Sadly, John Bolton has no redeeming qualities that might offset the horrors of that hideous growth of hair that commands the incredulous attention of anyone seeing him live or in pictures. It makes one think of hiring thugs to pin him down to eradicate that offense to a humane society. And it pains me to admit that John Bolton's unfortunate facial affectation has made an intrusion into my personal life.
He has made it necessary for me to change the way I shave.
I was probably 17 or 18 before I had to deal with the issue of facial hair and dealing with it established a life-long routine that, year after year, became a set-in-stone ritual: Soak face with hot wash cloth. Apply shaving cream to whiskers (in early days with a brush and soap). Starting next to the right ear, down stroke to jaw line (rinse razor) and continue under jaw to base of neck. Back to top and repeat down strokes until reaching nose. Then go to left side of face and repeat down strokes at left ear.
OHMIGOD! What's that foamy white blob above my top lip? I'M JOHN BOLTON.
At my age I'm vulnerable to anything that plays tricks on my mind and so I changed a deeply ingrained ritual. I now start at the foam mustache. Whack, whack. Mustache gone (along with anything that might call up a thought about what'shisname). Continue with old system.
When life throws you a curve ball, bunt.
Monday, September 16, 2019
Thursday, September 12, 2019
All's Well That Ends Well
Our home in Jerome Prairie where I grew up depended on a dug well for water. It was just outside the house and was about six feet in diameter and a little over 35 feet deep. A rickety old wooden ladder gave access to the water below for whatever maintenance was needed. And one day it was apparent some maintenance was needed because the water coming from the faucet was dirty. Sister Virginia's husband, Carl, would supervise the operation while little Billy (that's me) would be the ladder descender (Carl was a big guy and that ladder would never support his weight).
What could go wrong?
First step was to get what water was in the well out so the additional dirt removal could proceed. Carl's and my knowledge of air pressure and gravity as it relates to moving water vertically was zero. I would later learn that at sea level the weight of pressure from the air will move water up a pipe just short of 34 feet while the weight of the water in the pipe will be pulled down by gravity.
Carl lowered a fiber hose with about a two inch diameter into the well and connected it to a pump activated by a gas motor, The pump started, sucking air out of the hose which caused it to collapse and seal shut so no water could enter. Head scratching by the well cleaners.
OK, Carl said, what we got to do is push the water up the hose instead of trying to suck it up. So we will build a little platform and put the motor on it and lower the pump down next to the water and Billy can go down the ladder and run the pump. Doesn't that make perfect sense?
So we build the platform. We rig a tripod over the well with a wheel to guide the support rope that is attached to the platform holding the pump (reviewing this operation years later I knew at this point we should have arranged for music to start playing, "Send in the clowns"). Down went the platform. Down went Billy (who learns where the expression, "colder than a well digger's ass" came from). Billy pulled the rope to start the motor and the operation began.
Another scientific calculation the well restoration crew failed to consider: how long does it take a small gas motor to fill a thirty-five foot deep, six-foot-diameter well with carbon-monoxide fumes? Answer: Not very damn long. I started getting dizzy and knew I had to get out of there. Without shutting off the motor I started up the ladder and kept feeling worse and worse. Just short of the top I passed out and Carl caught the back of my shirt and pulled me out of the well. (Where was Lassie?)
Close call. I was very sick and spent the rest of the day stretched out breathing fresh air. Later, a few days of rain cleared the well water and we all lived happily ever after. Not sure we ever got smarter.
What could go wrong?
First step was to get what water was in the well out so the additional dirt removal could proceed. Carl's and my knowledge of air pressure and gravity as it relates to moving water vertically was zero. I would later learn that at sea level the weight of pressure from the air will move water up a pipe just short of 34 feet while the weight of the water in the pipe will be pulled down by gravity.
Carl lowered a fiber hose with about a two inch diameter into the well and connected it to a pump activated by a gas motor, The pump started, sucking air out of the hose which caused it to collapse and seal shut so no water could enter. Head scratching by the well cleaners.
OK, Carl said, what we got to do is push the water up the hose instead of trying to suck it up. So we will build a little platform and put the motor on it and lower the pump down next to the water and Billy can go down the ladder and run the pump. Doesn't that make perfect sense?
