Holiday Greetings

Happy holidays, everyone!

The holiday season is finally here. Time to knock off work, rush to buy presents, and gather with family and friends. Robin and I have several Christmas traditions, starting this weekend with decorating a Christmas tree. And snuggling in a warm home looking out at perfectly-timed snow.

It's fitting time to appreciate the loved ones in our lives. I had several medical challenges arise recently, up to and including major surgery. The only way I can endure these hardships is with support from Robin. She's a skilled Sherpa who guides us to the summit, handling tasks beyond my current ability. As we enjoy the view from our mountaintop I want to gratefully acknowledge that our presence here is due to Robin's quiet quotidian efforts.

We both wish you all a wonderful holiday and Happy New Year!

A Star's Career

There's an old joke in Hollywood, which has been quoted many times, about the five stages of a star's career. For purpose of illustration I'll use my name for the star:

1. Who is Ralph Hummel?

2. Get me Ralph Hummel!

3. We need someone like Ralph Hummel.

4. What we need is a young Ralph Hummel.

5. Who is Ralph Hummel?

Parting Words

We expect people to say nice things about us when we die. That doesn't always happen.

Truman Capote and Gore Vidal, both famous writers, both deeply flawed men, feuded for years. Each spat vitriol at the other with venomous delight.

The last years of Capote's life were sad: he openly abused alcohol and drugs. Eventually, at 59, his body gave out and he died. 

Vidal wasn't kind. In words widely quoted, Vidal called Capote's death "a wise career choice."

Ouch.

Cursive Writing

When I was a child we were taught "handwriting" in school. It was intended to teach us not only cursive lettering but also fine motor control. The skill was drilled into my brain with endless repetition. I thought I'd never forget it. I was wrong.

Recently I've started using fountain pens which is a delight. Fountain pens work best when ink flows continuously, such as when you write in cursive instead of print. With cursive, letters are connected and you don't lift your pen off the paper; with print, you do frequently separate pen from paper.

My effort to revive cursive hit a snag: I forgot how to make some letters. Like capital F and capital Q. I searched for and found posters made for schoolchildren showing correct shapes of capital and small-case cursive letters. Eventually the alphabet's letters came back to me. I'm now practicing them like an 8-year old.

I've noted before that resurrecting activities we pursued in childhood can be very pleasing. Our brains return to early learning, sometimes with hitches but they do get there. Feelings triggered by stimulating those old memories are deeply soothing.

Do you remember all the cursive letters? Give it a shot.

Funny Story

I could claim that I read Tom Wolfe's work for its erudition but the honest truth is I most enjoy its humor. Wolfe makes me laugh so hard that coffee flies out of my nose. That happened today at Starbucks and I needed several napkins to clean up the mess.

This anecdote needs context. Tom Wolfe started his career in the early 1960s as a general assignment reporter at a dying newspaper, the New York Herald Tribune. The newspaper had a moribund Sunday supplement that it wanted to turn around. They hired a new Editor, Clay Felker, and told two staff writers (Wolfe and Jimmy Breslin) to produce articles for the weekly supplement. (This was in addition to their normal duties).  The supplement was re-named "New York."

A boulevardier, Felker had sensitive antennae for interesting New York social life. He pointed Wolfe and Breslin toward the beau monde, fascinating sub-cultures and odd events. Wolfe and Breslin investigated these and wrote some of the most trenchant articles in magazine history (e.g., "Radical Chic"). The supplement became immensely popular: readers loved exciting tales of hidden social life in the Big Apple. The host-newspaper, however, died. Soon after, Clay Felker bought rights to the name of the supplement ("New York") and revived it as a standalone magazine. The magazine prospered for five decades and continues to exist today.

Okay, here comes the funny part...

Years later, at a party celebrating the history of New York magazine, Tom gave a speech praising Clay Felker. He relayed how Felker was a natural New Yorker from earliest childhood. To prove his point, Wolfe said Felker's sister told him that "Baby Clay's first complete sentence was 'Whaddaya mean, I 'don't have a reservation'?"

Nearing The End

Oh, no!

I've spent three months devouring with delight the written work of Tom Wolfe. Prodigious over a lengthy 60-year career, Tom wrote 18 books and 110 magazine articles. As euphoric as I've been reading his Promethean oeuvre, I'm equally saddened realizing I'm near the end. I've read all of Wolfe's major works (e.g., "The Right Stuff", "Radical Chic", "Back to Blood") and am almost done with lesser-known stuff. Worth noting is that even these pieces -- on subjects you don't expect to care about (like the history of architecture) -- are fascinatingly presented. Tom makes them come alive with humor and insight.

I can't nudge Wolfe into writing more since he's, um, dead so the only alternative is to dive into his literary archive. It's housed at the New York Public Library. I'm agog to go there next year and explore Tom's drafts, correspondence and personal memorabilia. I also want to visit the archive to pay respect to a hierophant. 

In the last book I read ("Hooking Up") there are several passages with éclat:

- "...sitting there as primly erect as a 13-year old girl on a horse at a horse show."

- "...her prose style...had a handicapped parking sticker."

- "this big egomaniac garruling around town and batting everyone over the head with his ego as if it were a pig bladder."

- "Moral indignation is a technique used to endow the idiot with dignity."

- "...wringing his heart out and pouring soul all over you."

Tom Wolfe is a writer whose artistic effort deserves acclaim. I, for one, am applauding. 

New Swiss Watch

Most people are normal. They fit the mold. A few of us, however, aren't normal. We were formed oddly and live outside convention. I'm one of them.

This characteristic often guides my taste in art. I gravitate toward unusual, unorthodox objects. Currently the luxury watch community is re-discovering "shaped watches" -- watches whose form isn't the traditional circle. Shaped watches are often asymmetrical. In the past I pined for several vintage examples; now I'm looking at a new model from Swiss-maker Audemars Piguet [AP].

The watch (AP [Re]Master 02) draws inspiration from Brutalist design used in an earlier AP timepiece (1960-63). AP calls the creation a "tribute to Brutalism" and celebration of its heritage. (Brutalism is an architectural style that emerged in the 1950s.)

What do you think of this design? Would you wear a watch of asymmetrical shape?

Link: https://www.hodinkee.com/articles/introducing-ap-remaster02

Lesley Gore

Lesley Gore grew up in New Jersey and is being inducted into the NJ Hall of Fame. She's a singer who became famous in 1963 with the hit "It's My Party" [And I'll Cry If I Want To]. Lesley was only 16 years old when she sang that song. 

