Farrago fatigans!

- Thuffering thuccotash!

Okay, so I did it. I was the guilty party. I jammed the kitchen drains on Christmas Eve.

We had a crowd over for dinner, and Mary had made great Scampi with Angel Hair Pasta. The pasta was my downfall. We had cooked way too much of the pasta, and seeing that it had gummed together I made the Executive decision to grind it down the disposal.

It actually went right on through the disposal without a hitch - but the problem came deep in the bowels of the drains, where it apparently grabbed on and began to swell, forming a massive concrete-like clot that backed up into the sink.

Given the fact we still had a houseful of guests I did what every responsible homeowner would do - I gave it a shot of Liquid Plumber and turned off the lights.

Obviously the liquid Plumber was no match - all it did was anger the clot and make the kitchen smell like a toxic waste site. I began to image the swelling clog oozing up into the kitchen, gripping the sink and devouring guests who came close to drop off a glass or plate. There was an occasional burp, like a scene of the La Brea Tar pits swallowing a fallen dinosaur.

Fortunately the drain from the kitchen is separate from the bathrooms so the problem did not take an even uglier turn. Of course to have it repaired would mean a visit from the Roto-Rooter man, with whom we are now on a first-name basis. It was not until this morning, however that we were able to get the mess undone, meaning that Christmas Dinner has had to be postponed as we did not want to make a big mess that could not be cleaned up.

And as I said at the beginning, I alone am to blame. I should have instructed a guest to do the deed, so that I could have shifted the responsibility. Note to self; Throw away excess pasta- do not put into the Garbage Disposal. Pasta is evil.

catarrhine

- Def: of, like or pertaining to Old World Monkeys

I happened across this word today in a dictionary of obscure terms. I have no idea what it means, but given its Monkey reference I did have to take pause. Not only Monkeys but Old World Monkeys. Is this a reference to monkeys found in Africa vs the "new world" of the Americas - or is it (as I would much prefer to think) a reference to Monkeys that have a proclivity for all things old and historic. I like to envision a monkey in a Sedan Chair, being toted toward the marketplace while smoking a Hookah and sipping Meade. It is just an image to me, in fact a proper image given the proud carriage of even the most simple of simian.

I suppose it is because I can relate, because I am myself somewhat Old-Worldly. It is not that I dislike technology or the comforts that have become almost too available to the average human in recent times, but the lure of the Smoking Jacket beckons - if only I did not have to smoke in it. I do have a red fez on my night-stand; I wear it now and then, but I have to admit it itches a bit, so it is mostly for momentary effect and mostly for Mary's amusement. But it does remind me every morning and every night that I have a great heritage, and that every day needs to be lived as if heading for an exotic marketplace, where any corner can yield something entirely new.

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

- John Masefield

So it is - the Sea of Centralia has parted. We had pretty thoroughly concurred that there was no way we would be passing through Centralia this weekend to visit family in Seattle, but proverbially the rain stopped, the snowplows chugged through the muck on I-5 and (reportedly) the way is cleared. I have to comment that we have been watching the news with some bemusement these past days, especially when the reporter on the screen, standing hip-deep in the roadbed and commenting that the DOT was assuring them that the road would re-open last evening, while at the very same time the news-wire across the bottom reported that DOT said the roads would be closed through the weekend. You would think the news-guys would read the wire, but I suppose they were too busy tracking the salmon that were making headway up the interstate toward Olympia.

Of course, we are not there yet... but we are going to give it a stab. Mom grew up in Centralia, and despite coming down with Scarlet Fever she and Aunt Buddy went paddling around town in a rowboat back in 1918. You have to wonder why people continue to live in the lowlands of Centralia - it is one of those communities where it is no question that it will flood - just a question as to how deep. You'd think they'd at least put their houses up on blocks...it might take a ladder to get to the front door but at least there'd be no Sea-Urchins clinging to the couch. So anyway, Mary, Papi and I will venture off tomorrow toward Seattle; the Sea has parted for us, I have to guess it is a sign.

An idealist is one who, on noticing that roses smell better than a cabbage, concludes that it will also make better soup.

...A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.
- H. L. Mencken



My car smells great. I stopped a few days ago to buy the cedar garlands we string around the front porch every year about this time, and the back seat was all loaded for a couple of days which left a lingering scent that I look forward to now every time I head for the car. It is like one of those tree-shaped air-fresheners that you hang on the mirror, only better. I considered for a while not putting the garlands up on the house, but just continuing to drive around with them in the back seat like a passenger. Guessing that would be a bit odd, I thought of dressing it up in a Santa suit, which would work given the fact i drive the Crown Victoria, (AKA Das Boot) which already looks like a Taxi...but suppose that going everywhere with a big stuffed Santa in the back might strike an observer as odd - especially if I were to be asked about it and I were to reply that I keep him there because he smells good.



So I took them out and hung them on the porch. There is a substantial array of needles and sticks still in the carpet in the back which I suppose I ought to vacuum out - but hey this is Oregon, the car is supposed to look like it just drove out of a forest, right?



I wonder though, why can't anyone make the tree-shaped things smell like that? They tend to smell a bit obnoxious and definitely chemical. Why don't they make them hollow and just stuff them with cedar needles instead of the undoubtedly-toxic stuff they have in them? I'd buy one. In fact the thought of using the little shape to hold natural scents that just match up with a car's personality leads me to all kinds of ideas - how about coffee beans? Maybe French Fries? Or cookies - which when hit by sunshine or the heat from the the dashboard vents would emit the smell of chocolate chips right out of the oven? Or for the dog, maybe some dessicated liverwurst?

It is just such a shame that the makers of these things don't think far enough out of the box. Who cares about dead-flower smell or lab-made pine. I remember when I was a kid, unbeknownst to my dad I brought some live sand-dollars back from the beach, under the seat of the car. The smell lasted a very long time. I don't think he appreciated it as much as I did - frankly I thought it a really good reminder of where we had been - a lasting souvenir if you will. The thought comes now of a little tree shape stuffed with kelp and beach sand.

Ah, but the best ideas go undiscovered don't they. We all have to bow to the common ideal. So I guess I will have to settle for getting up and heading out to the car to drive to Starbucks. Cedar and coffee. Does it get any better than that?

The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found

- Calvin Trillin

Items Needed to Make a Foil Dove for Holiday Dinner Leftovers:
A square piece of aluminum foil measuring, 10" by 10" or smaller if the left over is small.
A piece of red, green, or gold curly ribbon
How to Make a Foil Dove for Holiday Dinner Leftovers:
1. Place the food item in the center of the tin foil.
2. Fold the foil from the top right corner to the bottom left corner.
3. Slowly and neatly begin twisting the opposite ends and rolling the foil until it rests on the food item. This is the body of the dove. All you need to do is roll the foil in your fingers bringing the two pieces of foil together to form the body.
4. On either end of the foil begin making a feathered tail of the dove. Initially you will twist the end closest to the food item and feather out the outer portion. You can cut or simply shape the end like a feathered tail. Remember doves are short and stout, so you can fan out the dove’s tail by manipulating the foil.
5. At the other end twist off the foil closest to the food item and begin to draw out a long or short neck. Your dove, could look more like a Trumpeter Swan if you like. At the very end of the foil after you have formed the neck by manipulating the foil with your fingers, simply flatten the foil to create a face and a slight twist at the very end to form the beak. The beak is very tiny.
6. This provides a special memento of your efforts at making this a special day for everyone.

