Posts Tagged With: Pacific Star Winery

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 12 Cold Tits 0005 (February 24, 2016)

 

“Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo” (“I was not; I was; I am not; I do not care”)
Epicurean epitaph

Happy Birthday, Giannantonio.

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S CONTINUING ADVENTURES IN MENDOCINO:

The Pygmy Forest.

One day I decided to hike through Mendocino’s Pygmy Forest Reserve. Saving the Pygmy Forest was what got me into coastal resource preservation many years ago. A chance meeting with John Olmstead beneath the shadow of San Francisco’s Transamerica Pyramid caused me to spend the next fifteen years of my life trying to protect the coast of California. John, the grandson of Fredrick Law Olmstead of Central Park fame, is one of the unsung heroes of the conservation movement.

To be perfectly honest, when he showed me the scrawny little trees that made up the forest, I was less than impressed. But, after passionately explaining to me how they came to be and the importance of preserving the Mendocino Ecological Staircase, as he so poetically described it, on which they grew, I threw my hat into the ring so to speak.
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John was my idol. There was little he would not do, no amount of money he would borrow with little hope of paying it back, no lie, no level of begging he would stoop to, no machinations of government and individuals he would not engage in, all in order to preserve these forlorn little twisted trees from disappearing beneath the bulldozers blade — all with no benefit to himself, no wealth, no fame, and few real friends.

The Lost Coast of Cape Mendocino.

On another day, I decided to drive up to Westport and into Cape Mendocino and the Lost Coast.
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Westport is a tiny town on a bluff above the Pacific supposedly riddled with ghosts. It is the last town before Highway 1 turns inland in order to avoid the dark mountainous terrain of the Lost Coast. I always liked this stretch of the highway. It is one of those places in the world where calling it somewhere that time forgot is justified.
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Passing beyond the town and turning inland, I found one of the dirt roads that lead into the heart of Lost Coast.
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Over forty years ago Joe the Hippie and his flower child girlfriend driving a beat up Plymouth 1957 sedan would also turn off here and brave the ruts and washouts to hike, camp, smoke and then drive on through to Ferndale and beyond. We would sometimes pass through Whitethorn and Honeydew, two of the tiny towns hidden in the Cape Mendocino forests, where the cultivators of the major cash crop in the area, big fierce bearded men and long-faced and long dressed women, would stand in front of their clapboard home and silently stare at us as we drove by.
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The road I chose traversed two ridges and passed high above the surf. I traveled through dark redwood groves festooned with signs that warned “No Trespassing. Area Patrolled.” I chose this to mean “shoot on sight,” not because I believed I would be shot if I wandered about but to persuade myself not to park the car and go hiking into the forest just for spite — and get lost.

I drove by a moss encrusted redwood that I called the “Old Man in the Tree” for obvious reasons.
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Finally, descending from the ridge, I entered a relatively broad valley with a creek (Usal Creek) running through it. A bridge crossed the creek into a sprawling primitive campground containing a few tents and some vans fitted out for camping.
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After parking my car at the edge of the black sand beach, I went for a hike through the woods that bordered the creek. As I sauntered along I ran into this:
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There were at least six bucks in the herd and two does. Not wanting to disturb them, I made my way back to the beach and walked along it until I feared the rising tide would cut off my return.
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After wandering around a bit and sitting on a log staring at the surf, I returned to my car and began the drive back to Mendocino. Along the way, I stopped at the store in Westport to buy a cream soda and a bag of potato chips.
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A Stroll along South Noyo Headlands Park.

On Saturday, we visited South Noyo Headlands Park. If anything, it is even more spectacular than the North Park. When they are connected in the next year or two, the park system will extend almost 12 miles along the coast passing through several magnificent landscapes. I have no doubt this park is destined to become one of the great urban/rural oceanfront parks of the world.
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The Druid Sisters’ Tea Party.

That evening, we attended the Druid Sisters Afro, Celtic, Belly Dance Tea Party at the Hill House in Mendocino. The group Soul Elixir, with Pilar Duran (daughter of the great jazz guitarist Eddie Duran) and Claudia Paige (who played drums for the Grateful Dead and other groups) was the first to perform. They were magnificent. The Second group the Druid Sisters (vocals, drums, and fiddle) followed with a marvelous fiddle player (Kathy Buys) and a strong-voiced singer with red hair that the princess in “Brave” would envy (Cyoakha O’Manion). Claudia Paige played the drums here also. Both groups also performed together while the belly dancers wound their way through the audience.

Many of those attending the festivities were of a more advanced age and dressed like they thought Druids would dress — lots of beads and crystals, flowing clothing and even sandals on some. They also danced to the music with the undulating abandon I had last seen at the hippie encampment on the beach below the Mendocino bluffs over 40 years ago. It was great.

One woman, perhaps even older than I, done up in a long flowing dress with a hunting knife hanging from her belt, danced the entire night or at least swayed about waving her hands like she was casting a spell on us all. My sister thought that with her long slender hands and knobby knuckles she was a Witch and not a Druid. I expressed no opinion on the matter.
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The Druid Sisters and Soul Elixir Together on Stage.

The B. Bryan Wildlife Preserve.

Our veneration of nature having been reinforced by the Druids, we set off the following morning for Point Area and a 200-acre estate dedicated to endangered African hoofed animals. We toured the reserve in a safari vehicle, saw the grazing gazelle, antelope, zebra and giraffe herds, fed the giraffes carrots held in our mouths and learned a lot — that certain types of Zebra, are not only obnoxious, but they plan their births during the rainy season so that they could hide their foals from predators in the newly grown brush; all the things one can tell about the health of wild animals by examining their poop; and, that there are only 760 Rothschild Giraffes, the tallest on earth, left in the wild.
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Pookie and the Rothschild Giraffe.

As we left the preserve I thought California with its large open grasslands, the demise of its logging industry, and relatively strong environmental and land use laws could be a wonderful place for establishing large preserves in order to save many of the world’s endangered ruminants and perhaps some of the large predators.

SAVE THE ROTHSCHILD GIRAFFES.

Leaving Mendocino.