Despite its success Lesley always felt her signature song was another one she wrote: "You Don't Own Me." Its lyrics are potent:

You don't own me

I'm not just one of your many toys

You don't own me

Don't say I can't go with other boys

And don't tell me what to do

Don't tell me what to say

And please, when I go out with you

Don't put me on display 'cause

You don't own me

Don't try to change me in any way

You don't own me

Don't tie me down 'cause I'd never stay

I don't tell you what to say

I don't tell you what to do

So just let me be myself

That's all I ask of you

I'm young and I love to be young

I'm free and I love to be free

To live my life the way I want

To say and do whatever I please

Bitcoin

Seldom do we catch a star. With luck, I grabbed one.

A decade ago I invested in cryptocurrency (Bitcoin [BTC] and Ethereum). At the time Bitcoin cost $600 and Ether was $150.

Back then we expected BTC to reach four-figures ($1,000+). It soon did. We hoped it might someday reach five-figures ($10,000+) -- a level deemed improbable by conventional observers. A prescient few, including myself, believed BTC could someday scale Mount Olympus and hit six-figures: $100,000+. We were called crazy and worse.

Bitcoin just reached this summit and planted its flag. The view up here is magnificent! Ecce Crypto!

I never kept my enthusiasm for blockchain technology a secret. I posted about it frequently. Sensing uninterest among you I eased the throttle back on those posts but still kept encouraging everyone to join this lucrative journey. You can't say I didn't try.

Bitcoin will continue to grow and 2025 will be another breakout year. There was an explosion of investment in BTC ETFs this year: many billions of dollars flowed in. People can now invest in Bitcoin by simply calling a stockbroker and they're doing so in large numbers.

Crypto is the greatest financial opportunity of our time. Where else could someone turn a small stake (say, $30,000) into life-changing fortune ($5 Million)?

"Sunset Boulevard"

Joe: You used to be big.

Gloria: I am big! It's the pictures that got small.

We don't expect our perspective to shift with age... but it does. When I first watched the classic film "Sunset Boulevard" (1950) thirty years ago I naturally identified with struggling young screenwriter Joe. As the story opens, Joe is evading tough-guys from a finance company intent on repossessing his car. For non-payment, of course. In his escape Joe limps into a Hollywood estate, once grand but now fetid from neglect. There he stumbles upon eccentric inhabitants: a once-famous but now aged silent-movie star, Norma Desmond, her (dead) pet monkey, and her creepy butler Max. 

Seeing the movie again, now, I relate more to Norma than young Joe. Norma is clinging to a fantasy: her "return" to the cinematic spotlight. We, the audience, are invited to ponder whether Norma is rational or insane. Delusion is an easy guess given her decrepit circumstances. Indeed, screenwriter Joe's first opinion of her compares Norma to Miss Haversham in "Great Expectations."

But... perhaps Norma isn't crazy. After all, she WAS a star thirty years ago. Her exaggerated affect had cultural value back then. And she's still remembered by Hollywood mogul, Cecil B. DeMille -- who plays himself in the movie, along with other "waxworks" like Buster Keaton.

The film hits me differently now as I ponder whether I'm still rational -- or have drifted away from you youngsters into a magical land of personal fantasy. Last year, when I was physically, socially and spiritually separated from "society" I felt pangs and bliss of deep isolation. In that state you question why we seek human connection. Normal people merely assume an answer but those on the outskirts -- the ill, the deviant, the insane -- face this question with arrant seriousness. Why do we care about connecting to their "reality"? Should we care? It's possible to detach from everyone else and drift away on your own ice-floe. Like the elderly in some indigenous arctic tribes.

Some, like Norma and me, choose to "return" to society -- but with radically new perspective. Things that formerly mattered, now don't. Friendship needs to be real, not phony. Empty gestures to attract social applause (most posting on social media) are realized to be hollow and absurd. Ultimately, we can "make a comeback" but we'll do it on our own terms, infused with real meaning, not false pretenses designed merely to impress others.

"Alright, Mr. DeMille. I'm ready for my close-up!"

"Back to Blood"

Tom Wolfe, who started out as a journalist, became one of our best writers. His 18 books include four novels that are notable for their non-fiction character. Wolfe weaves into stories knowledge about art, culture, sociology and psychology. That Balzac-inspired approach entrances me.

I'm almost through Wolfe's complete oeuvre and want to report on his last novel, "Back to Blood" (2012). It is immensely entertaining. The story begins at a poor Cuban community in Miami but ends up as satire of the international art market and its chicanery. Miami Art Basil is one of the most prominent art fairs in the world where ultra-rich collectors vie for hot art. Wolfe knows the art world better than any other writer and is merciless describing its predations.

In his work Wolfe creates characters and scenes of detailed specificity. You easily believe they're real; they seem too authentic to be fictional.

Reading "Back to Blood" was the most enjoyable thing I did this year. Strangers in Starbucks probably wondered why I was smiling and laughing while staring at a Kindle. I'm agog to finish Wolfe's books and, strictly entre nous, recommend his work.

For a sample of delightful metaphors and wordplay consider:

- "The look on Sergei's face took his breath away. This was not the mere look that kills. This was the look that kills and then smoke-cures the carcass and eats it."

- Rich collectors are "eager to inhale the emanations of Art and other Higher Things amid the squalor of" urban art districts.

- She wore "enough black eyeshadow to make her eyes look like a pair of glistening orbs floating upon a pair of concupiscent mascara pools."

- The curtains hanging in the mansion were "almost comically magnificent."

- "All three [girls] were shrink-wrapped in denim. Their jeans hugged their declivities fore and aft, entered every crevice, explored every hill and dale of their lower abdomens and climbed their montes veneris."

- He sat "at a desk with a surface you could land a Piper Cub on."

Finally, Wolfe enlarges my vocabulary with esoteric words like zephyr, rakehell and nob. I like building new wings on my Word Warehouse. 

Interment

Today was a solemn day for us. Robin and I transported my father's cremated remains to the National Cemetery in Farmingdale where he was interred in their Columbarium. The National Cemetery is for military veterans and celebrates their service to our country. 

My father, born in Germany in 1930, came to the America in 1951. He learned the fastest path to U.S. citizenship was through military service. He enlisted and spent two years in the U.S. Army during the Korean War. He earned several medals and emerged from the Army an American citizen. He was proud of his military service and wanted to be laid here.

