Comeback Attempt

I actually wrote this Wednesday evening, but then I unfortunately discovered that when I tried to place the post in WordPress, using Firefox, nothing happened (and I couldnʼt even access the HTML pane I normally use to paste what I have already typed in Scrivener and exported as HTML). And no matter what I pasted, typed or yelled, whenever I tried to save or preview my new addition, the contents (except for a title) vanished into nothingness.

On Thursday, I tried contacting the WordPress.com support team, but although my message was acknowledged as “flying through cyberspace,” nothing has resulted. And I remain unable (in Firefox) to use WordPress.

So today, just to test and see (while my visiting sister — go on, read the post and you will understand — is working on her own netbook in the living room), I thought I would investigate what might happen if I accessed my WordPress site (not the blog itself but the bloggerʼs own Dashboard site) using Google Chrome. Voilá! Here we are (fortunately I had saved both the original post and its HTML version in CopyPaste Pro).

You may now read what I wrote nearly forty-eight hours ago…

Hmmmm… better than two weeks without a post on old Wakdjunkagaʼs Blog. Not good.

The boom box in our office, showing some of the CDs that we did retain when selling our vinyl records

What was going on? Was I deeply depressed at selling all my records for a mere $263?* Not particularly. But I have been wasting days really proficiently (not the correct word choice, there) every day, and have written nearly nothing of any kind (a few thousand words smartpenned as a kind of journal/diary and the starts of two different stories). But no blog posts.

And this one wonʼt be much. I have but a few minutes to do anything, having made tomorrowʼs lunch for The Lovely One (and our breakfast as well) and just now listened to the weather report (we may be expecting frost tonight — a significantly better** chance tomorrow night). She-Who-Must is working out, and as soon as she calls to let me know sheʼs on her way home, I need to fill the birdbath, which has gone bone dry (mostly because the soft ground has left the durned thing uneven, so when I fill it, the birds only end up with about half the water they should).

My sister is arriving sometime after 7:00 for a brief visit (actually, she has a meeting in Dubuque tomorrow and worked us in as free housing and a chance to see each other before moving on to my Aunt Alaireʼs Saturday for Easter celebrations). So I am simply making myself take a brief slack of time to actually compose something to comprise a post.

This is it. (Maybe Iʼm back.)

Happy birthday, Stephen!

* (My brother David says he thinks theyʼll pull the couple dozen actually important records from the collection and sell those for a lot more than what they paid me for all of them. But as I suggested in the post previous, I had no interest in figuring out what might actually be valuable and then trying to sell those on eBay or wherever, whatever.)

** Perhaps I should say, “worse.” With spring having sprung in a major way a month early (or six weeks), we donʼt particularly want any frost. [Good Friday addition — we did get the frost and I did cover a few of our smaller plants last night.]

Today, Good Friday, this day that this post actually goes up, is also my brother Stephenʼs birthday — so “Happy Birthday” to him!!

©2012 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

$263

Apparently, my youth, it turns out, is worth exactly $263.

Perhaps I should say my “sonic youth” (of sorts).

Our lovely new “media storage cabinet” that required the disposal of my youthful recorded-musical heritage

Recently, within less than the last year, My Beloved got us to purchase a new rotating “media cabinet” on which to store our CDs, DVDs and VHS tapes (and, yes, we do have VHS tapes and perhaps more remarkably the devices on which to play them — still functional). Although the item sat in its rather large, six-foot-tall (and better-than-three-feet-wide) box, leaned against one of my (numerous) overstuffed bookshelves in our basement, for an embarrassingly large number of months, we put it together sometime before Christmas and installed as many of the “media” as we could. Sadly, that left a lot of CDs still roaming our house in boxes (and some more or less neatly stored beneath the oversized boom box that serves as one of our stereo systems these days). All well and good and for the most part neat and tidy.

Unfortunately the media storage unit dwells in a spot formerly occupied by a knocked-together shelf unit rescued once upon a time from the disposal pile after some play or another.* And on those shelves were the remnants of our (mostly my) sonic youth — all of our vinyl record albums, roughly 400 of them.

