Wow! Eve and Popi . . . .
The Default Kitchen
During the day, while I’m at work, I will often talk to Donna. Since my stomach begins growling shortly after lunch, the big late afternoon question is “what’s for dinner?” I’m always hoping against hope to hear something like “we’re having spaghetti carbonara, turkey sausage, avocado salad and some nice cabernet.” Usually, I hear a comeback like “grilled chicken, asparagus and sweet potatoes – with cherry juice.” Lately, however, when I pose that question, I have occasionally detected a 4 second delay in Donna’s response . . . .
Now I am not as dumb as I look. So when I hear (or detect) that 4 second delay, I normally jump in with “do you want to go out for dinner?” To which I receive the tell-tale counter “do you?”
When we “go out” for dinner during the week, it’s normally to one of two places: Walker Brothers Pancake House or The Noodle. Most often it’s The Noodle – a small 15 or so table restaurant in Wilmette. There I can get my pasta fix, some wonderful gazpacho and a glass or two of Liberty School cab. The food is always good, the wine is tops and the people are terrific.
On those days when things are hectic at home, we will order carry out from the Noodle. The Noodle has become something of a “default kitchen.” It’s nice to know it’s there if we need it.
The Reusable Birthday Card
My wife’s bridge group has a great idea. They reuse birthday cards. All of them find the funniest birthday cards for each other — then they fill out all the information. On a Post-it note. The person’s name is on the envelope — on a Post-it. The sender’s name and inscription is inside the card — on a Post-it. And then they give the cards to the birthday girl at the bridge table or over lunch. And they laugh and guffaw and yuk it up. Then the recipient gets to reuse the birthday card — without spending the $4.95 or whatever they cost — for some other lucky recipient. The card thus brings double and sometimes triple the joy and laughter, saves a few bucks and probably saves a few trees in the process. Maybe one of these days they’ll have birthday cards where you can fill in the details on a mini Etch-A-Sketch.
As for Donna — the lucky woman gets an original hand-drawn birthday card for all major celebrations compliments of The Renaissance Hombre. . . .
Sand Lot Baseball
When I was a kid, I played sand lot baseball. We would get 15 to 20 guys on any given Saturday morning in the park by Sunset School. Two of the older boys (age 12 or 13) would pick the teams. “Meyer” “Shutt” “Kaspari” “Wilkes” “Knox” “Barsi” “Hudson” and so on. “Petersen” was usually one of the last picked. But no hard feelings. And the game would begin. Boys ran the game. There were no adult coaches or overseers. When a kid slid into second base and the tag was close, 10 year old boys would decide “safe” or “out.” Sometimes there would be an argument. A shove. Then it was back to baseball. It worked like a charm. . . . Regulations were not needed. We made the rules as we went along. . . . . and they were fair.
Government, however, is different. We are the most regulated country in the world (not to mention the most heavily-taxed). And it’s getting worse. Layers and layers and more layers of laws, ordinances, regulations, policies and such. And there is a tax on everything. Government grows incrementally. Counties. Cities. Districts. Municipalities. Townships. Each with its own rules. And regulations. Whereas it used to be that (not long ago) 1 out of 15 of those employed in America were government workers, today it is 1 out of 4.6 (Bureau of Labor Statistics). And most earn more than they would in the private sector. The government does not trust its citizens to play sand lot baseball. The government trusts no one to make decisions for themselves. No. The government wants to regulate every aspect of your life and make decisions for you. It grows. With more employees. More taxes. And lately with monitoring of your every phone call or email. Sound cynical? If you disagree, call me – I have a bridge I’d like to sell you in Brooklyn. . . . .
Riding with Joe Miller
In my post of January 16, 2013, I wrote about Joe Miller’s Jests — the famous compilation of 247 numbered jokes published in 1739 by John Mottley. Well, there’s another “Joe Miller” that played a role in my life.
Fifty plus years ago, when I worked at Camp Napowan (the Boy Scout Camp in Wild Rose, WI), the chap who owned some of the property was Joe Miller (no relation to the joke book persona). Joe had an ancient olive drab pick up truck that (Scout’s Honor) had no doors. Floor stick shift. And of course there were no seat belts and no handle above the door to grab. His favorite line – while cruising, weaving and wobbling on the back roads of Wild Rose – was “If there’s no one coming around that bend, we’ll see the sun rise tomorrow.” I swear if we were driving with Joe, we’d grab under the glove compartment and hang on for dear life.
Today, there’d be a lot of “tsk tsking.” There’d be an article in the New York Times. There’d be an “inquiry.” Joe would be criticized. Maybe tossed in the clink. Unsafe vehicle. Endangerment. Et cetera. The usual assortment of plaintiff’s lawyers would sue anyone and everyone to scam a buck.
You should know — I would definitely not want – or allow – my child or grandchild to be one of Joe’s passengers. But looking back on it — I’m privately glad that I rode with Joe . . . . .
Robert Johnson
What do Eric Clapton, Keith Richards, Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin) and Scott Petersen have in common? We have all been inspired by Robert Johnson — the godfather of the Blues.
In my post of April 20, 2012 (“Martin O-18”), I talked about how I enjoy playing the guitar; how I played years ago in a group; and how I still play nearly every day. And I love to play the Blues. The grand master of the Blues and inspiration to so many of the greats was Robert LeRoy Johnson. Robert Johnson was born in Hazelhurst, MS in 1911. At an early age, Robert began playing the harmonica, the “jaw harp” and the guitar. Soon, he settled into life as an itinerant musician — playing in bars, juke joints and dance halls in the Mississippi Delta. He would often arrive in a new town and stand in front of a barber shop or restaurant where he would serenade the town folk with Blues, pop standards, jazz or country music. He was versatile and proficient.