I didn't expect today to be emotional but it was. Robin and I shed tears for both my father and thousands of other dead soldiers in the cemetery. It's impossible to walk among them, as we did, without dolorous sorrow at this human loss. We saw graves of many young men and women cut down in the prime of their lives (18-22 years old). Thankfully my father escaped that plaintive fate and enjoyed a long life.

His final resting place will be marked by a plaque in a month or two. The VA also has a memorial website on which I'll add biographical data. Anyone who wishes can later offer a tribute on the website to my dad. I'll let you know when both projects are finalized and ready for visiting.

If you're wondering why it took a year for me to arrange this interment, the answer is simple: I was, um..., distracted last year by another matter. Attending to this now was the best I could do.

Another Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. I normally take stock on these occasions. This year the report is encouraging.

I'm working out regularly and improving my physical health. I've learned how to function with limited vision (20%), discovering dozens of techniques to compensate for bad eyesight. I'm also active mentally, reading abstruse work with glee.

Best of all, my enthusiasm has returned. After last year's set-back I've re-discovered joy. Simple pleasures delight me. Staying in touch with friends is a priority. And unexpected experiences pop up frequently. Let me describe a recent one. 

A few days ago I was waiting at the light to cross a busy four-lane street. There was lots of traffic. A frail old lady with a cane approached me and asked if I'd help her cross the road. She said she walks very slowly and wasn't sure she'd reach the other side before the light turned. Of course I volunteered to be a tutelary. I didn't mention to her that her eyesight is way better than mine.

I escorted her across. As she predicted the light changed before she could reach the other side. I stopped traffic with my hand and protected her with my body; this enabled her to continue and reach the sidewalk. 

I felt unexpected emotions afterward. Surprise that I'm able to help others, not just be a recipient of assistance. And pride at using Badass Biker Confidence to stare down large threatening road-bugs. The only way to safely deal with aggressive motorists is to intimidate them so they back off. And when you're vulnerable on two wheels or two legs, the way to do that is with ATTITUDE. Leonine aplomb.

In the past year I've started to feel younger, so this birthday isn't bad news.

Geneviève Bujold

I saw Geneviève Bujold in several movies during the 1970-80s. I fell in love with her. The Canadian actress's beauty is mesmerizing. She's a true houri.

Yesterday I was shocked to see Geneviève in a movie made a decade ago ("Still Mine"). In it Geneviève looks OLD. Now 84, she seems like someone on her last legs -- but her eyes are the same, twinkling with inner pulchritude.

How can this be? I'm still young, why isn't she?

A Life Of The Mind

“Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the Romance of the unusual.”

  -- Ernest Hemingway

One of the consolations of my current condition is the ability to read, think and write. From childhood to today reading has opened doors for me, supplied knowledge and engaged my curiosity. I can't imagine being without it.

Every week I devour The New Yorker cover-to-cover. Lately I'm waist-deep in Tom Wolfe's oeuvre. It's fun to encounter new words (like "shambolic", "boulevardier" and "houri"). I'm also tickled by clever sentences such as: "It would be as risky as trying to beat a burning fuse to the dynamite"; "...the peculiar male compulsion to display knowledge"; and "Moral bitterness is a basic technique for endowing the idiot with dignity."

What do you like to read?

Whimsy

Modern life is insipid. Unless you make independent effort, life's banality will bore you into stupor. That's why I search for eccentricity and whimsy anywhere I can find them. They make life exciting.

The Volkswagen Beetle, acclaimed as "a people's car," was introduced in 1938. VW's idea was to provide folks with cheap basic transportation. Eliminating frills and unnecessary expense enabled budget consumers to get on the road. It also, unintentionally, allowed arrant oddballs to create custom cars at very low cost.

I, for instance, inherited a 1966 VW Bug as my first automobile. I learned on it, grinded gears while mastering "the stick" and drove the car to high school. With teenage exuberance and quirky artistic vision I converted the Bug into the strangest vehicle in my town. I stapled white shag carpeting to the interior walls and roof, removed the entire muffler system and installed "straight pipes," painted racing stripes (actually a decal), boasted racing-style "mag wheels" and tires, replaced the plain knob on the stick-shift with a black billiard eight-ball, and mounted loud, uncovered speakers to boost stereo volume. My proudest achievement was to add a risible car-horn that moo-ed like a cow. Seriously, it moo-ed. The horn had a lever you pulled to RELEASE THE MOO. I thought that was the wildest idea ever. True éclat. Needless to say I was the only kid in town with one. 

MOO!!  "Ralph's here."

One feature I didn't add -- only because I wasn't aware of its existence -- was a coffee-maker. In 1959 -- I SWEAR TO GOD YOU CAN CHECK ME ON THIS -- Volkswagen offered the option of a coffee-maker mounted on the dashboard (Hertella Auto Kaffeemachine). Drivers could harness car electricity to brew a cup of Joe. Matching porcelain coffee cups had magnets in their base to stay attached to metal holders while driving. In case you don't believe me, here's a photograph of the device. I invite skeptics to do their own research and confirm this.

"Would you like cream or sugar with that?"  :)

Tom Wolfe

I just solved TWO problems. Dos. Zwei. Deux.

I surveyed science, philosophy and literature, searching for intriguing pools into which I could dive. In the past I didn't have leisure time for recondite writing, now I'm ready to take a plunge. But what should I read?

I sampled prominent writers, luminaries like David Foster Wallace, Albert Camus and Anthony Burgess. None grabbed me. Few have the right blend of perspicacious content and stylistic brio.

Long ago an author impressed me with his bestselling novel, "Bonfire Of The Vanities." That book captures the zeitgeist of New York in the 1980s. Tom Wolfe, who wrote mostly non-fiction, intensifies his creative writing with reportage on salient topics like class, social status and history. That appeals to me.

During Wolfe's 88 years on Earth he published 18 books and many magazine articles. The books include titles you'll recognize: they were turned into movies: e.g., "The Right Stuff." I've begun exploring Wolfe's books on my new Kindle. I love their flavor. They're both delicious and filling. I just decided to devour Wolfe's entire oeuvre by the end of the year. I hope I don't get fat. :)

Tom Wolfe, as everyone knows, was a "boulevardier", a sophisticated man-about-town who socialized at fashionable places. I learned that fun word from his 2004 novel, "I Am Charlotte Simmons." The book is a trenchant description of life on elite college campuses. The story and characters remind me of my four years at Hamilton College, a prestigious private college in bucolic upstate New York. 

