsible for “co-founding more movements and sub-movements than anyone else in Home Planet history.”
During the 1980s, Pondo frequently resided in Chang Mai, Thailand, before eventually settling in a beautiful mountain retreat in southern Ecuador. From his “Double Helix Office in the Global South White House,” Pondo kept in touch by sending out daily dispatches of environmental news and opinions under the banner “A Day in the Life.” These daily compilations of global news regularly ranged from half a megabyte to 1.5 megabytes or more.
In September 2012, health problems compelled Pondo to reduce his publishing schedule to one humongous dispatch every other day. His final edition of “Day in the Life” weighed in at a modest 238 kilobytes but still managed to but it still managed to include more than 180 articles, ranging from reflections on the ebola virus, to climate engineering, attacks on free speech, labor protests in Rome, the militarizing of America’s police, America’s human rights abuses, the demonstration of a “self-running free energy device” and the threat of Artificial Intelligence.
Pondo lead off this final dispatch with his traditional introduction—a spontaneous exposition of his current concerns, observations, criticisms and prescriptions, by turns humorous and cranky.
But this one was different. Pondo knew he was dying and he wanted to share the moment with his many friends, fellow activists and readers around the globe.
Here is Pondo’s final dispatch:
Resolving the Atmospheric Emergency (October 31, 2014)
Dear Sentinel Friends and Colleagues,
. . . I’ve been severely ill for more than four weeks now. Especially difficult have been frequent episodes of convulsive/spasmatic coughing shaking the inside of my body quite painfully. My main problem has been my lungs, which constantly fill with phlegm and when added to severe emphysema and asthma cause quite a problem.
I’ve had two mainstream doctors up here to my mountain retreat but they’ve been unable to improve my condition. So Tuesday I asked for a visit from a local shaman whom I’ve known for a few years now and for whom I have great respect. What he said is quite interesting.
Here’s one of his most memorable lines: “Too much compassion for plants and animals causes a lung problem.”
He said his father had been like this—and had died a month ago at age 72. Then he said quite recently he’d also had a lung problem and just a couple days ago he’d gone to the local hospital for a chest X-ray—and it showed his lungs were clean. He even pulled out the X-ray and showed it to me.
So what I think we should take from this is that a much higher percentage of our current illnesses than we think are psychosomatic (or neurosomatic) rather than simply somatic. For example, we may think we’re sick from toxic chemtrails residues when actually we’re sick from these plus the neural stress resulting from having to absorb the info that those controlling us are so evil that they perpetrate chemtrails.
Certainly the news of these past four weeks has been more horrendous than that of any similar period I can remember. One of my most aware readers commented a few days ago that “Hell has come to earth”.
I’ve had information sickness several times before but always mildly: two or three days of deep fatigue, then back to okay again.
In any case, yesterday morning my housemate came up to my second-floor room just as I was waking and said: “I’m scared. I think you are dying.”
That same thought had occurred to me just the day before as I wondered how I was going to make it through this at 83 if my friend’s father had been taken out by the same malaise at 72.
On the positive side, it’s certainly a respectable cause of death: Natural World Hyperconcern (NWH).
And I’ve already arranged for my death to instigate at least one more really good party. Forty-nine days following it, there’ll be a Bardo Party for me at the Bolinas (CA) Community Center with excellent live music and excellent potluck food. Yeah, at least my death will have some value.
In recent years I’ve several times pointed out that there are a variety of daily practices which can gradually strengthen the nervous system so that gradually folks can absorb more bummer info before being sickened by it. I’ll paste one of these directly below. You can get into it by yourself merely by imitating what you hear in the accompanying audios and/or videos. I’ve been practicing it for nearly forty-four years now. It’s not a panacea but it’s quite helpful and also it enhances average mood.
Power to the Flora,
Keith Lampe, Ro-Non-So-Te, Ponderosa Pine — volunteer
PS: NYC graffiti a few decades ago: “Death is nature’s way of telling you to slow down.”
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:
One should never forget that professional success always comes with a sell by date.
C. Today’s Poem: Sonnet 73 1609 Quarto by William Shakespeare:
That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang;
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self that seals up all in rest;
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by;
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
—William Shakespeare
D. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blog of the Week: Terry’s Comments On Politics.
THE FOG IS CLEARING, The Criminal Trial of Donald J Trump Will Determine The Outcome of The Election. It’s not the economy, it’s not Gaza, it’s not Biden’s ability to talk to the country. “It’s the Trial stupid”.
The polls are indicating that it’s really the criminal trial of DJT that is the deciding factor in 2024. Nothing else seems to matter in a currently tied race. It’s not the economy stupid, it’s the CRIMINAL CONVICTION BY A JURY.
I ask myself why? Why is a jury conviction necessary to turn all the voters on the fence against Trump. After all we all saw what he did on Jan 6.
