Hereunder

On Man Caves

Gentle visitors, our Household is in the midst of a project: transforming the basement into a Man Cave.

Seems an odd pursuit since the current configuration is manly enough: cold, concrete slab; bare stud frames; heavy HVAC equipment; steel trusses and poles; exposed pipes and vents; old cast-off furnishings strewn about, along with a few crates of alcohol, some paint cans, a box of baseball cards, vinyl records, and a couple of beer steins, inter alia.  No attempt at decor beyond the random beauty of a cellar.   But, these days, Man Caves are planned and polished digs, and the unfinished look won't do.

The model for the Man Cave is, of course, a rocky hollow filled with crouching Cro-Magnon men dressed in animal carcasses, gnawing on bones then casting them onto a pre-exisitng pile, and regaling each other with tales of bravado -- a mastodon hunt or a battle with some pathetic Neanderthals -- conveyed in a series of grunts and spear thrusts.  A wood fire would be required to enhance the performance, as well as the fermented juice of roots gathered by the women, if available.  The more sensitive cavemen might do some drawings.

Not much has changed for Latter-Day Cavemen.  We create the same bone pile with chicken wings.  (Largely flightless are they are, the chickens have no real complaint.)  Latter-Day Grass-Eaters (i.e., vegans) are treated with suspicion or outright scorn.

In a sense, we are like the denizens of Plato's Cave.  Rough, hairy creatures sitting in darkness, seeing only shadows cast by a distant light and believing that the shadows are the real thing.  Then, some brave messenger -- say, a Socrates (pronounced "sock-ra-tease," or "so -crates" in Cleveland dialect) -- descends into the cave offering to lead us out.   He cautions that our ascent will be painful as our eyes adjust to the brightness, but promises that it will be fruitful as we finally stand in the brilliant sunshine and, for the first time, see things as they really care. 

And, we respond, "Naw, brah, we're good.  But, thanks for offering.  Hey! Could you grab me another beer and pass the chicken wings."  

These days, we are directed to focus on non-binary interests.  But, Latter-Day Cavemen  are content with their own binary, chromosomal construction: the entire sequence, beginning with an 'X" and ending with a 'Y', is pretty simple and easy to remember.  We are told that there is an entire alphabet  with 26 letters.  But, how could one possibly memorize all 26 of them and in their proper order? 

Even the Cavemen's binary opposites, while attractive, remain largely inscrutable:  XX? What could it mean?  Doesn't Y follows X?  Now, the Cavemen are confused and fear that they're about to be outmaneuvered and overtaken.  Their fear is well-founded.

Which leads us back to the planned Man Cave here.  The other Householder (binary XX) is insisting, due to space limitations, that your humble Contributor choose between the weight set and the wet bar.  One might as well be choosing between life and breath!   After much agonizing, your humble Contributor settles on keeping the weights and roughing-in the bar for later development.

He realizes that he has been outwitted and vanquished, but rationalizes that "roughing-in" sounds manly enough, and this will form the explanation to the other Cavemen when they come to visit.   

What he will never been able to explain is that there are no hunt drawings on the walls, but, instead, they are done in Accessible Beige. 

Unfinished

Gentle visitors, we have been pen-shamed by one of the poor Relations on account of our infrequent posts.  To quiet this braying, we offer this blank verse based on our current reality.

Unfinished

I’ve become quite close with some large appliance,
Now that work has begun down in the basement.

Water heater went cold when it lost its pilot.
The dryer required a connection and vent.
The drain for the furnace flowed out on the slab.

All of those years, when the place was unfinished,
I barely took notice: a space for our junk,
Spent rugs and odd items, old tables and chairs.

I see it all now through the skeleton frame;
Every room that will be when the walls go up,
And the new floors go down, and the doors get hung.

And I'm watchful for signs, like a light gone dark,
Or one weakly blinking; a sound that’s not right,
Or no sound at all; any thing out of sort.

Outside it’s turned frigid and the days are short.
Let’s hope it’s all finished before it’s all done.

On Lake Memphrémagog

Gentle visitors, below a verbal snapshot of our recent trip through the Cantons de l'Est (Eastern Provinces) of Quebec, especially the beautiful Lake Memphrémagog and town of Magog.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Early on lac Memphrémagog
A gloomy vapor creeps,
And somewhere in/within the fog
The daylight hours sleep.

Beneath the surface, locals say,
There lurks a lake-borne ogre:
A serpent rarely seen in day,
Le monstre du Magog.

The monks of Saint-Benoît-du-Lac
In chanting Vigils pray
That the hours will soon awake
And drive the beast away.

Our Else

I seen it as it looked,

The little lamp in that doll house,

Hanging over the dining room table,

White globes glowing yellow.

 

After--we sat on the log by the side of the road,

Our faces burning, red with humiliation.

Why did she shoo us out of the yard

Just as the doll house was opened?

Just because.

 

But I seen the little lamp.

 

(Inspired by Katherine Mansfield's story, "The Doll's House," 1922)

 

 

 

 

Woke Shaving

Gentle visitors, just after shaving with one of Harry's razors the other day, your humble Contributor read of a kerfuffle over a Facebook ad posted by Harry's concerning toxic masculinity.  It seems that Harry 's, which makes excellent, inexpensive blades, no longer wants men to man up so much as to man down: a counterintuitive approach to increase sales to men, but there you go.

Were it up to him, your humble Contributor would hardly be shearing the stubble each morning.  Rather, he would allow the beard to be what it wants to be: a salt and red pepper bristle covering cheek, chin, and jowl, shielding these fleshy parts against the cold north wind, offering an indication of wisdom where little actually resides, and compensating for a receding hairline.

But, the Other Householder frowns upon such a facial growth, suggesting that, if he did so, your humble Contributor may end up sleeping on the concrete slab in the unfinished basement, mid-winter, with perhaps a carpet remnant rolled over as a blanket.   Your humble Contributor intimated that the Other Householder really fears that a neatly trimmed Van Dyke, for instance, would make himself dangerously (not to say toxically) handsome. However, she observed that the risk of this was equivalent to the chances of the Washington Nationals winning a play-off series:  that is, nil.   With that observation, any danger was averted.

Still, it is difficult for us pre-millenials to keep up with what is now good and bad.  We knew that wolf whistling was not good; but, now dog whistling (bad);  virtue signaling (good or maybe bad);  body shaming (bad); woke shaving (good).   And, what any of these has to do with dragging an incredibly sharp piece of metal across one's face each day is mystifying.

But, all of this raises further questions:  if there is a toxic masculinity, is there also a toxic femininity?  Or, does the toxicity only affect the XY but not the XX, chromosonically speaking?  Or do the toxins cross over the gonosomic divide?  If so, would it be appropriate for Venus Soft Touch to call out the offending ladies?

Moreover, Harry's gives males too much credit for being able to think these things through.  On any given day, most unwoke guys, wake up, scratch themselves, yawn demonstratively, use the facilities, think about something to eat, think about coffee; in time, they shave while thinking about nothing or about not shaving, getting through the time when the beard gets itchy, stroking the mature beard thoughtfully without actually thinking about much;  magically thinking that the beard may actually help their favored team win the playoff series, cheering the team on with their beards, their beers, and their loud yelps.  Next morning, wake up and do the same. 

