Maggie's Farm

One of the puppies is graduating from college in two weeks, and will be moving to New York. She is a Math major with a Fine Arts minor, with plenty of street smarts - plus a Division 1 Varsity sport.

She sealed a deal with the job she wanted in back in November. Nice little "signing bonus," too. Yesterday she emailed me the website for the building in NYC into which she will be moving. Dang nice. This building has a doorman, a gym, and rooftop gardens. Plus she will have 6 pals from college and high school in the same building. Look out, New York, for the approaching tornado.

When I lived in NYC, I lived in hovels and basement apartments with slovenly roomates and cockroaches, had few friends - and no money to paint the town even if I had wanted to. In those days, there were no buildings with gyms, indoor pools, and rooftop gardens anyway.

Check out the details of the apartment building. I am jealous, but a professional curmudgeon like me should say "The kids today are so spoiled. They should be suffering and struggling, or in the Army, instead of romping around." She says she expects to work from 6:30 AM to 11 pm, so I guess it won't be all fun and games, and the pressure to be outstanding will be enormous...but that's Life in the Big City.

(Sometime I will have to get her to record all of her job interview questions. One guy gave her five seconds to answer "What's 19X17?" Fortunately, she had memorized her multiplication tables through 20 rather than the ordinary 10. They also wanted instant decimal conversions, and tested the depth of her knowledge of statistics, Shakespeare, Latin, Mozart's operas, Thomas Aquinas, and Duccio.  I take that as an effort to weed out the bullshit artists. A total of about eight hours of pressure interviews, spread over a few weeks, for each of the jobs she wanted. Most interviews included lunch or dinner at least once, which she rightly believes was an effort to check out her collegiality, sociability, manners, and poise under pressure.)

"Through me the way into the suffering city,
Through me the way to the eternal pain,
Through me the way that runs among the lost.
Justice urged on my high artificer;
My maker was divine authority,
The highest wisdom, and the primal love.
Before me nothing but eternal things were made,
And I endure eternally.
Abandon every hope, ye who enter here."

Take Dante's Hellfire and Damnation Quiz (Copyright 1327) and find out where you stand.

When Spring comes, you are supposed to have a solid inventory of Spring-related stuff. I picked up 20 bags of that Black Forest dark-colored mulch that I prefer, on Saturday. (That red-colored stuff they sell looks like crap - it is fake-looking, detracts from the plants' loveliness, and will make your place look like a MacDonalds.) So I schlepped back after church yesterday to pick up another 20 bags and they were SOLD OUT!

Can't the government do something about this kind of problem? Nationalizing Home Depot might help a lot, dontcha think? It was a great inconvenience for me, and think of the gasoline I wasted on that second trip...plus Home Depot, in their greedy, cruel and evil Capitalist way, makes a profit on this stuff that I need. It's just not fair and it's not right to make money off stuff I need, is it?

Blues fan Dust My Broom saw BB King in Calgary this weekend. The man is 81 and still on the road. God bless this lovely, amazingly-talented guy.

I will not use this blog to confess every possibly wrong, evil, or criminal thing I have done. That would be vulgar showing off.

Instead, I want to use this post to claim my victimhood! Maybe I can get some special treatment or power or money for it! (Please wire funds to my Cayman account.) 

It's an old saying that a conservative is a liberal who has been mugged. In my case, that shift was an intellectual awakening, but I have been mugged and robbed. Here's my tale of woe:

NYC: 1970s, Saturday, a few days before Christmas, around 8 pm, with snow: On way to an Upper West Side Christmas party, walking happily along Morningside Drive in the lovely NY snowy evening, when a scruffy guy of no racial idenity jumps out of the park and sticks a handgun in my stomach, and requests money. Having worked all day driving the horse and buggies in Central Park (my cool college job), I had about $1300 in a wad in my back pocket, but half it it (not including tips) belonged to the stable on W. 48th St. Emptied my front pockets (change, subway tokens, a few crumpled one-dollar bills) and handed it to him. I did not appear wealthy, for sure. Guy takes it, and runs back into the snowy Morningside Park. My body shakes for an hour, until I have had a few drinks and tell the story at the party. In those times, a waste of time to call the cops.

NYC: 1970s, May, Saturday, 11 am. Packing girlfriend's powder-blue Volkswagen convertible for a picnic out at Jones' Beach. Run inside to get blankets for our picnic. Run back out - car gone. Call cops. They say "Fuggedaboutit. Unless you really want to file a complaint. If you really want to bother, you can come down to the precinct and fill out the forms. We will need the VID and the registration, but you're better off just calling your insurance." During the Koch and Dinkins years, there was anarchy. All credit goes to Rudy for the NYC of today.

Boston, 1980s: Sunday night, 11 pm. Three young guys of no racial identity begin following me to my car. I walk faster; they walk faster. I run; they hustle. They are overweight, and one waves what looks like a handgun. I have my keys out, jump into my car, lock the doors and turn on the engine and start off. They kick the bumper as I depart, leaving them in the dust.

NYC: 1980s, Saturday, 5 pm. Return to Upper West Side apartment with friend after buying mountain-climbing equipment. Mainly crampons and ice axes. Find door open. Hear water running, and open bathroom door. Find young person of no racial identity dressed in my roomates' clothes in bathroom. Then find suitcases full of our stuff in the living room. Threatened guy with ice axes, told him to remove clothes and get the f- out before we killed him. Guy says "Don't be gettin no attitude" but makes hasty retreat with only his dirty jeans - no shoes or shirt. Yells from bottom of stairwell "I'll be back, M-f-."  He never did come back. I think we seemed crazier than he was.