It’s the built in presumption of innocence that stops those on the fence from turning against Trump, according to the polls. It’s also the respect for the American Jury System that is universally admired and respected. An accusation is just another political talking point. A criminal conviction by a jury of his peers is decisive , particularly in the battleground states.
The poll recently conducted by the NYT showing Biden losing to Trump by 4 points in all the battleground ground states except Wisconsin, show that if he’s convicted by a jury of a crime as a result of Jan 6, he loses to Biden by 10 points. That’s an Endgame statistic. And it’s reflected in numerous other polls and focus groups .
What’s the political takeaway: the 2024 election will be decided in the DC courtroom by Jack Smith’s prosecution and by the Appellate Courts, allowing the prosecution before the election. If Trump should be acquitted, he wins the Presidency. If he’s not tried at all, he has a shot. If he’s convicted he loses in a landslide ( or what is a landslide in the 21st century).
The Democrats could nominate FDR, and it probably wouldn’t change the outcome if he’s acquitted or convicted. But if there is no trial, the nominee matters. That’s why I believe that this criminal proceeding in DC will actually affect the Democratic Convention. If there is no Trump Trial, I believe Biden will be convinced to step aside and let the convention determine the nominee because it’s too close and too risky not too. Biden is no egomaniac. He will do the right thing if he has to. But he doesn’t have to step aside if Trump is tried and convicted. Right now that appears to be the smart play. But that can change if SCOTUS delays the trial until after the election.
Which brings us full circle: What’s the Court going to do. Personally I count at least five votes, probably seven votes, to allow the trial to proceed. : Gorsuch and Kavanaugh have previously written or opined that Presidents are not immune from criminal prosecution and would have to repudiate their long held past positions. The three Democratic appointed Justices will not delay or stop a criminal case against Trump. And at the end of the day, the remaining Federalist Society members of the Court, Roberts and Amy Coney Barrett will join the other members in upholding the Constitution and allowing the criminal prosecution of President Trump to proceed, because to do otherwise would repudiate the clear meaning of the Constitution and the most relevant precedent, US v Nixon.
So a criminal trial will happen before the election. God Speed Jack Smith, the Republic is in your hands.
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/26/opinion/trump-polling-conviction.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare — A Trump Conviction Could Cost Him Enough Voters to Tip the Election
And a few days later he added the following:
As a followup to my recent blog about Biden’s chances, this explains why the 2023 US economy has done so well. The political problem is that Biden has yet to receive the credit he deserves. It’s really his presentation and personality that seems to be the problem. He’s “grandad”.
“Do you want grandad to be President, rather than the next new thing. Of course not.”
The saving grace is Trump is headed to jail or disqualification or both. Haley is stumbling all over her shoelaces with the Civil War slavery comment that was provoked by a Democratic plant, and the Republicans have a very slim bench of talent, since they are chasing off or defeating their most talented politicians.
Bottom line: Despite the polls and the odds, Biden looks pretty good going into 2024. I’d rather have Gov. Gretchen Witmer but we have what we have. Biden will have a big decision to make if Trump is disqualified and/or convicted. Can he beat one of the Republicans on the bench? The polls suggest he can’t. It’s his call. He’ll wait to just before the Democratic Convention to decide.
E. Giants of History: Testosterone Chronicles or Women with Balls (Eleanor Roosevelt had them):
LIVEBLOGGING WORLD WAR II: MARCH 19, 1943 (From Brad DeLong’s Journal)
WASHINGTON, Thursday—I wonder whether you agree with the statement I made yesterday, that we cannot overcome difficulties unless we recognize them. In talking to some Russians once, I was struck by the fact that they kept insisting that everything in their country was perfect. It seemed to me, at the time, as rather childish and adolescent, but forgiveable in a young country trying a new experiment. In us, a mature democracy, it would seem to me unforgivable to deny the existence of unpleasant facts.
A certain gentleman in Congress seems to have forgotten that groups of sharecroppers attracted the attention of the whole country not so very long ago, because they were living along the highways and their living conditions were as bad as bad could be. This gentleman thinks it odd that a group of people are willing to back a union which will try to improve conditions for these people, and that acknowledges the fact of the conditions under which sharecroppers in the United States of America have had to live in certain parts of our country.
Perhaps the gentleman in question, who mentions only three people on this committee, would like to have it also recorded that there are a few others members of this committee—among them Bishop Edward L. Parsons, Governor Saltonstall of Massachusetts, Mr. Raymond Gram Swing and Mr. William Allen White. Perhaps this gentleman in Congrees [originally: Congress] would like to hear the stories that some of the these sharecroppers tell, not just the poor Negroes, but some of his own white people. I hardly think he would approve of these conditions.
