We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Noonan: The First Amendment Needs Your Prayers - Jumping on anyone who publicly expressed a religious feeling after the San Bernardino massacre. Where are we heading?
Indignation is always selective, it cannot be otherwise; but because it is so pleasant and self-satisfying an emotion there is always the temptation to simulate it. It can be a genuinely generous emotion where it is in response to the outright injustice, cruelty, or neglect of others, but it can also be used to justify one’s own bad behavior (throwing bottles in the Place de la République) and to exile the locus of one’s moral concern from one’s own conduct to that of matters far beyond one’s personal control. In other words, purity in the world, libertinism in one’s life.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Cardio plus total body stress - and fat-destruction if needed. Masochist that I am, and over 45, I like the stress and mental challenge of total body calisthenics. They do not build strength, but they require that you build strength to do them. They build fitness and endurance, and it feels good when you stop. If you can breathe. Humbling, painful, and a source of despair. Good stuff.
Notice how prosperous people in the US look strong and trim into their 70s and 80s? It's not automatic. They work at it to stay fit for life, and they do not pig out despite wanting to give in to comfortable slobbery like the last generation. Giving up on vitality because of lack of will and effort (aka laziness). Sex life, too.
Jumping rope and jumping jacks are great calisthenics that belong in any fitness routine, but it's the heavier, intense ones that test your body and character, that try to kill you. What fails to kill you makes you fitter.
My program (and Mrs. BD's program which is roughly the same but she does yoga too) includes 3 sets of squat/presses, or burpees, or heavy ball smashes, or lunges with weights, or step-ups with presses - all with planks between sets. That's a Superset. Looks easy but it's a killer. Doing 3 sets of one or more of the above five days/week adds good intensity and variety to a fitness program. Thing is, you have to push it to the limit and that takes mental discipline because it is HARD WORK and IT HURTS and YOU WANT TO STOP. Thus the character factor.
No pain, no gain.
Right now, for example, I do the squat-presses with a 30 lb. heavy ball. If you can easily do 20 reps, raise the weight and God bless. Take a 1-minute plank to "rest" between sets and get right back to it.
(nb, As I have said, we do mainly heavy weights 2 days/wk for an hour, heavy calisthenics 1 day/wk for an hour, and cardio intervals 4 days/wk for 40-70 minutes depending on how much time I have free. To ramp up intensity, my boss wants 3 of any one of these supersets daily. Call me insane. It pays off. I fit into my age 32 tux except the shoulders are tight now. If it kills me, I'll be a fit corpse.)
Nothing much to do or see in Casablanca so we took the long drive to Marrakesh. Hours of farm fields, scattered herds of goats or sheep with shepherds. Almost desert. An occasional mud hut or minor kasbah scattered around, and some large farm towns. Plenty of donkeys working, few tractors.
I understand the historical reasons that Christmas is on the winter solstice/Saturnalia in western Christianity, but I'd like it later. That's just one thing. Most of my grinchiness has to do with the feeling of pressure to pack everything in. I hate pressure and hassle, love serenity.
- Mid-winter gets dreary in New England unless you ski a lot, or go away. A later Christmastime would brighten it all up. They say Jesus was probably born in April anyway.
- We are not too big on giving presents at Christmastime at the Maggie's HQ now that the kids are older - and my extended family has banned them. How about if we all agree to quit with the gift-giving or just limit it to home-made jam, cookies, and pies or a bottle of something, and honor the season by getting together, singing carols, and with gifts to charities and churches? As a compromise, keep kids' stockings for chocolates and candy canes and things like that. Maybe some cash for the older ones.
- Last year, Mrs. BD's present to me was Torture: A trainer 3 days/wk and a 6 day/wk exercise program. Some gift! I have stuck with it, though. She likes to feel the bulging muscle and appreciates the lack of fatigue climbing mountains. A year of squats with presses? At 5 am? Lovely gift!
- Which is worse? Putting the decorations all around the house, or taking them down in a few weeks and packing them away?
- Which is worse? Dragging in and putting up a live dead pagan tree with all of the family mementos on it, or getting rid of it before it burns the house down? (I simplified some of this chore years ago by keeping all tree stuff in drawers in the parlor.)
- Outdoor Christmas lights. They all seem to commit suicide while being stored in the attic, but not before they writhe around in the dark to create annoying tangles. Yes, they are cheery though. I keep mine lit all through January because of the trouble, and just throw them in the trash after.
- Christmas Cards. OK, they are a good way to stay in touch with people we care about. But there is so little time in which to do it, and you have to find a decent photo. Plus updating one's address book is a major pain. We've missed a year or two, and I hope nobody took it personally...