So we build the platform. We rig a tripod over the well with a wheel to guide the support rope that is attached to the platform holding the pump (reviewing this operation years later I knew at this point we should have arranged for music to start playing, "Send in the clowns"). Down went the platform. Down went Billy (who learns where the expression, "colder than a well digger's ass" came from). Billy pulled the rope to start the motor and the operation began.
Another scientific calculation the well restoration crew failed to consider: how long does it take a small gas motor to fill a thirty-five foot deep, six-foot-diameter well with carbon-monoxide fumes? Answer: Not very damn long. I started getting dizzy and knew I had to get out of there. Without shutting off the motor I started up the ladder and kept feeling worse and worse. Just short of the top I passed out and Carl caught the back of my shirt and pulled me out of the well. (Where was Lassie?)
Close call. I was very sick and spent the rest of the day stretched out breathing fresh air. Later, a few days of rain cleared the well water and we all lived happily ever after. Not sure we ever got smarter.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Clean Sheets Every Monday
Editorial note: This blog and all others to follow, will be published in a new type face: "Georgia", from the Time Roman family. My friend Roy Paul Nelson, Professor of Journalism at the University of Oregon back in the day, taught his students that it is important to choose a type face that is appropriate to the subject of the narrative. Since my blogs are written to give the reader my take on whatever it is I'm writing about, Georgia just seemed a perfect fit for my views.
Late last evening after the TV pontificators had called it a night, I was reflecting on the change that has come to my life as a lone ranger. The culture change is shocking. From
living with your life's companion in a big house with wonderful neighbors and a terrific shower, to living in a commune with many nice people connected to you by long hallways and occasional group gatherings, it shivers your timbers. It is not what you would prefer but it is what you've got and if you can slip by that boogey-man then you can deal with it.
The people who run this place do a nice job of providing a variety of activities to appeal to different interests. They run excursions to everything from shopping tours to destination travels to particular road side attractions. Fortunately, we are never required to hold hands and sing as we side-step around tables.
Conversations tend to focus on: Ailments. Weather. Food. Everyone avoids politics and religion in group settings, and that is good. If I was to be slammed against the wall by some truth-seeking vigilante and forced to confess my favorite part of my new situation, it would be this: It's when, from time to time, I grab my rail pass and haul ass.
Get on the bus, Gus; make a new plan, Stan...
Late last evening after the TV pontificators had called it a night, I was reflecting on the change that has come to my life as a lone ranger. The culture change is shocking. From
living with your life's companion in a big house with wonderful neighbors and a terrific shower, to living in a commune with many nice people connected to you by long hallways and occasional group gatherings, it shivers your timbers. It is not what you would prefer but it is what you've got and if you can slip by that boogey-man then you can deal with it.
The people who run this place do a nice job of providing a variety of activities to appeal to different interests. They run excursions to everything from shopping tours to destination travels to particular road side attractions. Fortunately, we are never required to hold hands and sing as we side-step around tables.
Conversations tend to focus on: Ailments. Weather. Food. Everyone avoids politics and religion in group settings, and that is good. If I was to be slammed against the wall by some truth-seeking vigilante and forced to confess my favorite part of my new situation, it would be this: It's when, from time to time, I grab my rail pass and haul ass.
Get on the bus, Gus; make a new plan, Stan...
Thursday, August 29, 2019
Those Were the Days, My Friend
Was that a school bell I heard ringing? With September sneaking in and the autumn leaves starting to fall, it probably was. Causing my wandering mind to drift to the fall of 1947 when a couple of Grants Pass High School students became a pair to draw to: Mary Joyce Smith and Bill Landers. A line in the song, Summertime, from the opera Porgy and Bess goes..."Oh, your daddy's rich and your ma is good-lookin'." That was us (who says you have to be modest in a blog?) The top girl, blonde, head-turner and the student body President/football Captain styling in their senior year.
The important take away from that scenario is, after high school, and through the years that followed, Josie and I remained good friends. Along the way she hit the ball out of the park when she married Jerry Larson. He was a handsome, charismatic, funny, professional warrior who would rise to the rank of General in the United States Air Force.