Since they exist, I think we had better set ourselves to correcting them. That is the mature way to approach all undesirable situations. Of course, if he approves of them, then I can well understand that he does not wish to have them mentioned.
Hitler’s propagandists can make far greater use of things that are wrong and which we do not try to correct, than they can when we try to improve conditions. This member of Congress is evidently not reading some of the things which the German propagandists have said about situations which have occurred in this country, at least he makes no mention of them.
Eleanor Roosevelt
(God bless you Mrs. Roosevelt.)
F. Tito Tazio’s Tales: From From JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL — “ENTER THE DRAGON.” (Chapters 26 and 27 ) “The Wake (Part II)”
Chapter 26
Instead following them I made my way across the yard toward the garage. The garage was a separate structure at the far end of the property. It was probably built back when automobiles were a rarity so it looked more like a storage shed and had that same aura of disrepair the residents of the subdivision worked so hard to achieve. Behind the garage a large workshop had been built, probably at about the same time as the original garage. Clarence expanded it significantly. He explained to me one evening that he intended to convert it into a separate house so that his children would have a place of their own to stay in if they were slow to cut the strings that bound them to their parents when they grew up. In the interim he intended to use it as his home office and man cave.
I stood by the door to the building and checked around to see if anyone was looking my way. Satisfied that no one seemed to give a damn about me, I pulled out the end of my shirt and used it to protect against leaving fingerprints as I tried the door to see if it was locked. It was not and I opened it quickly and stepped inside and closed the door.
I stood in a huge room that Clarence had planned as a combined dining room, kitchen and living room. It was littered with construction materials. Parts of the paneling had been completed. In a few places the studs in the wall were still exposed. The kitchen had been mostly finished and awaited installation of the appliances. I contemplated for a moment whether I could avoid leaving foot prints in the dusty floor, decided I could not so I set off anyway across the room toward a doorway opposite that I knew led to a short hall and two bedrooms in the rear.
The door to the first bedroom had not yet been hung so I could see most of it from the hallway. The Insides of that room looked a lot like the room I had just left; bits of construction material, detritus and dust. The second bedroom’s door was in place and closed. I tried to open it but it was locked. I thought about it for a moment and decided my attempts to minimize evidence of my visit was not going to work if I wanted to know what was inside. So, I kicked hard at the area around the doorknob. The flimsy material with which the door was made split under the blow and opened revealing a workroom containing a workbench against the far wall above which a panel of holed fiberboard was fastened on which some tools had been hung. Scattered about were sections of disassembled furniture.
The furniture was made out of thick pieces of darkly stained wood common in South-East Asia. I entered the room and crouched down by what looked like the riser that connected a chair’s seat to its arms. It was round and about two inches in diameter. Into the top was drilled a hole that looked a little more than an inch wide and six deep. The best I could determine about four pieces of furniture had been disassembled. Two heavy dining room arm chairs, a table and a cushioned living room chair. The table legs were much thicker than the chair’s risers and as far as I could tell had similar but larger holes drilled into them. The cushions on the easy chair had been ripped open revealing the white latex stuffing.
I squatted there for several long moments trying to understand what I was seeing. It was not too difficult but I did not want to jump to too many conclusions. I stood up and looked in the waste basket by the workbench. Among the litter were two condoms.
My discoveries seemed to clear up a few things. At least it appeared to confirm my conviction that we were probably dealing with a dope deal gone bad. Still, while moving from a suspicion to a conviction may be considered progress, it was slight indeed. It raised a few other questions in my mind. Not the least of which was why so many hiding places and what was Clarence’s role – mastermind or dupe? And Martin, while I would not have been surprised if he were lying about not knowing what was going on, I still doubted he could be so stupid. For that matter could anyone be stupid enough to ship dope so easily discoverable. It smelled amateurish and Martin was no amateur. Clarence perhaps, but why so many hiding places for what appeared to be a lot of whatever it was? I still did not know what. I guessed it was dope. But it could have been popcorn for all I knew.
I stood there for a while feeling anxiety crawling over me. Not fear per se, but distress that I found myself even more in the middle of something I did not what to be in the middle of. My job had been to attempt to locate some missing people and merchandise. Despite my best efforts to avoid doing so, I seem to have succeeded to some extent. But now I appear to be entwined in the middle of several serious crimes. The burgeoning tendrils of panic crept through me like strangler vines in the jungle enfolding the trees that produced the wood for the furniture strewn about me..
I realized that standing there quaking was not going to enable me to come up with anything allowing me to deal with or hopefully ignore what I had found out so far. I decided it would be best if I left hoping it all either went away or circumstances would force some action or decision on my part that would extricate me from all this.
