Sometimes I read a book just because the title makes me snicker.

 

The above book isn't as snicker-inducing as I'd hoped. But I'm not finished yet. Meanwhile, Doug is reading Richard Ford's latest novel, Let Me Be Frank With You, featuring the NJ real estate agent Frank Bascombe. Doug alerted me to this snicker-inducing snippet from the novel:

 

Protagonist walking down a street sees a couple walking toward him;  he doesn't want to talk to them.

I'd rather jump in my watery basement hole than talk to them...How many old acquaintances, neighbors, former teachers, .. have we all caught a glimpse of in an unexpected place and dived in an alley rather than face for a second? All because (1) We don't want to; (2) There's too much unsaid that doesn't need to be said--a Chinese wall of words that would fall on top of us and we'd die; and (3) We know others feel the very same way about us.  We're, most of us, the last person anyone in his right mind wants to talk to on any given day, including Christmas.

That's a five- or six-snicker paragraph for me. I hope to read the book soon. But first I have to finish Gold by Chris Cleave for my book/dinner group next week. So far, I give it a meh. I hang in there with this group of seven nice women, even though I'm still annoyed, irritated?, that the book is usually discussed for only about 10 or 15 minutes. They talk mostly about food and cooking, their kids and parents, travel, work (just a little), health (ugh). I want to talk about the damn book. Excuse me.

The Great Dreary.

 

I've been listening to this book on CD since April. Glory hallelujah I'm done! It's an excellent book, especially for readers who have a high tolerance for wallowing in misery. I'm apparently drawn to depressing books, especially in nonfiction. I have a special love of disasters. Of this I am not proud. And I recognize that it's not good for my mental health but I can't stop myself.

This book needs no description: the subtitle says it all. Although I think I would insert the word "suffering" somewhere in that subtitle: I came away with a very, very full picture of just how awful the aftermath of that storm was for the residents. And the saddest part is that it will happen again.

And while I'm discussing my sick obsession with disasters, here are some observations from an oceanographer who was on the Diane Rehm radio show yesterday. The discussion was all that plastic that's out there in our oceans. (Diane is no slouch in the disaster area herself.)

According to Charles Moore:

You know, we're driven by an economic paradigm that requires us to be wasteful. We produce waste in order to drive the economic system. But there's a wide range of possible scenarios in which attractive economic, social and environmental outcomes are possible without relying on economic growth. We need a steady state economy. We need -- all these ideas about recycling, that's really about a steady state economy, where you take back as much as you produce. And in order to do that, we need a change in the economic paradigm. And the 11th commandment can't be thou shalt grow the economy, but that's the only way a politician can get elected.

I feel that we're being driven into a barbaric situation by this push to constantly grow the economy. We've got to reign in the productive monster. You can't have unlimited growth on finite resources. It just defies logic. And that is a radical change that would deal with the climate crisis as well as the plastic pollution crisis. But we need radicals. Radicals drive change, and that's why I'm an activist.

I'm not an activist or a radical. I'm just a doomsayer. But I do recycle and I no longer buy shampoo so that's something.

The last of the basil so the last of the pesto.

I make easy pesto: in my small food grinder I add leaves, pour in some olive oil, sprinkle in some salt, toss in some walnuts, and top off with shaved hard cheese. Grind a bit, and toss with pasta, fusili for example.

[Note: I don't know yet how I feel about this blogging daily thing. I sure don't have anything of much interest to say. A daily record of my activities would be a snooze-fest. "Today I put 147 books on the shelves at the library." "Today I went to the grocery store." zzzzzzz.  But I think I like the tiny bit of discipline it takes.]

On having children.

 

This is a book I read a few years ago. I have zero, and I mean zero, memory of the book so I'm going to break one of my informal rules and read it again. I was reminded of the book (it's short stories, not a novel, which partially explains why it didn't imprint on my brain) when I read an interview with actress Frances McDormand who starred in the HBO miniseries based on the book. In the interview she said this:

About children: "... the minute you smell them there’s a pheromonal reaction between the parent and their child. My son smelled like a cinnamon bun, and that smell entered into my biological being, and it became an imperative that I keep him alive at all costs, so then there’s this monster—this tiger, or lion—that comes forward in you to protect them. And it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t matter if they become men or women. The whole point of a teenager driving you insane is because they’re supposed to wear you down so you can fuckin’ die sooner and get out of the way, because it’s their place.