Founded in 1793, Hamilton College has an endowment of $1.3 billion. The school offers exceptional academic education. It also provides social opportunities for drunkenness, debauchery and class struggle. A sizable contingent of my class were pampered rich kids -- the kind born on third base who mistakenly believe they hit a triple. Hamilton was my first exposure to lazy, louche offspring. 

During my time in college I often -- deliberately -- affronted moneyed classmates. My favorite weapon was a blue-collar work-shirt from my summer job at Roadside Auto Parts. The shirt (literally dark blue) had my first name stitched above the shirt pocket. The garment shocked ovine snobs. They couldn't believe anyone at a fancy private school would admit, let alone celebrate working class roots. Haughty snobs themselves love to conspicuously flaunt their families' wealth by wearing coded florid clothes, like LL Bean duck-boots, two polo shirts worn on top of each other, and lime-green shorts. And you can set a clock to their constant mention of tony prep-schools, designed to display supposed superiority. One student, son of a famous Hollywood mogul, drove a red convertible MG around campus with the top down. IN WINTER. At 10 mph.

Exposure to hoity-toity classmates taught me that class pretension is insignificant. True value is found in our individuality, in what ancient philosophers call our "haecceitas" (this-ness). Worth doesn't flow from family wealth.

Privileged children often get into good colleges by "legacy admission": i.e., through Daddy's prior attendance and generous donations. Rich kids spend time there partying and patronizing harder-working students. The group feels little pressure to achieve because they know their futures will be greased by Daddy's business contacts. I, on the other hand, am a son of immigrants who didn't attend college. I had to strive to earn grades good enough to open the heavy admissions door at a selective institution. And I had to do that while working multiple part-time jobs to afford private school's higher tuition.

Subjects like this are exactly what Tom Wolfe probes with mordant wit. His gimlet-eye teaches and I'm laughing every day at his piquant barbs.

So what's the second problem I solved? I know what to be for Halloween. Tom Wolfe has a recognized persona: white suit and soigné hat. That outfit is in my wheelhouse.

Czechia

Do you know that the Czech Republic changed its name? The country now wants to be known as "Czechia."

No word yet on what pronouns it prefers. :)

My Cynosure

 

I confuse people because I sometimes embrace new technology (e.g., cryptocurrency) and sometimes cling to old tech (e.g., vinyl records). The explanation is simple: I search for what works. I don't automatically adopt a new way of doing things just because a company wants to sell it to me. I check to see if the product will actually improve my life. Conversely, I don't discard proven machinery just because it's gotten old. My cynosure is always: what works best?

Two examples: I just migrated from paper-books to Kindle. And I returned to a 90-year old way of making coffee (Bialetti Moka Pot).

When e-readers emerged I didn't grasp their benefits. I like paper and its absence of electricity. I always carry a book and magazines with me, read during gaps in my day and didn't want to worry about cords and electricity. The situation changed however with my recent vision-loss. Now paper isn't bright enough and sentences exceed the width of my field of vision. On a Kindle you can adjust both of these. I find reading on a Kindle easier. I've started consuming books much faster with the clever device. That's improvement.

Do you have a Kindle/Nook? Do you like it?

When I was a child my parents drank Sanka, awful-tasting freeze-dried "instant coffee". Sanka became popular among the bourgeoisie due to massive television advertising. In college I met my first love, a bohemian artist with great taste. She introduced to real coffee. The Bialetti Moka Pot was invented in 1930 by an Italian connoisseur and has been popular ever since. It effloresces a cup of Joe that's richer than other methods (e.g., French press; drip; Keurig). I just bought one of these wonderful machines almost a century after its invention. It works beautifully.

What's your approach to new technology?

Winter Is Coming

It's been literally years since I bought any winter clothes. So I need some warm ones.

Feeling a little blue I decided now is a good time to treat myself. I just ordered two light sweaters for Fall from my favorite clothier (Paul Fredrick). For the heart of Winter I want a heavier sweater.

I heard about a famous sweater-maker in Ireland on the remote island of Inis Meáin. The company uses craftsmen and -women who've been weaving sweaters for a century. That high quality, and the fact that the company produces only a small number of sweaters each year, means their prices are crazy. But, hey, I don't buy clothes every day. And when it's cold you really want a warm well-made sweater, not some cheap crap made on machines in China.

This informative article describes Inis Meáin's history, materials and craftmanship -- here.

The Peak and Valley

Recently I was surprised. No, that's not accurate: I was horrified. A photograph was taken for my passport -- and what it shows knocked me down. I was distraught and it took an entire day for my Pollyanna nature to surface and salvage my emotions.

A hidden blessing of bad vision is losing the ability to see yourself. I haven't viewed my face clearly in over a year. The bathroom-mirror displays only an indistinct blob. Shaving is a dangerous activity deserving its own book. Working title: "Riding The Razor."

Early in life I assessed my attractiveness. I considered my average looks to be sufficient. I didn't lust for adoration nor aspire to become a movie-star. I encountered no obstacles working as a legal pugilist; appearance is irrelevant in that bloody arena. 

But my passport photo reveals more than just aging. It shows a drooping eyelid over a permanently-bloodshot eye that's retired from active duty. Ugh. No longer am I unaware of my current appearance. That ignorance was temporary bliss.

Pondering this sad state of affairs an anodyne idea popped up: I was once cute. Long ago and for a brief moment. Exactly 50 years ago, in fact. In 1974 I could attract a girl's eye. That fleeting pulchritude was the peak of my life's physical beauty; it's been downhill since then, ultimately ending at this pitiful cul-de-sac.

For all of us who grow old, at some point past glory hops a train to Newark and disappears, leaving only vague memory. And, if we're lucky, maybe an old picture like this one.

Ancient Egypt

There are many projects I've wanted to pursue in my life. For decades, however, I was prevented from diving into them due to an exhausting job. Now, with time and energy, I'm happily embracing these endeavors.

I just completed a lengthy study of ancient Egypt: its history, art, culture and monumental achievements. Everyone knows of the pyramids but how many of us know who built them? Instead of cramming our heads with frivolous details about the Kardashians we should focus instead on true giants like Pharaohs Sneferu, Khufu and Menkaure. Ancient Egypt developed a sophisticated civilization that lasted over 3,000 years. It warrants attention.

Modern interest in this society began two centuries ago. Europeans got excited over studying ancient Egypt in the early 1800s; it even reached a point called "Egyptomania." That fervor accelerated 200 years ago when an ingenious French scholar (Jean-François Champollion) figured out how to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. His "eureka" moment in that quest happened this very day (September 14th) 202 years ago. That key unlocked voluminous knowledge on Egypt's history and culture since now we can read the many texts carved into stone throughout the region.

