“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?
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?" :)
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.
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. :)
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?
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.
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.
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. :)
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!
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.
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.
I'm best man at my buddy's second wedding... Is it appropriate to open my dinner speech with
— 💂🏻♀️👋🏻вєαя🍻🇬🇧™ (@BigBearF1) August 12, 2024
"Welcome back everyone"
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.
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."
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.
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. :)
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!
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.
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.
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.
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)
Hey fans! Today starts the Stanley Cup finals! (8pm on ABC)
This is hockey's Superbowl/World Series. The best two teams are the Edmonton Oilers who'll play the Florida Panthers. You may remember the Panthers: they were in the finals last year but lost to Las Vegas. Edmonton hasn't been there in almost 20 years (since 2006) and hasn't won a Stanley Cup since... well, dinosaurs were on the ice back then.
What's significant this year? Well, remember hockey began in Canada and remains a big deal up north. Edmonton is the first Canadian team in over 30 years to reach for the Cup so many are rooting for the team. (I am.) Also, Edmonton has a great player, Connor McDavid, whom I saw in person playing the Devils this year. Kid can skate! Finally, Edmonton had a horrible start to the season and most never expected it to be here, so there's a strong Cinderella vibe.
Go Oilers!
I have a pantheon of personal heroes: artists of great achievement. They inspire me by reifying our dreams. Simply knowing such people exist gives me hope for humanity.
I've told you in the past about several of these: glass-blower Lino Tagliapietra, writer David Foster Wallace, and guitarists Duane Allman, Dickey Betts and Roy Buchanon. Let me add another genius to the list.
Yuja Wang. Yes, she has an unusual name but it's easily pronounced: You-jah Wong (not Wang). Whether you know it or not Yuja is the best pianist in the world right now. She's 37 years old and has been astounding audiences since she was a teenager. She's played with every prominent orchestra in the country, toured internationally, and sold-out Carnegie Hall. Yuja is an indisputable superstar.
During the pandemic when Yuja couldn't play concerts she collaborated with a respected composer on a new piece of music. The composer says he wrote the piece specifically for her, believing Yuja is the only pianist capable of performing it. During their collaboration Yuja took passages AND MADE THEM HARDER TO PLAY. She amped up technical difficulty of the work to make it shine brighter. The composer was justly amazed at this.
When people can't comprehend something complex they often focus on trivial aspects, like commentary that dogged David Foster Wallace about the bandana he wore on his head at public readings. Instead of considering the literary merit of David's work or its estimable themes some clueless critics pondered ridiculous theories on why David wore a bandana (e.g., eccentricity, vanity). The truth is more mundane: David was shy and especially nervous speaking in public; as a result he sweated profusely and used a cloth bandana to absorb and conceal sweat. That's all, nothing more.
A similar thing happens to Yuja. As a young woman she performed wearing attractive clothes, usually a stylish dress and high heels. Classical music critics disparaged her appearance as too sexy for concerts. One even sexistly wrote that "if her dress was any shorter" the concert-hall "would have to restrict admission to those over 17 years old." Yuja explains, quite simply, that she likes to wear nice clothes and doesn't understand why anyone focuses on that instead of her musical performance.
If you haven't heard of Yuja yet, check her out. There are many videos of her performances on streaming channels, YouTube and CDs. Or you can come over to my place and listen to her on vinyl records. :)
You'll probably find it odd that I still read motorcycle magazines. As Lucy Ricardo used to say, "Ricky, I can explain..."
Enthusiasm is a powerful force. Like simple carbon, with enough intensity and time enthusiasm can crystalize into the diamond of passion. And passion, once rooted, is impossible to dislodge.
This is the time of year bikers feel a stirring. The sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance awakens us. We wonder why we aren't also out on the road. That music quickly increases to a crescendo.