7.Toss in garbage. Your trashman will feel very special.

"All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind."

- Aristotle

There was a time when I really thought it possible to have it both ways, the career to pay the bills, the avocation to pay the soul. I realize the naivety of this now as my career consumes more and more of my time, energy and frankly saps my creative mind. I guess that's why people eventually retire from the career that has sustained them over the years, and there is always that inevitable question form one's co-workers "what are you going to do with all your spare time...."

Personally I don't think this is going to be much of a problem for me - I have such a backlog of ideas and half-begun projects that I am pretty sure I could be carried forward without a boring day well into the next century. But not everyone is like that - my parents were pretty well booked up through their retirements, but I know a lot of friends whose parents just don't seem to know how to cope. They travel for the sake of travel, not for the eagerness to learn the secrets of the Dead Sea but to have lunch on a ship-board buffet and play a hand of cards in the casino. Instead of scraping the paint off an old chair, they call Sears and have a beer while they wait.

I guess it would be wrong of me to challenge that if it is truly what someone has relished as retirement goals for years - but I have to doubt it. Who of us slogs through years of paperwork on our desks with the dream in mind of nothing more than an ottoman and re-runs of Hollywood Squares? So where does the ambition go? Do we really lose interest, do we cease to love adventure, do we forget how to strip the paint off a chair? Of course not. It's all still right there, coated over by a numb sealant left behind by years of career - like an oil slick coating the feathers of a Murre. It takes some careful cleaning to get it off, to set the wild bird free. The Murre might look bewildered at first, but the story it tells of its time in the hands of the stranger who preened it will become legend for generations. We should only be so lucky.

"Probably nothing in the world arouses more false hopes Than the first four hours of a diet."

- Samuel Beckett

Okay, so there I was at Starbucks. I've been pretty good all summer avoiding buying cookies or scones given the fact Starbucks recipes seem to have a "secret ingredient" in everything that takes it up a good 200 calories. But there I was, the red signs are up...and Eggnog Lattes are back on the menu. At about 20,000 calories a pop I know I should be avoiding them...but the richness, the smell of the nutmeg...I could not avert it, I needed a fix.

I do wish I could report that I was disappointed, that the eggnog was not as good as I remembered - but unfortunately it was. And then of course I had to order a venti, knowing that a "tall" was just not going to sate me, that I'd be wanting for more like a junkie. So I enjoyed it.

The Holidays have begun. Thanksgiving is remarkably close again this year to Halloween, which means that we have to hustle to get ready for it. I still have not taken the stuffed witch off the front porch - she may be there for Thanksgiving; maybe I can punch down the point on her hat and call her an ugly Pilgrim. She's got a green complexion, which given a full Turkey-Day repast is not far from how I generally feel by the day after. I suppose this weekend I should take the Halloween stuff back to the attic, and start thinking about the next holiday... but then there are some really cool movies out right now, and then there are those eggnog lattes...I bet we can hold off on Thanksgiving plans for another week...

"A drawing is simply a line going for a walk"

- Paul Klee

Paul Klee has always been a hero to me. He was an artist who first studied the violin, lived through a war, felt repression as an artistic "degenerate" in Europe after WWI, and who moved back to Switzerland to comment quietly against war. He painted in a dream-like state that defied any classification; he drew on satire and fantasy, and he used colors that were both discordant and harmonious.

His image of a man entering Senility makes the state look almost enviable; it is soft, warm and gentle.

He painted a lot of landscapes in his years, most riddled with blocks of color and child-like lines that imply objects; he was a master of distillation. Different from most is one that is dark and moody, probably from his later years when marked by disease he saw the world slipping into the treacherous times just before WWII. To me it shows the world waiting earnestly for what is about to come. It is somber, un-remorseful and sad.

Unfortunately we don't seem to learn from the past; we are short-memoried when it comes to giving up liberties. It is far too easy to call something we don't understand "degenerate" and to chase it away while we wave a flag. Senility?

"The foolish colonel will foam and froth at the mouth and double over with appendicitis. All that oxalic acid, in one dose, and you're dead...

...If the Wolf Peach [tomato] is too ripe and warmed by the sun, he'll be exposing himself to brain fever." - Dr. James Van Meter, Physician to Colonel Robert Gibbon Johnson, 1820.

Tomatoes got off to a bad start, it seems. For all that they are pretty much a staple now, they had to overcome quite a rap. Mary and I have had a few tomato plants over the years with moderate success, and in fact gave over the tomato bed in the back yard to raspberries a couple of years ago given the fact that the latter seemed much happier in the location and have been producing a luxurious crop ever since. That said, some of you may recall that I quietly purchased a packet of tomato seeds as well as a packet of pumpkin seeds while we were in Paris, at the flower market near Notre Dame. Having gotten off to a late start, I raised the plants in our little greenhouse, then moved them into bigger pots around the back yard to pollinate. Once the weather started to turn cold I moved them back into the greenhouse and set the heater at 80....they have been very happy since and are producing a nice little crop which although extremely late is a very welcome sign for harvest in the weeks to come. The tomatoes are small but interesting, the variety I had chosen was one that is squat and wrinkled; they are just beginning to turn color and seem to be a deep almost purplish color. Hopefully they will have a taste that is as special as their appearance...and I hope to be able to grow again next year from their seed.

The Pumpkins are coming too, we only have two small ones and they are still a dark green; at this point it is not looking like they are going to turn color, so I have put glass domes over them to incubate them a bit....hopefully they will at least producer seeds to use for next year.

All in all, the experiment is not too bad...and next spring will tell. My dream is to continue the strains of both these plantings, as a kind of perpetual memory of our visit to Paris. While tending the little plants that have now taken over the yard and greenhouse, I can't help but think about Grandpa Miller, who grew everything from seeds - he would have never bought a start, that would have simply been beneath him. Grandpa taught me a lot about plants and propagation, about capturing flyaway seeds from flowers, cross-pollinating to get the right hybrids, and about grafting fruit trees. The latter is not really all that practical unless Mary and I decide to put in an orchard, but I really am proud of the fact that I know how. It is a nice connection to growing up and spending time with Grandpa -

"Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so, too."

- Voltaire (1694-1778)

Hmmm.

"Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again."