I spent my last few days here trying to figure out how I would occupy myself during the four days between when I had to leave here and when I was scheduled to return to El Dorado Hills. Camping for a night or two seemed attractive. I always liked short turns of camping. Many years ago I did a lot of it. I was never a “gear” person. Usually just throwing down a sleeping bag under a tree sufficed.

B. BOOK REPORT: SWAN’S WAY.

Actually, this is not a report about a book I have read, but it is a report about a book. While rummaging through the marvelous little bookstore on Main Street in Mendocino, I happened upon a graphic novel pro-porting to tell the story, Swan’s Way, that makes up the first part of Marcel Proust’s seemingly endless magnum opus about memory. According to the book jacket, the graphic novel was created so that those who found wading through Proust’s rumination’s on social minutia tedious would find this format more interesting and thereby be able to enjoy the marvel that was Proust. As I leafed through the book, however, I found it to contain mostly panels of people sitting or standing in various Edwardian rooms along with the visibly unhappy little Swanie sulking somewhere. I could not understand how that was supposed to alleviate the tedium.

Fiction is the art of the storyteller. Should you read something written by a storyteller and find in it anything transcendental, it is likely that the transcendence you find lives in you and not in the words of the storyteller — unless, you are responding to a reviewer who insists that if you do not see in the work what he or she sees you are clearly defective.

That is why we read fiction, not for what the storyteller or even the erudite reviewer brings to it but what we take away from it. It is ours alone.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Quigley on Top:

Communities and cooperation:

“In the most general terms ,we might say that men live in communities in order to seek to satisfy their needs by cooperation. These needs are so varied, from the wide range of human needs based on man’s long evolutionary heritage, that human communities are bound to be complex. Such a community exists in a matrix of five dimensions, of which three dimensions are in space, the fourth is the dimension of time, and the fifth, which I shall call the dimension of abstraction, covers the range of human needs as developed over the long experience of past evolution. This dimension of abstraction for purposes of discussion will be divided into six or more aspects or levels of human experience and needs. These six are military, political, economic, social, religious, and intellectual. If we want a more concise view of the patterns of any community, we might reduce these six to only three, which I shall call: the patterns of power; the patterns of wealth; and the patterns of outlook. On the other hand, it may sometimes be helpful to examine some part of human activities in more detail by subdividing any one of these levels into sub-levels of narrower aspects to whatever degree of specific detail is most helpful.

In such a matrix, it is evident that the patterns of power may be made up of activities on any level or any combination of sub-levels. Today, in our Western culture we can deal with power adequately in terms of force, wealth, and ideology, but in earlier history or in other societies, it will be necessary to think of power in quite different terms, especially social and religious, which are no longer very significant in our own culture. The great divide, which shunted our culture off in directions so different from those which dominate the cultures of much of Asia and Africa down to the present, occurred about the sixth century BC, so if we go back into our own historical background before that, we shall have to deal with patterns closer to modern Asia or Africa than to our own contemporary culture.

B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

“One of the most important things in deciding which candidates to vote for in an election is whether you believe you can persuade them to your position after the election not whether or not they agree with you before it.”

C. Today’s Poem:

Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
‘I live with my brat in a high-rise flat,
So how in the world would I know.’
Roald Dahl

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me; if I am only for myself, what am I, and if not now when?”
Rabbi Hillel

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPHS:
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Pilar Duran

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Cyoakha O’Manion

 

Categories: January through March 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 26 Papa Joe 0004

 

“Patience is a virtue, but waiting is a skill.”
Wight, Will. Of Darkness and Dawn (The Elder Empire: Shadow Book 2). Hidden Gnome Publishing.

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

Naida West commented on the previous issue of T&T:

“Your blog today is marvelous. Every part of it, including the flow. Weltschmertz isn’t listed, but it lives in much that you write and choose to quote. I laughed out loud at many of the sections, Proust and more. “

Thank you, Naida you have always been more kind to me than I deserve.

Actually, as I pointed out to her in response, I always saw myself as cynical and sarcastic with a strong dollop of ennui (a feeling of fatigue and dissatisfaction packaged with a bit of self-indulgent posturing) rather than consumed with the gnawing sadness and world-weariness of Weltschmerz.
http://mentalfloss.com/article/58230/how-tell-whether-youve-got-angst-ennui-or-weltschmerz

As for angst, not in the least — except for when I read Facebook posts from my more conservative Facebook friends — like those arguing that President Obama lied when he expressed his sadness at another slaughter of our children while they innocently sat learning in school. They, my Facebook friends, seem to believe that despite the fact that the use of guns on American soil by armed Americans have killed more of our citizens than all the terrorists and all the foreigners in all our wars combined, we are somehow safer and more free than we would be if we did not have guns to protect us from the depredations of other gun toting citizens.

Their argument, by the way, seems often to be supported by the claim that in Obama’s Chicago, where relatively strict gun control laws are in effect, a lot of people still die from gunshot wounds, therefor everything he says about ravages of unrestricted gun ownership must be a lie.

The skies above the Golden Hills have cleared following a few days of cloudiness and a smattering of rain and days of unblemished cyan through cerulean from horizon to horizon have returned. The Fall, however, is upon us and the desiccated leaves of the sycamores have begun fluttering to the ground. It is still warm, warm enough to swim which I do assiduously.

My seventy-sixth birthday prompted me to think about epitaphs. The winning one was:
“I came. I saw. I did not like what I was seeing, so I left.”

Some of the also-rans were: “His life had its ups and downs. It gave him indigestion,” “He hated winter,” “I never saw a good reason to get out of bed,” “Some lived their life like there were no tomorrows. To him there were only yesterdays,” “I really did not want to leave. I was only looking for a change of scenery,” “I could have done better, but the stories would not have been as interesting,” “I wanted to leave the world better off than I found it. I never knew why,” “His was always a work in progress,” and, “sometimes, it just doesn’t matter.”

The operation on my left eye went as uneventfully as my first. Unlike during the operation on my right eye two weeks ago, nothing particularly humorous occurred.

I am a bit jealous and annoyed today. The Haystack Show has had more viewers and followers in the few months HRM has been producing it than my five blogs have in the four years or so of their existence. I think it may be time to fold up my tent.