It was incredibly painful to end my 25-year riding career last season. And yet while I can't operate a bike on my own, a foray to the North Fork last Fall on the back of my friend Jaime's tourer proved I can still pull on leather gear, join a ride and savor motorcycling's unique sensory pleasures as a passenger. I may walk into walls off the bike but I can still travel 80 mph on two wheels with a trusted friend up front handling matters for both of us.
So this is why I haven't cancelled my subscription to motorcycle magazines. My passion is still here. This morning I saw a quote from "Season of the Bike," by David Karlotski, that offers a salient metaphor for life:
"Motorcycles tell us the TRUTH -- we are small, and exposed, and probably moving too fast, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of every ride." Amen.
Recently circumstances encouraged me to collect a third artwork by Lino Tagliapietra. Lino, of course, is the premier glassblower of our time. In my opinion, he is our greatest living artist in any medium.
The work, "Saturno," is inspired by the planet Saturn. Its translucence, detail and exquisite artistry aren't adequately described in words; you need to experience the work in person to appreciate its majesty. Three-dimensional glass art has ineffable qualities that draw you closer, open your mind and touch the heart.
I feel privileged to possess this art for the next few decades.
Our greatest living artist is glassblower Lino Tagliapietra.
Now in his 90s Lino has made art since he was a young boy growing up in Murano, Italy (historic capital of the glass world). Lino's work is universally acclaimed, displayed in many museums, and possesses striking beauty. I'm fortunate to own two Lino artworks which are the pulsating heart of my burgeoning art collection.
A documentary about Lino just won an award at the Seattle International Film Festival. You can stream the movie (link below) but that costs a few bucks. I'll let you know when the film is available elsewhere for free.
Long before they became popular I was a fan of post-apocalyptic dramas. Like the terrific, overlooked "The Blood of Heroes" (1989). Such films explore human behavior when the comforts of modern life disappear. Given the direction we're heading in, that may be useful information.
In the 1970s I got hooked on the work of George Miller, a vigorous Australian who made several "Mad Max" movies. Miller creates futuristic worlds with vivid imagination and uses real-world stunts, not computer gimmickry. I'll admit to having at least one nightmare after viewing his films.
"Mad Max: Fury Road" (2015) proved Miller still has mojo. At advanced age (70) he revived the franchise with Charlize Theron delivering a powerful performance. A pre-quel to that film is coming out this week telling the origin story of Theron's character "Furiosa" (2024). It stars Anya Taylor-Joy, whom you admired in "The Queen's Gambit" (2020), and Chris Hemsworth.
These films aren't Robin's cup of tea. Who wants to go with me?
A person never dies if their memory survives. My mother, Barbara Jo, passed away 33 years ago but she's as present in my life as ever. On this Mother's Day weekend I thought it'd be fun to share some stories about her.
Everyone in and near my family recognized Barbara Jo as a potent force. We feared her as much as loved her. Like Stalin my mother surveilled everyone, knew everything and issued edicts. Opposition was futile and destroyed before it could germinate. You could argue with my mother, as my rebellious brother Richard did, but without success. My father, who had been a carefree rogue before he met her, learned his lesson and walked the line. He knew better than to confront the potentate who reigned supreme over our family and friends.
It wasn't my mother's size that intimidated us (she was under five feet tall), it was her tenacity. A pitbull, Barbara Jo would latch onto your ankle with locking jaw and razor-sharp teeth. If the pain didn't force you to surrender the endless struggle did. Her will was stronger than yours and that won her every battle.
I was shown my mother's power in earliest childhood. I possess a fundamental character that was then considered socially deviant. My mother, who carried the hyper-anxiety of an immigrant, made it her mission to conform me to society's expectation. Given her omniscience and omnipotence the outcome was never in doubt.
In 1971 the book "Summer of '42" became a bestseller. I bought and started to read it. Halfway through my mother extracted the book from my bedroom and refused to return it. When asked for an explanation she declared the book had "too much sex" for a 14 year old boy. I guffawed but knew argument was useless. The book was gone.