Scientists believe that, genetically, men most closely resemble dogs -- though, a significant minority say pigs.  In any case, with effort, they can be trained and largely housebroken.

As for the horndogs who have recently been exposed and rightly driven away with whips, their sin is not being male, but rather being lustful, one of the seven deadly sins that persist like ancient, mortal bacteria.  Centuries ago, Thomas Aquinas pictured lust as a lion ogling a gazelle -- seeing not the gazelle's inherent beauty, strength, and grace, but his next meal.  That predatory gaze has not changed in the intervening years. 

Add to that, power.  Lord Acton wrote that "power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely [and] great men are almost always bad men...."  Perhaps  a harsh assessment, but power and overweening pride -- the king of the deadlies -- always invites the other sins in to join the party: lust, certainly, and greed, anger, envy, etc.  We all, men and women alike, need to keep a wary eye on those lowlifes.

But, in the main, Harry's should leave the unwoken just shave: better to let sleeping dogs lie.

 

 

For My Daughter

You are searching for honest hearts,

Keeping the rules,

But aware that some break them.

"What are boys to me?" you ask yourself.

It is still Spring--there is time enough.

A Pipe Dream Illustrated

Gentle visitors, the Pipes & Cigars mailer came in a month or two ago, and the cover so  inspired your humble Contributor that he has been anxious to comment on it ever since, though delayed by the press of work and family responsibilities, etc.

On one level, it is, of course, an advertisement of sale for Peterson of Dublin pipes, established 1865; but, this is only the surface -- the truth of it goes far deeper.  The photo, as they say, speaks a thousand words -- we will keep it, in summary, to  three hundred.

The two men -- one young, one old -- look past the craggy coast and the crashing surf toward the broad, shimmering sea.   The young man sees clearly on the horizon seemingly infinite opportunity and adventure; the old man sees somewhat more dimly the crests and troughs of the past and, as for the future, his gaze suggests not so much resignation as tempered assessment.   The younger's vibrant shock of hair is contrasted with the elder's covered head and presumably balding pate. 

Unseen is the elder's forearm tattoo -- something vaguely oriental like a winged, twisting dragon of some sort -- that, together with his wizened features and gray beard, reveal a life of hard work, perhaps hardship, and some stevedoring.  (The two men's choice of pipe stock also hint at their relative difference in vigor, but we will leave that unexamined.)    

The pipes, of course, are the unifying principle in these differences:  they are vehicles of reflection brought on by thoughtful puffing, the smoke rising as a kind of prayer and  and drifting as a kind of conversation with the ether and other unseen mysteries.  And, whether in youthful exuberance or aged temperance, both men display hope and an almost preternatural calm that only a good briar pipe can bring, Peterson's being one option.

It helps that these are two men of Ireland -- an island that has brought the world great thinkers and saints, and -- well, to be honest -- great drinkers and sinners as well, so that the Irish not grow too proud in their giftedness.  The aspiration is always toward the good, the noble, and the poetic, even if the execution is wanting in some respects.  

Which puts us in mind of a letter to the editor that appeared on November 21st, 1959 in The Tablet , an London paper with an on-again off-again sympathy to the Irish cause.  (For a few years, The Tablet  was published in Dublin, about the time that Mr. Peterson was fashioning his first pipe.)  Fifty-eight years ago today, someone carefully clipped  and later copied the letter, and thirty some years ago a Killarney man, if memory serves, possibly of the O'Reilly clan, passed it along to us.

The letter, written by Eugene Watters, who went on to become an Irish writer of some note under his Gaelic name, Eoghan Ó Tuairisc, addresses articles concerning the Irish migration to England in those days.  Here it is.

November 21st 1959

EMIGRATION FROM IRELAND

DEAR SIR,—The intermixing of moral judgments with statistics in your articles on Irish migration calls for some protest from a mere native, of the peripheral isle. The second article, for instance, asserts that my countrymen are going east simply because they really prefer the hedonism of materialist Britain to the puritanism of their native country." This allocation of the isms is plainly daft.

The typical Englishman is a mechanic. He will tinker all day with the inside of an engine, taking time off to construct a glasshouse and cultivate tomatoes. He falls in love in his early twenties, saves for a few years, begs, borrows or builds a house, marries, and with the national genius for limited objectives propagates a boy and a girl. Then he slaves, saves, slogs at the home-work, lives like a monk on small beer and shores his fragments against the day of the eleven-plus. Later in life, he may  so far fall from grace as to win a darts championship at the Nag's Head.

The typical Irishman is the eldest son of a small farmer. He farms just sufficiently to keep himself in home-cured bacon, roast duck, the best Indian tea, Virginian tobacco, Guinness Double-X, and potato-cakes done on the griddle and saturated in melted butter. He spends his summer evenings at the cross-roads arguing politics or in prudent dalliance with the [other] sex. His life is long, lingering, leisurely: hurling and Gaelic football at the proper seasons, poaching often,dancing and card playing at the the neighbour's house, bathing in a state of nature among the bulrushes of the bog-pools, dog-racing, the bookie's office, election meeting after Mass, relaxing after the Sunday dinner with the English papers, in which he reads with grave relish of the horrible things that happen the sinful cities of the Saxon plain. 

Reluctantly,at the average age of fifty, he advertises in the Standard for a wife: "Mature; non-smoker, non-drinker, nurse preferred; also a farm or a little capital; must be a practising Catholic."  If children are begotten at all it is in the dogged determination that young brother Patrick, who works with a dance-band in Leeds, will not fall in to the place. He dies at ninety and a half-barrel of Guinness is broached at the wake.

Look well upon this picture and on this.  Which is the puritan, which the hedonist?  And what is the meaning of materialism?

Yours Sincerely, 

Eugene Watters

Cappagh Crossroads,Finglas, Co. Dublin

What We Know

The luminous plankton glows blue with each swell of the wave,

Then falls dark with a crash.

At night, from the shore,

The ocean seems safe,

Its extent unseen, unknown, uncontemplated.

Like when I was four,

Riding in the car at night with my grandparents

Across the fearsome high-level bridge over the lake.

"Where does the lake go at night?" I asked.

"It disappears," said my grandmother.

I was satisfied to know only that.

 

Keep Calm & Vest Don

Gentle visitors, the cold air has blown into these parts from the frigid Pole, and the sudden chill sent your humble Contributor (shivering, we confess) into the spare closet to select an appropriate sweater vest.  Thus, the season is upon us.  And, this change is always a blessing: even as we suffer the sorrows of the Fall, we have the consolation of a sweater vest to lift our Spirits and insulate our Internal Organs. 

In the past, we have addressed the virtues of sweater vests.  Of course, one could fill volumes on the subject.   But, today, we are reminded  of that famous slogan minted by the British Ministry of Information in 1939:

 "KEEP CALM and CARRY ON"  

There they were, the poor Brits, on the eve of the second Great War, preparing to face the onslaught of the Luftwaffe , advised, if not commanded, to "keep calm."  But how to stay calm under such circumstances?  Well, among other measures, every man Jack went straight to his haberdasher, got fit with a sturdy woolen pullover -- with a "V" neck for Victory! -- signed up for King and Country and... well, Bob's your uncle, and the rest -- and the vest -- is History. 

