Love the Hat! It's a Good Look For You.

Here's an Associated Press photo of Texas Governor Rick Perry talking to a group of Texas sheriffs on July 26. (Perry is the one without a cowboy hat.)



This photo reminds me of the Smothers Brothers' version of "The Streets of Laredo":

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a young cowboy all dressed in white linen,
All dressed in white linen as cold as the clay.

(Dick Smothers): I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.
(Tom Smothers): I see by your outfit you are a cowboy, too.
(Both): We see by our outfits that we are both cowboys.
If you get an outfit, you can be a cowboy, too.

The Thing Itself

A friend recently mentioned a trip she had taken to Morocco, which reminded me of my trip to Morocco many years ago.

I was traveling alone, and my trip to Morocco began with a ride on the ferry from Algeciras, Spain across the strait to Tangier, Morocco. The weather was blustery, sunny, and very hazy, and the sea was choppy. I was leaning on the rail looking south towards Africa when I noticed through the haze in the distance off to my left a dense mass, like a mountain, jutting up from the ocean. It probably didn't take me but a matter of seconds to put two and two together and figure out what it had to be, but while I was working on the problem I experienced a moment of disorientation--that feeling of a rug being pulled out from under me--that I'll always remember. What I was seeing didn't match at all the only depiction I had ever seen of the Rock of Gibraltar: it did not bear the slightest resemblance to the logo of the Prudential Insurance Company.

As a boy, I had sometimes watched "The Twentieth Century," hosted by Walter Cronkite on Sunday afternoons and sponsored by Prudential. I'm not sure how the subject had come up back then, but I believe my father had explained to me that the big mountain-looking thing in the Prudential logo (although the word "logo" was unknown to us then) was the Rock of Gibraltar. Maybe he told me something else about it. I didn't give it much thought after that. But like everyone else, I saw the Prudential logo all around me as I grew up.

But the mountain I saw rising out of the sea in the distance through the haze as I rode the ferry didn't look anything like the Rock of Prudential. Prudential's graphic designers had picked just the right point of view for a very effective composition that has stood the test of time. But as I was looking toward the east, my point of view had been selected by no one. The shape the Rock presented to me was completely different from the Prudential logo, and I didn't recognize it at all.

I've thought often about that brief instant of mental vertigo I felt when I discovered the real Rock of Gibraltar. It still makes me squirm a little to remember my first glimpse of that giant, misshapen, hazy hulk that I was completely unprepared to recognize.

Prudential's logo today

There's a poem by Wallace Stevens entitled "Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself." The title reminds me of my encounter with the Rock of Gibraltar, but the poem itself is completely beyond my comprehension. If you want to take a crack at it, you can find it here: http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/not-ideas.html

By the way, in addition to being a serious poet, Wallace Stevens was a successful corporate lawyer and insurance company executive. But not for Prudential. He was a vice president specializing in investment banking for Hartford Accident and Indemnity Co.

Just a Cave

We were passing through San Marcos this past weekend and decided to take a side trip to Natural Bridge Caverns. I’ve passed by the billboards advertising those caverns dozens of times without giving them much thought, figuring that the caverns couldn’t amount to much—certainly not compared to Carlsbad Caverns, which I’ve seen once or twice.

But S thought the kids would enjoy seeing the caverns.

While we were lined up with the other tourists on the sloping walkway waiting to head down into the mouth of the cave, my younger daughter, fresh from Disneyworld, asked me if there was going to be a movie. I told her no. Then she asked if there was going to be a ride. “No, honey. It’s just a cave.”

It was a pretty good cave, though. Lots of stalagmites and stalactites with fanciful names, as you would expect. There were some very big rooms. Water dripping on us from time to time. I jokingly asked my older daughter if the water dripping on us meant that a stalagmite would start growing on us. She dismissed the possibility quickly and perhaps didn’t realize I was joking.

It was quite a long walk in and out and down and up. About a mile in all. I didn’t think my younger daughter would make it on her own, but she did. Both girls were excited to be there.