- Vincent Van Gogh

I am pretty good at making mistakes. I prefer to think of it as being preoccupied with more important things...an abstractionist's view of distraction. In reality though I think I am just clumsy. But, out of mistakes can come great things - Flubber for example.

If everything we accomplished was according to plan, it would be pretty boring. Granted I do feel a little peevish when I turn right in the car when I meant to go left - an action that happens more often than not, as I have an innate ability when given a fork in the road to go in the exact opposite direction than my goal. However, in the car Mary and I have long since titled such meanderings as "adventures" and now look forward to the accidental discoveries they undoubtedly yield. It is good now and then to get off the path. I am positive I am better for it.

Luxury is the wolf at the door and its fangs are the vanities and conceits germinated by success...

... When an artist learns this, he knows where the danger is.
- Tennessee Williams

I have been working on a Renaissance-styled Triptych, called "Wolf at the Door". It is a heart piece to my Fairy-Tale series, and one of the more allegorical things I have produced. Based on the story of the three pigs, they are locked away safe and secure in a fortress, blithe in their separation from the wolf - but this wolf has a savvy they had not considered, he has found the key to the door. Meanwhile halo'd bluebirds flutter blithly overhead, busy building nests from sticks and twigs stolen from the battered remains of blown-in wood and straw houses in the side panels

I am as guilty as anyone to have trusted the safety of institutions. I have believed that if I support governance, it will shield me from things I don't want to see. We have been brainwashed to this effect from the day we were born, and as a society we believe that if we march forward clustered as an army, building a wall that seems formidable will turn back the wolf.

The real danger in this is that we haven't ask the right questions -

Abraham Lincoln wrote - "The shepherd drives the wolf from the sheep's for which the sheep thanks the shepherd as his liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty. Plainly, the sheep and the wolf are not agreed upon a definition of liberty."

When looking for safety, the greatest danger is entrusting ourselves to an institution that surrounds us like a fortress - and in doing so becoming complacent. Belief in the strength of the wall belies the fact that in doing so we have undermined the very liberty we thought we had ensured. By doing so, fat and happy and asleep tucked into soft beds we are easy prey to the wolf to whom we have practically handed the key.

And who is the wolf? He is in us as well.

Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot; others transform a yellow spot into the sun."

- Pablo Picasso

Okay, I admit I am a bit clumsy. I tend to leave spots anyplace I have been. Amazingly I realized today that there is a coffee spot on the carpet by my desk that I cannot figure out how it got there, since I just know I have not spilled. It has company, because there are bits of food and M&M's that have rolled under the desk and which constantly seem to elude the occasional vacuuming of the office's trusty cleaning crew. I have long since abandoned anything but a very busy tie pattern, and generally realize that a nice tie can disguise almost any lunch-stain on my shirt. I did spill water on my desk the other day, a mixed blessing since it required that I stop and sop it all up, but it did leave a nice clean surface - early for me since I generally do a once-a-year cleaning of my desk around New Year's.

I wish I could tie this all in to a treatise on great art; instead it ties me into a long line of eccentrics. Mark Twain was generally unkempt. Einstein. Schweitzer. Beethoven and Mozart. Pig-Pen. It isn't that I don't care - in fact anyone that knows me well would say quite the opposite. It is just that I am, out and out, clumsy. It is the "Mole" in me, I suppose - I would love to be tidy and organized and do a fair job of pretending to be so, but in reality, just like my hero Mole in The Wind in the Willows, I really quietly admire Rat, who has a quality to find organization in anything. Mary is a lot like Rattie - partly because she remembers anything and everything in vivid detail - so while there are times when I see a pile of magazines or papers on her desk, all it looks to me to be is a pile of papers...but to Mary it is a pile of Inspirations - bits and pieces to be harnessed together when the need arises into a creative brew. She inspires me daily, thinking in the abstract, and both of us challenge the other to stretch and grow. Thanks to our finding one another we have learned to look beyond the obvious; I now look past the spot lurking beneath my tie - it may irritate me, but then I remember that it was truly a fine cup of coffee.

Seeing a spot as a spot is what I know. When I see a spot of yellow I do give it a thought, a second look, a third. It may be a sunrise, a butterfly, a California Poppy, a taxi or a Golden Retriever. But it is never just a spot. That is what I have learned.

"The worst of a modern stylish mansion is, that it has no place for ghosts."

- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809-1894)

With Halloween around the bend I have thought a bit about the subject of ghosts. Not that I have been seeing them - in fact the contrary. I am somewhat sad that I have seen none in a very long time.

My siblings will remember Pete. Pete was a spectre of some renown in the Daniels household when we were kids; Pete would move things, turn on lights, and float down the stairway in the middle of the night. Pete would scare the dog (although the dog of my childhood was Bitsy, a small black cocker spaniel who was spooked by the sight of a spider) and generally be the cause of some uproar almost weekly.

The house I knew as a child was a big old four-square on Queen Anne hill, the kind of place that evokes a lot of scary thoughts, mostly to the neighbors who watched the parade of Daniels by the score coming and going, A sister lurking in the attic like a Bronte clone, brother Steve throwing a scarf around his neck, hurling open the dining room window and hurtling head first out into the yard below after dinner, shouting "Kamikazi". Above the fireplace were the gigantic moose antlers which had hung there for too many years to remember why, above a fire that had once been the exciting recipient of some ammunition dumped into the flames accidentally with the debris from Phillip's desk. The house was full with a lot of life, so what purpose did Pete fulfil?

I remember once when I was about five; it was a warm evening, we had been out on the boat swimming on Lake Washington. We got to the dining room table and there was a small wet footprint on the cloth. It was years until I realized it could be reproduced with a wetted side of the hand and a few wet fingerprints, but the tale on that day had been that Pete had gone swimming with us. I still prefer that original explanation.

Pete was a part of the family, not that we necessarily needed another, but he was a valued participant in everything we did. The house could have been chaotic, but somehow Pete grounded us. He was the connection to the past, something gone but not forgotten.

When we moved from that house, I remember not being particularly sad to leave the structure...after all we were off to a new place, a new adventure. But I do remember walking up to the empty attic that last day, and saying goodbye to Pete. I hope the new family listened to the creaking stairs, the closing doors, the cool basement which scared their dog. I hope there was a small footprint on a tablecloth on a warm summer afternoon, because there is importance in passing history forward.

Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras! -

- I forgot to polish the clocks!



I have been neglecting my Blog these past weeks...a particular;y hectic schedule and the lame excuse of having connection problems at the office have allowed me to laze by and savor the last traces of summer. I have general lay not been a big fan of summer, generally savoring the fall, but this year for some reason I have just not been ready to let go. It may be that I am clinging to our trip a bit, and the warm weather serves to remind me that it was not so long ago. Nevertheless, the clock has moved ahead, and I realized this weekend that my shorts are not really that warm, and going out into the backyard is not so much fun since the ground has started to soften from too frequent watering in the cooler weather, and that the sod gushes up between my toes. Not that squishing through the mud is altogether unpleasant, just that it does signal that I need to turn off the sprinklers for the year.