A number of years ago, Josie and Jerry flew out from D.C. to meet Georgann and me, along with Larry Aschenbrenner (another classmate) and his wife in Arizona for the Fiesta Bowl where Oregon would play football against Colorado. At one of our social hours, Jerry asked me if I had ever been to the Air Force Academy and I told him I had. When the Academy dedicated Falcon Field in 1962, the University of Oregon was their opponent for the game and I was there as a member of the Oregon athletic department. I told the group that while I enjoyed the fact that Oregon won the game 35 to 20, my most awesome memory was being in the press box at half time and seeing two Air Force jets come screaming in from opposite ends of the field, about 12" above the stadium. They were trailing smoke, and then they shot straight up with one hell of a roar, leaving their smoke trails crossing (swear to God) precisely over the fifty yard line.
Josie laughed and said, "It might make your story more interesting to learn Jerry was flying one of those jets." (Sound of jaws dropping) Jerry said, with a grin, "I tried to talk my partner into doing the stunt flying upside down but he didn't like the idea." Larson was actually in command of the Air Force Demonstration Squadron Thunderbirds at that time.
At one of our class reunions, we had a bon voyage Sunday brunch in the city park. As the Landers and the Larsons were leaving, a number of Josie's and my classmates came running over and asked us to stand together for a photo op. We, of course, modestly consented and as we moved into position, Jerry leaned into my ear and said, "Try not to look too guilty."
Fun to revisit the fall of '47...Summertime "So hush little baby, don't you cry."
The important take away from that scenario is, after high school, and through the years that followed, Josie and I remained good friends. Along the way she hit the ball out of the park when she married Jerry Larson. He was a handsome, charismatic, funny, professional warrior who would rise to the rank of General in the United States Air Force.
A number of years ago, Josie and Jerry flew out from D.C. to meet Georgann and me, along with Larry Aschenbrenner (another classmate) and his wife in Arizona for the Fiesta Bowl where Oregon would play football against Colorado. At one of our social hours, Jerry asked me if I had ever been to the Air Force Academy and I told him I had. When the Academy dedicated Falcon Field in 1962, the University of Oregon was their opponent for the game and I was there as a member of the Oregon athletic department. I told the group that while I enjoyed the fact that Oregon won the game 35 to 20, my most awesome memory was being in the press box at half time and seeing two Air Force jets come screaming in from opposite ends of the field, about 12" above the stadium. They were trailing smoke, and then they shot straight up with one hell of a roar, leaving their smoke trails crossing (swear to God) precisely over the fifty yard line.
Josie laughed and said, "It might make your story more interesting to learn Jerry was flying one of those jets." (Sound of jaws dropping) Jerry said, with a grin, "I tried to talk my partner into doing the stunt flying upside down but he didn't like the idea." Larson was actually in command of the Air Force Demonstration Squadron Thunderbirds at that time.
At one of our class reunions, we had a bon voyage Sunday brunch in the city park. As the Landers and the Larsons were leaving, a number of Josie's and my classmates came running over and asked us to stand together for a photo op. We, of course, modestly consented and as we moved into position, Jerry leaned into my ear and said, "Try not to look too guilty."
Fun to revisit the fall of '47...Summertime "So hush little baby, don't you cry."
Friday, August 23, 2019
Laugh And the World Laughs With You
OK, everybody off the train. We're going to get serious about funny. I never liked Bob Hope because he just told jokes other people had written for him. I found exploding laughter watching Johnathan Winters. He could just stand there doing nothing but moving his head and shifting his eyes and I was on the floor. My search for laughter has been a favorite pursuit all my life.
When I was 10 and 12, like every other kid in America, I loved the comics. Who knew if I had kept that original Superman in pristine condition, it would have made my declining years more comfortable? But my favorite 'zine was a monthly called 1,000 jokes. Ten cents for a collection of one- or two-liners that actually counted out to be about 100 basic jokes told in a hundred different ways. Fine with me. But an incident in the sixth grade really did put a notch in the tree of my life- trail regarding humor (I wonder if my sister Mary will remember this since in the little country grade school we attended, two grades were in each room so that every other year we shared a class room?).