Turkey flocks strut around the neighborhood streets and yards like peacocks strutted the palace grounds of the Raja’s. Of course, our yards are no oriental palace garden and turkeys’ are no peacocks but, a male gobbler in full arousal can still put up quite a display of plumage.
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On Friday after dropping HRM off to school, I drove to Mendocino to spend the weekend with my sister Maryann and her husband George the Mensch. As I left Highway 101 and headed west over the mountains and through Anderson Valley my mind left me and I was barely aware of the drive. I drifted off into writing an essay in my mind entitled “Tu-Tus, the National Football League, and Jaques D’Ambrose’s Package.” Yorkville and Booneville barely registered as I drove through and Philo and Navarro not at all. When I entered the darkness of the Redwood groves consciousness returned. I had always assumed there were only three groves along the highway. It surprised me that I counted, at least, eight before reaching the weedy banks of the Navarro River and the coast. I turned up Coast Highway and wound along the edge of the ocean. I arrived safely at my sisters house a half hour later and, of course, immediately took a nap.

The next day, under an overcast sky, we went for a walk along the bluffs and through the town to the bookstore. Later we went to the Mendocino Volunteer Fire Department barbecue where we:

examined the equipment;
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ate ice cream;
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listened to music;
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watched the kids play junior fireman;
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saw a demonstration by fireman demolishing a car;
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met Smokey the bear and,
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had my picture taken with George the Mensch in full gear.
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Later Peter and Barrie Grenell arrived. We walked along the coast and then had drinks out on the deck.
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Still later at dinner, I talked too much.

The following day we visited the magnificent Pacific Star Winery located on PCH just before the mysterious town of Westport and the Lost Coast beyond. The winery sits on the cliff above the surf. If you are ever in the neighborhood, I urge you to visit there, sample the wines and have a picnic beside the ocean. Do not miss sitting awhile in the afternoon sun on Dad’s Bench on the north side of the property above the white spume and the water churning among the rocks. You will not want to leave.

The winery from PCH.
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Our picnic wine poured by the ever vivacious Sally the Winemaker.
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Sitting on Dad’s Bench,
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and enjoying the view.
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That night we held a dinner party for my birthday. It was one of the most enjoyable birthday parties of my life. Making the long four-hour drive to join us were Naida West looking fetching in her 1970s flaring skirt and her husband Bill Geyer looking hale but gaunt after his brush with death. Naida is the author of the magnificent historical California Gold Trilogy.
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Also, Terry Goggin former assemblyman and itinerant businessman arrived in his little maroon Porsche fresh from negotiating an oil and gas deal in Louisiana. He looked dapper in his fedora and leather jacket.
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Stevie Dall and Norbert with his encyclopedic knowledge of almost everything were there also. The Dalls took a break from working day and night preparing the Mendocino LCP amendments to join us.
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Given the intimate knowledge of the last 40 or so years of California politics of the people assembled there, the conversation was fascinating and amusing. The stories ranged from mysterious archeological discoveries in California to the idiosyncrasies and peccadillos of the State’s elected officials.

The next morning after breakfast, I drove back to EDH. I must have taken the long way because this time I counted driving by 15 major redwood groves.

 

B. NEWS STRAIGHT OR SLIGHTLY BENT:

1. It is not that a libertarian candidate for the Senate in Florida sacrificed a goat and drank its blood that is newsworthy, but that so many Americans still believe in his party’s platform.
( “I’m glad there’s a goat-sacrificing eugenics guy supported by neo-Nazis running for the US Senate in Florida, because we need more diversity in the upper chamber.” Daily Kos))

2. Recently, I heard that some believe that the government is intentionally altering our weather and causing the drought in California. Why the government would want to do this, other than Hillary’s concern Jerry Brown may enter the presidential primary, remains a mystery. I, however, believe it is because the government is angry on account of the failure of Jade Helm to take over Texas.

3. Politics in the United States has ceased to be a forum for deciding how the nation greets the future, but a production value deficient reality show.

Picture, Hillary (the Blond Dreadnaught) and Bernie (the Green Mountain Socialist) stark naked setting off into the jungle to survive for two weeks on insects and paparazzi while Smiling Joe Biden stands ready to rip off his clothing if one of them falls into a vat of public ennui. Or, Carly (the Grim) and The Donald similarly unattired, climbing onto an oil rig in the Gulf to battle each other in an attempt to secure the endorsement of a ravenous horde of crazed billionaire campaign contributors.

Performance has replaced policy. — And, what a week it has been.

Hillary appeared on the comedy show Saturday Night Live lampooning herself and The Donald for being “politicians.” She also proved that she could sing on key. As a result, her poll numbers rose. I expect to see Bernie appear soon along with Louis C.K at his basement stand-up comedy venue in the Village.

The lesser of the lesser Bushes, with precious little to trade with, gamely traded wit with Colbert.

The Donald continued to bring along his own comedy review wherever he goes and still insisting they love him in Mexico. At one performance, he brought up on to the stage perhaps the only Latina in the audience who squealed and jumped up and down waving an American flag while The Donald told the audience that she was his greatest fan and he had never met her before in his life.

Meanwhile Carly the Grim, admitting she has no sense of humor, nevertheless got into the swing of things by promising her supporters that as President she will do for the nation what she did for Hewlett-Packard and Lucent Technologies.

Rubio (Water Boy), performing his usual impression of a deer caught in the headlights, assured the voters that he may or may not do something about something or other.

Not willing to be outdone by his competitors on the national stage, Ted (The Munster) Cruz promised next week to close down the world, perhaps even the universe — a real show stopper.

Lindsey Graham (the Carolina nonpareil), Senator from South Carolina, gave one of the best stand-up performances of the week. When asked, now that his state is under about 10 feet of water and he was looking for federal disaster relief, why did he, a few years ago, vote against the same relief for other states battered by Hurricane Sandy, he responded that he could not remember. A few days later he wowed the crowd by announcing that he now believes climate change is real.