The raspberries were particularly late this year, I have been out picking them every afternoon after work for a few weeks but last year we had them all summer. I thought about it when i was out there the other afternoon, and I think it contributed to my un-readiness to have summer end just yet. But the air is definitely cooler, damper, and it has started to get that sweet smell that surrounds leaves as they turn yellow. I also noticed that i have had to wash the car more, because the streets have been just damp enough to throw up a fine mist of mud. Rats.


Finally though I am ready for fall. I am ready to hail the color, air cooler, the rain that will inevitably cycle through on the weekends. I am ready. Mary and I started to get the house ready for fall, with a change in the pots by the door from plants to pumpkins. Halloween is not that far away, and so it is time to explore the attic for the stuffed witch for the rocker on the porch. I have always been partial to Halloween, so it is a good way to launch the season. Hopefully we can find a supplier for my favorite handout - the bubble-gum eyeballs that we discovered a few years ago.

All my concerts had no sounds in them; they were completely silent. People had to make up their own music in their minds!

- Yoko Ono

If only I had thought of this! Think of the ticket sales...it is a Ticketmaster dream! You have to wonder if the audience actually goes to a theater to sit and think their music....or just buy a ticket and stay home in bed?

In The Music Man, Professor Harold Hill got into some hot water selling music lessons in Gary Indiana based on the think-system. His idea - scam as it was - was that if you think the music, you can play the music. I lived on this theory for a long time, and as the result I think I can play about twenty instruments. Unfortunately what comes out the other end is not really all that pleasant. The benefit however is that if you have thought long enough on it, you start to hear it anyway. It's at that point you either succeed - as apparently Yoko has - or you get carted off by men in white suits.

So, Yoko, after all these years I applaud you. Silently, in my mind.

Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn't know it so it goes on flying anyway.

- Mary Kay Ash

Last evening Mary and I took an art class together. It revolved around the idea of transferring ink-jet images to wood panels and removing the paper, then embedding it all in coats of beeswax. I used photocopies of one of my icons, and also embedded some watch parts in the wax just to see how it would react to the heat process that liquefies the surface. Somehow I managed to not embed anything not wanted, like flies, dog hair food crumbs etc. The final product is actually pretty intriguing, but the downside is that while the process itself is fast the result can't really be seen for two days. The panel has to sit and cure, the surface is hazy and dull. After two days it can be buffed which will reveal the details and bring out the color. The instructor warned not to get impatient and do it too soon...she obviously knew it was going to bug me - it sits there waiting, and I walked by it this morning and itched to give it a run top see what was under the golden-hued haze. Okay I have to confess, I did buff up a little corner- and the result is fascinating. The thickness of the wax gives it a deep glow I brushed on a total of seven thick coats of wax, and there is a kind of moody, murky opaque quality I really like. Mary's project is more vibrant, a combination of her writing and photos and I really admire it for its joyousness.

This seems like a really perfect shared art-class for us. We both really have an affinity for bees - Mary is a latent bee-keeper and I spend a lot of time out in the yard digging around the flower beds and am really happy to see that the Honey Bees have come back. I was worried that they had disappeared earlier this year, but the lavender has brought them out. The wax we used is all natural and locally harvested, and while there is a filtered white version available I really can't imagine using anything but the natural stuff - it's the golden glow that is really beautiful on these projects. Then there is the smell - the room was filled with the aroma of warm honey; it was hard to leave, and when we got home I was starved, I know it was the honey that got me going.

The next step for us would be to learn Impasto, which adds a hardener to the wax, and allows a heavier buildup. We may try it. I'll be taking a candy bar with me though.

God's always got a custard pie up his sleeve.

- Margaret Forster



I have been watching the debates between the first-round candidates on both sides with some interest. Politics has always been a venue for not-so-guarded name calling, and I have to wonder what the air is like backstage both before and after the on-camera snipes fly. As much as anything, it is often the case that after the primaries one of the candidates on the stage is going to be the front-running choice for the campaign, and another may well end up as his (or her) running-mate. Just how do you walk up to someone you just finished calling a bowlegged weasel and put out a hand to say welcome to the ticket?



It seems to me that part of the problem is the forum; we see the candidates all lined up standing behind tiny podiums trying their best not to move around too much lest they be marked as nervous. Furthermore, I have noticed that the podiums have indeed been getting smaller and smaller - maybe for the express purpose of spotting a Herve Villachez clone lurking there feeding answers to a faltering candidate.



Genuinely I think the idea of the debate has seen better days. The answers are all pretty canned any more, and there just is not enough fire in the insults. I have been considering suggesting an alternative forum in the form of a pie-throwing contest. Certainly it would allow the candidates to vent their feelings in a very real manner, and act as a throw-down to ensure that we are truly getting a candidate who has a steady arm and good aim. Given the fact that no politician is ever going to give an answer from the podium that expresses his/her genuine feelings, at least with a good old-fashioned cream pie in the face we might get a valid impression of what each candidate is made of. Do they flinch? Do they get even? Do they laugh maniacally and pull out a shotgun?

I know, I know, some would consider this crazed. After all wouldn't it tend to sway the public toward anyone who looks particularly good with a face full of custard? But then, it would not be the first time a clown got elected.

People that are really very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history.

- Dan Quayle


....Who knew he was such a brilliant prophet?

"Censorship, like charity, should begin at home; but, unlike charity, it should end there."

- Clare Boothe Luce

We were watching "So You Think You Can Dance" the other evening - okay so I will admit it, I watch all the reality shows.....

But anyhow, we were watching. One of the judges had apparently been made to apologize on behalf of the show for a Choreographer's routine he had designed in which all the contestants had to perform the same moves which were ostensibly a commentary on war and a hope for peace. I have to admit that the prior evening when the routines were actually performed I found it all to be pretty tedious, boring even. But the fact that it was made out to be anti-government and "unsupportive of troops" (itself a phrase I am getting tired of hearing) demonstrated to me how absurd the world has gotten. The performers had peace signs on their t-shirt fronts, and words like 'tolerance' on the backs. They danced and ended up walking toward the camera with their fingers in the 1960's-era peace sign and hopeful smiles. Egad how anarchistic!

What is wrong with us, that we now have to apologize for wanting to step back and declare that we've had enough? Shame on us.

"Saint. A dead sinner revised and edited."