One day our teacher, Miss Hensley, introduced an exercise she must have picked up from some Sociology class in college. She had every student in the two grades take a sheet of paper and write down three qualities they would look for in the person who might become their husband or their wife. She then collected the papers and had a boy and a girl go to the black board and list the results as she read each paper. Then she had a class discussion regarding the answers.
My take on the exercise was that every single girl, without exception, listed a variation of "sense of humor" or "funny."
Oh, look...I think I've found a key to the candy store?
When I was 10 and 12, like every other kid in America, I loved the comics. Who knew if I had kept that original Superman in pristine condition, it would have made my declining years more comfortable? But my favorite 'zine was a monthly called 1,000 jokes. Ten cents for a collection of one- or two-liners that actually counted out to be about 100 basic jokes told in a hundred different ways. Fine with me. But an incident in the sixth grade really did put a notch in the tree of my life- trail regarding humor (I wonder if my sister Mary will remember this since in the little country grade school we attended, two grades were in each room so that every other year we shared a class room?).
One day our teacher, Miss Hensley, introduced an exercise she must have picked up from some Sociology class in college. She had every student in the two grades take a sheet of paper and write down three qualities they would look for in the person who might become their husband or their wife. She then collected the papers and had a boy and a girl go to the black board and list the results as she read each paper. Then she had a class discussion regarding the answers.
My take on the exercise was that every single girl, without exception, listed a variation of "sense of humor" or "funny."
Oh, look...I think I've found a key to the candy store?
Thursday, August 15, 2019
What's Playing On the Blue Line?
For those of us in a continuing search for reasons to get out of bed each day, the MAX lines (Metropolitan Area Express -- who knew "Xpress" would need an "E"?) offer a never-ending source of entertainment if you look without staring. Corner-of-the-eye shots. Or, better yet, window reflections. Avoid eye contact. Eye sweeps with head swivels work. It's all in 3-D with surround sound and you can choose the extent to which you want to get intertwined in the action. Bold voice involvements must use the Kathleen McNeal technique of friendly assumption that you and the other person have been pals for fifteen or twenty years. "Hey, nice shirt. It goes with the color of your dog." The person's response will let you know whether to proceed or STFU.
You can choose which theatre to visit: the Red Line will offer international fare as it freights people to and from the airport, and sizing up the luggage of the travelers invites speculation about what's going on with them. The out-the-window scenery along the Red Line from Gateway TC to the terminal is dull-minus.
You can't miss on the Green Line coming from and going to Clackamas Town Center. So-so scenery but a good rolling zoo. Twenty minutes from the Gateway TC.
The Blue Line comes in two flavors: East and West. Blue Line West moves through a lot of high number real estate and gets a favorable rating for scenery but a thumbs-down for people watching. The tattoos are pedestrian at best and wardrobe fashion is high-normal. The most interesting part of your ride will be the long, long tunnel under the West Hills. There is a station partway through where you can get off and take a long, no-stop lift to the Portland Zoo (animal kind with lions and tigers and bears) or stay on the station platform and check out the core sample that was drilled from the top of the mountain to the tunnel level. It's in a long, long, long, long glass tube where you can examine the strata the engineers had to deal with in this big dig.
But Blue Line East is where the fun is: Going to or coming from Gresham (part of the challenge is figuring out where the town is) presents the opportunity to immerse yourself in the human comedy.
Lots of dumpster divers with their dirigible-size can and bottle collections. Next week's blog will cover some of the others: the guy ahead of me to the left whose head looks like a Kansas wheat field in the tenth month of drought. The dude in a wife-beater top (Gresham proud). Bike people. Stay tuned.
You can choose which theatre to visit: the Red Line will offer international fare as it freights people to and from the airport, and sizing up the luggage of the travelers invites speculation about what's going on with them. The out-the-window scenery along the Red Line from Gateway TC to the terminal is dull-minus.
You can't miss on the Green Line coming from and going to Clackamas Town Center. So-so scenery but a good rolling zoo. Twenty minutes from the Gateway TC.
The Blue Line comes in two flavors: East and West. Blue Line West moves through a lot of high number real estate and gets a favorable rating for scenery but a thumbs-down for people watching. The tattoos are pedestrian at best and wardrobe fashion is high-normal. The most interesting part of your ride will be the long, long tunnel under the West Hills. There is a station partway through where you can get off and take a long, no-stop lift to the Portland Zoo (animal kind with lions and tigers and bears) or stay on the station platform and check out the core sample that was drilled from the top of the mountain to the tunnel level. It's in a long, long, long, long glass tube where you can examine the strata the engineers had to deal with in this big dig.