Eventually, moved back to New England. All that has happened to me since has been one late-night emptying of the garage - all bikes and fishing gear gone in the morning. Fear-free, but dismaying. But never try to tell me that thieving and white-collar crime are equivalent to ugly crime. They are not equivalent in the degree of personal violation.

Image: 1883, Murder in a railroad car 

1. Rolling Stones --- I Can't Get No Cir-cu-lation
2. The Bee Gees--- How Can You Mend a Broken Hip?
3. Bobby Darin--- Splish, Splash, I Was Havin' a Flash.
4. Ringo Starr--- I Get By With a Little Help From Depends.
5. Roberta Flack--- The First Time Ever I Forgot Your Face.
6. Johnny Nash--- I Can't See Clearly Now.
7. Paul Simon--- Fifty Ways to Lose Your Liver
8. The Commodores-- - Once, Twice, Three Times to the Bathroom.
9. Marvin Gaye--- Heard It Through the Grape Nuts.
10. Procol Harem--- A Whiter Shade of Hair.
11. Leo Sayer--- You Make Me Feel Like Napping
12. The Temptations--- Papa's Got a Kidney Stone.
13. Abba--- Denture Queen.
14. Tony Orlando--- Knock 3 Times On The Ceiling If You Hear Me Fall.
15. Helen Reddy--- I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore.
16. Willie Nelson--- On the Commode Again.
17. Leslie Gore--- It's My Procedure and I'll Cry If I Want To.
18. Rolling Stones --- Hey! You! Get Off Of My Lawn.
19. Herman's Hermits--- Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Walker
and, 20, Herman again --- Baby, Baby, Can You Feel my Heart Beat?

I have a soft spot for motor-sailers, probably because my Gramps was so fond of them. This one is a 1983 Island Trader 40. Not too expensive, either, and the finish is plenty nice. Take a look at the details and the interior. Nice boat.

Here's a rendering for a new Nordhavn 56' motorsailer with transatlantic range under power. Very slick. The designs and large renderings from all angles are on the link.

And below is 1918's 62' Old Glory, build by Lawley's and designed by Fred Lawley. Note her "canoe" stern design. She is for sale. You might be able to afford to buy her, but can you afford the upkeep?

Thursday night a week ago the Bird Dog, Mrs. BD, and the youngest BD schlepped into NYC to see La Traviata at the New York City Opera (half the price of the Met next door, and just as enjoyable unless you need to see the world stars). The performance was wonderful, as always, and the guy singing Germond, my favorite role in the opera, was perfect.

But that's not my story. Because we arrived a bit too late to grab a spot in the Lincoln Center parking, we parked in a regular parking garage a few blocks away.

As we were waiting in line to pick up the car and to pay the parking fee around 11 pm, we observed a minor altercation. A lady in her 40s began yelling at the attendant that she would not pay the bill, and the mainly Spanish-speaking attendant was calmly trying to calm her down in halting English.

As the story became clear, they had just driven down into the parking garage, been issued the garage ticket and the rate for three day's parking ($270) and immediately decided not to stay because it was too expensive. But having already been given their garage ticket, they had to pay the one-hour minimum or the attendant would get into trouble. That was the problem.

In the not-new red Nissan sedan were her husband, and a lady who looked like her sister and two kids around 10-12 years old squeezed into the back. The car had Pennsylvania plates. 

The attendant says "Missy, please sign this. It says you not pay, then you go."

"I am signing nothing. Just let us out of here."

It went on like that. The t-shirted husband seemed tired and uncomfortable, and was silent. The kids in the back looked mortified.

A dapper fellow standing next to me in the line approached the sister while the shouting is happening, and told her where they could park the car less expensively than in the prime neighborhood of the Upper West Side. She was appreciative, but had no idea how to get to where he suggested, which was far downtown along 11th or 12 Ave.

What had occurred was clear. This family had driven in to NYC from PA for a celebratory long weekend in the big city at the end of the school vacation. They arrived late, were doing it on a tight budget, and had a hotel without a garage.

I said to the sister "Why don't you just sign the paper, and find another place to park?" She finally does that, despite her sister's shouting "Don't you dare sign that. They can come after you." 

Finally the wife took the wheel and managed to get the car out of the garage, and the line began moving again.

I felt so sad for them, doing their best to take on an adventure, but uprepared to handle the costs and complexities of New York City. Like a bird that can't fly, fallen out of a nest. I hope their little vacation got better after that, because I can't bear the thought that it didn't.

Discussion of the photo we posted in our piece on the return of crime to New Orleans prompted Sippican Cottage to do some more architectural posting on NO.

He was also kind enough to send in this turn of this 1920s (?) photo, which includes the building we posted. (The building on the left, on Royal St.)

A wonderful review of some very funky 19th C. American architectural styles, at Sippican Cottage. Scroll down. Or look at the log cabins too. Good fun.

Keep 'em comin', Mr. S. Cottage: it's a free eddication for me. But what would you call that French Quarter architecture we posted below? "Caribbean Whorehouse"?

Boat designer Skip Etchells, who lived in Connecticut during most of his career, is best known for the International Etchells. That sailboat is no comfortable day-sailer, but a sleek, knife-like racing boat which unfortunately was never chosen as an Olympic class, but which has been a racing sailboat of choice for many of the best skippers in the word.

Etchells are still going strong after Skip's death.