This passage speaks to me. My children didn't wear me down during their teen years and they're not wearing me down in their early adulthood. But my gut tells me that Frances is right.

And the 2-night, 4-hour miniseries that aired Sunday and Monday nights was wonderful. She's a great actress.

Late-blooming, hardy Nasturtiums.

My nasturtiums are mostly yellow, with a sprinkling of orange. They've been blooming all summer long but in some ways are at their peak now. They creep and get larger throughout the season, and although delicate, they are aggressive.

Pond with those floating islands.

Excuse me while I talk about my iPhone camera and not the shot above (my house is barely visible in the far right behind the trees). I took this picture at about noon and I didn't adjust the colors at all. The blues look almost too blue but I don't want to argue with my phone. I think the camera is better than my Canon, but that's not a very big challenge.

I'm eating too much candy. We had only 1 group of 4 trick or treaters on Friday night. Wha? Weather was good, front light was on, what gives? Unfortunately, we bought candy based on history. Which means I have 6 or 7 bags of Reese's Peanut Butter cups, Trix, etc. Giving away most of it tomorrow I hope. Not all. Just most.

Happy Hallowmas.

[November 1st is All Saints' Day -- and is also known by some as Hallowmas, facts I spent most of my life not knowing.]

Today I went with a friend, formerly just another blogger (The Complaint Department) and now a very good in-person buddy, to the National Gallery of Art in DC. We thoroughly toured an Andrew Wyeth exhibit, and also saw a few other odds and ends. (And, truthfully, we had a long lunch in the Gallery restaurant and then a long visit at the gift store so it was a balance between art and consumption.)



Wind from the Sea, 1947.

We parked in front of the Capitol, which is undergoing repairs. [insert lame joke about Congress and repairs here]

 

The Rotunda in the National Gallery of Art.

 

Many people know of Wyeth's famous painting Christina's World. It's not my favorite Wyeth, not by a long shot, but maybe that's because it's almost become a joke painting -- so many take-offs and parodies over the years. The works we saw today contained no humans but many windows and curtains. All were stunning.

 

After I got home and did some googling on Wyeth I was reminded of Helga, a secret German model he had for many years who posed nude for him. He was married, she was married, and neither spouse knew of the painting sessions. I'll have to do some more reading to find out what else occurred, if anything, during those long hours of posing and painting. And there's my gossipy art lesson for the day. 

New York!

My daughter and son-in-law live in Brooklyn, so off to Brooklyn we went for a Friday through Sunday visit. As always, trips to New York give me energy and brighten my mood. Plus, I always come home with memories that seem to get stronger as the days roll by. Such is the power of that city over me.

After we got to Penn Station on Friday we walked the 15+ blocks to Rebecca's office and got a quick tour of the place (I think she prefers that I not literally name the company she works for...they're a bit private). The sculpture currently on display outside the front door is Jeff Koons' Orange Puppy, which last sold for 58 mill. I know, I know, I don't really get it either. The puppy's nose is roughly facing the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center. At Christmas you literally can't walk around easily because of the crowds.

Rebecca was able to take the afternoon off so we hopped on the subway and went to Brooklyn to drop off our bags at the airBNB apartment we rented for the weekend. It was a spacious, funky, and perfect place for us to stay. Comfortable, quiet, good collection of books, nice wall hangings. And a wonderful fish/plant setup! Hard to describe but here it is:

The apt is a yoga studio during the day.

Then we walked to R's apartment to spend time with the grandcats, James and Robert. They are adored and pampered beyond description.

Next we had lunch at a new place in Crown Heights called Berg'n. I had a Breakfast Ramen Burger. Not exactly healthy eating but I've eaten much less healthy things. And oh was it yummy.

Then we walked a bit south to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Wonderful, interesting, pretty in that nice fall'ish way I love:

Dinner that night was in the Park Slope area of Brooklyn at an Italian-Spanish-Portuguese place called Convivium Osteria.... Yum, yum.