It's never too late to tackle a subject and learn something. In fact, acquiring knowledge later in life is especially sweet because you can place it in clearer context and relate the information to other stuff you know.

Q&A (Across The Ocean)

Three weeks ago, in an effort to brighten the blogosphere, I suggested something done in the past with success. I offered to either interview others here or answer your questions there. It gives us a chance to know each other better, explore important subjects and expand our audiences.

One reader, Lynn from England, took up the idea and sent me questions. Good questions that address diverse topics, like transgenderism (Lynn, like me is also trans). She posted our Q&A on her blog ahd you can see it here. I recommend a visit and be sure to say hi.

Lynn's questions deserve serious consideration. I'm repeating them below for maximum visibility. If you have any follow-up, ask Lynn or me and we'll be happy to elaborate. Happy Day!

==============

1. If there are two or three things you wished people knew about transgender folk, what are they?

What an excellent question! 

The biggest reason fear and hate exist is because people are not familiar with us. We can improve that with education. 

Decades ago people didn't know gay people and were scared of them. When gay visibility increased, fear dissipated. Most people today don't believe they know a trans individual in real life. That lack of interaction allows fear to grow and turn into hate. Conversely, as people learn more about us, they become comfortable.

When talking to someone who's never met a trans person before I try to convey two thoughts: that transgenderism is innate and immutable. We know from earliest childhood that we are this way and we know it won't change. Being transgender isn't a choice and can't be wished away. I deploy an analogy to describe this: I say my awareness that I'm female is known "the same way you know you're human and not a dog." Our identity is truth at the core of our being. I follow this by explaining our condition is permanent, can't be "cured" with therapy or drugs, and exists whether we socially transition or not.

2. If you could change something about the world, what would that be and why? 

I'd want empathy to be encouraged and more prevalent. Empathy leads to understanding and compassion. All who are different benefit when others develop empathy for our situation. Lack of empathy causes mistrust.

3. If you had to go back in time to any part of your life, when might that be and why?

I've lived a long time: I'm currently halfway through my sixth decade. Without doubt the best period of my life was my fifties when I possessed both wisdom and physical vigor. During that decade I expressed my inner femininity fully, pursued adventures of all kinds, and created a blog to record my experiences and explore female life. 

If you aren't 50 yet, look forward to that decade as a time for ineffable joy.

4. How has being a biker affected your view of other road users? 

Riding a motorcycle you realize, viscerally, how vulnerable you are. To stay alive, you focus on the behavior of others sharing the road and observe much reckless conduct. It is irresponsible, but common, for people to pilot 3,000 lb. hunks of metal at high speeds with too little margin for error. Usually they realize this only too late after having caused accidents. 

I was almost killed once when a young man, speeding in an adjacent lane, suddenly realized he was going to crash into the car in front of him. To avoid a collision he swerved into my lane without looking. I happened to be there at the time and was knocked off my bike. I laid on cold concrete with a collapsed lung and four broken ribs. I couldn't breathe. I understood, with grave certainty, that if I didn't start breathing soon my life was over. The accident did not have to happen: there were just foolish choices by an unskilled driver.

5. Just for fun: would you rather have a gadget that cleaned & tidied your house, or one that could make you any meal you liked? 

Easy: the former. I love to cook, finding it creative and fun. I'd never give that up. I get little pleasure from cleaning so will gladly pass that chore off to machinery.

My Pollyanna Nature

Yesterday I had a mishap in the street and suffered excruciating pain. Last night, mentally processing the event, my attitude changed: I became grateful at what happened. My innate Pollyanna nature kicked in. If you're curious about this mystery, read on.

Some context is necessary. I can see but have drastic limitations. For example I have no peripheral vision. If I look straight ahead I can't see what's below on the ground. 

I also have high metabolism. Living in New York accelerate that trait. I walk fast, talk fast and drove fast. After my vision loss I deliberately slowed down my pace which is helpful: it gives me more time to avoid trouble.

When I'm in public by myself I walk slowly and scan the ground for obstacles. Usually that works. Mishaps I've had have something in common: they occur when I'm hurrying. When rushing my eyes move up to see where I'm going. Unfortunately that means they aren't seeing what's on the ground. My vision doesn't include both views.

Yesterday I was walking home from Starbucks on a busy commercial road. I was crossing an intersection with no traffic signal. Halfway across a car came speeding around the corner, driving very fast. I hurried to get out of its way. I made to the other side -- but didn't notice a curb there. Moving at a runner's pace, my foot hit the curb and my entire body went airborne. Literally. Flying through the air I had enough time to think, "Well, this is new. I've never experienced this before. I wonder what will happen next?" Then, BAM! My body crashed to the ground. It felt like I'd fallen out of a plane. I landed on my hands and knees with such force it was like having a heavy person strapped to my back instead of a 20 lb. backpack.

The impact stunned me. I landed on very rough concrete so my palms and knees were ripped and bloody. My body swelled up instantly and I couldn't move. I laid on the ground for 10-15 minutes before I could move anything. In addition to pain I noticed my right arm is badly sprained; I can't rotate it.

During the time I writhed in pain on a busy street you may wonder if anyone stopped to help. No, they did not. There is no community left in modern America. Dozens of cars passed by without assisting. I finally summoned my strength, got up and staggered a half-mile home. Bleeding and worried about my arm.

Later in the day I thought about the incident and my mood shifted. I became grateful. Why? I'm glad the fall didn't injure me worse.

Every day I do pushups, planks and lift free weights. My arms and upper torso are strong, especially for my age. When I hit the ground it was like doing a massive pushup: my body moved downward while my arms and chest pushed upward. It was instinct to protect my head. Fortunately no part of my head hit the ground. If I didn't have upper-body strength my head would have smacked into the concrete, causing at least a concussion and bloody facial wounds. And possibly worse. 

Two years ago a friend and I were walking in Savannah when we saw an elderly woman trip and fall. She hit her head on the sidewalk and was dazed and bleeding. We rushed to her aid. I used my handkerchief to stop the bleeding. We tried to calm her but she was so dazed as to be incoherent. Obviously she was badly injured from the head-blow. A few minutes later her adult-daughter came running up and took over. She assured us they would be fine as she helped her mother stagger home. She declined our repeated offers for more assistance.