Glorified boom-box stereo in “the office” and associated CDs in what Janet considers appropriate storage containers

In order to construct and place the media storage unit, we had to remove all of the records and locate the not-a-bookshelf elsewhere (itʼs still more or less empty and its destiny still in limbo). The records, lovingly acquired from my sophomore year in high school through college and early career and our marriage until the late Eighties (or whenever vinyl thirty-three-and-a-third RPM records went out of use), along with a few cases of the cassette tapes that took those recordsʼ place in our audio lives in the Eighties and Nineties,** filled seven boxes (each long-ago holding four six-packs of Guinness Extra Stout, long since consumed). We stowed the record-filled boxes in a small chamber off the basement we call “my room” (or in Janetʼs case, “your little room,” always said with a faint or strong tone of repulsion and disgust, as itʼs there in those overcrowded confines that everything I wonʼt throw away even when she finds it no longer desirable, in any manner, in our regular lives, goes to dwell in darkness — including most of my school clothes, even during the days when I was yet teaching).

When I recently discovered that the boxes, stacked in two once-moderately-neat piles, had begun to rip at the corners (from the burdensome weight), it was decided*** that I must soon take them to Half-Price Books to sell. Now the nearest Half-Price Books is Cedar Rapids, roughly an hour away, but that destination for our (mostly my) once-beloved recordings seemed the most profitable possible (as I had no interest whatsoever in listing each record for sale on eBay).

Box Sets of CD music kept near at hand in the office, along with, of course, books

On Sunday I lugged the (amazingly heavy) boxes, one at a time (I said they were astoundingly weighty), to the bed of my truck and called the number for our nearest Half-Price Books store to be sure they did indeed have interest in purchasing a load of 400 vinyl records (I counted 56 cardboard sleeves in one box, one of which was George Harrisonʼs three-album set, All Things Must Pass, ignoring the plastic container of audio cassettes that really served just to keep everything stable but which were going to be gone as well). They did (uh, have an interest in buying my record library — in case we lost the track of that thought).

So this morning, having sent The Lovely One on her way to work, I clambered into the cab of the truck and drove off into the glorious day (highs in the seventies all week and into next — globally warmed, shortsighted bliss for mid-March, indeed) for the trip to the big city. Upon arrival I carried the seven boxes, once again (staggeringly ponderous) singly to the purchase counter, where an attractive young lady observed, as she got my name and my government-issued photo ID, that I had a lot of pop/rock,**** which is what sold well, and that was good. Then she sent me to wander the stacks while they assessed my auditory existence in seven Guinness boxes…

assorted CDs unable to fit in suitable storage elsewhere — including some in, unsurprisingly, a Guinness box

I had left about 8:30, and in just three hours I was back at home (an hour each way for the drive and an hour in the store as the lovely young ladies***** behind the purchase counter appraised my hoard). I got my seven Guinness boxes back, and I found seven books to buy myself (a complete OʼNeill in three Library of America volumes; Richard Wright in two LOA books; a DK guide to eastern American birds — at Janetʼs request, as we have observed some unidentified little eaters at our birdfeeders this early spring, not house sparrows or cardinals, red-wing blackbirds or crows; and volume one of the Mark Twain Autobiography).

And I got paid $263****** for all my vinyl Beatles, Clash, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Rolling Stones, Sex Pistols, Bob Seger, The Who, Yes, Warren Zevon and all the other bands and individuals whose music we (but mostly I) had acquired, enjoyed, endured, and sometimes forgotten during our teens, twenties and thirties.

Farewell, youth.

* (we have totally forgotten when or how that long-suffering servant of our storage needs was originally acquired)

** (but decisively not the compact disks that took the place of those former recorded-music formats)

*** Please note that evasive and nonaccusatory use of the passive voice…

**** We had decided that we would retain the relatively slim collection of classical and jazz we had on vinyl for future ditigization to iTunes (our turntable is still connected to the computer, along with the cord for another boom box for cassettes) and possible later discard to H-P Books.

***** None of whom, I observed instantly, had sufficient years to even recognize Savoy Brown, Brewer & Shipley, John Sebastian, King Crimson, Mason Proffit, Gypsy, Starcastle or Uriah Heep (just to pick a few not utterly obscure albums). Moby Grape…

****** (roughly a lousy half-dollar per album, gratuitous cassettes included — such is the price of [this oneʼs] juvenescence, in actual fact)

©2012 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful!

Today is My Belovedʼs birthday. I noted the event a couple years ago with some verse. This year things are a little different, stranger. 