On Saturday we got our typical late start and had brunch at R and S's favorite neighborhood restaurant Mayfield. Sort of southern American food (translation: lots of grits).

Next we subwayed into Manhattan and visited a gallery none of us has ever been to before: the Morgan Library and Museum. So many museums in DC and NYC are huge so this was a nice change of pace. And the library...oh that library!

We saw art spanning eight centuries: The Crusader Bible from around 1250, Cy Twombly art from the 1970s (meh), 19th century drawings and paintings by Theodore Rousseau, and a fascinating series of cartoons called From Here to Here: Richard McGuire Makes a Book. This drawing is from the collection: vacuuming woman in curlers is saying "the older I get the less I know." Yep.

The High Line came next. We visited the lower portion of it last year during a winter trip to the city, but we hadn't yet seen the recently completed upper portion. The guys who came up with the idea for turning an abandoned elevated railroad line into a pedestrian walkway filled with plants, benches, and great views deserve all the honors they've been given:

Sean, Becca, and Doug checking out the Hudson River.

 

 

 

After the High Line, we walked around Chelsea and the West Village before ending up at The Strand  ("Home to 18 Miles of Books") in the East Village. That's Doug walking toward the store entrance. I could have stayed for hours.

But we had to be off to the Laura Pels Theater in mid-town to see the Tom Stoppard play Indian Ink. Doug read the play this semester in his British Drama course at the Univ of MD so he was able to fill in many details about the British in India in the 1930s. Here's the stage before the show:

After the play we Ubered back to Brooklyn and had dinner at... I've forgotten where; maybe Mayfield again. Then walked back to the kids' apartment and I took a few shots from the roof. The white building near the center is the Empire State Building.

On Sunday we had another pleasingly late start -- 11 AM. Had coffee at R and S's apartment, and then walked from Crown Heights to Clinton to visit the new bakery of R's good friend Anna. Anna has been in Brooklyn for about 4 years, same as R, and in that span of time she created a cookie business from scratch (ha). In her small Brooklyn apartment kitchen, she started making Dutch cookies called stroopwafels (her newish husband Steve is Dutch) and selling them at street fairs and festivals. She then quit her day job and rented space in an existing bakery, continuing to get new business and expanding into ice cream sandwiches. In September, she opened her own bakery, The Good Batch, on Fulton Street. Can you tell I'm impressed? Local Girl Makes Good in Brooklyn Cookie Biz! Here are Doug, Anna, and Rebecca in the kitchen:

We had another great brunch at a place called Three Letters a few doors down from The Good Batch. I was taken by that picture near the kitchen door. Andre the Giant? I forgot to check.

So that's pretty much the trip. Many great memories. And it's always good for me to leave my comfort zone, as they say. My comfort zone is my couch, which I love almost as much as my new iPhone.

One last shot of the newlyweds walking through mid-town. Aren't they cute?

Like dogs? Easily amused? Check out John Oliver's video of a recent Supreme Court discussion.

I'm still in mourning over the upcoming loss of the in-character Stephen Colbert on the Comedy Channel. But at least I now have John Oliver on Sunday nights.

Shipping container apartments. If I were younger....

 

This shipping container apartment building is in Northeast DC, near the Franciscan Monastery where I spend several hours each Friday in the office sort of working. I read about this apartment and invited a friend to join me in a drive-by inspection after work last week. I had hopes of getting inside to see an actual unit, but they're already rented and occupied. And I wasn't nervy enough to ask the young man carrying in some boxes if we could barge in and check out his place. The building is in walking distance of Catholic University and the residents we saw entering and leaving certainly looked like students.

The idea of living in a shipping container is so appealing. In theory. Though I'm not sure I'd want to be on the top floor in August, even with air conditioning. I'll bet electrical storms are exciting!

 

[This is one of the first pictures I've taken with my new iPhone (oh the fun!); I hope to get better at it when I know what I'm doing. Plus I don't have user-friendly photo editing software right now so my photos are published raw, with no tweaking. I need to tweak.]

Yellow jackets? I think so.