- Ambrose Bierce (1842-1913) American Author, Editor, Journalist

Our recent trip really confirmed a thought I have held for a long time - that there is nothing more disruptive than to be declared a Saint. Despite the fact that to be Sainted means that you will be remembered and revered, the truth is that you can never have a real rest because it is the practice to chop off parts and store them in churches all over the world. To me this is just not that attractive a prospect. This was brought home to me in particular when we were in Siena, where St Catherine's preserved head looks out at you from a niche. The spotlighted face is fortunately about twenty feet from the visitor, so it does have a bit of mystery about it. It is not until walking away, where in a small glass case to the side is a reliquary displaying her preserved finger that the reality of the situation strikes home - it is just standing there upright in its case inches away, and all too real. I actually am not sure what the significance of this dismembered digit might be - but personally I would think that Catherine would have preferred to be all in one place, not mounted like a deer.

Which brings me to my point, It just seems to me that to be remembered as a really swell person who did nice things for people would be far better than to be Sainted. Not only that but it is far easier to attain, and you don't have to worry that your haircut is good when you pass away. So for now at least, I am going to be doing my very best to avoid Canonization.

Clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis

- I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream

One hot afternoon recently, while driving home from the office through Lake Oswego (the town, not the lake itself, although given the fact the temperature was approaching 102 that day)...I passed the local Ice Cream Shop. It is a nondescript little storefront on the main strip through this little chi-chi neighborhood. I remembered the too-do occasioned when Mayor Clint (Eastwood) put the clamps on the ice cream vendors in Senior Chi-Chi Carmel, that nothing could be sold as take-away since it presented a mess when kids dropped their scoops on the sidewalk. Fortunately no such law has yet hit the Lake Oswego Creamery (such an original name). The shop is a venerable little institution, and has been there in the center of town for a number of years, apparently pre-dating the current wave of excess that is the town's claim to fame in modern Portland.

The only reason I bring all of this up, was that as I sat there at the stoplight- the car sweltering away in the heat - I noticed a sign placed in the window. "Now Serving Breakfast." This genuinely has piqued my interest, inasmuch as ice cream has for many years been a breakfast favorite of mine but I was unaware that it had become a sales feature.

Mary and I have long-since taken to celebrating certain breakfast occasions with warm apple pie with vanilla or caramel ice cream and a side of bacon. Okay, so we have taken to a slightly more health-conscious approach, substituting no-sugar-added versions of both the pie and the ice-cream, and the result is still very satisfying. When you consider this, the combination satisfies all the major food groups; fruits, dairy, bread (all right this is a stretch, but the crust does have flour in it) and meats. The meat product is mostly grilled salted fat, but I don't remember anything in Health Class that specified that bacon was anything less than a meat. In fact, I think I remember on the chart we were all supposed to learn that bacon was specifically pictured on the triangular chart of building blocks. That was the good part of going to school in the 60's, the Surgeon General had not yet caught up with "bad" fats and had yet to start mucking around with nice solid breakfast institutions.

So now there it was, a monument to our good taste, a temple for the iconization of the ice cream breakfast. I felt that a letter of appreciation might be in order, so the next day I went to the Internet to look the place up. The website was generic, and hungrily I scanned it for details on its ice-cream creations for breakfast. I imagined plates of cream topped with berries. Waffles mounded with chocolate cream and syrup. Bowls of crumbled cones substituting for cereal with melted ice cream for milk.

I was horrified to see that they actually advertised the cases covered with a cloth, and plates of health-nut whole-grain pancakes and twig-and-rock cereal. No bacon was even demonstrated, only sausages with an asterisk indicating that Soy-protein sausage was available upon request.

I was stunned and perplexed - why tease me so from the street. I was so very glad that I had not suggested that Mary and I check out the place in person - I am sure I would have made a scene.

I suspect that Clint Eastwood has something to do with this.

Vidistine nuper imagines moventes bonas?

- Seen any good movies lately?

Last weekend we went to see the new Bruce Willis movie, "Die Hard and Blow Stuff Up" (I think that was the name) and it was really pretty good. I have to admire Bruce at his age still bouncing off cars and falling down elevator shafts, always limping but inevitably able to shoot it out with the bad guys in the end and save the day. You have to wonder just where the world would be if it was not for Bruce. I did always wonder though in whichever edition it was that he had managed to lose his shoes just before having to race across a roomful of broken glass, why it was that he didn't grab something and sweep the glass out of the way before he tromped through. Yet, except for the bloody footprints he left everywhere, it really did not seem to impede him. Personally if I get a thorn from the rose bushes in the backyard when I'm out there cutting them back I whimper for a couple of hours. Obviously I am just not of Bruce's mettle.

Which brings me to a thought. Why haven't we sent Bruce overseas to clean up this mess in the Middle East. Given his willingness to throw himself into the fray for any cause, whether it is his cause or not, I'd think he'd be glad to go over and straighten it up. If not him, he seems to be on pretty decent terms with Demi - surely he could enlist her as GI Jane to mow down the Jihad with a steely look. Failing that, he might throw in Ashton - we might just be able to pull out of this mess if we can make a convincing argument that it was all a Punk.

Oh, that it could be true.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist after he grows up.

- Pablo Picasso



I suffer from artist block now and then. Actually it is more like easy distraction. It is not that I don't want to be creating something, it is rather the fact that any shiny object passing in my view is just too immediately attainable - and it is the ease of immediate gratification over earned satisfaction that gets in the way. TV and snacks are just such a distraction, and when the two are coupled, well, the project in front of me that would require more than 50% of my attention span just all too simply falls by the side. Then of course there is the guilt that rolls through me when it is time to go to bed and I realize I have not done anything at all. I try to justify it by telling myself that I have instead spent quality time with Mary - which is true, any time together is a treasure, but in reality I deep down inside realize that I have frittered away a very valuable couple of hours. Not only that, but I am making Mary my excuse, which is not very complimentary of me.



Kids have it made; they are fully occupied in the very minute they have before them. I remember when I was little and building elaborate structures out of the incredible wooden blocks Grandpa Miller had made (in fact I wonder where they are today - I'd love to be playing with them right now...). At that very moment, there was nothing that would distract me. The level of concentration at that age was extraordinary. I'd like to think that I was incredibly endowed with a singular purpose to create something - even something as tenuous as a tower of odd-shaped wooden blocks. In retrospect I suppose it was just that my mind was still pretty uncluttered at that point, and the activity around me just held little relevance. I would blithely work away at my project obliviously, and delight in my finished creation in a way that I genuinely wish I could feel again.



In "On Walden" Thoreau preached the need to "simplify, simplify..." and maybe he had something there. I work every day in an environment where I have goals to attain and drills to follow, papers to fill and reports to read. I realize that I carry that process home with me, setting goals for my evenings and weekends like homework. Mary has noticed this and told me to stop and just let my time, and my projects, evolve. She's a pretty sharp cookie. And by the way, cookies in front of the TV can be all right.

SCOOTER SKATES!!!

Well, I just have to comment on the state of the world when Scooter Libby gets a walk on Boardwalk and poor Paris had to sit her time out in the hoosegow. Here we are, with a guy who has been convicted of leaking top secret information, and he gets pardoned - while Missy Hilton had to go to the clink not once but TWICE...and then to face the indignity of all that Paparazzi without a visit from her make-up artist. Justice is truly blind.