Birthday snow — still falling

The Lovely One is still at work, as she was last year and the year before, and… But her birthday dawned with a dark foreboding: suddenly yesterday afternoon, the weathermen began predicting a big winter storm to sweep through the region this afternoon and evening. We were predicted to receive eight, maybe ten inches of snow.

And just that quickly, our plans for her big day today began to crumble. Her parents and I were going to have lunch with her in Dubuque, and then this evening she and I were going out for dinner at what has become her favorite restaurant, in Bellevue. Fast-falling snow would cancel those plans.

Upon arising this morning the radio (and the local TV news, too, when I checked) had reduced the anticipated snowfall to a mere three to five inches, but it was still heading in, slated to begin, presumably, around noon — bad timing for our plans.

So she left this morning a little down at the mouth, intending to devise some way to go out for lunch on her own, determined that we would figure out something for supper instead of our planned outing. However, by 10:00 AM, nothing had developed, and her mom called to say that they were planning to go on up to Dubuque. Although Janet had delegated me with the job of deterring them, I failed, and the lunchtime gathering was still on. So I quickly dressed and headed myself up that way on good old Highway 61.

Disassembled birdbath and birdfeeders in the snow

Lunch went off wonderfully. The parents-in-law presented their daughter with two Grant Wood prints (she had been seeking some for our living room but only found $10,000 originals available online, even, or particularly, on eBay). I had sent her last-minute flowers to substitute in lieu (I had thought) my less-than-flower-bright, uncolorful presence over lunch. Our lovely and thoughtful waitress Lisa even brought out a (free) strawberry shortcake with a candle to conclude the meal. Lunch was great, and Janet enjoyed herself remarkably.

And both the Nortons and I got home (in rain) without weather incident.

Unfortunately, as my pictures for today reveal, the snow has arrived. Heading out to get our mail, I even scraped nearly an inch off the driveway already (and that was before 3:00 PM our local time). Janet will have to drive with care when she gets finished working for the day. And a drive to Bellevue* seems unwise right now…

I guess there was at least one more gasp in the winter season this year. And we should have expected it would arrive at perhaps the worst possible time.

Oh, well. Happy Birthday, My Precious.

* And there is a whole ʼnother tale about that restaurant (not going belly up as we had feared yesterday, when no one answered my phone calls to ensure we had a table tonight and when I discovered their website was gone, the domain name available for sale) but not being what it once was, having lost the outstanding chef who made the meals the awesome experiences they had been.

©2012 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Budapest, Day 3 (part 2) — digressive

Budapest reminiscences continue (more or less) today. I left off yesterday with us at the Deák Ferenc tér Metro stop, having purchased our seven-day travel passes (even though we had just five days left on our trip, counting this national holiday on Sunday, October 23, 2011). So we continue…

The Number 2 tram, whizzing by this befuddled photographer by night — taken a few days after Sunday, October 23

Then it was time to reascend to the surface and visit (Janetʼs wish) the cheese festival, which in the drizzle of early afternoon was closing up. So all we did was wander among the booths, smelling food, watching people, perusing some Hungarian handicrafts, and making silly Wallace-and-Gromit “cheese” gestures at each other. Perhaps another half hour passed. Then we crossed our busy avenue over to the big synagogue (using my map, I had figured out what it was), but it was closed for the holiday (we had vaguely hoped it was open, having been closed as usual for the Sabbath the day before).* We decided to return there tomorrow, probably. So we wandered off on side streets, desultorily visiting the Jewish Quarter in the slightly increasing drizzle/mist/haze of moisture. 

Holiday (or demonstrating) crowd on October 23, 2011

The thing I havenʼt sufficiently emphasized about our Sunday/national holiday experience was the slightly (very) menacing fact of growing crowds, police presence — tape, military-like cops, vehicles — and physical preparations for rallies. The vague menace arose from our hotel desk staffʼs apparent concern about the then-upcoming “demonstrations” about which we were not supposed to worry, but from which their list of alternative activities was designed to keep us away. Elizabeth Square, a very nice block-long and block-wide park, had actual construction ongoing (carpenters pounding and powered saws squealing — building a platform, possibly a stage), and there was a steady flow of hundreds (and hundreds) of people down one or two (relatively minor) streets toward the river. We could tell that something was going to happen — actually, as it turned out, several somethings. But we didnʼt learn that until later. We didnʼt personally experience anything about demonstrations or rallies until later. 