A year later my mother discovered the draft of a story I was writing. I had hidden the draft deep in my bedroom but, as noted above, Barbara Jo was omniscient. The story, written as science fiction, was about a man dating a woman and preparing to have relations with her. During sex he's shocked to learn she is a robot. I thought the concept was intriguing but my mother got unduly hung up on my detailed description of the female robot's genitalia. "How do you know about this?!" she shrieked. I was well-read.
This episode taught me the humor of a joke then circulating: "What is pornography? Anything in a sock drawer that isn't a sock." :)
My final tale demonstrates how my mother's rule continued into my adulthood. In 1985 I moved into a new home with my girlfriend Maura. My mother insisted on keeping tabs on us and offering advice (with which we frequently disagreed). Trying to gently avoid her advice I was deliberately slow in getting a telephone at the house. I figured without a phone my mother couldn't call and pester us.
One Saturday morning, at 5:30 a.m., Maura and I are asleep in bed. BANG! BANG! BANG! "Who the hell is that?" we asked. I go to the front door and see my mother standing there. My 4'11" mother. Fully dressed and irate. Agitated. Hot as a habanero pepper. "GET A TELEPHONE!" she yells, turns around and drives home.
I can only laugh at these events which display how deeply my mother loved me. She wanted me to have a happy life; we simply disagreed on what that was. Barbara Jo did her best to raise two boys and I'll always love her.
If you looked through my eyes, you'd start to cry. And not stop. I have the least amount of vision possible: a small, dark periscope-view with no peripheral awareness. A physical limitation like this can plunge one into emotional despair.
And yet... I'm not giving up. Buoyed by unfounded optimism and innate grit I push forward. Today, for example I achieved something I initially believed was beyond my ability.
After handing my beloved motorcycles to friends I'm now trying to sell my two cars. (A beautiful red convertible [2021 Mazda Miata] and sporty hatchback [2013 Fiat Abarth].) Obviously it'll be easier to sell them if they're clean, not dirty, but the cars haven't been driven in a year and have a thick layer of dust from storage.
I contemplated washing them. I quickly concluded I lack sufficient eyesight for that task. But then... today... I felt strong. Powerful. Irrationally exuberant. So I thought, "Why not try? What's the worst that can happen? I fail?" So I endeavored to wash my cars.
One thing you need to know to stand in my shoes is that everything -- everything -- is three times harder and takes three times longer than it used to. Activities now require searching for objects sitting in front of my face, misjudging and correcting distances from my hand to destinations, and cleaning up inevitable messes. At first these added burdens were dispiriting but I developed patience and fortitude. I gradually adopted a mental attitude of moving slowly and deliberately while expecting frequent frustrations.
Washing my cars wasn't easy. A job that used to take one hour expanded to three. Assembling materials, lugging our hose up from the basement, searching for a damn water-nozzle that mischievously hid itself on my workbench all complicated the project. Multi-step jobs like this are more easily abandoned than completed.
But I wanted it done. So I persevered and waded through cold pools of effort and annoyance. There were a few surprising bright spots like being reminded of the sinuous curves of my sporty vehicles whose bodies I'd lovingly handled in the past and feeling muscle-memory from those experiences. I instinctively knew when and where to move closer, deeper and probe the curved surfaces with my wet fingers and soapy sponge.
Eventually I emerged from the driveway with two clean automobiles and a sweaty t-shirt. Best of all was feeling accomplished. I performed a task that might have defeated others in my condition.
And good news -- I didn't accidentally wash my neighbor's car. :)
When my eyes failed last year I owned four motorcycles (and two cars). I decided to keep two of the motorcycles for sentimental reasons -- and also possible display in the future -- and sell the remaining two bikes. The machines designated for sale were my speed-rocket (BMW S1000R) and my comfortable touring bike (BMW K1600GTL).