There are only two known recording sessions of the works of Robert Johnson: in 1936 in the Gunter Hotel in San Antonio, TX; and in 1937 at the Vitagraph Building in Dallas. The songs are grainy and yet iconic. At the 3 day San Antonio session, Johnson recorded 16 selections, a few with alternate “takes.” In Dallas, 11 recordings were made. It is believed he did the sessions playing a Gibson L-1. The complete collection of Johnson’s “discography” can be had for a few dollars (see http://www.amazon.com/Complete-Collection-Robert-Johnson/dp/B001DA9VJW/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1368741022&sr=8-3&keywords=robert+johnson ).
Robert Johnson enjoyed the company of ladies and he is known to have fathered several children. And his dalliance got him into trouble. On August 16, 1938, at the age of 27, Robert Johnson while playing in a dance hall in Greenwood, MS was poisoned by a jealous husband. Johnson died and was buried in an unmarked grave nearby.
Robert Johnson is known for a series of wonderful songs but his most famous are Cross Road Blues, Hellhound on my Trail and – Sweet Home Chicago. I would still like to get my old group back together but Donna has clearly advised “Don’t quit the day job, Elvis.”
Sudoku
The right side of my brain (the creative side) is full of spinning wheels, sparkles, audio and video stimulation and fast-moving light shifts. The left side of my brain (the analytical side) is a vast wasteland. It is like stepping into an empty auditorium at midnight. Without seats. Drafty. Full of cobwebs. When it comes to math, I have the IQ of a pretzel (my apologies for insulting the pretzel community). In high school, Miss Delp generously gave me a “D” in algebra because I constantly showed up for help after school (“duhhh how much is two and three again?”). My brain today remains pretty much the same as it did when I was in high school though on most days counting to 20 doesn’t require removal of my socks and shoes. I see that as a “major improvement.”
I was introduced to Sudoku by my brother-in-law who can whiz through the highest level, 30 row mind-benders in minutes. With his eyes closed. I tried a Sudoku puzzle with all the numbers filled in except one. And got it wrong. I’ve been continually challenged by level one Sudoku. That is – until about a year ago when I was determined to “get it right.” And I did. Probably took me a week to correctly finish a level 1 puzzle. These days, I will work the level 1 Sudoku in the Chicago Tribune while I ride the train in the morning. And if I get it right — I do a silent fist pump (“Yeahhhhhhh”). Every once in awhile, I will succeed on a level 2 (cue the “Hallelujah” chorus). And once – a miraculous level 3. . . .
I like to think that doing Sudoku is keeping the grey matter from shriveling. And it’s starting to fill that empty auditorium with folding chairs. And the vague hum of activity.
Pardon My Blooper. . . .
When I was (very) young, I would listen to and howl at a series of records my parents had — the “Pardon My Blooper” series — which was compiled by Kermit Schafer (1914-1979). “Pardon My Blooper” was a collection of “unintended indiscretions before michrophone and camera.” Schafer was a radio/television producer and writer who began collecting on air “bloopers” early on. He then began cataloging them — and then synchronizing them into a series of records. Bloopers came into major prominence in 1931 when veteran radio announcer Harry Von Zell introduced the President of the United States as “Hoobert Heever.” Schafer offered this wonderful collection of bloopers in seven record albums. Schafer was criticized for recreating a few famous bloopers but for the most part, what listeners heard is what they hear today on those albums. Sit back and enjoy a few minutes of real bloopers . . . .
My Workbench
I have a workbench in the basement. I rarely use it but I’ve got one – complete with a vice, two drawers full of tools and two toolboxes sitting on top. Then there’s a little drawer thingee full of nails and screws. If I am called on to change a light bulb or hang a picture, I even have a toolbelt and a hardhat that I wear (you can never be too careful). We handymen are semper paratis (see post of June 1, 2012).
However the tools don’t do much good sitting in the basement gathering cobwebs on my toolbench. Soooooo, I keep selective tools in the trunk of my car. My car is a rolling workbench. Never know when they might come in handy. I mean I have a fire axe, an E.T. (“entrenching tool”), a crowbar, an air pump (I mean what good does that do sitting in the garage?) and a Heinz 57 assortment of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches. And I have the obligatory jumper cables and a couple of road flares. I could probably build a 4 story building with the stuff in my trunk. Over the years, these things have been selectively (and once urgently) useful (“gosh Scott, I’m sure glad you have that quarter inch hex wrench with the double bend . . .” ) but for the most part, they gather cobwebs in the trunk of my car. But I’ve got them if I ever need them. . . .
Centipede Jokes
A centipede went to college and made the football team. As a running back, nothing could stop him. In practice, he would plow through the line, knocking defenders here and there. And he would score. Every time. When the day of the big first game arrived, the team took the field but the centipede was nowhere to be found. At halfime, the coach walked into the locker room and there was the centipede sitting on the bench. “Where the (bleep) have you been?” the coach yelled.
“Sorry coach,” said the centipede. “I’ve just been putting on my shoes.” “Good thing you don’t have athlete’s foot,” snarled the coach. . . .
After the game, the centipede went out with his girlfriend. Smooth talker that he was he said to her “you’ve got a nice pair of legs” “you’ve got a nice pair of legs” “you’ve got a nice pair of legs. . . .”
Renaissance Hombre 