Once we finished our tour of rundown grey buildings on curving, narrow trafficless streets, nonetheless parked with Euro cars from end to end, both sides, driverʼs side wheels up on the sidewalk (which turned out once we consulted a map later on, to be the Jewish Quarter), we wandered southwards, eventually arriving by the Great Market Hall — a location we ended up at often over our week in town. My ignorant semi-study of guidebook transit maps (and reading) indicated that the Number 2 Tram along the Pest side of the Danube was scenic, so we hopped aboard a northbound one at Liberty Bridge. 

I rather enjoy public transit. Janet is less sure about buses and now, after Budapest, trams. Admittedly, I have a record of getting us… not exactly lost but far from known regions, a history extending back to the end-of-the-line debacle in Amsterdam in 1983 (we did get back; we just had to get off and wait for the tram to turn around and the driver to take a break), through an extended bus ride into the wilds of East London, possibly beyond the zones permitted on our TravelCards (but we did hop off after questioning the conductor and did get on a returning bus right back to Oxford Street; and the areas we were “lost” in were really just working class, not slums at all — regardless how paranoid we were feeling or oddly other passengers were eyeing us), through the incident I am about to relate in Budapest, to an extensive bus ride, intended as a brief escape from the rain, in Chicago over New Years (which also involved reaching the turnaround point on the loop, where the driver parked and took a fifteen-minute — Janet says half-hour — break). The problem is that bus and tram routes are generally shown only partially on maps, particularly in tourist guidebooks, but even on some official transit maps (not that we had any in Budapest and only Michigan Avenue tourista ones at New Years), so figuring where a particular bus or tram might go can become an issue of mere guesswork.

My beloved does, on the other hand, like subways, in general. And I think the London Underground and its much imitated schematic colored map is one reason. For most subways, Metros, the Underground, the Tube you can figure pretty easily where your line is going and even pretty exactly what stops to expect (Chicagoʼs Red Line proved at New Years to be a partial exception to my rule — no posted route map in the car, just advertising). 

The number 2 tram — shot, as the blue sky should reveal, a few days later

But Budapest is our topic. We got aboard the #2 heading (if I can even remember at this remove, nearly three full months after the fact) north toward Parliament. Our vehicle/car was fairly crowded (I know we had to stand — we invariably did on trams), and the view was not very impressive, especially out over the gray river on this gray and drizzly day. We could easily see Buda over there, but rushing by as we moved along. The Pest side was mostly just walls and barriers between us and stuff (like Parliament), although we did get a good, quick glimpse of the Gresham Palace and Roosevelt tér race past. I donʼt remember how far north we went, maybe to Margit híd (bridge by Margaret Island), maybe farther, then back to the south.

This southward trip was the first taste of misadventure, as somewhere south of Szabadság híd,** at what must be the Közvágóhíd terminus, in territory that seemed unfriendly beyond unfamiliar (our typical tourist paranoia arising from going beyond the regular tourist regions, just the same as the uncomfortable London double-decker tour to East London in 2001 and just the same as our worst moments later in that holiday Sunday afternoon), having to wait and catch a different set of cars to go back northwards, we both started getting nervous. Reaching the end of the line was surprising.

Possibly, the gloomy overcast and pall of threatened “demonstrations” infected our moods, but we both felt out of place. Honestly, a (very) little scared.

We got off our dead-ended tram and wandered across tracks to two other trams that seemed to be headed, eventually, back to the north and the city center. But we couldn’t easily decide which one to get on. Hesitation and fretting led to us following a few other travelers (local citizens) onto one of the cars, which after another five or ten minutes did start back up the same way we had come down. Janet wanted off once we reached Elizabeth Bridge/Vörosmarty tér, and with my now aged notion of visiting outside one of the baths, I said we should catch a 47 or 49 tram across the Danube to Buda and see the Gellért Baths.

We caught the tram easily enough, but baths we did not see, although we got to see what The Lovely One considered altogether too much of the city/suburbs south of Buda. Probably ten or twelve stops too much.

But that will have to be tomorrowʼs tale (or sometime). Weʼre well over a thousand words today.

* (Perhaps, knowing something about the paired left- and [more importantly, probably] right-wing demonstrations scheduled for the holiday, and the proximity — of the just-then-arriving right-wingers in Erszébet tér — to the synagogue, they had wisely shut up shop this Sunday. Some security was still in evidence, too.)

