Been a while, hasn't it? Thanks for checking in,
again.
But that doesn't put any
pressure on, really. I mean, how can you be pressurized by writing a line or
two about whatever pops into your head? Absent any requirement to frame a cogent
argument over multiple paragraphs, I am as liberated from logical sequence and
orderly thought as any committed
schizophrenic.
But enough about
me.
Let's talk about you - or rather, what would be
your perfectly decadent experience? Rachel Ann over at Willow Green has
this:
So I'm taking a hot
bath. A hot, hot bath. The steam is curling up all around me, my body relaxes,
my mind relaxes and I think: I deserve this everyday. A hot bath strewn with
rose petals and lavender flowers. Tat would be perfect. A hot bath everyday in a
tub strewn with rose petals and lavender flowers and a full body massage. With
aromatic oils. And then a delicious prepared by someone else lunch, of feta
cheese and vine ripe tomatoes on a bed of three different types of lettuce and
warm buttered rolls, And then...and
then...
And then she asks what you'd
like, if it was up to you to choose. For my part, the description she gives is
pretty hard to beat. I could maybe skip the rose petals and lavender flowers,
just for form's sake. But that's just
me.
And so we're back to me again, I
see. I guess that means we're done talking about you,
now.
Sorry.
----------------
Raining
again in Sandy Eggo - I guess this is what passes for winter, here. It came down
sideways there for a while, and apparently the weather was severe enough in the
Sierras to dump nine feet of snow on the upper reaches, up where the ski parks
are.
I don't care where you come
from, nine feet of snow in a day or so should be plenty enough to get your
attention.
Apologies to Gary and
Bryan and all the rest of you poor, desolate souls trapped in the great north, I
don't even one little bit miss shoveling snow off the drive. Not even a little.
Bit.
No. I vastly prefer having the
option to drive up to my snow, frolic and ski until exhausted. Drink hot
toddies, sleep, and return to warmer climes.
Repeat.
We spent a few days back in
the Old Dominion, where I grew up, over the holidays. Virginia really can't
claim to be a frigid clime, and yet there were a few things I noticed which I
had pretty much forgotten about:
-
Hats and gloves as sartorial
requirements.
- People smoking in
public places.
- Scraping the ice off
the windshield.
- How cold the inside
of a car can be.
- Steering into the
skid.
That last one, thankfully,
comes back to you right away. But that's another
story.
Anyway.
To
be fair, I spent a fair amount of time at sea last fall, and there were a few
things which after a while, I hadn't really noticed I was
missing:
- The choice of what to eat.
Because on the ship, it's just what you see,
pal.
- The possibility that the water
might be too hot. On the ship, you just crank it over to the full hot setting
and climb on in. Maybe it's warm enough, maybe it's not. There's no telling.
Wet? We got wet. Wet we can guarantee.
Came back home, got up early the
very next day to go to work, turned the shower handle all the way
counter-clockwise, jumped in, and woke the entire house up with the sound of my
frenzied screaming. The Kat thought I was undergoing an un-anesthetized
vivisection, apparently. Took a few moments for the Hobbit to spin her back
down.
Welcome back,
dad.
- Routine embarrassment on the
way to or from the shower: When you get to a certain level of seniority (and I'm
past it), you usually have your own shower that you share in the space between
your room and the one next door with maybe one other guy. But in my current
post, as a mere visitor aboard the ships I sail on, I frequently end up in
junior officer berthing, or overflow spaces. Which means that your humble scribe
could be seen every morning staggering through the common passageways at say,
0705, on the way to the communal shower. And having to endure the amusement of
the several assembled Sailors, already assembled for their morning maintenance
meeting outside the squadron maintenance control. In my bathrobe, towel and
shower sandals. The passageway to the shower was right forward of my berthing,
and in one of the highest traffic areas of the ship. It was also only just big
enough, due to out-jutting power junction boxes, for one person to transit the
passageway at a time. Which was all to the good, until your narrator came out of
the shower each morning, and in walking through the passageway, somehow managed
to lose a shower sandal (always just the one) and then had to stop to try to
screw it back on for several interminable moments while Crowds Gathered and the
Eyes of the World Rested Upon Him.
Every day. For three
weeks.