The Brain Surgeon won the weekly hilarity sweepstakes, however, by joking that the victims of the mass murder in Oregon could have done more than simply getting themselves shot. He suggested that if he were there, he would have told the other students, “Hey guys, everybody attack him. He may shoot me, but he cant get us all.” Later in the week, he mentioned that once when he was dining at the Popeye’s Organization he was accosted by a man with the gun. Thinking quickly he responded, “It’s not me you want, it’s the guy over there.” Perhaps we can include pointing to some other guy in the intruder training being taught to school children now. (Remember nuclear war training of 50 years ago when school children were taught to duck under a desk before being immolated in a nuclear attack?) The Brain Surgeon not resting on his laurels followed all this up by quipping that the slaves really had it good. (Did you know according to a study I recall reading somewhere, the highest percentage of psychopaths in any occupation may be among brain surgeons?)

I wonder, shouldn’t we just strip them all naked, drop them in the middle of the Everglades and let them fight their way out through Opa-Locka and downtown Miami, the winner gets the White House? (Vladimir Putin [Vlad the Disrober] asked to join but he was turned down as a professional at stripping naked in public and running around in the woods. He was so upset at the rejection, he decided to bomb Syria. Meanwhile, Merkel’s application languishes while the judges determine if the photographs of her as young woman posing naked at the beach is enough to disqualify her from ever sunbathing again.)

I am convinced that although we might not have a President here, we probably have an Emmy winner.

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Quigley on Top:

We cannot easily force the multi-dimensional complexities of reality and human experience into a single one-dimensional scale, but, if we are willing to excuse the inevitable distortion arising from an effort to do this, we might range human needs from the bottom to the top, on the levels of (1) physical survival; (2) security; (3).economic needs; (4) sex and reproduction; (5) gregarious needs for companionship and love; (6) the need for meaning and purpose; and (7) the need for explanation of the functioning of the universe. This hierarchy undoubtedly reflects the fact that man’s nature itself is a hierarchy, corresponding to his hierarchy of needs, although we usually conceal the hierarchical nature of man by polarizing it into some kind of dualistic system, such as mind and body, or, perhaps, by dividing it into the three levels of body, emotions, and intellect.

The inability of most of us to distinguish between what is necessary and what is important is another example of the way in which one’s immediate personal experience, and especially the narrow and limited character of most personal experience, distorts one’s vision of reality. For necessary things are only important when they are lacking, and are quickly forgotten when they are in adequate supply. Certainly the most basic of human needs are those required for man’s continued physical survival and, of those, the most constantly needed is oxygen. Yet we almost never think of this, simply because it is almost never lacking. Yet cut off our supply of oxygen, even for a few seconds, and oxygen becomes the most important thing in the world. The same is true of the other parameters of our physical survival such as space and time. They are always necessary, but they become important only when we do not have them. This is true, for example, of food and water. It is equally true of security, for security is almost as closely related to mere physical survival as oxygen, food, or water.

The less concrete human needs, such as those for explanation or companionship are, on the other hand, less necessary (at least for mere survival) but are always important, whether we have them or lack them. In fact, the scale of human needs as we have hinted a moment ago, forms a hierarchy seven or eight levels high, ranging from the more concrete to the less con-crete (and thus more abstract) aspects of reality.

In general terms, we might say that the hierarchy of human needs, reflecting the hierarchy of human nature, is also a hierarchy ranging from necessary needs to important needs. The same range seems to reflect the evolutionary development of man, from a merely animal origin, through a gregarious ape-like creature, to the more rational and autonomous creature of human history. In his range of needs, reflecting thus both his past evolution and his complex nature, are a bundle of survivals from that evolutionary process. The same 4 range is also a kind of hierarchy from necessary things (associated more closely with his original animal nature) to important things (associated more closely with his more human nature). In this range the need for security, which is the one that concerns us now, is one of the more fundamental and is, thus, closer to the necessity end of the scale. This means that it is a constant need but is important only when we do not have it (or believe we do not have it).

Two basic facts about human life as we see it being lived everywhere. These are:
(1) Each individual is an independent person with a will of his own and capable of making his own decisions; and
(2) Most human needs can be satisfied only by cooperation with other persons.
The interaction of these two fundamental facts forms the basis for most social problems.

KEY Concept
But there are almost no needs, beyond those for space, time, oxygen, and physiological elimination, which can be satisfied by man in isolation. The great mass of human needs, especially those important ones which make men distinctively human, can be satisfied only through cooperative relationships with other humans. As a consequence, it is imperative that men work out patterns of relationships on a cooperative basis which will minimize the conflicts of individual wills and allow their cooperative needs to be satisfied. From these customary cooperative relationships emerge the organizational features of the community of men which are the fundamental units of social living.
Weapons Systems and Political Stability.

 

B. Xander’s Perceptions:

Could be worse. It could’ve been “Veni vidi VD:” “I came; I saw I had VD.” At least you came, though.

As for me, my life has been a work in progress; it seems, though, that the workers have been on strike a lot of the time.

I’ve always told my kids that I wanted a funny epitaph — you know, something on the order of “I TOLD you guys I was hurting!” or “Guess my home planet couldn’t beam me up in time,” or some such smart-ass things. But they’d look at me and say, “Epitaph??? We’re not burying you — we’re just dumping you on a steep curve in the forest.”

I would either prefer doing the “bake and shake” method of disposal, and Ian and Kristen can decide between themselves who gets stuck with the urn, or if I ever have a spare 10 large (as if THAT is ever going to happen), I’d love to have my ashes turned into a diamond. It would give literal meaning to being the family jewels. But Kristen balked at that, saying she thought it is gross, wearing your dead Dad in a necklace or ring.

That would be one flawed gemstone!

The best idea would be for them to just stick it in my rock collection display with the other pure elements on the shelf dedicated to those — I already have sulfur; carbon in the form of coal, graphite, and diamond (but there’s no such thing as too many diamonds!); bismuth, with its cool skeletal “hopper crystal” form; iron and nickel in the form of a meteorite; gold; copper; mercury; silicon; aluminum (well, foil — ores like bauxite are lumps of dirt); lead; and one or two others I’m sure I’m forgetting.

I won’t have any way of knowing, mind you. But self-delusion can be good sometimes.