But Blue Line East is where the fun is: Going to or coming from Gresham (part of the challenge is figuring out where the town is) presents the opportunity to immerse yourself in the human comedy.
Lots of dumpster divers with their dirigible-size can and bottle collections. Next week's blog will cover some of the others: the guy ahead of me to the left whose head looks like a Kansas wheat field in the tenth month of drought. The dude in a wife-beater top (Gresham proud). Bike people. Stay tuned.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Who Sees You?
In 1943 George Orwell came to see the corruption of his vision of socialism and started writing his seminal novel, Nineteen Eighty-four, that would shake the world when it was published in 1949. I took a course in college titled: Ethical and Political Theory three years after that book came out -- it, along with Emile Zola's Germinal and Arthur Koestler's Darkness At Noon, were the assigned texts for the term. Digression: The miners in Germinal who brought the coal to the surface were "landers."
Orwell saw the future America 35 years later as being a dark autocracy led by Big Brother, who maintained control with formulated lying and camera installations that recorded the activities of all citizens 24/7.
What's left of my memory of the actual 1984 tells me George was off a little on his timing; like 70 years. Of course, "Two Thousand Nineteen" just doesn't have the punch of Nineteen Eighty-four and is irrelevant to the theme of the narrative. Count the cameras mounted on buildings in our cities and camouflaged as telephones in the hands of our citizens. Or in the trains and busses of public transportation. Let me tell you about that.
Last Saturday I went to Sellwood to get a haircut from my stylist, Lo-Lo. Everything above my shoulders that sticks out, Lo-Lo mows with a #1 guide slapped on her electric clippers. Whatever Lo-Lo sees, Lo-Lo clips. It's a two train, one bus journey to get to Lo-Lo and the second train I transferred to was lightly peopled as I took a single window seat right next to the train driver's compartment. We're rolling along when suddenly the train stops and the door to the driver's compartment flies open. The lady driver leans out (about 12" from my face) and pointing at some rider behind me, screams, "Hey, you, get your hands out of your pants or I'm going to call the police." WHOA! The miscreant apparently complied with her wishes because she slammed the door shut and we were soon moving down the rails. I didn't look behind me.
But here's the thing: Some people read to pass the time on their commute and most people focus on their iPhones. But some, apparently, find other ways to pass the time. If we could somehow contact George Orwell to ask him his thoughts on this incident it is likely he would say, "Didn't you read my book?"
Orwell saw the future America 35 years later as being a dark autocracy led by Big Brother, who maintained control with formulated lying and camera installations that recorded the activities of all citizens 24/7.
What's left of my memory of the actual 1984 tells me George was off a little on his timing; like 70 years. Of course, "Two Thousand Nineteen" just doesn't have the punch of Nineteen Eighty-four and is irrelevant to the theme of the narrative. Count the cameras mounted on buildings in our cities and camouflaged as telephones in the hands of our citizens. Or in the trains and busses of public transportation. Let me tell you about that.
Last Saturday I went to Sellwood to get a haircut from my stylist, Lo-Lo. Everything above my shoulders that sticks out, Lo-Lo mows with a #1 guide slapped on her electric clippers. Whatever Lo-Lo sees, Lo-Lo clips. It's a two train, one bus journey to get to Lo-Lo and the second train I transferred to was lightly peopled as I took a single window seat right next to the train driver's compartment. We're rolling along when suddenly the train stops and the door to the driver's compartment flies open. The lady driver leans out (about 12" from my face) and pointing at some rider behind me, screams, "Hey, you, get your hands out of your pants or I'm going to call the police." WHOA! The miscreant apparently complied with her wishes because she slammed the door shut and we were soon moving down the rails. I didn't look behind me.
But here's the thing: Some people read to pass the time on their commute and most people focus on their iPhones. But some, apparently, find other ways to pass the time. If we could somehow contact George Orwell to ask him his thoughts on this incident it is likely he would say, "Didn't you read my book?"
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