- Eight hours of sleep. Seven,
even. Yeah, I missed
that.
-------------------
Raining
and cold.
In Japan, where I was
stationed in the mid-90's, the winters were bitter cold and wet. We lived off
base in Japanese housing for the first year and a half or so. In the community,
with the locals. It was in many ways a wonderful adventure.
But not in the winter time. For an
island country with few natural resources, you would maybe think that the
Japanese would be initiates into the mysteries of home
insulation.
You'd think wrong. Never
been so cold. So thoroughly soaked wet and miserable. Never want to be
again.
We were offered kerosene
heaters to help keep the upper rooms warm - only the master bedroom had a
heating unit, nothing for the kids' rooms but best wishes. Only thing was, if
you were going to use the kerosene heaters, you had to keep the windows cracked.
So your kids wouldn't die from the carbon monoxide poisoning. Which didn't make
a great deal of sense. To me,
anyway.
We bought electric blankets,
instead. They worked great to keep the brats warm in bed, but you needed
dynamite to get them out of the rack in the mornings. Oh, the wailing and
squalling to get them up and to school. The slaughter of the innocents could not
have been more discordant.
To get
warmed up every few days, we'd cart the family up in the Toyota Van Ace (where
do they come up with these names?) and head to Yoyomura's, the local public
baths. There we'd fork over our yen, change from street clothes into a yukata,
almost immediately shed the yukata to jump into one of a dozen-odd baths of
different temperature and pH, and warm the bones.
Then, back in the yukata and into
the massageatorium, where a burly Japanese gentleman with thumbs like ball peen
hammers would run his rough hands once over your back, murmur a deep, "Soooo,"
with professional satisfaction, and proceed to put your body through exquisite
agonies for the next forty-five minutes. My God, they were good.
Good - but simultaneously painful,
if that makes sense: I might have given away the crown jewels, if they'd ever
bothered to ask me anything. But no - they were just doing their job, and when
they were done you felt warm, and comfortable and reborn. Later you'd rejoin the
clan for sushi and sake in the dining room. There, you would be treated to the
charming sight of octogenarian Japanese couples singing karaoke tunes to each
other, and join the applause as they finished and took their
bows.
-------------------
Sometimes
I'm concerned that the sort of left/right bashing that I'm about to engage in is
strangely anachronistic - I mean, the guy I voted for won, and his party has
control of both houses in the national legislature. What have I got to complain
about?
Well. Paul Krugman, for starters. You know, the
economist that writes Op-Ed submissions for the New York
Times.
I
don't care who you are, you'll have to admit that the guy is at least a little
bit political. For an economist, I mean. Which, by the way? Isn't that supposed
to be, like, a science or something? How does an economist get to have political
opinions about his science. I mean, let's imagine what a politically oriented
nuclear physicist could do on the editorial board of the NYT, if only he had the
forum to speak from. Or a politically active chemist.
The imagination
wanders.
Krugman is the kind of guy I
just can't read anymore. He's become, like Maureen Dowd and Molly Ivins, blinded
by his aversion to the Prez. He has become another Ahab, stabbing out of hell's
heart for hate's sake. Nothing but yet another block, another stone, another
worse than senseless thing.
You get
the picture.
Fortunately, Steven
Green has returned to the scene after a hiatus to fisk
Krugman's latest
oeuvre:
"With this column,
Krugman has become Maureen Dowd without the upper-lip bleach. And with a
combover."
It's a beaut. You owe it
to
yourself.
----------------
Was
that a guilty pleasure, that last bit? It
was.
Do I feel cheapened by having
linked to it? I do, a bit.
Will I
recover? Oh, yes.
Instantly.
-----------------
Stay
tuned in the upcoming days and weeks! I can almost promise you a Sea Story
entitled, "Salting the Boiler." You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll comment, you'll
send trackbacks!
At least, I hope you
will.
Are you titillated? I hope you
are.
Do you, like me, wonder at the
etymology of a word like "titillated"? I think you
do.
Want to talk about it? I didn't
think so.
Ah,
well.
____________
Have
a great weekend! We'll see you in the funny pages.
Posted @
05:16 PM
|
Posted in
""
|
Sendit
|
Credo
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