 

C. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

“You can tell a country or a civilization is in decline when wealth becomes more important than accomplishment, bankers more revered than scholars and children fear for their lives in school.”

 

D. Today’s Poem:

Excerpt from John Ashford’s poem, “Daffy Duck in Hollywood”

Just now a magnetic storm hung in the swatch of sky
Over the Fudds’ garage, reducing it–drastically–
To the aura of a plumbago-blue log cabin on
A Gadsden Purchase commemorative cover.
Suddenly all is Loathing.

 

I agree with Ashford, “Suddenly all is Loathing.”

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“You’re wasting your time, and I don’t want you to waste mine. In the clown car that is the Republican Party, she’s the ultimate clown.”
Todd Bartlem, Carly Fiorina’s first husband’s response to a request by the press for an interview.

(Bitter, bitter)

 

Categories: October through December 2015, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 1 Pops 0001 (August 16, 2012)

TODAY FROM THAILAND AMERICA:

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THAILAND CALIFORNIA:

Nikki decided to try Hayden’s scooter. Unfortunately it was not a scooter but a skateboard with handlebars; the kind that requires the physical dexterity of someone between the ages of seven and fifteen to manage properly. He took off plunging out of control down the hill, and promptly fell leaving bits of skin behind in the roadway. He injured himself enough so as to require me to attempt first aid. I am embarrassed to say that I was laughing so hard that I had difficulty applying the bandages correctly. The next day, in a less than ebullient mood, he left to return to Italy.

I dropped Hayden off at school for his first day in second grade.I met his new teacher. She appeared to be someone who did not so much look at the children as through them. It troubled me a lot.

Later that morning, I caught the train to San Francisco. I met up with Peter Grenell. We decided to have lunch at Pino’s restaurant, Tiramasu, located in Belden Alley where Pino plied us with enough Grappa for us to make fools of ourselves with some Swiss tourists; ultimately requiring Pino, for our own safety, to drive us to Peter’s house.

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Pookie at Pino’s cigar bar with some Swiss tourists

The next day we, very much less than 100%, picked up Peter’s car where we had left it and drove the almost 4 hours to my sister’s house in Mendocino where after dinner we promptly fell asleep.

The following morning, reasonably refreshed, we left for my friend Sally’s Pacific Star Winery about 30 miles north of the town of Mendocino on the coast near the tiny hamlet of Westport.

We had originally intended to spend the day with my sister and brother-in-law at a lavish BBQ Sally had planned. Unfortunately, Sally’s mother had been taken sick and had been hospitalized so she had to cancel the event. To make matters worse, my sister’s son was stricken with an acute attack of intestinal distress caused by Crone’s disease and had to be hospitalized to undergo an operation to remove a portion of his blocked colon. My sister and her husband remained at the hospital to be close to their son.

Peter and I arrived at the winery and after a brief discussion with Sally took a bottle of Charbono wine and two large Po’ boy sandwiches we had purchased along the way and sat on a bench above the surf crashing upon the rocks, drank the wine, devoured the sandwiches and discussed the significance of apotheosis. We concluded that one of the things that distinguishes women from men is that no woman would be so deficient in common sense and self-confidence as to attempt to use the word apotheosis while conversing with another human being.
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Peter and Sally

The next day in an attempt to cleanse out bodies from the effects of a second hangover in as many days, we spent the afternoon in a hot tub at a local spa and tried to avoid an apotheosis of any kind only to find ourselves helplessly contemplating the existence of God and the foundations of morality and concluding that no self-respecting woman, lounging in a hot tub would do that either. As a result of that insight we agreed that it is only fair and just that woman take over the running of everything that we males have so royally screwed up. So with that decided, we returned to my sister’s house where I took a nap and Peter read back issues of the New Yorker.

On Monday, morning my sister called to let me know that her son Brendan’s operation was successful. We later returned to Pacific Star Winery for another lunch of Po’boys and wine. We toured Sally’s home and then drove to Noyo harbor where we had a fish dinner and watched the sun set through the fog (See below)..

On Tuesday we returned to San Francisco. That evening I went to the International Cafe in the revitalized lower Height Street to listen to Peter’s Jug Band composed of musicians well over the age of 60 play such timeless classics as “The old Hippy” and “Good Night Irene” to their appreciative septuagenarian fans.

The next morning, I took the train back to Sacramento.
B. OBSERVATIONS:

The Apotheosis of Sex is Tantric Union.

Women refused to invent the concept of honor. They knew better.

TODAY’S FACTOID:
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PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

A. Pookie’s puerile epigrams:

We think we know, but we do not – we rationalize. That is what makes us dangerous.
Spirituality comes from the frightful realization, not that we do not know everything, but that perhaps we know nothing at all. Spirituality is what we believe keeps us from jumping off a cliff. A strong guard rail would do better.
B. What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:
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C. Electioneering:
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TODAY’S QUOTE:

A. Aldous Huxley’s Point Counter Point. In one of the many elongated soliloquies dotted throughout the novel, one of the characters, Philip Quarles, delivers his take on what he saw as the false intellectual pursuit for perfection:

“Till quite recently, I must confess, I took learning and philosophy and science – all the activities that are magniloquently lumped under the title of ‘The Search for Truth’ – very seriously. I regarded the Search for Truth as the highest of human tasks and the Searchers as the noblest of men. But in the last year or so I have begun to see that this famous Search for Truth is just an amusement, a distraction like any other, a rather refined and elaborate substitute for genuine living; and that Truth-Searchers become just as silly, infantile and corrupt in their way as the boozers, the pure aesthetes, the business men, the Good-Timers in theirs. I also perceived that the pursuit of truth is just a polite name for the intellectual’s favourite pastime of substituting simple and therefore false abstractions for the living complexities of reality. But seeking Truth is much easier than learning the art of integral living.”

B. “The hand that stocks the drug stores rules the world.”
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
TODAY’S CHART:
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TODAY’S CARTOON:
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TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

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A foggy sunset at Noyo Harbor taken through the very dirty restaurant window.

Categories: July through September 2012 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 12 Capt. Coast 0003 (April 30, 2014)

“Logic doesn’t have to live in the real world. Logic is too busy planning its escape route.”