Who could have expected that this small, though handsome and eminently practical, vestment could have stemmed the Nazi Blitzkreig?  But, there you have it: the humble sweater vest, like Tolkien's fabled mithril, was credited for it's calming influence and stout courage until the War was finally won (with some assist from the Yanks). 

This well-woven reputation has borne out over the years. Studies have shown that sweater vests significantly reduce stress and improve productivity in office environments.  By "studies," we mean, of course, our own personal studies over many years observing the effect of these  smart frocks: on appearance, it defuses even the most tense crisis then leads all forward with poise and confidence.  Indeed, we have found no recorded instance -- and can imagine none -- of any untoward event in the presence of vest-wearer.

We should note that no other sweater has these effects.  For example, showing up in a cardigan would be, in most cases, less than desirable. This is easy to explain. Cardigans cover the whole arm, indicating it's suitability for low energy tasks, such as slowly strolling through the leaves, meticulously examining a stamp collection, or settling down toddlers a la Mr. Rogers.

Among active adults, however, a cardigan works as a strong sedative, soothing to the point of somnolence when there is still work to be done!  By contrast, sweater vests leave the arms free, indicating a workmanlike spirit with a calm core of confidence. 

Or, consider the turtleneck -- a disastrous choice! -- a covering likely to arouse only feelings  of horror or dismay.   True, a mock turtleneck is not as bad:  it elicits merely disappointment.  Still, some wags wear mocks, as the name suggests, to express a kind of smirking and self-aware irony. But, does this befit a real gentleman?   The question, we think, answers itself.

Gentle visitors, in these days as in the past, we live in a cold and confusing world.  Against this chill wind, we need the genuine article-- something that brings warmth and sense.  

As practical and moral matter, a vest is best.  

 

 

 

Sleep is Overrated

Sleep is over-rated -- 
I read it in the news:
“High Achievers Need Less Rest,”
‘Cause when you snooze you lose.

Give me days without an end,
And hours without number,
I’ll beat the one who takes his time
And squanders it on slumber.

Doers keep their lantern lit,
Alert and wide awake;
Dozers pop the lazy boy
And have a nap to take.

 

Hire the gal who takes 8 hours,
And makes ‘em 24.
Fire the guy who takes a break,
Then, breaks into a snore.

So, go you idle dreamers,
And get your precious sleep;
I’ll labor for Insomnia,
And count her endless sheep.

Easter, West St. Catherine

 

Good Friday morning flying in, arriving 10:18.
The phone assumes a woman’s voice: “Next left, St. Catherine.”

St. Catherine runs from east to west– begins at Mary Street,
Then rambles maybe nineteen blocks before it comes to rest.

Past Queen Anne homes and mini-marts and gentry on a stroll;
A breakfast spot, two liquor stores, some people pushing carts.

Our weekend lodge is burnt-clay brick, laid down in '94;
Mounting several stories high and several courses thick.

An august boxer in the yard defends his bounded place;
But, when our host invites us in, the boxer sheds his guard.

We saunter up to Central Park, entree to St. James Court:
The Romanesque and Châteauesque compete 'til day is dark.

St. Louis Bertrand meets St. Cate where Sixth Street makes a cross:
He strikes a graying, gothic stance and calls us to our prayer.

But, we head toward St. Joseph's Home, where old folks take their rest,
And Little Sisters vigil-keep with Mother Church in Rome.

The ancient elders shuffle up on walkers, some on canes,
And prepare to meet their maker and take their holy sup.

On Easter day, the sun is poor; the plumbing’s given out;
We shuttle through the rain to use the privy housed next door.

But, there’s Pascha bread and sauerkraut; a ham that’s brined and smoked;
Kielbasa fashioned link by link, and foreign extra stout.

At dusk, the many guests are brought to play a game of chance:
Grandma rolls the hottest dice, but nephew takes the pot.

On Monday morn, our bags are filled and boarding passes got,
We leave St. Catherine as she was, across Old Louisville.

Toward a Slack Ethic

Gentle visitors, one of the poor Relations on America's North Coast recently matriculated at a school of higher learning.  Of course, we wish him well and believe he will shine in his scholarship.

But, just a few months ago, the same scholar was on the horns of a dilemma: should he choose School A or School B?  Did he have the "work ethic" to achieve at School A?  If no, then it would seem that School B was for him.  Fortunately, after much contemplation, he chose School B, embracing the virtue of slackness.

Our own understanding of "work ethic" is, sadly, tainted and limiting.  In 1904, German sociologist and philosopher Max Weber published a lengthy essay entitled "The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism."  In his essay, Weber set out to show the connection between the ascetic instinct in Protestantism, particularly Calvinism, and the growth of the ethos of capitalism. In essence, Calvinists saw work as a calling from God, a vocation to be pursued zealously, restlessly, and continuously, "as the highest means to asceticism, and at the same time, the surest and most evident proof of rebirth and genuine faith."  Success and profit in hard work were signs of God's blessings. Hence, the work ethic was born.

To this point Weber quotes our own Ben Franklin as examplars of this attitude:

Remember that time is money.  [A young man] that can earn ten shillings a day by his labor, and goes abroad, or sit idle, one half of that day, though he spend but sixpence during his diversion or idleness, out not to reckon that the only expense:  he has really spent, or rather thrown away, five shillings besides.

He that idly loses five shillings' worth of time, loses five shillings, and might as prudently throw five shillings into the sea.  

He that loses five shillings, not only loses that sum, but the advantage that might be made by turning it in dealing which by the time that young man becomes old, will amount to a considerable sum of money.

Weber writes that Ben, though a "colorless deist," evoked his Calvinist upbringing in urging hard work, busyness, frugality, and care in extending or seeking credit, as the virtues necessary for wealth and, therefore, God's favor.  

The earning of money with the modern economic order is, so long as it done legally, the result and expression of virtue and proficiency in a calling; and this virtue and proficiency are... the real Alpha and Omega of Franklin's ethic.

Of course, as Weber notes, in the modern economic order, the religious underpinnings of a strong work ethic have largely been washed away by the tides of time, and we are left with "work hard, succeed, and get rich."  And, we might now add, "... and learn how at Trump University."

Old school folks had a dim view the Calvinist ascetic and ethic of  hard work and acquisition.  "A state of mind such as that expressed in the passages we have quoted from Franklin, and which called forth applause of the whole people, would both in ancient times and the Middle Ages have been proscribed as the lowest sort of avarice and as an attitude entirely lacking in self-respect. " More so now that that the moral and theological sheen is gone.

After World War II,  another German philosopher, Josef Pieper, produced his own essay in response to this thinking (Germans apparently having a monopoly on this sort of thing).  It was entitled "Leisure: The Basis of Culture."  Herr Pieper wrote:

The original conception of leisure, as it arose in the civilized world of Greece, has...become unrecognizable in the world of planned diligence and "total labor"; and in order to gain a clear notion of leisure we must begin by setting aside the prejudice—our prejudice—that comes from overvaluing the sphere of work.  In his well-known study of capitalism Max Weber' quotes the saying, that "one does not work to live; one lives to work," which nowadays no one has much difficulty in understanding: it expresses the current opinion. We even find some difficulty in grasping that it reverses the order of things and stands them on their head. 