My perspective on yesterday is that my diminished vision may make mishaps possible but my overall good health will enable me to survive them. These injuries will heal and I'll get back to normal life. Normal for me, that is. :)

Archaeology

I subscribe to Archaeology magazine. It and its subject are fascinating. From the new issue:

A Swiss archaeologist spent 50 years looking for the famed Sanctuary of Artemis in Greece. He recently discovered it and the site turns out to be an entire ancient village. The search, as he describes it, was like "a Hollywood movie" with unexpected twists. Ancient goddess Artemis is believed to be intimately connected to women and girls with artifacts showing that.

Have you ever heard of "wooly dogs"? They were raised -- and worshiped -- in the Pacific Northwest for thousands of years. Sometimes believed to possess human spirits the dogs were pampered and their fur was spun into yarn for clothing. Wooly dogs look similar to today's Alaskan Eskimo dogs.

Finally, research has been done on very old human activity (40-80,000 years ago). The questions: when did we start wearing clothes? And why? Scholars conclude eyed-needles were invented to make closer-fitting clothing necessitated by climate change. The head researcher says, "It was all driven by the need for underwear." Ha!

Wedding Anniversary

23 years ago I stood at the altar with my hand on Robin's back. Her spine was vibrating like an old Harley. I didn't expect her to be nervous at our wedding but the shaking was palpable.

We celebrated our anniversary this weekend with a panoply of activities planned for the occasion. Saturday we drove out to the North Fork and sat in Adirondack chairs at Lavender By The Bay, a 30-acre lavender farm. The scented air was lovely to breathe and we brought home many lavender products. Then, like many other travelers, we walked around Greenport, a fun place to shop and lounge. You never lose sight of the water from Main Street and are amused by many attractions like an antique carousel and working blacksmith. We capped the day with dinner at historic Cooperage Inn.

Sunday we attended a rousing performance of musical theater: the stage version of "Legally Blonde." The estimable talent was Broadway-caliber. Humorous musical numbers were belted out with brio. (E.g., "Is He Gay Or European?") We capped off the second day with another delicious meal, this time at Rockin Fish in Northport. Cherry hard cider and Buffalo-sauced oysters were big hits.

The years since August 19, 2001 have passed in a flash. You have to smell the flowers of your life while they're still in bloom.

Questions Invited

A decade ago I interviewed several bloggers on my blog. I asked them a range of questions tailored to their interests. The resulting posts were fun and informative.

I've lived a long time, during which I've acquired much experience and knowledge. I enjoy sharing that wisdom with people. If anyone wants to ask me questions about anything, I'm game. We can do it here or on your blog. Among possible questions are:

- What brings fulfillment in life?

- What is a good hobby for an adult?

- What's it like to ride a motorcycle?

- What's it feel like to go 140 mph on a motorcycle?

- How do you build a successful business?

- How and when should you retire?

- How can we accumulate wealth?

- What is art and why does it matter?

- What's it like to be transgender?

- How do you cope with a life-changing disability?

Etc.! If interested, e-mail me at fhu@pipeline.com.

 

Funny Tweet

 

I'm best man at my buddy's second wedding... Is it appropriate to open my dinner speech with
"Welcome back everyone"

— 💂🏻‍♀️👋🏻вєαя🍻🇬🇧™ (@BigBearF1) August 12, 2024

"Kleo"

"Kleo" (Netflix) ist eine unterhaltsame Fernsehserie über eine Auftragsmörderin in Deutschland während der Wiedervereinigung. Sie inspiriert mich dazu, meine Deutschkenntnisse aufzufrischen.

["Kleo" (Netflix) is a fun television show about a female assassin in Germany during reunification. It's inspiring me to brush up on my German speaking skills.]

Dinner At Sammy's

Have you ever had an ethnic experience? It can be both different and delightful.

On Wednesday we were taken to the most Jewish restaurant in New York. Located on the Lower East Side, the restaurant -- Sammy's Roumanian Steakhouse -- opened 50 years ago and has been serving traditional Jewish cuisine to happy crowds ever since. 

Sammy's offers chopped liver, stuffed cabbage, potato latkes, fried Kreplach, skirt steak, rugalach, and condiment jars filled with schmaltz (chicken fat). We ate "family-style" with giant platters shared among the nine of us. Jewish food is naturally heavy; it's been said that Sammy’s "helped put more than a few cardiologists’ kids through college." Comedian Alan King joked, "Whenever I go to Sammy's Roumanian restaurant, I make two reservations: one at Sammy's and one at Lenox Hill Hospital."

The atmosphere here is bursting with life. Never have I been to such a boisterous place. Festive diners jumped up several times and danced in a circle holding hands. "A night at Sammy’s feels like a Lynchian bar mitzvah."

Creating that atmosphere is Dani Luv (Lubnitski), a Borscht-Belt style lounge singer and comedian. Born and raised in Israel, Dani whirls like Don Rickles, insulting patrons to their faces. He sings bawdy songs and tells off-color jokes, all with a Jewish twist. A sign on stage reads, "The Mohel and I both work on tips." (Mohels perform religious circumcisions.)

Dani performed Jewish versions of popular songs like the famous Beatles tune, "Hey, Jew." At one point Dani asked if there were any Gentiles in the house. A few hands went up. "This is for you" and he sang: "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jesus was a Jew!" 

Later in the evening Dani picked me out and made fun of my glasses: he called me "a Jewish Harry Potter." For the rest of the night my relatives kept referring to me as "Uncle Harry."

Facilitating raucous fun is the restaurant's bottle-service: you order bottles of vodka or tequila and they arrive encased in solid blocks of ice. We got both liquors and, for the first time in a long time, I got plastered. The celebratory mood encouraged me to follow each cold shot with another until finally my inhibitions took a train to New Jersey.

Lenny Bruce once said "It doesn’t matter if you’re a Christian; if you live in New York, you’re Jewish.” I certainly felt that way at Sammy's.

Walking Around

My "new normal" would seem, to most people, pretty abnormal. But it's the best I can do.

I refuse to give up freedom of movement so I've learned how to walk in all kinds of areas, including those congested with cars and pedestrians. The biggest perils are ironically inanimate objects. I often don't see them and, when we "meet", the encounter is bruising.

So far I've walked into store displays, fire hydrants, telephone poles, brick walls, traffic signs, door jams and interior building poles. Not knowing whether the thing I hit is human or not I reflexively apologize. I've said I'm sorry to more inanimate objects than you'd believe. 

Last week I was standing in line at the bank when something furry rubbed against my leg. I was wearing shorts. I glanced down but couldn't tell what was there. (One of my visual impairments is darkness so inside space is almost totally black to me.) I hope I was brushed by a dog but it could have been a hairy toddler. We'll never know.