- Parties. Too many, too jammed together. A normal fellow wants just so much social festivities, like one per week - and not more. Party-hopping to fulfill obligations is not really fun, but more like a duty. It is not misanthropy - if I were willing to drink more, it might be jollier. Must admit, though, I do like to touch base with all of my pals, fellow-church people, colleagues, and acquaintances at Christmastime. It might not happen much, otherwise.
- Charity events. Why do so many of them now? Well, having run a large conservation charity for about 12 years (as a semi-involuntary volunteer), I know why: people feel more generous and more festive now - and drink more. So it's about $.
- Mrs. BD has, and goes to, all of these festive Christmas teas and luncheons. I think that's great because guys are not invited. I believe she is in charge of a big fancy luncheon today with dressed-up ladies and carols and, if I heard her right, Santa hats or reindeer horns required to make it less stuffy. You can get them at CVS. Sorry to inform the loony campus feministas, but normal ladies still like to get dolled up for Christmas luncheons and teas, and to enjoy a cocktail or two with their buddies.
- Just one black-tie event per Christmas season is plenty. I will resist two.
- Wife says "Hey, BD, let's throw a casual party here on the Saturday before Christmas. We can invite 70 or 80 of our best friends, and get a pianist." Sheesh. Great idea, in theory. Do I have to vacuum and move furniture?
Does the idea of baby Jesus mean a lot to me? You betcha. To me, it means the promise of a birth, or re-birth, of the spirit of Christ in my heart. There is great power, great significance, in that. I really do come from Yankee Puritan stock, and I guess some of that sticks.
A few stereotype observations from our recent trip:
- They all smoke too much, and everywhere. Strange to see everybody smoking in bars and restaurants. Sort of fun, too.
- They drink too much
- Except for Germans, they tend to be thin. Germans seem to think they look good as overweight people. They do not, and they should not wear thongs or take their clothes off at the beach. Stop that, you Germans.
- Europeans do not work out. Only Americans use gyms. Europeans think going to the spa, stretching, taking a steam bath or a sauna is a work-out.
- Italians do not travel much. But why would they?
- Brits and Germans like to go to sunny climates, get drunk and fall asleep in the sun and burn their pasty skin.
Columbia University has called in the emergency diversity squad after a sorority hosted an Olympics-themed costume party featuring students dressed as members of various nations. You can guess what happened next.
Closed Minds on Campus - Today’s student protesters start with valuable observations, writes John H. McWhorter,
but then they drift into a mistaken idea of what a university—and even a
society—should be
Students
Referred to Counseling Services to Deal With Trauma After Seeing
Confederate Flag - See more at:
http://moonbattery.com/?p=65769#sthash.my6lkdz2.dpuf
I posted about some of the people we met first, because most interesting. We flew to Madrid then Lisbon, spent a couple of days in Lisbon before catching our sailboat in Lisbon harbor.
We took the long tram (trolley) ride out to Belem to look at the monastery. Best pastry in the world, Pasteis de Belem. My pic before sprinkling the powered sugar on it. When the King abolished monasteries, the monks of Belem went into the pastry biz. Damn good coffee too. The place makes 8 million of these custard pastries each year with the monks' secret recipe.
More of my Lisbon and Portugal pics below the fold -
Heading out of the port of Lisbon into the Atlantic at night, at low tide, and with maximum heel to fit under the Lisbon bridge. I think we only had a couple of meters to spare. Mrs. BD thought the drivers on the bridge must have been scared to death. I was not too relaxed, myself.
On departing each port they would blast their "Sail Away" theme music. Leaving port at night under those majestic sails is thrilling:
Mrs. BD had planned for us to take a cab from the port of Agadir to a kasbah in the hinterlands, out in the Atlas mountains, for a day of hiking in those mountains. As I say, she is quite a trip-planner. She was determined to hike the Atlas. Why not?
We arrived at the mountain kasbah, and a Berber shepherd met us there. He wears a blue towel on his head, hanging down his back. Naturally, he speaks only Berber (and no Arabic or French either). A humble Berber, he stays outside the kasbah. We hike along a paved road until the paving ends down towards his home village. It's about twelve mud huts, some with cinder block additions, with dirt paths and plenty or trash strewn around. Donkeys strewn around too, and goats. These mountain Berbers are materially poor, but nobody told them that yet.
He took us to the schoolhouse (which looked like an abandoned cinder block shed) and we met the teacher, a brown Berber blue-eyed beauty who spoke good French. (No photo - Berber women are too shy to be photographed.) She asked us to say hello to the little Berber kids because they have never seen an American. So I did the "Bonjours, enfants" thing.
Then, as we begin hiking up a mountain and out of this village, our guide Hamid pulls out his cell phone and calls his buddy Assam to join us. Eventually, Assam catches up with us with the slow, steady lope that mountain people use in hot climates. This was good because Assam had been to high school somewhere and spoke good French. He also knew about 50 words of English.