Pieper does not argue that work is bad or unnecessary or that leisure is akin to sloth or acedia -- what Pieper describes as the "refusal to acquiesce in one own being" -- rather, he argues that leisure is more important that work.

Compared with the exclusive idea of work as activity, leisure implies ... an attitude of non-activity, of inward calm, or silence; it means not being "busy" but letting things happen.  ... Silence, as it is used in this context, does not mean "noiselessness"; it means more nearly that the soul's power to "answer" to the reality of the world is left undisturbed.  For leisure is a receptive attitude of mind, a contemplative attitude, and it is not only the occasion but also the capacity for steeping oneself in the whole of creation.  ***  [It yields a serenity that] springs from our recognition of the mysterious nature of the universe; it springs from the courage of deep confidence  ....  confidence in the 'fragmentariness of life and history."

Hence, leisure is not quite the picture of a latter-day slacker -- unkempt, unshaven, slouched on a lifeless sofa, surrounded by the detritus of highly-processed snacks, diligently working a controller to advance the next level of computer-generated game.  No, it's a more thoughtful, receptive slacking.

And, leisure, as it turns out, is the surest guide to the right school of higher learning.  

[I]t is essential to begin by reckoning with the fact that one of the foundations of Western culture is leisure.  That much, at least can be learned from the first chapter of Aristotle's Metaphysics.  And, even the history of the word attest the fact for leisure in Greek is skole, and, in Latin, scola, in English "school. The word used to designated the place where we educate and teach is derived from a word which means "leisure".  School does not, properly speaking, mean school, but leisure.  

So, it would seem that our young, poor Relation made the wise chose of chilling in schooling -- really, the same thing. 

So, it would likewise seem wise early on a Sunday evening  to repair to the back porch, the rains having cleared, blue patches of sky now appearing on the horizon, the sun, here and there, making a re-entrance, but calmed by the later hour and steeper angle.  And, if a briar bowl were filled and lit and finely crafted ale were poured -- well, then, so be it, we will let it happen and school will be in session.

And, we may discover the truth of the saying, rightly or wrongly attributed to Ben Franklin, that "beer is proof that there is a God, that he loves us and wants us to be happy."   But, that will be subject of a future, leisurely essay.

 

At the Phillips Collection

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributer visited the Phillips Collection recently with some of the poor Relations.  What follows are his observations, fashioned in rhyming couplets to bring some literary feel to the visual arts.

Cézanne painted a handsome pear
Manet sketched a Baudelaire
Monet made a fine impression
Van Gogh gave ear to depression
Renoir rendered a nauti-soiree
Degas depicted a pre-ballet
Gauguin inked a Tahitian chick
And,
I drew only a figure in stick. 

On A Quadrennial Calendar Anomaly

Oh, how the glacial winter creeps,

Until, one day, it leaps.

 

Recovered Verse

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributor recently caught up with an old friend, and this conversation prompted a search for a bit of verse written upon the occasion of his marriage, more than twenty years ago.  Said verse was discovered in an ancient MS-DOS file, created at a time when file-naming required such brevity as to be almost inscrtbl.

In any case, this old friend, being a true Irishman, was not so young when he married.  Simple math would indicate that he is now no younger than the not-so-young then, and yet he remains ever youthful.  Memory does not serve whether his now-white beard was so white then.  Without further ado...

The Well-Groomed Beard

Upon his beard, he swore, Good John,
The Lord would take him 'fore he'd wed;
And so his whiskers grew well awn
(Not so the wispers on his head).

But, lo, the Love he'd thought foresworn
Did take him by the beard instead;
And though this bristle be unshorn,
She's plucked it for the marriage bed.

Litany of St. Valentine

Gentle visitors, in light of this feast day of love, we inquired by means of the Internet protocol suite, aided by certain algorithms, and found that there is yet no Litany of St. Valentine.  

A  litany is nothing but a series of supplications, often invoking saints by titles. Startling that St. Valentine has none, when one considers Valentine's long presence on the roll of saints and the fact that others have their own litanies. For instance, one needn't travel far digitally to find that St. Anthony has his: of course, he is the finder of lost things, but also consoler of the afflicted and defender of innocence, among other titles.

Hence, we have put together a tentative litany for Valentine, understanding that it is a rough draft. 

St. Valentine...

Purveyor of Chocolates - Well, you might say, this is, perhaps, both obvious and inapt.  Chocolate has always been a solid wooing device -- though, perhaps, now in less favor because of health concerns, diets, etc.  Doubtless, though, it is been the entré to many a beautiful relationship. Moreover, one could argue that chocolate offers a foretaste of heaven.

Cultivator of Roses -  Naturally.  It also helps, litany-wise, that rose growers are "rosarians."

Pledger of Troths - Technically, the lover is the pledger of troth as to the lovee. Valentine, in this regard, might be more properly called the guarantor or surety of pledgers of troth.

Disburser of Dowries - This relates to the legend that Valentine paid the dowries for poor women, who would otherwise be unable to marry.  Nowadays, the dowry has fallen into desuetude, which is too bad. It would have been nice to pocket a tidy sum prior to entering into matrimony, rather than debts.

Parson of Paupers - In a similar vein, Valentine was said to have married otherwise destitute lovers or to save a young soldier from shipping to the front line.  

Saint of Suitors & Patron of Paramours - Unmistakably.  Paramour, here, used in its older sense of a "beloved one" rather than in its illicit connotation. Otherwise, Valentine quickly descends into Valentino.

Provoker of Poetry - Yes, Valentine is a regular verse generator -  both the good and the bad -- though, to the lovee, all written in love is fair.  An example from Gammer Gurton's Garland from 1784:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The honey's sweet, and so are you.
Thou are my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,
And Fortune said it shou'd be you.

Matchmaker of Fowl - Admittedly, this is a bit obscure, but it relates to Geoffrey Chaucer, who is credited for the earliest references St. Valentine's Day as a special day for lovers, in Parliament of Fowls.  

For this was on Seynt Valentynes day,
Whan [when] every bird cometh ther to chese [choose] his make [mate],
Of every kinde, that men thynke may;
And that so huge a noyse gan they make,
That erthe and see, and tree, and every lake
So ful was, that unnethe [hardly] was ther space
For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.

Whence, lovebirds. 

 

Complaint Upon A Faulty Smoke Detector

High in the center hallway
An anxious smoke alarm
Blurts a fume and doom alert
And prompts me to disarm
The cursed chirping thing.

An ancient bromide holds thus:
Where’s there’s smoke there’s fire,
But upon a close inspection,
Here there’s none nor neither 
But the cursed chirping thing.

So, mount the shaky ladder,
To stop the bleeping beep,
Swap the dying nine volt cell
‘Til you cannot hear a peep
Of the cursed chirping thing.

High in the Himalayas,
They burn their frankincense,
And monks sit still and meditate
In perfect reticence,
Without a chirping thing.

The Sign of Jonas

Gentle Visitors, it has now been week since the end of winter storm "Jonas," and we have had time to reflect on its significance.

The calamitous nature of the frigid nor'easter tells us that it was aptly named. Go back a few years in your mind and imagine, if you will, being locked-in with a house full of 'tweens for three days with the complete collection of the Jonas Brothers playing in a kind of Kafkaesque loop. This is no mere inconvenience or irritation, but a catastrophe -- causing one, perhaps, to question whether all of creation is no more than a cruel joke of a blind-eyed cosmos, or a pantheon of petulant and reckless gods punishing us beyond justice for our sins or simply torturing us out of capricious spite -- all through the agency of tragically conspiring meteorological conditions. 