As they used to say on Hill Street Blues, "Hey, let's be careful out there."

My New Retreat

One antidote to life's uncertainty is our ability to adapt. Adjusting to new conditions is a strength we can develop and it becomes helpful when crap occurs.

I recently faced an unexpected situation. Pondering it I discovered a solution and improved my life. Yay!

Three years ago, when my future looked different, I asked a friend to build me a garage. (He's a contractor.) I wanted a basic wooden box to shelter as many of my growing fleet of motor vehicles as could be stuffed in it. The garage took over a year to complete but is very nice (and legal). I stored five of my six vehicles there: all four motorcycles and the newer of my two cars.

Today, however, life is not the same. I found new homes for both cars and two of the motorcycles. (I'm keeping the other two bikes for sentimental reasons.) I no longer need a garage -- yet it's sitting there, begging for some use.

I didn't know what to do with the structure. I didn't want to spend more money. I thought about what I lack -- e.g., an outdoor patio -- and suddenly realized the garage could easily adapt to serve that purpose. Like ancient Greek scholar Archimedes I shouted "Eureka!"

Last week I converted the storage space into an outdoor retreat for meditation and music appreciation. And I spent only $70 to do that. 

I bought a cheap -- but very chic -- waterproof rug ($40) and two clamp-lights shining 300 watts of illumination ($30). I already own two patio chaise lounges with matching pads and small metal tables. They create comfortable seating on the 10-foot x 12-foot rug. I also already have a large photoshoot backdrop system which now works as a privacy screen; the garage door can be left open for ventilation without anyone being able to peek inside.

I'm lovin' this. I wake up at 3:00 a.m. (don't ask) and enjoy sipping cups of warm tea while listening to birds singing and insects chirping. I plan my day, organize thoughts and reflect on life while the rest of you sleep. The outdoor air is invigorating.

Later in the day this retreat offers shade from direct sunlight. I go there and can crank up tunes louder than inside our house (where Robin works remotely). My current musical favorites are The Allman Brothers Band ("Live From Filmore East") and classical pianist Yuja Wang. 

The second chaise lounge is empty if you want to drop by. Don't let a sign over the door scare you: 

Hic Sunt Dracones 

(Latin: "Here There Be Dragons").

Fountain Pens

It's fun to look at the past and see how people lived before us. For example, prior to the introduction of ballpoint pens (around 1950) everyone wrote with "fountain pens." Do you know what a fountain pen is? Have you ever used one?

For thousands of years humans used primitive writing tools like a stylus or quill. The first fountain pen was invented 200 years ago in 1827. During the next 60 years its design was improved until Lewis Waterman perfected it in the 1880s (and built a famous company). People used fountain pens exclusively until ballpoints became popular in the 1950s. They were invented during World War II but not commercially sold until after the war.

Pen enthusiasts love fountain pens not only for nostalgia but also because of their craftsmanship. Made skillfully with real materials like metal and wood, these writing instruments aren't disposable pieces of plastic junk. It's a joy to hold and write with these instruments. Many are works of art.

There are big differences between fountain pens and ballpoints. First, the ink. The liquid in fountain pens is water-soluable whereas ink in ballpoints is oil-based. Second, the tip. Fountain pens have a "nib" which channels ink from a reservoir to the tip. Nibs vary in size and shape which affects how the ink is spread on paper. Ballpoints, by contrast, use a spherical metal ball to transfer ink to paper.

Unlike ballpoints which require little skill, fountain pens take some practice to get good at wielding. Developing manual dexterity is a pleasant benefit that comes from using them. I have a simple fountain pen designed for childen (touted as "Your First Fountain Pen!"). If a kid can do it, so can you. The pen is made by LAMY, a successful German company.

When you read old letters, postcards or documents, chances are they were written with fountain pens. An experienced user quickly spots telltale signs from the appearance of the ink on the page. There is delightful charm in holding old documents written with these fine instruments. Come over and I'll show you how to use them.

Life Of An Artist

My hometown has a local museum, The Heckscher Museum of Art. The Museum is small but noteworthy. It contains prominent work by Huntington's most famous artist, a German-born painter named George Grosz (1893-1959). There are many fascinating things about George worth learning.

George was thrown out of traditional school for insubordination. He then happily attended art school where he effloresced. George, an anti-war pacifist, left Germany in 1932 as the Nazis were gaining power. He moved to Huntington and became an American citizen. George taught art both in Huntington and at a prominent school in Manhattan (The Art Students League of New York). 

While George's work was respected, he was financially poor. Just scraping by at one point he lacked funds to pay a car-repair bill. To make money for that expense George sold one of his best paintings ("Eclipse of the Sun") to a local handyman for $104. The buyer kept the painting rolled up in his garage for 20 years. In 1968 the handyman sold the painting to The Heckscher Museum for $15,000. Several years later the Museum proposed selling the painting again and had it appraised: the then-current value was $19 Million dollars. Vigorous public outcry rang out against a sale and the Museum dropped its plan. The painting, and several others by George, remain the core of The Museum's collection. There's currently a big exhibition of George's work at The Museum.

For those playing Art Bingo: (1) George got kicked out of school for insubordination; (2) he succeeded as an artist; (3) he made little money from his work; (4) the work later became worth millions; (5) George died at age 66 from falling down stairs at the end of a night of heavy drinking. If you have all these facts on your Art Bingo card, please come forward and collect your winnings. :)

Youthful Memories

As improbable as it sounds old folks remember stuff from their youth, often in great detail. Lately I've been reminiscing about a place I used to drink at half a century ago. At first I wasn't sure if I was imagining the spot so I checked the Internet; yes, it's real. Other aging Boomers have vivid memories of it, too.

I spent three years in Boston attending law school (1979-82). My days were fully consumed by study but nights were available for stress-relief. I indulged in a little drinking. A poor student in debt I had practically no money for anything. So I was adventurous. I explored dark sides of the city and discovered a wildly bizarre joint where you could tie one on for pennies. I went there frequently with my artist-girlfriend Maura and several soused sidekicks.

The watering hole was Aku Aku. A fitting name for primal activity. Aku Aku was an old-school Polynesian tiki bar in Kenmore Square. The place also served Chinese food; it was awful and best avoided. Most patrons walked past the empty dining room and into a crowded bar for the real attraction: cheap booze.