One of those possible circumstances awaited me outside. Martin had arrived with his sidekick, Chang, They were heading toward the main house. Instead of simply leaving the property and hoping that no one would realize what I had seen and that everything would go away, I felt an uncontrollable urge to stir things up a bit. So, I moved to intercept Martin before he got to the house.
Dragon’s Breath:
Eddie Mars: Your story didn’t sound quite right.
Philip Marlowe: Oh, that’s too bad. You got a better one?
Eddie Mars: Maybe I can find one.
Chapter 27
I called out to Vihn when I was a few feet away. He turned and with that slight smile he affected, stared at me.
“I found something you need to see,” I said.
“I’ll join you after I see Ms. Reilly.”
“No, this is something you need to see right now.”
He hesitated a moment, shrugged and followed me across the yard.
When we got to the door of the cottage, I said, “Chang should stay here and make sure we are not disturbed.”
Vihn nodded to Chang and followed me into the house.
“Don’t touch anything,” I warned. “No sense in making it easier for anyone.”
We walked directly to the office in the back and stood by the door.
“I’ve found your furniture. At least some of it.”
We entered the room. Vihn crouched down and examined the pieces of furniture. I pointed to the waste basket. He looked in and nodded slightly.
“You’ve now involved me in a crime. Tell me again how this was just some household furnishings import deal.”
He look-up at me, said, “I should have known, but I didn’t”
“Did you kill him?”
“No. What makes you think it was murder.”
“Nothing, but there are only two condoms probably used to transport drugs and an awful lot more places to hide them. I’d ask whoever built the furniture and was involved in the shipment in Thailand what they know about it.” I hesitated a moment, “Why do you suppose he opened just the two condoms if there were more hidden?” Then I added, “I assume you don’t intend to tell the police about this?” He did not answer.
Said, “Well you know where to find me.” and with that I turned and left, collected Mavis from her gaggle of friends and departed the Reilly compound.
Outside Joe was standing with another of Vihn’s minions, whose name I had forgotten, eyeing Fat Bart. I motioned to him that it was time to leave. As he turned, I noticed a slight bump in his back at his waist. “You went to get your gun? Were you contemplating the Shootout in Marin?”
He chuckled. “No only you white guys would think of standing face to face with someone and shooting off guns at each other to prove who had the biggest dick. That just results in a good chance of your own willy being shot off. Did you know that at the OK Corral the stupid fuckers were only about 20 feet apart when they started firing at each other and most of the bullets missed? No, the only purpose of a gun is that if someone starts shooting at you and misses you can make enough noise to make him hesitate long enough for you to run away and hide. Then if he is as bad a marksman as he has already proven himself to be and dumb enough to try to find your hiding place then, you bet, he’s soon dead from my gun.”
We then walked back to the car in silence. During the drive back I again sat in the back seat and stewed over wise-ass Joe’s rejoinder and decided that I would be happy to be rid of him now that the investigation is over. But I wasn’t and the investigation wasn’t over either. Where was Holland? He probably would know what actually happened to Reilly and the shipment. As we approached my loft building I tried to tell myself that I did not care about finding Holland. But I was not convincing. So I told Mavis that I had a headache and wanted to be alone tonight.
I stood on he sidewalk and watched them drive off fully expecting the two of them to be balling the night away somewhere and that I probably would not see either of them again. I got very very depressed. I was jealous also.
TODAY’S QUOTES:
“If you pay someone for sex and the law finds out, they arrest you. If you pay someone for sex and your neighbors find out, they judge you. If you pay someone for sex and a corporation finds out, they offer to rent you a room.”
Meyer, Scott. Destructive Reasoning (The Authorities Book 2) (p. 156). Rocket Hat Industries.
“We Italians are cracked, but the Irish go us one better when it comes to settling a beef. With us, it’s just business; with them, it’s mysticism.”
Kotzwinkle, William. Bloody Martini: A Felonious Monk Mystery (The Felonious Monk Mysteries Book 2) (p. 114). Blackstone Publishing.
TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:
Hayden found this photograph during his visit to the house I had built in Phattalung Thailand. I do not recall ever dressing like this. But, I guess I did, once. The man to my left was the Mayor and Police Chief in the town. 15 to 20 years ago when I would visit the town regularly, it was a lot like the movies portrayed the American ‘Wild West’ to be. Lying in bed I would fall asleep to the sound of gunshots in the night. Of course they were not AK-47s, just pistols. There was an ongoing war between the Mayor and his family and the other families vying for power in the area. The Mayor’s son-in-law killed the mayors daughter and his son (The deputy police chief) was killed in one of the many battles.
Note: those interested in back issues of This and that…. they can be found at: josephpetrillo.wordpress.com
See also:
Trenz Pruca’s Journal — https://trenzpruca.wordpress.com/
Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables and Parables — https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/
Urban Edginess— https://planningimplementation.wordpress.com/
This and that from re Thai r ment. 