But, then, on the third day, when all seems lost, and when you've heard "Don't Speak" for the 30th time, and you are moving, deliberately and even furiously, toward the MP3 player with a ball-peen hammer -- then, you glance out the window and, yes, there is the hibernal sun peeping out between parting clouds and -- there!-- the glint of its faintly warming light off an icicle, with a small drop of the solid substance in its liquid form assembling at the icy southern end.  'Don't speak,' you think, 'There's nothing to say -- the curse is lifting.'   And, briefly, you are struck by the artistic mastery of the Jonas Bros ... before you come to your senses, put on your boots, and head outside with a shovel.

And, of course, like the storm, there was Jonas (aka Jonah), the reluctant prophet who was loath to preach to the sinners in Nineveh and fled by boat to Tarshish in order to avoid his divine commission.  God was not pleased, and, as a result, Jonas was caught in a storm, pitched overboard, swallowed by a whale. He remained in the belly of the beast for three days. When he came out, thus chastened, he went off to preach to the Ninevites.  The sign of Jonas, as it were, is that of death and rebirth: akin to being buried alive by three feet of snow and, on the third day, digging out into the sunlight and the bright, frozen creation.

The monk, Fr. Thomas Merton -- who hung out in a Trappist monastery south of Louisville, Kentucky in the mid-Twentieth Century -- kept a journal entitled, "The Sign of Jonas."   He wrote, thusly, on Jonas:

Know that there is in each man a deep will, potentially committed to freedom or captivity, ready to consent to life, born consenting to death, turned inside out, swallowed by its own self, prisoner of itself like Jonas in the whale. This is the truth of death which, printed in the heart of every man, leads him to look for the sign of Jonas the prophet. ***

[But,] it is the whale we cherish. Jonas swims abandoned in the heart of the sea. But it is the whale that must die. Jonas is immortal. If we do not remember to distinguish between them, and if we prefer the whale and do not take Jonas out of the ocean, the inevitable will come to pass. The whale and the prophet will soon come around and meet again in their wanderings, and once again the whale will swallow the prophet. Life will be swallowed again in death and its last state will be worse than the first.

We must get Jonas out of the whale and the whale must die at a time when Jonas is in the clear, busy with his orisons, clothed and in his right mind, free, holy and walking on the shore. Such is the meaning of ... the peace that finds us for a moment in clarity, walking by the light of the stars, raised to God's connatural shore, dry-shod in the heavenly country, in a rare moment of intelligence.

But even if we are not always intelligent, we must inevitably die.

I pursue this thought no further. It came to me because [one of the friars] got a lot of kids’ pictures from a sister in a school somewhere in Milwaukee. The pictures were supposed to be by backward children. Backward nothing. Most of them were of Jonas in or near the whale. They are the only real works of art I have seen in ten years, since entering Gethsemani [Monastery]. But it occurred to me that these wise children were drawing pictures of their own lives. They knew what was in their own depths. They were putting it all down on paper before they had a chance to grow up and forget. They were proving better than any apologist that there is something in the very nature of man that expects a Redeemer and resurrection from the dead. The sign of Jonas is written in our being. No wonder that this should be so when all creation is a vestige of the Creator but also contains, written everywhere, in symbols, the economy of our Redemption.

Admittedly, Fr. Merton is not as sublime here as the Jonas Brothers were at their finest -- but, he does, at least, scratch the surface.

And, as for those Brothers Jonas, I suppose the old monk would have told them to take their own advice -- "Don't Speak."  In fact, he might have invited them to join the monastery and embrace the life of complete silence, wherein they might do penance for what Fr. Merton called the "sin of noise."

If this were to transpire, surely, many 'tweeny, tiny hearts would be broken; but, many others would rejoice, rushing out half-dressed into the chilly wasteland and leaping into a colossal snowbank - then lifting up their frosty, joyful faces, perhaps with some word of good news for their Ninevite neighbors, like our ancient brother, Jonas.

The Zen of Pun

Gentle visitors, a friend sent this credo -- one might even say, meditation -- concerning puns.

 

Beyond strange how this captures so perfectly your humble Contributor's deeply-held beliefs and practices concerning the pun.  It is heartening, of course, to know that one has achieved the level of pun sensei (しゃれ先生) - though, to be honest, I already had the sense I was there.

But, the credo's title -- "A Practical Guide..." -- diminishes the theoretical depth of the author's blessed observations.  Truly, it is like dipping one's toe in the tao (道).  

The first observation is the most blessed.  It suggests that a pun might be so bad that it is good.  Here, we move away from the Western, linear notion of bad and good -- that on the one end are horrible, cringe-worthy word plays and, on the other, hilarious, snort-inducing word plays -- and we are drawn instead toward the Eastern notion of the yin yang (陰陽) -- a circle, as it were, where the dark and light meet at one point, such that the worst of puns might, paradoxically, be the best of puns.

For example, a zen herbalist might well opine, concerning a certain variety of Thymus serpyllum that is both satisfying and troubling:  "It was the best of thymes; it was the worst of thymes." 

It is a difficult concept to translate for the Western mind. One might compare it to the card game of Hearts, where the player, through a series of apparently randomly-dealt hands, endeavors to avoid the taint of even one "heart." However, the daring and inventive player may attempt to "shoot the moon" -- akin to wuji (無極) -- that is, to reach for the infinite by taking every "heart" as well as the dread Queen of Spades.  The risk is great; but, the reward is greater.  To take all but one is utter disaster; but, to take all is glorious victory, entering the Hall of the Immortals as a xian (仙/仚/僊;).  Provided, of course, that one is playing with a full deck of cards.

And, yes, the true master must enjoy every pun that emits from his qi (氣) especially when no-one else will -- it is the sound of one man laughing.  Master Hsüeh-T'ou said it well: "When one has understanding, one should laugh; one should not weep."  So, while the multitude groan, the master smiles; what appears to be a curse to the unenlightened is actually an eternal blessing.

It is like the ancient sausage-maker who, having labored for many decades to perfect his craft in perfect mindfulness and patient attention, said: "I gave my best for wurst."

Jim Foley

Gentle visitors, I had some surgery last Wednesday and, as I they were prepping me, I saw the story of James Foley on the screen.  May he rest in peace.

The day that the surgeon took up his lance
And laid it with care cross my throat,
Was the day the slayer unsheathed his knife
And took the life of Jim Foley.

The image of him who went to his death
Was sealed as I breathed the ether:
He was kneeling, impassive, bound and shorn --
A lion and lamb, Jim Foley.

Nothing surpasses the art of a man
Who heals with a steely edge,
And nothing excuses the heart of the man
Who took the life of Jim Foley.

Nothing forgives and nothing redeems and
Nothing can make the act holy --
But, a god of life and a salving touch
And the soul of dear Jim Foley.