Burke, Declan. Absolute Zero Cool. Liberties Press.

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

I have written before about the giant turkeys that inhabit this area of the foothills (no, I am not referring to Congressman McClintock). Today on the lawn of the Dr.’s office I was visiting I found the big Tom pictured below strutting about.
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I spent Easter with my mother and my sister’s family at the nursing home.
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Following that, Nikki, HRM and I travelled to Mendocino for a few days at my sister’s home there.
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I left my computer back in El Dorado Hills, suffered electronic communication withdrawal and compensated by reading back issues of The New Yorker.

We returned to Sacramento through Calistoga where Nikki had himself a mud bath. On the following Sunday Nikki left to return to Italy.
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I plan to go back to Thailand for a month sometime near the end of May.

B. POOKIES DREAMS (continued):

There’s not much to tell about how our affair began. It was night and I was walking by her hut. She stood in the doorway leaning against the frame, gazing at the sky. I walked toward her and directly on into the hut. She followed and we laid down together on the bed.

Most of the beds in the village consisted of a straw mat like they have in Japan at the bottom. On top of that one or two soft blankets or rugs or something like that were layered. Then a cool fitted sheet was placed over it all. In this case the sheet was white. The bed was comfortable if a bit hard, but certainly nowhere near as hard as some of the beds I slept on in Thailand.

After that first evening, when I was in the village, I spent almost every night in her hut. Generally we would sit on the bed our backs pressed against the cool mud wall staring at the night sky through the window on the opposite wall of the dark hut. That window provided a view of the night sky framed by a few black branches of trees. A wide streak of light bisected the night sky. It was as if a huge ribbon hung down from somewhere above the roof of the hut. On that ribbon there seemed to be festooned what looked like an infinite number of blinking Christmas lights, white, yellow, red and blue. So many that it seemed like a single pulsating band of light. Now and then a meteor would flash by. I never saw a moon.

The light from outside that window provided the only illumination in the room. I could just make out the outline of her face and the arc of her jaw line as it curved to meet her earlobe.

I could smell the harsh fragrance of the basic soap we all used in the village and the acrid smell of sweat mixed with the sandalwood aroma of the dust that was always with us. Floating through this melange of aromas was the hint of perfume from the shampoo she used. One of the few indulgences she allowed herself.

Eventually we would shimmy down on to the bed.

In the morning, before dawn, I would leave her hut and return to my own to prepare for the day.

We rarely spent time together during the day, even at meals. I would however occasionally see her walking through the village almost always surrounded by children. Now and then I would notice her meeting with people or escorting them around the village. Some of the visitors had suits, others were dressed in various forms of military uniform. There were also some in more casual dress that I assumed were academics of some sort or engineers.They often seemed to be vigorously arguing with her about something or other.

I began to sense tension and stress in the village and especially in Mama. When I asked her about it one night, she dismissed it as a minor irritant.

At first I thought it was merely the ongoing pressure of budget, funding, personnel and administrative matters that are ever-present in any organization and exacerbated by the lack of staff to handle the endless paperwork that is a way of life for most eleëmosynary organizations.

I had some experience about these things and I could sympathize with what she and the other members of the village were going through. Then, one night I found the young son of Tre and Yu unconscious by the side of the road. He had been severely beaten. (to be continued)

C. POOKIES BOOK REPORT:

Because I left my computer behind when I went on my vacation and waiting for re-issuance of my debit card for security reasons, (apparently it had something to do with the new computer virus everyone is concerned about), I have not read any books for the past week or so. I can however rant about The New Yorker Magazine with which I have a love hate relationship.

Like most people who pick up the magazine in the doctor’s waiting room or at someone’s home who for whatever reason subscribes, when I read the New Yorker I skip most of the articles and flip first to the cartoons. I do not find them funny. Someone from the New Yorker once told me with a Eustace Tully like sniff, they’re supposed to be amusing not funny.

Most of the cartoons appear to me to depict characters either collapsing into the ground like slowly deflating balloons or hovering on the verge of transparency. The captions often are snide (which I like) or point out one or another character’s social embarrassment, somewhat at the level of releasing a fart in a crowded room.

The poetry is atrocious. It can be described as poetic excrement. By the time I get to the second line I’m usually furious.

No one I know has admitted to me that they actually read the fiction pieces. They are usually written by a relatively famous Northeast alcoholic, sex-obsessed (or repressed) author, or someone who wishes to be. They really need to now and then try something like publishing the lyrics to a rap song. It would improve the poetry too.

The interesting thing about the non-fiction articles other than their length is that they all begin with great topic sentence that makes you believe you will be greatly informed if you read on. Alas, before I have even finished the first page, new themes are introduced or new characters and I either forget why I started reading the article or, if I have not forgotten, hope I will find it on the following page, often a forlorn hope. When I plod on to the end of the article, to the final paragraph, I frequently discover it lacks any sense of the immediacy with which it began. Or to put more or less into the words of T.S. Elliot it usually ends not with a bang but a whimper.

Now do not get me wrong, I like the New Yorker very much. It reminds me of rainy days and snowy nights on the East Coast with a fire burning in the fireplace or a notoriously dangerous exposed coil (glowing orange) electric heater, depending on one’s socio-economic status. Now and then there would be an article that would knock my socks off and I will always remember it. I love the covers. The magazine also always maintained its grammatical and stylistic standards even as it struggled to remain contemporary. And, I can pile them into stacks in my room for dipping into later (like one does with back copies of National Geographic) and it never looks like clutter.