** (Freedom Bridge on Vámház körút, which led around through Kálvin tér becoming first Múzeum körút, then Károly körút — the big, wide street we had encountered looking for Deák tér and the metro ticket booth — the route I think we had followed more or less until we picked up the northbound No. 2)

©2012 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Pretty Nice Christmas

Margaret nearly buried amidst the wrapping paper

The Lovely One and I traveled to the middle of Our Fair State to celebrate Christmas with my side of the family, departing on Saturday, Christmas Eve, and returning on Monday/yesterday. The drive both directions was lovely — brilliant days with scarcely a cloud in the sky (Christmas itself was utterly clear with a sky of a deep wedgewood-blue. And warm, well over 40°F).

We gathered at my brother Paul (and wife Nancy)ʼs place because, as a minister “Pastor Paul” had work to over those days — even with his co-pastor undertaking her regular duties, he was presiding at a total of four services, two on Saturday (Janet and I attended the rural churchʼs candlelight service that began at 4:00 PM) and two more on Sunday, including the afternoon Spanish service. Meals, times together, Christmas Day stockings and gifts were scattered between trips to church — plentifully. I had a good time and some excellent visits. Janet found this year especially pleasant, too.

David, Jess and Tim

Besides my generation (sister Margaret, the pastor himself and brother David), both of Paulʼs offspring (Rachel and Tim, with Timʼs relatively new wife Jessica enjoying her first Burrow Christmas) were present — nine of us altogether. Our hosts were actually able to get us all around their dining room table at one time, several times (an achievement of which Janet was particularly envious). Maybe we were a bit crowded in the living room for gift opening, but that just made the time more cozily enjoyable. And we even got to each speak with the absent brother Stephen about 6:00 PM on Christmas.

Paul, Janet, Rachel and Nancy

As the photos reveal, sharing British-style (China-produced) Christmas crackers has become a favorite part of the Burrow Christmas stocking stuffing. Although the crackers usually donʼt pop when pulled, we love putting all our crowns (contained within the cracker) on our heads (mine atop my Guinness cap) as we read the lamely punning riddles and check out the little “presents” that also spill out when the ends of the cracker get pulled apart. I have a little, plastic three-inch ruler that might actually come in handy.

Christmas Day was a wildly enjoyable time. Trite, but, tritely, true, too.

Isnʼt that an ash? — The cerulean Christmas sky beyond a tree in the parsonage yard.

And it didnʼt hurt that, even though My Beloved and I had agreed on “no presents” between the two of us this year, I made out like a bandit, including ironically two live Jefferson Airplane albums (that I hadnʼt even specifically asked for, from Rachel, which I am listening to as I type — just not on the computer, natch) and an iTunes gift card. Harold Lamb Cossack adventures, Guinness, The Moonstone on DVD and a Joseph Smith biography completed my personal portion of the hoard. The Lovely One may have done even better, and weʼll be eating on on several restaurant gift certs. I believe my spouse feels as lushly rewarded this Christmas as I do.

I hope everyone else felt as over-satisfied with their hauls.

Then, once this pair of Burrows had cruised back across half our state home, Janet and I opened the presents from her side of the family. The plethora and over-plus of generous abundance persisted bountifully. Among other treats, I am contemplating for suppers this week several recipes from the Sheryl Crow cookbook Janet received, and my hands are warm in my new fingerless wool gloves, typing this, as I ponder how to spend a new B&N gift card. Wow. (And thereʼs more, but Iʼll restrain my greedy gloating.)

Anyway, the best part was seeing so many relatives (both sides — counting our visit to Janetʼs folks the previous weekend).

My best seasonal wishes to everyone out there (a little belated, perhaps).

Now the lengthening days bring us toward the yearʼs end…

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

The Festival of Lights Begins

The Lovely One and Wak on Chain Bridge, Budapest, by night

Happy Chanukah, one and all.