Both bikes are relatively new (8-9 years old) and in good shape. I thought it'd be selfish to leave them in the garage to rust when someone else could be riding them with enjoyment. Plus the bikes themselves want to be ridden. That's their design, purpose and destiny.
As you know I gave away my sportbike for free to Bob, a close friend who needed that particular bike. Bob is short and the saddle's height fits him perfectly. Then this week I found a buyer for the touring machine. A casual (but not close) friend wanted a touring motorcycle but couldn't afford one. (They're expensive: my GTL cost $30,000 when I bought it new.) I decided to solve his and my problems by selling the bike to him for half of its market value and spreading out his payments over time. He was overwhelmed by that arrangement since it made the difference between him getting such a bike or not. He picked the bike up Tuesday night.
As much as I believe this was the right move I still shed a tear. This motorcycle was my ticket to adventure. I rode it on all kinds of trips, like a jaunt up to Toronto to visit Suzanne (pictured) and solo camping trips in New Hampshire. If you're careful you can carry a small tent, sleeping bag, air mattress, cooking gear, etc. on the bike. I loved how self-sufficient I felt heading into the woods on two wheels. Great memories.
The bike has "hard luggage" which allowed me to go shopping and carry stuff home. Like bags of groceries, bunches of flowers, vinyl records and thrift-shop clothing. There was nothing I couldn't use the bike for. I even rode slowly through cemeteries on it to pay respect to departed ones and take photographs. The GTL was completely integrated into my life. It was my partner. Capable, reliable and fun. Always fun.
I'll miss it.
Listen up, kiddies. There's a prize in this Cracker Jack box -- valuable information on living well.
Due to my upbringing (immigrant parents) it's not my nature to indulge myself. But I've learned that rewards, even small ones, can be powerful motivators. So I grant myself little pleasures when I do something hard, like a hot cup of strong coffee at the end of a long hike. The prospect of a reward helps you push through tough stuff.
I recently achieved a major financial goal that deserves celebrating so I'm pampering myself with some of the best cheese in the world.
Like everyone else I love cheese. For health reasons I've cut back on dairy and consume cheese only rarely now. So when I do have it I get high quality.
I once worked at a cheese shop in Boston which sold 365 varieties. The owner encouraged us to try them all so we could better guide customers. As a result I know cheese. During that employment I was a poor student so I'd arrive at work hungry and eat pounds of cheese. Literally pounds. That was my meal for the day. It's a wonder I'm still alive. 🙂
The best cheese in the world is not made in Wisconsin; it's not crafted in France. The best cheese in the world comes from North Wales, made my prize-winning cheesemongers at Snowdonia Cheese Company. That area is sparsely populated: there are really more sheep there than humans.
What makes a great cheese? Well you have to start with exceptional milk. The milk used at Snowdonia comes from well-tended animals in rural Wales with no hormones or weird crap American producers use. You can taste the lush Welsh vegetation in milk from these animals. Another practice at Snowdonia is they age their cheese in caves. Real caves where climate and humidity are perfect for long-term aging.
The company's website is informative but obviously geared to European customers. Prices are listed in British currency. The company offers 15 varieties of cheese but sadly only two kinds are available in this country. One is their premier cheese, an extra-mature cheddar (Black Bomber) and a second is a less mature cheddar enhanced with Scotch whisky (Amber Mist). (Over there they don't spell whisky with an "e".) I bought two small wheels of each (7 oz.). The cheese is protected by molten wax covering.
Black Bomber, the extra-mature cheddar, is a delight. Its flavor is deep and rich. It will please most cheddar-lovers. A big plus is that despite its age the cheese's consistency is pleasant and moist. Most old cheese gets dried out and full of crunchy crystals. Snowdonia avoids that by using caves.
I have yet to try their other kinds of cheese (and am lusting after Red Leicester) so put a trip to Wales on my bucket list!
Website: https://www.snowdoniacheese.co.uk/