But then, the whole subject of secrecy seems to have taken on a new life in DC - last week it was reports of Dick Cheney's own Special "SECRET" stamp which he insisted on having emblazoned on all kinds of documents, including press statements - so obviously the term "Top Secret" has a much lesser meaning these days than it may have had once upon a time. Indeed, to have a secret is to have something to share, as might be attested to by school-kids for generations. apparently it was we Baby-Boomers who got it all wrong, wrapping the term up in a bundle of red-tape, only appropriate for a bunch of kids who spent their formative years learning about the proper way to cover our heads in aluminum foil to deter the effects of radiation and to spend our days under our school-desks to avert the detrimental onslaught caused by the dropping of an Atomic Bomb aimed at taking out the local Cartoon-Riddled Television Station. Of course that was the era when women would coif their hair into massive cones protected by a gallon of spray shellac, and men would coat their hair in Red-Rose Brilliantine so it probably was needless for adults to learn the duck-and-cover routine, which is why it fell off the curriculum after the sixth grade.

I digress.

So we have learned that Dick Cheney occupies an office, but answers not to any of the three branches of our government. He has a man-sized safe in his office. He has the heads of various friends he has shot in the face mounted on his wall. (Okay I exaggerate there - he only mounts the ones that died). He gleefully stamps documents that have no particular priority or importance with his own "Secret Stuff" stamp. And so now we learn that the term Secret itself has little bearing on National Security. Thus, to keep the Scoot on ice would be a travesty of justice. The Courts got it wrong, and it is for our fearless leader to set it all to rights.

Miss Hilton on the other hand did ignore her probation. She was bad. It was all too obvious that she needed to spend time cloistered away to consider her sins. I am sure it worked, and that she will be clothing the homeless in India next week. A lesson in sobriety and charity is no doubt the outcome of her incarceration. Well, at least the homeless will be able to get some make-up and shopping tips.

I am so happy to see that the US has its priorities back on track. I have forgotten to check in a while - how is that fence project on the Mexico border going?

Magister mundi sum!

- I am the master of the universe!

This has been an interesting week at the office. Shortly before I left on vacation the other Underwriter left to open his own office and become an agent. The search for a replacement is slow, particularly here in Portland where the pool of candidates is pretty slim. So for the time being the office staff in Commercial Lines has been me, two assistants and the Admin assistant.

My assistant left for Hawaii this week, and the Admin is on vacation someplace ( I forget where), which left us skinny this week but, I thought, all should be okay. However Sherrie, the other Underwriting Assistant had a medical problem and found herself in to Emergency Room on Monday. So the count was down to me.

The Office lights are on motion detectors, and apparently I am not exerting enough motion. The lights keep going out. To compensate I have to stand up and wave my arms about once every half-hour. This would not be too bad except my first-floor office has windows opening directly out onto the building entrance, so that anyone arriving from the parking lot sees me jumping out of my chair and bouncing around to make the lights comer back on. Not that this would necessarily be unlike me anyway, but I usually only perform for friends. Monday afternoon we had a building fire-drill. The alarm went off, and of course I had to exit. Generally the office would have others in it as well, but all the Engineers were out in the field, so it really was only me, standing in my appointed spot in the parking lot. When it was time to return to my desk, the lights had of course gone back out, so I had to wave at the detector as I passed.

It is terrible to be King if there's no-one to carry your cape.

Bye, Bye Blackbird

- Where somebody waits for me,Sugar's sweet, so is she,Bye bye Blackbird!

After writing my last entry, I have recalled that there is another Blackbird who has shaped my life....

There she is, fifth from the Left. That would be Mary, in one of her recital costumes. Tutu and all. I really love the photos she has from those years in dance class. I think if you look closely you can see the beak emerging from her forehead. If only there were home movies as well. She looks as if she is moving in to pinch someone though....I have to wonder what the unpublished followup photo might have revealed.

Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure. Whoever heard of keeping a crow?

- Jalal-Uddin Rumi(1207-1273) Turkish Sufi Mystic Poet

Every evening at the end of dusk, we have a fly-over of crows. I am not referring to three or four - but hundreds of them, swooping and swirling from the South. A Murder of Crows, as such an event is called. They make a huge noise, and had I never seen Hitchcock's "The Birds" I might have never given them a second look. I think it rather astounding though, that they have this same pattern year-round...and frankly I now look forward to it, occasionally making a point to be out in the yard at the last moments of daylight to be there for the dark cloud as it passes overhead.

Personally I have liked crows in general for a long time. My parents' place at Mats Mats Bay had always been a haven for crows, and I remember waking up early in the morning more than once to the sound of one cawing loudly from a tree outside my bedroom window. As a teenager I was annoyed, but as time went on I tolerated the rude alarm. I realized that my parents were making the crows into pets, and fed them on a regular basis. Even after Dad died, Mom would feed one particular crow who would perch up in the top of a fir tree and complain until she emerged. I think in a way she thought of him as being Dad, returning every day to make sure she was okay and wanting her to fix dinner on time.

When we were in London, we of course made the tour of the Tower, where a flock of ravens is kept. Legend has it that if the ravens ever leave, the monarchy falls. So the ravens are given a pretty royal run of the place, and while their wings are kept clipped to prevent them from making an unscheduled flight out the top, I didn't notice any of them making a run for it out any of the open gates. What took me by surprise was the size of these critters - I had imagined them to be slightly larger than wild crows, but in fact they are enormous and make the most obnoxious guttural growl. I thought about the poetic image I have had of Edgar Allen Poe with a somber Raven perched on his shoulder - in fact one of these birds would feel more like carrying a small goat around. Blackbirds come in all sizes it seems, and none would make a good songbird. Rumi's comment about Nightingales makes a good point, because they sing even when they are caged. Somehow I don't think this could be said of either the crows or the ravens; but they do give great pleasure. They are reassuring in their constancy, and they are surprisingly loyal.

We have a large ceramic crow on the front porch; we bought it in Montana, and I nicknamed it "Joe" after my Dad, and I often say hi to it when I get home in the afternoon. Somehow I think Dad would approve.

Looking outside I notice that this afternoon is warm, and it might be a nice evening to hang out and wait for the fly-over.

The Smuggler

So, there I was, an innocent in paradise....I was on the last leg of our trip home safe and sound, so's I thought on home turf at the SeaTac airport. I was at the baggage carousel, heaving off bags when a customs agent approached Mary to randomly ask about her arrival. I had given her the hastily completed customs checklist I'd been given on the plane from London, the one that had about six tiny lines in which I was supposed to itemize our purchases over the prior month's travels which were burgeoning from every bag and pocket....