My fair city celebrates the beginning of the eight nights with brief appearances by two of the dimmest, densest and most Dextreme of the Republican candidates vying for the GOP Presidential nomination — Michele Bachmann and Rick Perry.* Although extremely tempted to attend their noxious appearances in Our Town and batter them with difficult but justified questions, I will instead merely note their undesirable presences here and instead buy some groceries (pop, made almost affordable with a coupon, and if available, some cauliflower and broccoli to be made, perhaps tomorrow, into a veg curry Iʼve been intending to invent**). At my belovedʼs unstated request, I will leave the two disappointed wannabes to preen unhindered and pristinely unrealistic for the intended, fawning audience they have come to stroke.

some of each kind of the mentioned possible Chanukah reading, skill-lessly posed for your pleasure

Anyway, I thought Iʼd make a brief post (at long last) to commemorate the start of the holiday. Having unintentionally, as I once mentioned, nearly terrified my mother that I might convert to Judaism (thanks to my growing collection of books, actually read and often annotated, on the subject), when I realize that another of the many holidays, High Holy Days, or festivals has come around again, I take gentle notice and sometimes pull out my English Mishnah or Tanakh (or portion thereof) or Kabbalah and while away (or possibly waste) an afternoon or evening or several in pseudo-religious reverie/not exactly study. (Of course, for all their supposed devotion to Israel — merely in reality to fulfill their Fundamentalist-nonsense silly end-times schedules/programs — my aforementioned Christian Right intolerants in the region today would  probably eviscerate me for such, however idle, behavior — certainly so if I chose instead to peruse the Qurʼan for equally indolent, valid, scholarly reasons.)

[I donʼt think, looking at the books I have chosen to photograph, that I ever told about our honeymoon. The Lovely One had intended for us to vacation in Bermuda, a place to which I have never yet gone, right after our marriage in 1982. We had planned to wed on the Saturday following the final teacher workshop and head directly off that Sunday to bliss in the Atlantic. That was the year that our then-superintendent in Andrew famously could not count to 180, the necessary number of days required by the state of Iowa for a school to hold students in attendance each year, and we endured a really harsh winter with about a dozen snow days.*** Both situations extended the school year in fits and starts that finally prohibited yet one more rescheduling of our tropical honeymoon. So instead, we went to (not exactly) exotic and not-so-distant Minneapolis for a week (a full week after our wedding), and during our stay my new bride accompanied me to several Jewish bookstores — particularly Brochinʼs from which the Artscroll Ecclesiastes and the first volume of the Seder Moed derived.**** I got a lot of peculiar looks as I perused the shelves, but The Lovely One, who fancies she has some of the appropriate ethnic look, was accepted quite merrily. Irrelevantly, but perhaps connected to another religion, it was also on that trip that I had to leave the new wife alone in a middle eastern restaurant, sipping many cups of Turkish coffee, while I hurried back to our hotel room to retrieve my forgotten wallet as quickly as I could so we could pay for our meal.]

And that concludes our Chanukah portion of todayʼs post.

I havenʼt forgotten to continue my Budapest travelogue; I have just gotten wasteful of my time (again, as usual — the unfortunate theme of this year that I am trying to change — again — just now). I had thought that I had written roughly four days of our experience in Hungary, but I discovered that I was mistaken. I had merely taken notes to help myself remember what we did each day; thus the chore of recapturing and writing about the splendid (if wet) week abroad got harder, hard enough for me to forget to accomplish any further posts.

However, I do intend to correct that lapse into inauthentic laxity (and addictive behavior, wasting my time online — curse you, Mark Zuckerberg), although in searching the blog for the links included today, I also realize that this yearʼs posts have developed a sad and sorry theme of “Iʼll write on that — whatever-‘that’-may-be — soon”).

So we have a climactic cliffhanger. Will the decrepit old man actually keep to his intentions for once and complete the travelogue? Or, typically for 2011, not?

Find out soon. (But not tomorrow, as I already have a post prepared, promised, via snail mail, to some fifty supposedly eager recipients of Burrow Christmas cards.)

* And the other Rick keeps stomping around the state, pointlessly, as well, speaking today just down Dylanʼs Highway 61 in Bettendorf (or Davenport — I donʼt remember which, although I am sure that local news anchor Gary Metevier will mumble his way wretchedly through a pointless story about Santorumʼs visit).

**  — not really: it will be merely a version of the fish (or chicken) curry I mentioned a year ago. Even so, such variation is (or well may be) experimental for me.

*** And we did indeed in those distant days march manfully to school through at least three feet of snow, uphill both ways.

**** Both the hardback Mishnah in the picture and the paperback on the Sefer Yetzirah are later acquistions.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.