I've had yellow jacket nests before and I just leave them alone. Here's what the USDA says about them:
Yellow Jacket: Yellow jacket wasps (Vespula) are often mistaken for bees. Indeed, some folks call them “meat bees”, but they are in fact social wasps related to hornets and only distantly related to bees. Yellow jackets may on occasion visit flowers (or your water-melon slice) for sugar, but unlike bees, yellow jackets are carnivorous, eating insects, carrion and picnic fare. Hence, they have no brushes or pollen baskets for carrying pollen. They are relatively hairless. Their nests are made of paper, not wax, typically built in shallow underground cavities. In only a few instances are they thought to be pollinators. Like honeybees and bumble bees, yellow jackets have a potent sting. 

Seems odd to have such an active nest appear when the weather has turned coldish, but maybe it was out there hiding from me all summer in my not-well-attended-to back garden.

Exactly what is going on in this ad?

A few Sundays ago I discovered this two-page ad in the New York Times Magazine. Because I often get fixated on meaningless subjects, I've kept the ad and I look at it from time to time. And I have things to say about it. First, the toilet (it's that small white box next to the un-curtained floor-to-ceiling windows). Sure. I'd sit there using that toilet -- called the Numi -- and feel comfortable. Un huh.

But more perplexing is what we, the viewers, are supposed to make of that couple and their non-verbal communication. Is something amorous going on, or soon to go on? Something exhibitionist possibly -- involving that teeny tiny toilet?

The photo was taken at a Los Angeles house called the Stahl House, which has its own (moderately) interesting history.

What is the advertising thinking behind this campaign? I want Peggy Olson and Don Draper to explain it to me. More ads below.

Constipation possibly? Or maybe she's just lost the remote control for this $6,000 toilet.

Giving up traditional shampoo. For no particular reason.

My hair with no shampoo for 7 weeks.

I'm trying a no-shampoo experiment. My last shampoo with a commercial hair product was August 15, 2014.

Here's my history so far:
Aug 16-24, beach vacation: washed hair with ocean water and tap water only.

Aug 25: 1st washing with baking soda solution (2 teaspoons baking soda diluted in 24 oz of water) followed by a vinegar solution rinse (2 teaspoons vinegar diluted in 24 oz of water).
Aug 26-Sept 1: washed with water, every 2nd or 3rd day.
Sept 2: 2nd washing with baking soda/vinegar (BS/V).
Sept 3-9:  washed with water only.
Sept 10: 3rd BS/V washing.
Sept 11-19: water only.
Sept 20: 4th BS/V washing.
Sept 21-27: water only.
Sept 28: 5th BS/V washing. (Added a rosemary water rinse--steep fresh rosemary in boiling water for 15 mins; cool down and rinse hair.)
Sept 29-Oct 4: water only.
Oct 5: 6th BS/V washing, followed by  a rosemary rinse.


This experiment came about without any planning or forethought. Being at the beach reminded me how much better my hair feels and curls up when I'm there. I always think it's the salt water. So by the end of Day 1 at the beach, when I took my first shower, I said "I'll just skip the shampoo." And for the rest of the week, I washed my hair with water only.

When we got home from the beach, I Googled "no shampoo hair wash" and realized that there's a lot written on the subject. A lot. Another blogger I follow, by pure chance, wrote about the no-shampoo method during the week I was at the beach (and offline). So that seemed like a sign from somewhere that I should try this out.

So far my hair feels good, although it didn't really feel bad before I started all this. I do think I notice that it never feels like it needs to be washed. It doesn't feel greasy or flat. It's keeping a curl, or wave actually, better than before. And I think the BS/V might be lightening it a bit because the gray doesn't show as much, and there's a lot of gray on that old head.

I have no faith in much of what I read online, pro or con, about this washing technique. For one thing, there's a lot of questionable chemistry in some of the arguments on either side. But giving up commercial shampoos is attractive to me. I'm suspicious enough to not trust shampoo manufacturers. Do we REALLY need to use those products? Are our scalps and hair dirty unless we use them? If I were religious, I'd ask myself "did Eve suffer because she didn't have L'Oreal to wash her hair with?"