Conscientiously, I had checked the appropriate boxes, all negatives on contraband items but had in fact indicated a "yes" on the food box. I raced over to the customs agent grilling Mary, my bags flying in every direction, and answering his question about the "yes" with "olive oil...and some Pasta - is pasta a problem??" I queried....



"nope, pasta should be all right..." he responded, scrawling an illegible initial on the page. I retrieved our seven suitcases, piling them awkwardly on carts - I was really missing the Public Porters we had used through Europe about then, and off we huffed through a corridor and out into a waiting room off lines and swarming people. Through the first booth we went, a customs agent smiling and stamping our passports while I finished the customs forms, quickly putting vales on all the various items listed. He smiled. "Food...is the olive oil you mentioned on the back all that you have?"



"Yes," I blustered...or wait we also have pasta!" He smiled again and stamped away a few more times and sent us on our way. The next waiting area was like coming through Ellis Island....hundreds of bodies sweating away, hauling all types of baggage, babies crying....oh the humanity. An agent approached us and took a look at the scrawl on our customs ticket. "Follow the yellow line...he snarked"....



I knew this was a bad omen. No one else was following the yellow line. None of the suspicious-looking types I had earmarked were in the yellow line. This was bad. I turned the corner, Mary was ahead of me and already having words with a customs agent...he was rummaging through her handbag. She had not eaten the breakfast box we had been given on the plane, and had in her bag a small packet of apple slices. She was mortified as he waved them in the air chastising her for all to see for having tried to sneak apples into the country. Shame. Fortunately for her, his tirade was minimized by the fact we and four customs agents were the only ones in the yellow room. Everyone else had followed the blue line or the red line and were happily on their way home by now.



I started to unload the baggage onto the (yet another) x-ray belt...the luggage passed through, but a sharp-eyed agent snapped up the blue bag, the one we had bought in London for our purchases. The one with the pasta. He had the customs ticket in his hand. "Olive oil...is that all the food you have in here???" He grilled. "Yes...er no..." I replied weakly. "We have pasta. we were told that packaged pasta is okay..."



"Yes, Pasta is okay." he muttered as he opened the bag and began rooting though it. Through the clothes we had packed in there, through the souvenir books and postcards. He ripped open a plastic grocery-type bag filled with bags and pasta and dove in like a surgeon extracting a harpoon...."Nope, THIS is what we saw..." he snapped, producing two plastic shrink-wrapped sausages. He glowered at me. "You didn't declare these," he said.....



"Honestly I didn't even know we had them..."

He looked at me incredulously...

I stammered some more..."We were considering them, I forgot that we bought them....."



"Hmmmm. This is a serious offense. You can't bring these in - they aren't stamped with the blue seal."



(I still don't know what the blue seal is. I was not even sure if he meant an insignia or a member of the whale family.)



Mary muttered into my ear ''I forgot I bought those....I was going to put them back at the store and then guess I bought them anyway...."



"These look expensive too" the agent said...but we'll have to keep them. The question is that this is serious. This could cost you a fine...$400."



He looked at me to observe the wave of fear his words would no doubt send rippling thought me. At that point I was thinking that if I would have to pay the $400, I should at least be able to take the sausages home.



"I will see what I can do. I will have to discuss this with my supervisor." With that he turned on his heels and stalked off to a little cubicle past the x-ray machine. After a minute (I was actually wondering if there was a supervisor behind the screen or if this was a ploy like the one practiced by used-car salesmen who have to leave you for a few minutes to discuss the offer with their supervisor....after a minute he returned.



"I can waive the penalty, but I will have to have your passport, and I will have to make notes regarding this problem. You need to be aware that this is serious and the next time you go through customs, if you have meat products and don't declare them you will have to pay the $400." He looked at me sternly. I asked if I could repack the underwear sitting in the conveyor belt. He walked over and typed for a while on the computer...then gave me my passport. I scanned it to see if there were any nasty notations there regarding my meat-smuggling, but it was clear. I realized however that on future travels I will be watched for sausages in my carry-ons.



And so, I am a marked man. Mary bought the sausage but her passport is clean. Mine is marked. I will be known forever more as a smuggler of preserved meat products. I am sure I am doomed to forever walk the yellow line...to be searched mercilessly for apple slices and pocketed hot dogs. I will have to bear the yoke of sausage shame....it is my burden.

london

SO - we have been in London a couple of days now.....yesterday we spent the day doing the most touristy of tourist, we jumped the on and off bus and rode around the city seeing the sights from the open-air top of the bus. We got off at Westminster Abbey and had intended to go in but balked at the cost of it, £20 ($40) for the two of us to enter ...we decided that it would be more prudent to return on Sunday for services...so that is the plan. We walked around a bit then got back on the bus for the rest of the morning.

We had lunch by the Thames in a very nice park, there was a little restaurant there where we could order inside, then they'd bring it out under the trees. We sat surrounded by statures of all the great English poets, specifically at the foot of Robert Burns.

After that we got onto the River cruise and spent the afternoon gliding along under the bridges enjoying the very nice sunny weather cooled by a nice breeze, passing the Globe Theater and ending up in Greenwich. We were only there a few minutes, but knowing that we had spanned both hemispheres was a moment to remember.

When we returned to shore back under the tower bridge we took the on-off bus again to Harrod's to buy dinner in the famous delis there. I will have to say that I was less than astounded by the famous department store, I think it has become a little full of itself and the security measures taken by its current owner along with the shrines to Dodi and Diana make it all a bit cheap - while the prices a re the only thing breathtaking. Nevertheless, we did choose some nice meat pies, a great salad and some desserts to take back to the room with us.

This morning we got off to an early start and went to Kensington Palace. We had thought of going to Windsor, but because we have spent so much time on trains lately decided to stay closer - and besides it has a tribute to Diana in the main-floor gallery right now, with the clothes that she had auctioned just before she died, and Mary really wanted to see it. The palace itself is interesting, it has been a historic residence for many of the Royals over the centuries, and is one of the older palaces for the family. Because the Queen is in residence at Buckingham palace right now, it is closed to the public, but the half of Kensington not currently occupied is open. We walked through Princess Margaret's apartment, interesting and nice, but it really paints a picture of life for the Royals that is not so enviable - we realized that there was every kind of convenience and comfort there, and she had all kinds of staff running around, but it was so completely cut off from the world, for security, that she and the other Royals are really like well-kept prisoners. It was pretty claustrophobic, really. Upstairs we walked through the state rooms and what had been Victoria's apartment before she became queen. It was furnished pretty much as it had been, including the bed brought back from Buck to the bedroom she had lived in there, just as it had been when she was awakened there to be told she had just been made queen. Interesting.

After lunch we went to Kenneth Grahame's house, the author of "Wind in the Willows". Most of you know me well enough to know that that was "my" book growing up - Aunt Buddy gave it to me when I was about 8, and I always have allied myself with Mole. Standing on the steps of the house was to me like Mole coming home - it was great.

