Tuesday, March 18. 2008
 Don't look at it. It will distract you from Maggie's Farm and cause you to waste time. There is only so much time in the day:
The Borderline Sociopathic Blog for Boys.
Mini-daffodils, and Brant decoy. (That's a tall Schipka "Skip" laurel out the window.) 
Monday, March 17. 2008
Basket of Fruit, 1597. I note that this still life, and the previous one, both had flawed apples. Makes it more interesting. 
Sunday, March 16. 2008
- reposted from April, 2005
By guest author Shaun L. Kelly His distinct tenor, reassuring and cerebral, was the second-most heard male voice of my childhood. Only my father’s fixed baritone surpassed his as the soundtrack of my years growing up in the greater Boston area. For thirty-two summers - with discernible sagacity and style - Ned Martin served as the principal voice of the Boston Red Sox. In an age where humility and grace slowly receded from our national character, Martin’s modesty and elegance separated him from a host of other announcers – and people. He never intentionally developed a defined signature call for a homerun. The ball was simply “gone”. And yet, he used words as a composer uses the notes on a scale. He seemed to embrace the notion first put forth by Emerson “that every word was once a poem”. There was nothing ever “programmed” about Ned Martin. Cogent phrases seem to tumble from his mouth like falling stars. Unlike most sports announcers, Ned Martin was able to frequently quote from the most gifted bards of English literature - Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Dickens, Hemingway - in order to put the narrative of baseball into its proper context. He was a reader, and he brought a reader’s sensibility to each and every broadcast. Ned Martin was also a deeply-rooted theorist and philosopher. Because he had dipped into the bonfires of hell as a Marine at the close of the Second World War, Ned described each game as an inherent existentialist. Like his beloved Frost, he had a lover’s quarrel with the world. But Ned Martin was more than just a Red Sox announcer. To me, he served as a personal captain, steering me through the choppy waters of both youth and adolescence - guiding, nurturing, and instructing me as I listened intently, his most loyal and devoted student.
Read rest of piece below:
Continue reading "Thank you, Mr. Ned Martin"
Saturday, March 15. 2008
Saw it today, in NYC. See it, if you can. Well worth the trip. One heck of a cast.
 That's what my check-out gal said to me today at Home Depot. I inquired "How do you know to say that to me?" She said "Honey, I can just tell."
"God bless you too," I said, although He obviously already did. She found a hole in a manure bag, and ran off to get some tape to cover it, even though I didn't care. I spent $120 on cow manure, but I can get the bull's stuff "free" from the politicians which will cost me much more in the end...but it won't grow the stuff She Who Must Be Obeyed wants to grow. The BS from bulls - or cows - is far more useful to us, and smells better. I am mixing up a wholesome soil stew for boxes and planters. Pansies first, then the really good stuff in a while, after frost season if global cooling gives us a break.
Only two very short videos exist of Woody Guthrie performing. Here's one of them, from 1945:
 The family has always enjoyed The Cloister on Sea Island for cozy, comfy getaways. We will miss the old Cloister which felt like home to us, but the new building has opened and it looks good (photo). Their relatively new "Lodge," where I have also stayed, is splendid, and its bar is huge and plain wonderful for an apres golf gin Martini or two.
Their azaleas will be in their full glory soon, if not sooner. For decompression mental-health short and relatively inexpensive vacations (with great golf), it often comes down to a choice between The Cloister and Cambridge Beaches in Bermuda (assuming you know somebody with a Mid-Ocean Club membership). Both places guaranteed glitz-free zones - leave your jewelry at home - and thus Maggie's Farm types of places. Pearls at dinner are OK, but no tacky gold.
Friday, March 14. 2008
Creative destruction, the economists call it. In an unfettered free market, livelihoods are always in jeopardy from the possibility that other demands or desires might supersede your desire to continue in your job for your entire life. I had a rough and tumble job for a long time: logging. It was hard work, sometimes dangerous, but I liked being out in nature, in the company of those like myself. And I wasn't a Johnny-come-lately to logging. I am the last in a long line of loggers in my family. But technology, and the desire of many people who are concerned about the environmental impacts of my trade, keep such as I from working at the only thing I've ever known. The world has moved on, and I must accept that.