I like the idea of not having to "recycle" the shampoo bottles. (Yeah, right, like plastic bottles truly get recycled; tell me another fairy tale. That's a rant for another day). I like the idea of not putting those chemicals on my body and down the drain into the water supply. I like saving a buck. I like experiments.

There are some scary videos out there about how using baking soda will make your hair fall out. I'm skeptical. Maybe people who put pure baking soda paste on their hair every day or two have problems, but those people are, sorry, stupid. On the other hand, I'm only 7 weeks into this and I may be bald in a month.

About seeing Ben Affleck's penis.

I read the book Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. It was a fun and easy read. The movie version was released yesterday. I'm not interested in seeing the movie (or Ben's penis either), but for those of you who might be, here's a guide to catching a glimpse. Full guide can be found here, on Vulture.com.

3. There will come a time near the very end of the movie when one character suggests that Ben Affleck take a shower. This is your cue! Lurch forward in your chair, elbow your date, pull out a pair of opera glasses, and generally behave in a fashion that you’ll regret later.

4. The other character will then leisurely stroll upstairs, and the next scene begins in media [sic] res in the bathroom, with Affleck shrugging off his clothes as he approaches the shower moving right to left. Focus intently on the screen at this moment. One method of concentration I’d suggest is to open your eyes very wide and emit a high-pitched, unnerving keen, in order to better block out dangerous and distracting external stimuli.

5. Do not look at the other character, who is naked and showering at scene-left. You did not come here for this other character. Know your mission. Memorize it. Say it out loud to yourself in the bathroom mirror before you leave your home.

6. The camera will start a parabolic dive-swoop towards the disrobing Affleck as he pulls off the below-the-waist garments that have previously restricted your visual access to his nethers. You will experience a brief moment of panic and may even find yourself murmuring, “Wait, the camera is rising all of a sudden, am I even gonna see his ass? This movie ticket was $15 and I might not even see a famous person’s ass! Goddammit, Julie!” (Assuming your date's name is Julie.)

7. Relax, because there is the ass. Is it not fine? Smooth, supple, and tinted olive by director of photography Jeff Cronenweth? It is a good ass. The people nod in assent, knowing this in their hearts to be true.

8. You may be tempted to focus on the ass. You cannot. Instead, shift your attention to the furthest-left part of Affleck’s thighs. This is where it will appear. We are close now. Can you feel the anticipation? The moral rot? It is a great thing to feel these things communally at a movie theater.

9. Lo, it appears, in the bottom-middle of the frame, emerging briefly from behind Affleck’s thigh like Tom Cruise’s similarly curious dong in All the Right Moves! We have dick! We have the Affleck dick! Pop some Champagne!

Picture of Ben came from his appearance last night on Real Time with Bill Maher. Ben and Bill (and author Sam Harris) got into a rousing debate about Islam. 

Happy Birthday Bruce! This is what 65 looks like when you love your work.

Actually, he was only 63 and 64 in this video, a compilation of mostly audience shots from his world-wide Wrecking Ball Tour, 2012-2013. As of today, Bruce is on Medicare. Let that sink in, especially those of you who have had Bruce in your life for 30 or 40 years.

One article, full of common sense. I wish it would change my life.

Even my gardens are cluttered. But I think it's OK to clutter a garden.

The stuff clutters the mantels, crowds the table tops, overflows from shelves. It creates confusion, requires constant dusting, and makes no decorative contribution. Everyone ceases to see it. Usually 90 per cent of this clutter is too small to require a second thought. Having it on display is like wearing all the costume jewelry you own at one time. So unless you want to develop a serious case of bric-a-brac mind, the frivolous, petty, small junk must be cleared out.

From How to Keep House, 1948, Mary Davis Gillies.


Place firmly in your mind the protective mantra that if you haven’t felt affection for an object in six months, the unbearable pain you’re feeling at the thought of its demise is a kind of false consciousness. Also, beware of overindulgence in thriftiness, which is very often the first sign of hoarding. Indeed, when I roam my house with receptacles (for donation, recycling, and garbage), I call it my “anti-hoarding” prowl.

From this article on Slate.com.

My milkweed is home to some pretty but unknown (to me) insects. I saw a single Monarch butterfly this summer. One is better than none.