Let There Be Light... Maybe

Gentle visitors, Saturday, before Sunday's ice and snow and sleet and perilous mixture thereof, your humble Contributor spend much of the day, evening, and night hanging Christmas lights.  Around these parts, certain homeowners are veritable artists who work not in oils or watercolors but in lights, creating fantastic, luminous, shimmering spectacles -- the type one would normally pay to see.  Like the original Creator, except on a far smaller scale.  Your humble Contributor's artistry, by contrast, is marked by half-hearted draping of tired shrubs with flickering, failing bulbs.  Last spring, said shrubs ended their earthly lives (and, quite likely, their lives in any realm) in a most violent fashion by the dull edge of a garden tool, and were replaced by newer plants, as yet too youthful and small to bear any festive display.  

So, we were forced to come up with a new lighting design that made use of other outdoor vegetation, and settled on a crepe myrtle, two American variegated boxwoods, and a cherry tree of some sort.  This foliage of varying heights and horticultural significance increased the level of complexity and difficulty over the aforementioned tired-shrub-drapery.  

Stung by prior incandescent embarrassments, your humble Contributor tested each strand of lights before proceeding.  Check.  Next, he set about disentangling the Gordian Knot of strands, which would re-entangle themselves if left alone for even a few moments, like a writhing brood of electrical vipers.

Then, he mounted tottering rungs, stretching as far as his aging limbs would reach, to affix the lights, with the hope that the arrangement might call to mind, in the passing motorist, a bright constellation in the dark winter firmament.  Sadly, on his descent, he noted that the highest filaments were themselves dark.  No amount of bulb changing or fuse swapping would remedy this atramental condition.  Hence, the dim bulbs were left, at the top of the tree, to represent darkness.

When, late in the day, the other Householder expressed dissatisfaction with the sparse decorations, your humble Contributor toiled into the ink-black night to supplement said decor.  A neighborly neighbor offered additional lights -- some burning, some half so, some not, -- retrieved from the dark recesses of his garage attic.  Finally, past midnight, in the piercing cold, the display shown brightly in the tired but upturned, smiling face of your humble Contributor.  And, so he retired, with no feeling in his extreme members and a core temperature below that which is recommended.

The following evening, with the delicate bulbs and their tiny attendant wires shivering in the icy mix, the whole venture tripped a breaker, and we passed from light back again into darkness.

It is no secret that all Christmas bulbs are now made in China.  The other Householder believes that this Sino-dominance of the holiday light market is part of a sinister conspiracy.  Here is her theory: 

• Westerners, particularly Americans, feel compelled to hang Christmas lights to celebrate the season;
• The Chinese-made lights are manufactured to cause irritation, then frustration, then near despair;
• The Westerner eventually abandons the whole enterprise;
• Over time, he ceases to celebrate Christmas, then question the whole notion of divine incarnation and salvation, and, finally,the very existence of the divine; 
• Thence, in the midst of despondence and disillusionment, the Westerner finds a worn copy of the Quotations of Chairman Mao and rediscovers hope in the saying: "All the rest of the world uses the word 'electricity'" They've borrowed the word from English. But we Chinese have our own word for it!."

This sounds plausible enough; but, the theory is severely challenged by such festive carols as this.

 

 

Flyover Foodie

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributor resides just outside of Flyover Country -- an uncharted place that is as mysterious as it is foreboding as it is amusing to such people as frequently enjoy decaf soy latte macchiatos.   These macchianistas only look down upon this vast land and its denizens as they jet from one coastal metropolis to another, sipping and making plans to conquer it one day.  Although one can find no definitive map of this Country, it's boundary becomes apparent on the ground in just a short drive from the Household, as the uniformly unpretentious structures and inhabitants of the land come into view along the road. 

It was there -- on the frontier of Flyover -- that your humble Contributor stopped for breakfast early Sunday morn at the fabled Yorkshire Restaurant.  While mean in appearance, so great is it's nobility that it has own coat of arms -- it's moniker harkening back to the white rose of the royal House of York and the heraldry suggesting a line of bold knights in search of hearty food. 

We pulled in, just short of the gun shop and smoke shop, and find a parking spot in front of the thrift store -- now under new management-- and alongside a beauty parlor and appliance repair concern. The Yorkshire, not to be contained, has apparently expanded into a now defunct eatery with a prominent wagon wheel theme.

The menu at the Yorkshire includes the usual selection of high-caloric, high carbohydratic, and high-cholesterolic delights commonly found in Flyover Country.  Six varieties of breakfast meats alone, all apparently derived from parts of the same unfortunate barnyarder whose cartoon equivalent is aptly named "Porky."   The final meat, scrapple, as the name suggests, gathers up what is left over from poor Porky into a sturdy, friable loaf, and the liquid leavings find their way into a gravy, which might used to anoint a generous portion of biscuits.   The chef helpfully offers this flavorful ointment in either a small bowl or a large bowl.  All in all, it is a place of nourishment.

A waitress -- who herself appears well-nourished -- attends the diner diners, addressing us as "Hon,"  apparently since, though strangers, we are dear to her.  She appears and reappears, checking on the status of and satisfaction with vittles and offering further hot libation, which, while more than sufficient, would not meet the standards of the macchianista barista just ten miles hence, beyond Flyover. 

When the meal is finished, we push back from the formica table, sated and ready for action or inaction, as the circumstances of the day may require.  The waitress presents us with a parchment scribbled in Flyover hieroglyphs, which we must take to the cashier, who deciphers the glyphs into an amount representing the fare for the fare.  As we depart, the cashier bids us farewell and invites us to return soon, and, by the door, a transparent bubble further invites us to purchase, for a few coins, a gum candy slightly smaller than a billiard ball.

From this short trip, it would appear, that the denizens of Flyover Country have failed to comply with the new diktat that expeller-pressed oils and organic arugula must replace eggs and bacon.  How sad, says the macchianista, that they continue to cling to past things, in their bitterness and ignorance.   How foolish that they believed their forebears and even their living kin fought for liberty, rather than for the benevolent autocracy that progress now requires.

But, take comfort, gentle visitors -- when the soy-infused tyrants fully and finally invade Flyover Country, the citizens will likely take up the arms emblazoned in the Yorkshire's herald and clung to these many years, fortified by a good breakfast.

 

Related articles

Healthy Feet, Happy Second Heart

Gentle visitors, Christmas is over, and it is just now that your humble Contributor has been able to collect his thoughts on the season. 

Let's see: gifts included what the French would call cravates, chemises , and pantalons, not to mention livres.  But, unlike the last several years, this Noël was, as the French would say, sans chaussettes.  No matter: my sock drawer positively brims over with every manner of pair -- not unlike Noah's ark as the first drops began to fall.  And, happily, all of these pairs are woven of cotton or wool or such as nature provides, but certainly not of any artificial fiber.  

You see, gentle visitors, your humble Contributor has long valued his feet as vital, but oft neglected, members of the organic whole, notwithstanding their gnarled, club-like appearance to the unenlightened eye.   To clothe them in polyester or rayon would be beneath their dignity.  True, the ancient Occidentals saw the foot as the basest of parts, because it occupied the lowest position in the human frame.  While other Western notions have evolved, not so with regard to the lowly metatarsus.

The Orientals have another, and I think better, view:  or, at least, so I have learned in recent days.  My education began on the 12th day of Christmas when your humble Contributor received a package shipped directly from Huangbin, just down Changxing Road, in Nanshan, Shenzhen Guandong, somewhere in the vast country of China.   Inside the package was the Healthy Foot Massage Mat (or, 健康足部按摩垫, as the people the French call Chinois would say).