I don’t actually remember all that much about Carlsbad Caverns, but I’m sure—because it is more famous—that it must be bigger and more spectacular than the little Natural Bridge Caverns of San Marcos. But Natural Bridge Caverns were the caverns that we had handy Sunday afternoon, and they suited us just fine. Comparisons to grander caves a thousand miles away would be pointless.

I Guess He Read the Book

Marine General James Mattis has been selected to head Central Command in Afghanistan.

Earlier, while stationed in Iraq, he had a meeting with tribal leaders during which he made the following statement:

"I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes: If you f— with me, I'll kill you all."




Source: http://news.yahoo.com/s/weeklystandard/20100712/cm_weeklystandard/thecomingstudentloandebacle

I Am Eccentric and My Life Complex

The only thing I know, or ever intend to know about the Chinese zodiac is what I’ve learned from reading the paper placemats at Chinese restaurants while waiting for my food. They all say the same thing.

Unlike the Western zodiac, the Chinese zodiac doesn’t divide the year into different periods. Instead, it gives each year its own sign until it uses up twelve signs in the twelfth year and then it starts over again. Thus, everyone born in the same year has the same sign, and the signs are named after animals—the rat, the snake, the sheep, etc. All the animals in the Chinese zodiac are real except for one. I'm proud to say that in the Chinese zodiac I'm the one imaginary animal--the Dragon.

Being a Dragon makes up some for the fact that in the Western zodiac I’m the most embarrassing of signs, a Virgo. I’ve never studied the subject in any detail, because I don’t believe any of this stuff, but Virgos are usually made to sound like very unpleasant people. I much prefer the thought of being a Dragon.

Over the years of eating lots of Chinese food, I’ve learned verbatim all that a placemat can teach me about Dragons, except for the important parts. Here’s what the placemats say to Dragons: “You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Marry a [some animal I don’t remember] late in life. Avoid the [some other animal I don’t remember].”

I did in fact marry late in life, but I didn’t marry the animal the placemats say I should have married. It’s worked out okay so far, though.

Genesis 1:14

"Sometimes we’d have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark—which was a candle in a cabin window—and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two—on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done."

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter 19; by Mark Twain

A Quiet, Intimate Little Blog

Things are pretty quiet in here. Just as well. Crowds make me nervous.

Which reminds me of a joke.

Seems there was a man (out of respect for his privacy, I will refer to him only as “K”) who became fed up with the rat race and the general decline of Western Civilization and moved out to the country. Way out in the country. His closest neighbor lived miles away, in fact. Shortly after his move, one of his neighbors, Farmer Joe, dropped by for a visit. After exchanging pleasantries, Farmer Joe brought up the subject of a party he was having at his place that night.

“Anyway,” said Farmer Joe, “I would surely be pleased if you could come.”

“I’d love to,” said K.

“We’ll cook some barbecue, play some music, do some dancing. You like country music?”

“You bet!” said K. “‘Kindly keep it country, don’t wanna hear no symphony!’” he said, mimicking the song.

“How about rock ‘n roll?”

“Of course. Rock on!”

“Uh . . . right. Now, I do need to mention,” said Farmer Joe, “there will be alcohol in various forms served, and things may get a little rowdy. There have been occasions in the past when some fisticuffs broke out.”

“That’s okay,” said K. “I figure I can take care of myself all right.”

“Well, I figured you probably could. Oh, and one more thing. As the night wears on, there’s liable to be a little hanky-panky, if you know what I mean.” Farmer Joe playfully elbows K in the ribs. “I hope you won’t be offended.”

K chuckled a bit. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know the score.”

“Great!” said Farmer Joe. “I’ll look for you around 7:00.” Farmer Joe starts to leave when K calls him back.

“Hey, what should I wear?” asks K.

“Oh, whatever you want. It’s just going to be you and me.”

Our Dog the Abstract Expressionist

We have a pathetic little dog named Max. My wife acquired him years ago from some people who kept him on a short chain in their front yard through all kinds of weather, including the most inclement. Finally, Susan had enough of watching their neglect of the dog, knocked on their door, and asked them if they really wanted him. They admitted that they didn’t and gave him to Susan there on the spot.