At that time Kenmore Square was low-rent and gritty; however, it also possessed vitality since the location attracted students willing to mingle with drug-addicts and bums. ("Bums" wasn't an insult back then, more an accurate description of tatterdemalions.) The area contained halfway houses, dive bars and music nightclubs like the infamous Rathskeller ("the Rat"). Just as seedy were clubs like Where It’s At and Psychedelic Supermarket. Fenway Park (where the Red Sox play) is around the corner and accounted for occasional crowds of drunk, racist baseball fans. I lived two miles down the road and ventured to and from this urban jungle on the Green Line of the "T" (an above-ground electric trolley). Unless, of course, I missed the last train and had to walk home in the cold night.

The tiki bar at Aku Aku was positively surreal: a long room decorated with tiki culture ephemera and a painted mural romantically depicting the South Seas. The mural, created with florid Day-Glo paint, would sway after you consumed a sufficient amount of liquor. Exotic South Seas scenery appealed to World War II vets who swapped war stories at the bar. Their exaggerated tales, amid strange scenes of erupting volcanos, offered an ineffable view of the world. To me, Aku Aku was as foreign as a distant planet. Nothing on television rivaled its dreamlike Dadaism.

The bar's chief attraction was fabulously large alcoholic drinks. Decorated with gaudy flourishes like paper umbrellas, fruit chunks and straws suitable only for children or Midwestern tourists the drinks were mammoth in size and small in price. You got drunk easily without hurting your wallet. My favorite drink, the infamous Scorpion Bowl, was literally a large punch bowl filled with treacly sweet fruit juice boosted with high-octane rum. We joked that the rum had been furtively made in the basement during Prohibition which explained the dusty unlabeled bottles. A Scorpion Bowl was served with one straw, or two if you were sharing it with someone you hoped had no diseases. The bowl contained enough alcohol to fuel a large man for an entire night of woozy inebriation. Bring out the swaying mural.

After I left Boston in 1982 my nearby school (BU) bought up Kenmore Square's real estate. Aiming to calm anxious parents, the University gentrified the area into a flavorless plate of insipid condos. 

The old days of cheap liquor and slum adventure are gone... but they survive in my memory. Long live Aku Aku!

Happy Canada Day!

Today commemorates the birth of Canada as a nation on July 1, 1867. 

Canadians take the day off work, have BBQs and watch fireworks. Sound familiar? :)

"Pollyanna"

We all have personalities. A combination of genetic traits, parental influences and personal quirks. Some of us are Carries, some Mirandas, and some Mr. Big. 

I'm a Pollyanna.

When people called me that in the past I didn't know what the name meant. So I looked it up. Yup, I'm a Pollyanna. The name has a history and cultural resonance.

"Pollyanna" is a 1913 American novel considered a classic of children's literature. Its immense success led to a dozen sequels and several film adaptations. My favorite is Disney's 1960 version starring Hayley Mills. She won a special Oscar for the role.

"Pollyanna" has become a symbol for people who are unfailingly optimistic and can find positive things in every situation. Although the term is sometimes used disparagingly (as excessively cheerful), Pollyanna the character found ways to cope with serious difficulties and sorrows. Her outlook was not frivolous; it was courageous. In the original story, Pollyanna is an orphan who gets hit by a car and loses the use of her legs. Searching for anything positive in that circumstance is a real challenge, yet she accomplishes it with tenacity and robust charm. Pollyanna often plays a game her father taught her before he died, "the Glad game." It consists of searching for something to be glad about in every state of affairs, no matter how bleak.

Like Pollyanna I possess gratitude, a "glass half-full" attitude. I celebrate water in my glass even when it's only 10%. That's still better than bemoaning the missing 90%. Despair begets despair and we can't live in sadness. Not long, anyway. Depression worsens physical and emotional health and repels friends we vitally need.

Littleton, New Hampshire, home of Pollyanna's author (Eleanor Porter) erected a bronze sculpture in her honor. The statue depicts smiling Pollyanna with arms flung wide in greeting. Littleton also hosts an annual festival known as "The Official Pollyanna Glad Day."

So, fire up the label-maker -- I'm Pollyanna and proud of the name.

Art

Many mistake my fervent interest in art as a new thing, something I stumbled upon recently. That isn't the case. I was enthralled by art in my youth. In fact one of my pivotal life decisions was, when graduating college, to attend law school instead of film school. I don't regret that choice but am now returning to my earlier passion. After a half-century of toil during which "I gave at the office" I foresee a future laboring for love.

What is it about art that appeals to us? A worthy question, tied to the meaning of life itself. I found my answer first from tasting aesthetic beauty, pondering power of creation, listening to artists describe their work, and ultimately personal introspection.

By "art" I mean the arts generally: painting, sculpture, music, performance, literature and poetry. I have depth in some of these fields and seek experience with the others. Much of what I've learned has application to different media.

Art is not separate from our lives. A better writer than I explains: "Art is not an accessory to pleasure but the means of our connection to the cosmos." 

I also can't claim to have written that art "conveys...ineffable intimations of immortality." I fully agree with this trenchant notion. We feel a glow of transcendence in the grasp of great art. And should value it accordingly.

My Dad

Whatever our feelings about our parents -- and they are often mixed -- we cannot deny the noumenal influence they have on our lives. This continues after their death, as those of you who've lost a mom or dad know.

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 94 years old. (He passed away in December 2022.) I woke up thinking about him, not realizing until hours later that it's his birthday. Despite his physical absence he still lives in my head.

I'm fortunate to have photographs from his life, including from earlier periods before I met him. Those are fascinating because they demonstrate how deeply my mother transformed him in his twenties. Ralph Sr. (née Rolf) was an adventurous rogue who grew up in a war-zone. He met his match in Barbara Jo, a fierce animal-trainer from the jungle of Brooklyn. BJ tamed Ralph into domestic duty and he performed the roles of husband and father even though they weren't natural to him. We all do what we must. On the plus side, my mother showed my father how to live sensibly and he benefited from that lesson over a long, pleasant lifetime.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Entertainment

Taste in entertainment is subjective but sometimes it's useful to hear from gimlet-eyed friends. They may suggest a show or film you've overlooked, particularly from the past.

Here are my all-time favorite TV shows and movies. What are yours?

Television:

1. "Mad Men"

2. "The Sopranos"

3. "Six Feet Under"

Movies:

1. "Casablanca"

2. "Pee-wee's Big Adventure"

3. "Rocky" (the original)

Belmont Lake

Robin and I hiked around Belmont Lake and enjoyed the nice weather. 

Robin just bought this hat from REI and loves it. Happy Summer!