The following are two quotes from the N.Y. Times that I think catch some of the essence of the magazine and the people who read it:

“The New Yorker magazine has announced that its complete 80-year archive will soon be available on eight computer discs. Some people found this development interesting. But to many, many, many others — and you know who you are, hoarders of America — the idea of being able to own eight DVDs containing every page of the 4,109 issues of the weekly magazine published between February 1925 and February 2005 was life-changing.”
Mimi Avins, July 14, 2005,

“Eleanor Gould Packard, the grammarian for the New Yorker magazine for 54 years whose search for logic, clarity and correct usage in sentences won her grateful as well as grudging admirers among the staff, has died. She was 87. She died Sunday. Her family did not give the cause of death. The first, last and only grammarian at the magazine got her start there in 1945 after sending a letter asking about job openings. In it she pointed out several errors she found in a recent issue.”
Mary Rourke, February 18, 2005

 

 
DAILY FACTOID:

During the mid 3rd Millennium BC, Sargon of Akkad wrote the following:

“My mother was a changeling (?), my father I knew not. The brothers of my father loved the hills. My city is Azurpiranu (the wilderness herb fields), which is situated on the banks of the Euphrates. My changeling mother conceived me, in secret she bore me. She set me in a basket of rushes, with bitumen she sealed my lid. She cast me into the river which rose not over me. The river bore me up and carried me to Akki, the drawer of water. Akki, the drawer of water, took me as his son and reared me. Akki the drawer of water, appointed me as his gardener. While I was gardener Ishtar granted me her love, and for four and (fifty?) … years I exercised kingship.”

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

A. What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:

“We today owe our intellectual and humanitarian heritage to Franklin Roosevelt. Not because he vindicated principles of easy money or public finance. Not because he vindicated principles of modern liberalism. But – for the first time in the history of our nation and all nations – he demonstrated that government can exist for the great benefit of the many at the minor cost of the few. For almost a century both political parties have lived by this end, if disagreeing on the means.”
This is Ashok (Ashok Rao)

B. An Ethical Focus:

“Today’s Needs

Give me:

Shelter from the Elements
Food for Mind and Body
Love of Family and Friends

Today’s Goals

Let me:

Bring Peace where there is Strife
Be Gentle and Courteous.
Grieve for the Misfortunes of Others
Be Compassionate and Charitable.
Be Patient.
Do no Harm.
Ask Forgiveness of those I have Harmed.
Forgive those who have Harmed me.
Avoid Damage to the Circle of Life.
Restore where I can what has been Damaged or Harmed.
Help those who Need it
Not Disparage Others.
Be Steadfast in the Face of Criticism for Doing Right.
Be Kind to those who Disagree with me.
Be Humble whenever I may be Exalted.”

I found the above while rummaging through my files. I am not sure who wrote it or why. I include it here because I like it since it is a moral bromide without appeal to a Supreme Being and it seems to include protection of the environment among its fundamental moral precepts. Compare those who may choose to live their lives following these rules with Juergen Stroop below.

C. Tales of Inhumanity:

“180 Jews, bandits and sub-humans, were destroyed. The former Jewish quarter of Warsaw is no longer in existence. The large-scale action was terminated at 20:15 hours by blowing up the Warsaw Synagogue…. Total number of Jews dealt with 56,065, including both Jews caught and Jews whose extermination can be proved…. Apart from 8 buildings (police barracks, hospital, and accommodations for housing working-parties) the former Ghetto is completely destroyed. Only the dividing walls are left standing where no explosions were carried out.”
Juergen Stroop. Report to Nazi superiors regarding the extermination of the Jewish Community in the Warsaw Ghetto 1943.

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTES:

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”
Abraham Lincoln

“Labor was the first price paid for all things. It was not by money, but by labour, that all wealth of the world was originally purchased.”
Adam Smith

 

 

TODAY’S CHART:

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Although the length and severity of the drought may be attributed to climate change, the predicted El Niño weather pattern expected to begin this summer may bring increased rain and hot weather to Northern California and Oregon relieving the drought. There is a good chance, however, it will bring only increasingly hot temperatures to the rest of the Southwest.

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

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Categories: April through June 2014 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 9 Joey 0002 (March 29 2013)

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN MENDOCINO:

Off to Mendocino. During the drive from Sacramento to San Francisco to pick up my grand-daughter Amanda and her mom Hiromi, I tuned into the local university classical music station to listen to a 1977 NY Metropolitan Opera performance of that old Verdi warhorse, La Forza del Destino, sung by the aging Leontyne Price and the young Placido Domingo. A few days before, I was listening to the same station while driving Hayden to school in the morning. As we approached the school, he insisted I turn off the music, which I did assuming he found my choice of music distasteful. During the stations introduction before the opera presentation, I asked him if he wanted me to change the station or turn off the radio since he did not enjoy the same type of music as I. “Oh, no,” he said. “It’s not that at all. I was afraid that some of the bullies at school would hear the music when I opened the car door and make fun of me for listening to old people’s music.” Then for the next hour he entertained me by singing along with the performers every part of the opera, especially mimicking Ms Price’s lirico spinto soprano – sometimes note for note including vibrato.

We picked up Hiromi and Amanda and drove to Mendocino. During the next three hours or so, the soothing sounds of Verdi were replaced by the incessant screams of eight year olds.

The following morning after searching for and finding a letterbox in the local Mendocino graveyard we left for Westport and the Pacific Star Winery for a picnic.

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Hayden and Remo find the letterbox.

Once there we spend a glorious afternoon at the western edge of the continent drinking wine and picnicking with the beautiful, irrepressible and mysterious (she no doubt is a woman with a past) Sally, the owner of the winery about whom I have written in previous T&T issues.

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Sally and Pookie

Later while in the Winery’s shop Sally leaned over to my sister and said, “Watch this. They fall for it every time.” She then turned to me who was trying on hats and said, “You look very attractive in that hat.” I bought the hat.

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Me in my new hat posing with Etta and Sundance.

Then we spent a few hours at the north-end of Ten Mile Beach watching the kids run around like crazy.

The next day we whiled away the afternoon at the beach below the Mendocino bluffs at the end of Big River. I sat on a seven-foot diameter redwood trunk that lay on the beach and watched the children play on the driftwood strewn sand where the river met the ocean. Over 40 years ago when I first laid eyes on Mendocino, the beach housed a counterculture encampment. I recalled the sweet smell of marijuana smoke, the sounds of guitars and long-haired girls in tie-die dresses dancing barefoot in the sand. All gone now, replaced by a few homeless campers being rousted by the Park Police.

The next day my sister, Hiromi and Amanda left leaving George, Hayden and I to spend the remainder of the week doing guy things – like enjoying long periods of silence broken now and then by grunts and the periodic passing of wind.