So as we hike I try to chat with Assam in my rusty French while he translates to Berber if needed. He is around 45, educated, has never been outside Morocco. He explained that the Berbers love Americans because the embassy is sympathetic to them. Berbers, he says, hate the Muslim "invaders" and refuse to learn Arabic although it is by law that they are supposed to. He says he, like the Berber people in general, has no religion at all. He says the Arabs oppress the Berber.
They both had their dogs with them. Mrs. BD showed them pictures of our dog and of NYC on her iPhone. They were impressed by a pic of last winter's snow at our old house.
He says that Hamid has children in the village, but he has none. He told me that his wife died ten years ago and that he has not gotten over it. Then, "Changez le sujet, please."
We saw 2 wild camels on a distant mountaintop. That was a first for me. "Voila, deux chameaux." Actually, dromedaries.
We also saw goats in trees.
As we approach a mountaintop, Assam asks me to help them collect dead branches from the Argan trees. We built a stone fireplace and had a Berber mint-tea ceremony up there. It is quite elaborate. Assam pulled out his stub of a pipe for a smoke, so I asked him if he would like an American cigarette. Of course. Never tried one before. He took a deep inhale of a Marlboro menthol, and jumped in the air. "C'est froid, c'est froid, hahaha." So Hamid had to try one too, and they both laughed their butts off. I explained that this was mint tobacco, like mint tea.
At the end of our 6-hour (pathless) rocky and desert-like hike, I gave Assam the pack of Marlboros to share with his friends. A real treat. You can not tip a Berber - in their culture it is an insult - so we asked the lady at the kasbah to explain to Hamid that my $20 to him was "a gift to his family." That was ok.
When I told a lefty friend about this adventure, she said we were crazy to go alone into the wilderness with these people. I told her she was racist.
Mead: Getting to the Next American Dream- Forward-thinking politicians need
to develop a reform agenda that can help our society move toward a new
version of the American Dream.
Much of central Lisbon is relatively new, rebuilt after the massive 1755 earthquake. The old Muslim center remained mostly intact but they chased the Muslims away a long time ago. In the Alfama, there is Fado all over at night when you wander down the old narrow alleys. You hear it issuing from the entrances of all of the cafes. "Fado" means fate, or destiny. It's a mix of ancient sad folk tunes with the exotic Muslim musical influence.
Mrs. BD was not going to leave Portugal before getting some good Fado. In Lisbon, it is like jazz in New York. Middle-aged afficionados love it, but the youth like American pop. We went to the best Fado club one night, Clube de Fado. In the basement club, it felt like Greenwich Village in the old days. They had an excellent band - bass, mandolino, guitar. We did hear this same lady singing:
We were hanging on to the same post on the #15 trolley which runs through Lisbon from the Comercio Plaza out along the river to the Jerónimos Monastery in Belem. Petite gal, Chilean as it turned out because we got chatting about the Lisbon trolley system and then about her.
She wore her yellow backpack backwards on her chest for safety on public transport, she explained. During the ride, she gave me her story. She graduated from college in Santiago a year ago, went to work for the family construction business. Decided she wanted to see the world before becoming too invested in work. I asked her where she had been thus far on her solitary travels. She told me, in perfect English: Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, Indonesia, India, Thailand, Vietnam, China, Hong Kong, Los Angeles, Texas, New York, Virginia, Miami, Dublin, London, Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam, Madrid. "Maybe I forgot some places."
"Do you take pictures?"
"No pictures. I carry no camera. I just try to be where I am at the moment, to absorb it on my travel. I write notes at night to remember."
"Wow," I said. "I am impressed with your story. Where next after Portugal?"
"Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Greece, then Istanbul if I have time, then I must fly home to Santiago. I've been away for over six months already, and it's time I got back to work. My Dad needs me in the business.
"How do you like the Fado?"
"I love the Fado. The good Fado. The bad Fado is not so good. I would stay here in Lisbon, but I can not."
"How has it been?"
"Great fun. Everything is interesting to me, all you have to do is talk to people and study the travel books. I love Lisbon, so manageable and friendly."
She was right. It is. And she is one adventurous little sweetie.
Thanksgiving is about the weird ancient America...
What we built here wasn’t only good — it was better, better than anything the world had seen, and we shouldn’t give a second’s hearing to those who say otherwise. Yes, even with slavery, the mistreatment of the Indians, and “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”: better. A world better.
Heart disease 
Researchers: 
UMD
I understand the historical reasons that Christmas is on the winter solstice/Saturnalia in western Christianity, but I'd like it later. That's just one thing. Most of my grinchiness has to do with the feeling of pressure to pack everything in. I hate pressure and hassle, love serenity. 
Kitchen of Shakespeare’s last home found
From Vanderleun, 
The 
A Thanksgiving treat and blessing for me this morning - a flock of about 35 Cedar Waxwings in my maple tree. (Photo is that species.)