(Presumably, this colorful mat was a gift from our poor relations along America's North Coast, who have shown a great concern  for our feet in the past.) 

The Healthy Foot Massage Mat introduced us, in a practical way, to the oriental science of reflexology, or 按摩, which holds that the humble foot directs and controls the entire body, chiefly through various subdivisions from toe to heal.  Hence, for example, the inside of the big toe regulates the function of the trigeminal nerve, even as it also hosts an itinerant colony of fungi and peripatetic lint.

The instructions enclosed with the Healthy Foot Massage Mat give a brief explanation of accumulated Eastern wisdom concerning history, freedom, spirit, health, and feet.  The language is poetic in that it eschews all norms of English grammer and vocabulary.

  To wit:

The using features to human body.  With the continuously development of the society, the walk constantly.  People go out by bus or by bike, up stair have the help of lift. where ever you state at home or work study have trip outside, the shoes won't leave your foot.  And the foot of human have  less and less chance to have exercises as a result, and their function and potential active effect will be less and less as well.  This is not good for the health. It's said.

The argument, in short, is that, what with the industrialization of society, the human foot has come under the jack-boot dominance of the shoe and is thus afflicted.   Naturally, the human foot cries out for the freedom to achieve its potential, but the imperialist shoe steps all over it, forcing it to march "up stair have the help of lift." 

The revolutionary Healthy Foot Massage Mat promises to liberate the downtrodden foot, if it will only have the courage to cast off the bonds of the cursed shoe (to the French, la maudit chaussure) and to walk, in a state of nature, on brightly colored stones of hard plastic manufactured in Shenzhen Guandong.

Since "the ages of middle-aged and old person are on the high side," they are more often bothered by a host of familiar diseases, to numerous to list here; but, the Healthy Foot Massage Mat

has better effect in improving the microcirculation of the second heart of the human body (foot), has better irritative effect to the end of nerves, has better propitiatory  effect to the spirit.

Hence, the foot is more than the "second heart," it is the very gateway to the sole.  Not just for those of us on the high side of the ages, but also for "those people sitting to work in the office and the school and to the operation of the machine for a long time."  Of course, such people are prone to "easy to nervous in mind, have bad memory, be neurasthenic, be in low spirit, have disesase of arthritis, adiposity, inappetence, eczema, and ermatitis," among other maladies.

But, the Healthy Foot Massage Mat, when properly prefaced by large quantities of warm water and significant micturation, promises to relieve these diseases and many more, including troubles of the suprarenal gland, the celiac plexus, and (forgive the clinical detail) the ileocecal valve.

The instructions wisely recommend that the tenderfoot "walk on it with thick socks to ease pain" until he has mastered the podiatric discipline of the Orient. 

Thankfully, socks are in good supply.

Forgiveness

Gentle visitors, these days your humble Contributor is instructed in the quality and virtue of forgiveness chiefly by way of apparel and apparatus. 

We are rightly admonished to forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven, a multiplication that yields a certain sum (490 to be precise, by the old tables long committed to memory) but intended to suggest a much higher number. 

Now, some slacks hanging in your humble Contributor's wardrobe are well on their way to reaching this number of pardons.   The key, in this regard, is that a tag sewn to a seam reports that the waist band is "x" -- that is, a number reflecting  a certain circumference; when, in fact, it will accommodate "y"  -- a greater circumference -- and, with some effort, "z". 

This sort of apparently lazy geometry would not have pleased Sr. Marie Gerard who, in the dark ages of the last century,  insisted that we young scholars measure things arightly -- until, at least, one demonstrated to Sister that the same, larger though imprecise number suggested by the aforesaid parable was likewise exhibited here -- that is, a greater forgiveness.  

But, the appreciation of this fact is lost on a schoolchild, coming instead only with age, with which, in turn, often comes a change in geometrical approach to the person, which might well be correlated to a marked  slacking (unrelated to the slacks), and which we might express this as follows: a decrease in energy is directly correlated to an increase in mass.  The slacks forgive this physical impropriety by means of a hidden elasticity or generosity in their make-up.

Similarly, today I received, as a gift, a graphite cudgel which promises to be forgiving.  The instrument is intended solely for that strange practice whereby grown persons wander into a field and strike repeatedly at a globule with a stick until they drive it into a small hole some one or two furlongs off.  No doubt, in the distant future, anthropologists will study this odd occupation and wonder whether it was part of a religious rite of mortification or a sign of the general madness that consumed those pitiful peoples.  That the Irish were so closely associated with it would support either supposition.

In any case, a normal club of this type assumes that the striker (say, your humble Contributor) intends the orb to go just as it is addressed -- that is, careening recklessly into a wood  or thicket or stagnant pool; whereas, the forgiving club assumes that the striker intended no such wayward, untoward thing, and, by means of its accommodating design makes straight the path of flight, thereby defying the laws of physics and aerodynamics.

But, all is well: for just so does forgiveness defy enumeration and calculation.

 

Old Jack Ketch

Gentle visitors, Dr. Jack Kevorkian died on Friday, June 3rd.  What follows is a re-issue of a verse on the man from long ago.

Life is death and death is life:
Hug the children, kiss the wife,
Gather round the kin and friend,
Seal the will and make an end.
Now, for all the world a wretch,
Hand your hat to old Jack Ketch.

Call the guy from Michigan—
Surgeon, reaper, handyman,
Gray and speckled, mean and lank—
Bid him bring his CO tank,
(Who in Dearborn would have thought,
What combustion here has wrought.)

Check the settings, fit the cask,
Pull the lever, don the mask,
Breathe the fumes of sweet exhaust;
All the world goes dim and lost.
Now, upon the couch you stretch,
Grasp the hand of old Jack Ketch.

Bulging eyes and ringing ears
(Devils of these hundred years);
Rapid pulse and vertigo
(Adolf, Idi, Uncle Joe...);
Pounding heart and throbbing head
(Hundred million people dead).

Twitching frame and bluish lip;
Close the lids and loose the grip.
All the world is short of breath,
Choking in the age of death:
Now, upon the couch you stretch,
Die in arms of old Jack Ketch.

(Stop the lever, pop the cork,)
(Raise a glass to Doc Kevork.)

Fell Down the Stairs Last Night

I fell down the stairs last night --
Had not thought to flip the switch,
But trod by lesser light instead.
First, my hand upon the railing;
Next, my arms and members flailing
Headlong down the oaken tread.

I lay on the landing boards,
Bruised and battered, glassy eyes
Were fixed upon the darkened height.
Thirteen steps, like twelve apostles–
Each one true–  but one apostate
Cast me down a wicked flight.

I fell down the stairs last night.

A Tupper Before Supper

Gentle visitors, a time came -- a year or so ago, if memory serves (as it still does, albeit with some prompting) -- when your humble Contributor had nearly despaired of finding his own favorite ale, Tupper's Hop Pocket, again.  It seems that the brewery, under whose authority the Pockets were so carefully stitched, was acquired by a global conglomerate of fermentation, and Dr. & Drs. Tupper -- true artists at heart -- had gathered all of their hops and dreams and taken them elsewhere.   Hence, the space on the shelf where Tuppers had for so long made its happy home was filled with a lesser, dysfunctional draft. 