JOEY’S NEW MYSTERY NOVEL:

ENTER THE DRAGON

Dragon’s Breath:

Sam Spade: “Then the trick from my angle is to make my play strong enough to tie you up, but not make you mad enough to bump me off against your better judgment.”

Chapter Nine:

One would think that by now I would have thought of some snappy answers to these questions but I hadn’t. Said, “I’m a private investigator hired to try to find him.”

More silence and staring. Finally, “Who hired you?”

I decided to skip repeating yesterday’s patter that had gotten me nowhere. Answered, “His girl friend.” I did not mention the Rotund Brothers since it would require too much explanation.

I expected to hear, “Fucking Mavis” in response but instead got more silence and staring as he apparently struggled with the obvious next question. “What have you found out so far?”

“Nothing, except there seems to be a lot of people looking for him.”

Quickly, “Who – besides the girlfriend?”

“Two fat guys I ran into yesterday who beat the shit out of me – which I hope you and your friends won’t do today.”

“We’ll see. They do that?” he motioned with his chin toward the now colorful bruise on mine. “Doesn’t seem like much of a shit kicking.”

“Well it didn’t happen to you.”

“Nor will it ever.” he responded, then ordered “come with me.” He walked to the door in the wall and opened it. Having no discernible options and curious whether we were about to share some bizarre asian peeing ritual in the garage toilet or if the room behind the door served another purpose, I followed.

The room behind the door turned out to contain a tiny office, not a toilet. A small old wooden desk extended from one wall almost to the opposite leaving barely enough room for someone to shimmy past. The walls were covered in peeling paint the color of which seemed to be late septic tank. A three-year old calendar hung on one wall and a number of business cards were taped to another. The only other furniture in the room was a rickety bentwood chair in front of the desk and a 1940’s era wooden swivel chair behind it. In the latter sat the aging asian man who, upon our arrival promptly got up slid around the edge of the desk and in a half bow with eyes cast down to the floor scurried past us and out the door.

My host replaced the old man. As he was sitting down I said, “they usually call me Dragon,” and slid one of my business cards along the top of the desk. He did not pick it up but instead stared at it as though it contained an explosive. He then looked back at me and said, “Do you know Clarence Reilly?”

This surprised me somewhat. Answered, “Somewhat. When I was with Carter and James I handled some matters for him. I’ve been to his house now and then.” I did not tell him those visits usually ended up with us sitting on the floor of his living-room smoking dope while he lectured me of the ethical superiority of eastern religions even though on his day job he had no hesitation fucking over women and orphans to make a buck. He had a Thai wife, Thai nanny and three half-Thai kids. Things Thai were about the only thing we had in common. That and the compulsion to screw over the weak and defenseless in our day jobs. At least I hated chanting and the smell of incense.

“That’s a big firm,” he said. “So you’re a lawyer also. What…”

I finished his question for him. “What made me leave and become an itinerant Shamus?”

His stone-faced expression did not alter in response to my witless attempt at wit. “Yes,” he said.

“I wanted to associate with a better class of people. Like you, whoever you are.”

The slightest of smiles. “My name Mr. Dragon is Martin Vihn. You seem a bit old to start on a new career.”

“Dragon will do. Fifty-four is the new forty-four, soon to be the new thirty-four. In society’s eyes I am getting younger. If I live long enough I’ll become a teenager again.”

No reaction. “Did the men you, uh, met yesterday tell you what they were looking for.”

I hated breeching a client’s confidence, but hell they threatened me with a gun and now I’m sitting opposite someone who was probably a gangster and could do me at least as much harm as the Fat Boys. “No, just Holland. I’m pretty sure they were working for someone else though.”

“Oh,” with interest. “Who?”

“I have no idea. They were talking to someone on the phone who seemed to be giving them orders.”

He stared at me in silence for a very long time, then looked down at his hands clenched together on the desk. Finally he looked up at me and said, “What do you charge for detective work?”

I thought, “Shit not again.” Said, “Three hundred dollars a day. One week minimum. One half up front, plus expenses.” Added, “You should be aware, I have found out next to nothing so far about the whereabouts of Mark Holland.”

“Who said anything about Holland? He’s nobody. I want you to find Clarence Reilly.”

I laughed. I didn’t think he was serious. “Reilly’s a bit of a local big shot. He shouldn’t be that hard to find. Have you tried calling him on his phone or visiting his office or even his house.”

No reaction here either. “In fact we did,” he responded.

Now I thought that he might be serious. Said, “He’s missing?” No response. I took that for a yes. “How long?”

“Two Days”

“He’s probably fucking his secretary and will turn up in a few days.”

“The secretary’s at work. Do you want the job or not” he said getting up?

Having in the last two days already been hired by Mavis Corcoran and whomever was directing the Tons of Fun to find Holland Reilly’s partner in whatever it was that they had been up to and failing, I thought another $1000 to fail at finding Reilly himself was a pretty good deal provided I could avoid getting slapped around again. Besides this guy scared me too much to say no to. “Uh, OK. I’ll need some information however.”

Again the stare. I was getting a little annoyed about it.

“What information?” he said finally and began to come around the desk.

“What sort of business were you engaged in?”

“Import-export.”

It was like pulling teeth, “What were you importing or exporting?”

“Furniture. Joe will tell you all you need to know.” With that he walked out the door. I got up and followed. I thought, “Joe?”

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

A. What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:

5-26-11tax-f2

B. 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.)
C. Apologies, Regrets, Humiliations and Announcements:

We have been joined today by Reed Holderman one of the more effective members of that little band who actually acted to preserve California’s Coast rather than just talking about it.

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“What the [repeated] bad predictions [from economists, politicians, and lobbyists] tell us is that we are, in effect, dealing with priests who demand human sacrifices to appease their angry gods — but who actually have no insight whatsoever into what those gods actually want, and are simply projecting their own preferences on to the alleged mind of the market.”
Paul Krugman: The Market Speaks
TODAY’S CHART:

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Countries by Fertility Rate.

TODAY’S CARTOON:

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TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

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More Spring in the Foothills…

Categories: January 2013 through March 2013 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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