It's not that bad really. I could have fussed and protested. Some of my former workmates still go out and log illegally; partly for their daily bread, but mostly I suspect because it is ingrained in their very being. I've moved on. I submit to the will of the greatest amount of people, who use as their instrument the hidden hand of the market to signal me to do something different now. Please do not judge my efforts too harshly; though it's unlikely I'll ever get much better, I try as hard as I can in my new chosen profession.
Thursday, March 13. 2008
Do not look at photo on continuation page.
Continue reading "Horrible Accident"
 Rumor has it that the 200 year-old Silvermine Tavern, in the very pleasant Silvermine area of Norwalk, CT, is for sale.
I lunched there many times, as a lad. You can watch ducks in the old millpond from the window. The style is "country elegant." As I recall, gents must wear a jacket and tie for dinner in the dining room. They have won the prize for "Best Brunch in Fairfield County" for over 20 years. I'm sure they mean their Sunday after-church brunch. My family referred to such cozy old inns as "sticky-bun" restaurants, or as "stuff-and waddles" because one tended to stuff oneself and waddle out. I wonder if they still have sweetbreads on the menu. Yum. (No, we are not in the real estate biz. It is just amusing for us to see what's for sale, occasionally.)
Wednesday, March 12. 2008
Probably sold out already. Ewa, who we talked about earlier this week, will finally be back at the Met in October: "Why did it take so long? You'll have to ask them. I can understand if someone doesn't like my voice, my art, my interpretation, my way of singing, my behavior. I don't like Picasso, but that doesn't mean he is a bad painter." She shrugged off the importance of her Met return. "I am so busy — too busy. I've been onstage 30 years, really 50, since I played Madame Butterfly's baby when I was three years old."
via Tigerhawk. If you ask me, there's only one of those that has no accent at all.
Like raising one eyebrow, licking your elbow, and other important manuevers.
Tuesday, March 11. 2008
 Two bored casino dealers are waiting at the crap table. A very attractive blonde woman from South Carolina arrived and bet twenty thousand dollars on a single roll of the dice.
She said, 'I hope you don't mind, but I feel much luckier when I play topless.'
With that, she stripped to the waist; rolled the dice; and yelled, 'Come on, Southern Girl needs new clothes!'
As the dice bounced and came to a stop, she jumped up-and-down and squealed 'YES! YES! I WON! I WON!'
She hugged each of the dealers...and then picked up her winnings, and her clothes, and quickly departed.
The dealers stared at each other dumfounded. Finally, one of them asked, 'What did she roll?'
The other answered, 'I don't know... I thought you were watching.'
(Artwork courtesy of Theo)
Monday, March 10. 2008
I have been on an Ewa Podles kick lately. Unfortunately she was never a regular at the Met, for reasons of which I have only heard rumors (nothing to do with this contralto's voice). This is Una voce poco fa (Barber of Seville), 1998:
Sunday, March 9. 2008
The adagio from Piano Concerto No. 2 in 1929, with the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra directed by Leopold Stokowski.
The photographs and diaries of Sophia Tolstoy have been published. Here's one of her photos of herself with her cheerful and fun-loving husband Leo (she would set up the shots and ask passing strangers to expose the image): 
Still Life with Crab Apples and Grapes, 1888, oil on canvas, John Wilmerding Collection 
Saturday, March 8. 2008
Over the past month or so we have seen Maria in various settings, from Greenwich Village basket houses to the present. Here's a snippet of Maria singing One Hour Mama from her 2007 album Naughty, Bawdy and Blue:
The democratization of fashion and high-end fancy stuff. Fascinating.
This piece by Major Shul came in over the transom: In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a 'line of death,' a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph. I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by Maj Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5 - to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance. 
After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar. Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight, following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.
Continue reading "Major Brian Shul: "I loved that jet""
Friday, March 7. 2008
Wilco's Jeff Tweedy on his migraines, in the NYT Migraine blog, via Frontal Cortex. You can listen to Wilco here at Wilcoworld. The NYT gives me migraines, but Wilco doesn't.
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