But no good deed goes unpunished.

We believe Max is a poodle-schnauzer mix. Or something. He has long black and white hair and an extreme under bite that makes his lower jaw jut out, giving him the profile of a grouper. The protruding lower teeth are crooked and yellow. We don’t know how old he is.

He has cataracts and he sleeps with his eyes open. When he's asleep, his staring, cloudy eyes and his limbs splayed out in all directions make him look for all the world like he has shuffled off to the next plane. But so far he has never turned out to have been sincerely dead.

Max has no manners at all. Someone could say that’s our fault, and maybe it is, but I think his earlier life had left him largely untrainable by the time my wife rescued him. He erupts into barking fits at the slightest provocation and charges people who come to our door. It's embarrassing.

He's expensive to maintain, because he has allergy problems. The allergy problems and the scratching they provoke make him stink most of the time. You don’t have to get close to him to smell him; you can just walk into a room where he is and immediately want to do an about-face. My wife bathes him several times a week, but it seems like each bath kills the stink for only an hour or two. She takes him to the vet for cortisone shots for his allergies, but the vet says it’s dangerous to give the shots too often, so Max often suffers severely from the allergies near the end of the period of the shots’ effectiveness. And the harder he scratches, the more he stinks. When the shots stop working and we’re still waiting for the time to come when it’s okay to give the shots again, we can only rely on the allergy pills, hidden in Cheez-Whiz. They don’t work very well, but at least he enjoys the Cheez-Whiz.

Apparently, Max’s butt itches a lot, despite Susan’s diligence in keeping him medicated with worm medicine. So it’s not unusual to see him scooting along the floor to scratch his butt. It would be funny to watch if he were someone else’s dog in someone else’s house. For some reason it reminds me of the late Michael Jackson doing the moon walk.

Because Max has long hair, his feces occasionally get caught in the hair around his rear end. We send him to the groomer often to try to keep his hair short, but there’s only so much we can do. And my wife bathes him often. But still.

Most of the house has wood floors, and you can imagine that if you were a dog looking for a place to scratch your butt, you wouldn’t want to do it on a wood floor. Thus Max’s favorite, indeed exclusive place to scoot is the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom; he likes the nubby texture. I’m sure you can see where this is going. He’s got feces caught in his long hair. He scoots on the carpet. He leaves skid marks.

For a long time, it would gross us out when he left a skid mark on the carpet, and we would call the carpet cleaners right away (since our do-it-yourself efforts at getting the stain out never worked very well). But the carpet cleaners are expensive, and over time we’ve learned to ignore the skid marks for longer and longer periods before calling the carpet cleaners. And that means more skid marks accumulate, all in the same place.

There are more skid marks at the entrance to our bedroom right now than I believe there have ever been at any one time. In this most recent episode, I first noticed one brown line that started faintly at the edge of the carpet, grew darker and bolder as it extended further into the bedroom, curved, and then faded away. A few weeks later, I noticed another line that crossed the first and made a curving, loose, stylized “X.” Now this started to get my attention. Then another one or two short lines showed up, intersecting one of the two main lines of the “X.” Each line varied in thickness and darkness in soft, subtle ways, almost like calligraphy. And because there are several overlapping skid marks, I’ve started to see them as forming patterns--which means I’m looking at them as though they were art. The pattern of skid marks reminds me a little bit of the “action painting” of Jackson Pollock.

Jackson Pollock at work

Pollock was more extravagant than Max has been, though. Max takes a more minimalist approach.

MAX, Dogshit Composition No. 1, 2010

I should say it’s minimalist so far, since it’s a work in progress. I suppose if we tolerate it long enough before calling the carpet cleaners, it might start to compare with Pollock in the density of the work, and the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom might start to look like one of Pollock’s finished paintings.

JACKSON POLLOCK, Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist), 1950

But I’m pretty sure we won’t let it go that far.