We then went to the Victoria and Albert - this is an incredible museum - filled with old and new, and really more dedicated to the study of design as it has evolved over the past 3000 years from every corner of the globe...an afternoon at the V&A is really invigorating, I can only imagine what it would be like to spend more time there.

We are about to find someplace for dinner, we had thought of taking in a play but I think we are just a little worn out so will probably watch a movie in the room...I had to laugh this afternoon as we got back form these two days of intensive tourism, realizing that we have been having more trouble with communication here in London than we did in either Italy of France; London is such a hub for immigration that many of the shopkeepers speak only broken English, and the mix is heavily Middle-Eastern, Indian, Chinese and Eastern Bloc (lots of Polish) making negotiations very interesting. Both of us are still using a lot of Italian picked up as we traveled from Venice to Rome - it just comes out of us without thinking. So when one of these shopkeepers pick up on that they will occasionally respond in broken Italian making it all the worse. United Nations here we come.

Tomorrow we have plans for Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London and the Royal Mews. And today we found Starbuck's - which I had not had since we left home. Ahhh, civilization at last!

This is our last stop on this adventure - we'll be heading home in a couple of days...it has beebn a great tour, and we had to buy yet another suitcase to bring back all the books and souvenirs we have picked up along the way. I am really glad we discovered Public Porters.

So then there are the crepes....

In my frenzy yesterday I neglected to mention the best of all - crepes. They make them in the little kiosks on the sidewalk, and you get them filled with just about anything, in any combo from fish to meats to cheeses, to jams, creams or just plain butter and sugar. Then they fold them up in a neat pocket and off you go.



Okay, so we did do something here and there other than to eat. But it was an important thing, I will have to say.



This morning we walked around the streets a bit after breakfast at the hotel, and bought a bit of last minute stuff. We were waiting for a car to take us to the train - and I do haveto say that of anyplace we have been so far it is the French that sem to know what they are doing. The driver got us a porter at the station and onto the train; we had first-class seats which we expected to be comfortable but this was more so - and the surprise of all was that they fed us - very well.



We travelled through the countryside, and I really have to comment that I can't really imagine flying here if you can take the train. Off and down through the Chunnel, and here we are in London. We are staying in Kensington which is a very lively area full of shops, cafes and not far from Harrod's, so Mary is in her element. I think this evening we are going to just take it easy, scan the TV for some US programs and relax. Tomorrow we plan on taking an "on and off" bus tour around the city to get a feel for the terrain...and from there, who knows!



Ciao

I can't quite get off that kick.

Paris - and street food

We have been thoroughly enjoying Paris, the views, the sights, the rain and the street food. It has been raining off and on since we have been here - not hard, just the light drizzle we are accustomed to in Seattle, and the first evening we were here, when the sky turned froma clear blue to a threatening gray we immediately took a walk through the Tuileries. Interesting, Parisians all put up umbrellas at the slightest hint of moisture - unlike we Northwesterners who have to be facing Noah's flood before giving in to open one. But it does not inhibit the locals from going out - in fact I think the crowd in the garden was even more lively than they had been earlier. We watched a vendor rent pond boats to the kids, and parents sat by the side of the fountain drinking tea and espresso. Civilization is good.

Rome had seemed a bit harsh to us, and Paris has been just the opposite. People are happy, the traffic is not as frantic - and then there's the food. Street food. there are vendors everywhere, selling incredible pasries to eat on the spot, and croque monsieur (ham and cheese sandwiches grilled with more cheese on top - could it get better....and big slices of quiche with anything and everything inside from salmon to potatoes (don't knock it til you try it...)

More pastries.

Okay so about the sights - we had planned on first hitting the Louvre but it was closed. So we ewent to the D'Orsay - it is an astounding collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art. While I have seen masterworks by any one of these greats over the years, the brilliance comes through when you can stand in a ddoorway and compare the oeuvre of one to the other - like the undertone of Renoir (blue and sienna) with that of Monet (pink). AAnd then there are the works themselves, walking around the corner to find yourself nose to nose with Whistler's Mother or two VanGogh self portraits painted two years apartt in very different styles, the first confident and satisfied, the second made with short, less arrogant strokes and showing a face that had gone gaunt and eyes that no longer pierced through the paint.

Did I mention the onion soup? you get it at the corner shops as well; it is paler and lighter than waht we know at home, and the cheese and bread on top are crisp and rich. Goes very well with a Croque Monsieur.

Our room at the Regina has a tiny balcony, we look out at the upper floors of the Louvre and just to the right over the Tuileries to the Eiffel Tower. The light show is wonderful at night - I had always thought it would be a little hokey but it is enything but. In addition with the alternating clouds and pink and gray sky, the show is all the more dramatic - added to last night by a full moon circling overhead.

The Louvre is an experience in itself. It would be possible to spend months there and not really see it all - but we did our best in a day. Venus D, Winged Victory, and Mona of course - the latter behind a wall of glass and super protected as was The Pieta in Rome - it is true that to get a good look at her it would be better to study a good art book - but to experience it in the same room is irreplaceable. Miles later and ready to leave we followed the signs to the exit which are not all that truthful, and we found ourselves a bit lost, ending up in the sub floor level walking through the moat of the original castle. I thought it was cool, but I thinik Mary was happy to emerge eventually under the bright light of the I M Pei pyramid.

Palmiers. We have Palmiers at home, but here they are denser, the cookie a little more chewy and rich - it needs less sugar than the ones we find at home. Makes a good late night snack.

The Ile de Citi is much smaller than i had imagined, and a lot of it is covered by government buildings. In fact a lot of the streets were closed off this afternoon by platoons of Gendarmes - I am thinkning maybe the new President was about to drive through. I had really hoped to see Ste Chappelle but the line was enormous, so instead it was off to the other end of ther island to visit Notre Dame, which is as dark, enormous and slightly creepy as you would imagine, as well as the archaeological excavations under the plaza revealing the foundations and first floor remnants of the original Roman city built there. After that, circling through the center of the island revealed a huge plant and flower market with dozens of shops and vendors - I would have bought a lot of stuff for the garden at home but everything I wanted weighed a ton so had to settle for some seed packets of crenelated tomatoes and pumpkins.

There was a pastry I had this afternoon, light, kind of like an eclair shell but sweeter and crunchier, filled with a cream flavored with praline. Also worthy is the dense chocolate cake similar to a very dark brownie, drenched in almond-flavored liquid cream...oh and the almond tards which are like a thick rich cookie...

Anyway, it is a city that has truly captured both of us. It is much too big to see in four days, too much to see in a month. I suppose that's why so many people want to stay forever. If not for the views, for the food.

I am going back up to the room now, the sun should be setting and I don't want to miss seeing the lights come on. Then we're going to walk over to the Louvre to take some evening photos. Maybe a couple of Palmiers.

Bon Soir