 Then, on Mardi Gras -- the penultimate of penance amongst the Romish and others -- a wonderful friend handed your humble Contributor a package of this blessed nectar, revealing that it yet flowed, only under new arrangements.  It mattered not that he had given up such libation for Lent: it was enough to know that the bottles awaited on the Paschal feast.

Hence, this evening, your humble Contributor sits on the patio of his temporary lodging, enjoying same beverage in all of its kräusened goodness.  The head is ever genuine; the color ever amber-gold; the nose ever aromatic; the taste ever bitter and gently floral; the result, ever vescent.  One's palate is challenged and rewarded, while one's disposition is mellowed, so much so that the view from the patio -- a parking lot -- now seems a beautiful glade.

The great heat of the day has passed, and, on the horizon, the sun is engaged in a good-natured colloquy with the clouds, in which both shine.  Soon, your humble Contributor will repair to the table to partake of whatever fare the other Householder has prepared this evening.  Then, we will give thanks to God for the small but generous gifts: viz, Tupper & supper.

Moving & Storage

Gentle Visitors, just days ago, your humble Contributor watched with an odd detachment as his worldly belongings were boxed, wrapped, dismantled, and packed into seven crates.  From his now former home, the same items were hauled, shipped, shifted, and stored until such time as his fellow Householder locates another house to hold them.

Were he the victim of distress or divorce or disaster, as so many are these days, then that moving day -- beautiful as it was -- might have hung gloomily over his tormented and slowly thinning head.  But, Fortune was kinder than that: he and his fellow Householder were sentenced to a mere three months at  Avalon -- a storied place, with one- and two-bedroom flats for short-term let.  Thus, their situation, 
while discommodious, is not despairing; and, they have no special need to consult Boethius' Dame on the subject.

When your humble Contributor and his fellow Householder arrived at their former home, old Dutch still sat in the White House, and they invested their first sweat in the place by schlepping their meager holdings to the already dated ramble.  Now, in day of the man who's name has yet to be nicked, the same items -- augmented and replaced by necessity -- are moved by men of several cultures:  hispanic, africanic, slavic, and tajik.  Hence, your humble contributor was left to oversee the effort -- largely passivity with occasional calls for authority -- from the backyard, where he watched the hickories sway and begin their labors toward fruition.

Of course, he will miss the Old Girl -- if a gender specification may still be applied -- for she has sheltered him and his from many a squall and storm, many a frigid night and sultry day, and offered space to store his tangibles and intangibles, alike.  But, now, she must serve new masters, and we must find a new domus, if Fortune will allow.

Vested Interests

Gentle visitors,

Sweater vest season is officially upon us, at least in these climes.  And, trend-setter that he is, your humble Contributor has already retrieved his varied collection of vests from the cedar closet and donned the first -- this year, selecting a muted olive as an an inaugural, autumnal garment.

The sweater vest is, of course, a model of utility and fashion.  As ambient temperatures drop, it uniformly maintains one's core temperature, thereby protecting the vital organs from the very real effects of hypothermia.  At the same time, nothing says  "style" more completely than a sweater vest framed and covered by a tweed blazer -- it sends the distinct message of scholarship, sense, and sportiness, all gathered within the same person thusly clothed.  Remove the blazer, and it signals a tempered competence.  Roll up one's sleeves, and it speaks enterprise without arrogance.

Of course, the "V" of the vest creates a proportionate space for a sound cravat -- as an aside, a crew neck in the same ensemble would present a profoundly embarrassing self-negation of even the most sensible necktie -- but the vest also suggests, by understatement, the V of Vigilance, Vigor, Victory, Virility, and even Verisimilitude, in contrast to the loud clamor of a lowbrow lothario in a sharkskin suit.

Indeed, the very word "vest" denotes an authority rightly reposed -- a certain power, franchise, or endowment, signified by the clothing itself, which a mere shirt or sport-coat could never convey.

Naturally, those who do not understand the vest's vitality and versatility (again, the "V") , whether out of envy or ignorance, mock such raiment as unfashionable.  Well, gentle visitors, they said the same thing of polka music, and now regret that they did not in-vest in an accordion.  

Yankovic_justbecause

Humbled and Surprised

Gentle visitors,

When the news hit yesterday morning, your humble Contributor was even more humbled than normal -- he had been nominated for the 2010 Nobel Peace Prize!  To say that he was surprised would be true, but only in the sense of "he surprised himself," since the nomination came from his own hand. 

In any case, here is the text of the nomination.

October 9, 2009

Norwegian Nobel Committee 
Olso, Norway

Distinguished & Noble Norwegians:

I write to nominate myself for the 2010 Nobel Peace Prize.

I realize that your rules forbid any person from nominating himself for this illustrious honor, and that I am not a "qualified nominator."  Believe me, I understand how your Committee would exclude me, in my abject humility and inconsequence, in favor of, say, a member of the U.S. Congress or a learned Professor, who, just by virtue of such an honored office, has exhibited the requisite level of nobility and repute to merit the Committee's attention.  For the reasons set forth below, however, I would ask that the Committee waive these requirements in my own case.

I also realize that this nomination would appear premature and presumptuous to say the least.  With regard to the timing of this nomination, coming some weeks or months before deserving nominees, I am inspired by the current Nobel Peace Laureate: for he came to power in the great land of Chicago, where the electors are encouraged to vote early and often, to bring great tributes to their leaders in order to lay asphalt for the camino real, etc.

With regard to presumption, I can only say that this is very strength of my application. 

No fair review of my life would lead any rational or thoughtful Norwegian -- or, if you would forgive me, any Scandinavian whatsoever -- to believe that I have brought peace to any human, much less global, situation. Instead, it would be fair to conclude that I have brought rancor, dissent, tumult (not to mention turmoil, turbulence, clamor, hubbub, and even hullabaloo).  Moreover, I have generally done so with a particular boorishness and alarmingly distasteful sense of "humor" -- although, I use the last term very loosely.  Furthermore, these disturbances have involved only the most pedestrian, mundane, and provincial matters -- none have concerned great matters of state or of peoples.

Still, I have found myself thinking of peace of late -- that is, within the last few hours.  This morning, I began to long for it and wish for it, over a coffee and biscotti; I then brought these peaceful thoughts to my friends and co-workers, who, sadly, have the habit of ignoring my observations; and, I intend to bring this wishful thinking to the nation and to the world and beyond.  My message, from my heart, under its current disposition, shall be this:  "Give Peace a Chance."

Your awards over the last few years have demonstrated that a laureate need not have accomplished anything of lasting value -- indeed, his accomplishment may be a mere chimera.  In your inscrutable wisdom and foresight, however, you have rightly determined that reality must bow to possibility -- even the most illusory and imaginary.

I would submit that my own curriculum vitae presents the very best case for a plaudit fashioned from your majestic tundra -- having done nothing to promote peace, but wishing fervently that it might be otherwise, etc. 

Sage and generous Norwegians, I can assure you that the award money will be applied as a stimulus to my mission and my lifestyle -- springs at Cannes, summers at Lake Como, winters at St. Moritz, a cruise along your famous fjords, and so forth.

In conclusion, I commit this nomination to your careful consideration (with the requested rule waivers, as previously noted).

Your humble and obedient Contributor,

Remainderman