We all like to think ourselves safe from the depredations of common criminals, particularly if we reside in suburban America, but a few days ago, I had an experience that shattered my faith in both the pastoral character of my neighborhood and the general usefulness of my dog.
Sometime just after noon, I was walking home from the grocery store with a sack containing six pork chops that I had planned to barbecue for dinner, when suddenly I was waylaid by a felonious cur who demanded that I hand over my package. Fearing for my life, I naturally gave the miscreant my parcel, and he ran off with it in the general direction of my house. However, just before the varlet seized what was to have been my evening repast, I took a photograph of him with my cell phone camera, a copy of which I have posted immediately below this paragraph.
Alas, as everyone can see, the villain cleverly disguised himself with a mask, and so I could not identify either the individual dog or his breed. After fruitlessly searching for this canine criminal for the better part of two hours, I decided to return home to enlist Jack, my Border Collie, in the task of bringing this malefactor to justice. In this hope, I was to be bitterly disappointed.
I entered my house and yelled, “Jack, come quickly, I’ve been robbed!,” but my loyal dog failed to appear. After calling him a few more times, I walked to the back of the house, and there he was, napping on my bed. I called to him yet again, and he opened one eye and said, “Please, leave me alone. I’m trying to digest a rather hefty meal.” I was surprised that he had eaten, since he usually waits for suppertime to arrive before ingesting anything substantial, but he is sometimes a mysterious dog.
“Listen,” I persisted, “I was coming home with a sack of pork chops, when a malevolent mutt accosted me and ran off with them. Here, look at this photograph of him that I took with my cell phone camera.”
He dragged himself off the bed, yawned loudly, and then condescended to scrutinize the picture. After examining it for a long moment, he said, “Beastly cunning of him to wear the mask, since it disguises him so completely, and while I cannot identify either the dog or his breed, I must say that he is an uncommonly resourceful and devilishly handsome rogue.”
“You’re neither grading an aptitude test nor judging a beauty contest,” I insisted, “but given what might be termed his somewhat foppish appearance, do you think that he could be a renegade poodle?”
For some reason, Jack winced noticeably at this suggestion, then started to say something but thought better of it and remained silent. After a moment’s reflection, he somewhat testily said, “Most things French are renegade is some manner or other, but this splendid creature possesses far too much poise, wit, and style to be a poodle.”
“Well, then,” I asked, “do you have any suggestions? Can you help me track him down?”
“My dear chap,” he replied, still a bit peevish, “how many times do I have to tell you that I am a herder and not a tracker? If you want to put an expert on the trail of this perpetrator, I suggest that you find some flea-bitten hound to assist you. Or, better still, why don’t you go down to the K9 Unit at the local constabulary and ask to borrow Fritz for a few hours?”
Jack made the latter suggestion in a tone thick with unalloyed sarcasm, since he invariably refers to Fritz, the German Shepherd who assists local policemen (whom Jack, ever the proud Anglophile, calls “Bobbies”) in their search for illicit drugs, a “perpetually stoned Nazi dimwit – all snout and no brains.” In truth, Fritz is a bit, well, slow on the uptake, and Jack loves teasing him, though “mocking” might be a more accurate descriptor. For instance, the last time that they met in the city park, Jack looked at Fritz contemptuously and said, “Well, how are you, my dear Seig Heil? I must say, our lads really kicked your Hunnish butts at El Alamein. Don’t you agree?” Fritz, who had understood little or nothing of what Jack had said, nodded his head slowly and replied, “Jah, Jah, it is a very nice day, thank you.” I would not be seeking help in apprehending the pork chop thief from old Fritz.
Jack then yawned again, and said, “I’m going outside for a bit of sunbathing, and I do not wish to be disturbed.” As he was about to walk out the door, he paused, belched loudly, and added, “Oh, and we’re out of barbecue sauce.” Then he swaggered into the yard, leaving me to ruminate darkly about “man’s best friend” – a treasured belief come decisively to grief upon the grim shoals of Border Collie actuality.
For a time, I considered putting up wanted posters containing a picture of the supper-snatching brute all over the city, but Jack convinced me that the enterprise would prove a waste of time and resources, and so I have made this posting instead. Anyone who has information that might abet the capture of this masked bandit can contact me through this Web site, and until this brazen highwayman is in police custody, I counsel everyone to be wary when walking the streets of my neighborhood, especially if he or she happens to be carrying pork chops.
Jack: The Border Collie In Sun-Drenched Repose
Posted 11 months, 4 weeks ago at 5:33 pm. 3 comments
“Ph-nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” – “In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”
Almost everyone has had the experience of unexpectedly discovering a book that changed his or her life, even if the character and degree of that change was, at the time, largely imperceptible. In this posting I will describe the first such transformative moment in my life, and when they have finished this essay, I invite readers to contemplate similarly important literary occasions in their own lives, occasions which, like seeds planted but then forgotten, eventually blossomed and bore unexpected fruit.
During the summer following my tenth birthday, my mother took my grandmother, my brother, and me on a week-long vacation to Bermuda at the St. George hotel. I still vividly remember how, on the morning of our arrival, my brother and I were eager to get to the beach, where we spent hours playing under the warm sun. That night, the last thing that I remember thinking before turning off the lamp beside my bed and drifting off into blissful slumber was how pleasant it was to watch the billowing white curtains at my bedside window cast intriguing shadows on the floor, a consequence of the bright light burning on the balcony just outside the room.
The next morning at breakfast in the hotel restaurant, our waiter, a wonderfully friendly man named Buddy, introduced me to orange marmalade and good tea, both of which became life-long addictions, and later in the day he took my brother and me to our first cricket match, which, for American boys devoted to baseball, proved to be a decidedly baffling and, finally, incomprehensible experience.
That night, before going to sleep, I decided, fatefully, as it turned out, to read one of the books in the ancient glass-fronted cabinet in our room, and the one I selected was a musty volume with the deceptively innocent title, H.P. Lovecraft: Collected Stories. I opened the text and began reading the first story I turned to, “The Call of Cthulhu,” and within moments the horizon of my life had expanded dramatically, for never in all my youthful experience with books had I found anything like Lovecraft’s richly evocative prose. Never before had I encountered words like “pullulate,” “Cyclopian,” “antediluvian,” and “chthonic,” and despite strong misgivings consequent to the dire themes of Lovecraft’s stories, I nevertheless mustered the courage to leave my bed to retrieve from the book cabinet an archaic copy of The Oxford English Dictionary – the single-volume edition that comes with a small magnifying glass to abet the reading of its cramped entries – and place it on the pillow beside me. For the first time, I was absolutely enchanted by language, truly and literally spellbound by words, and I could not wait to tell my friends back home about Lovecraft and his dark tales.
Soon, however, my fascination gave way to stark terror, and I had the decidedly unpleasant experience of repeatedly having my spine tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. By the time I had finished five of the book’s fifteen stories, I was almost paralyzed with fear, and the light streaming into the room from the balcony seemed far less bright than it had on the evening previous, and the shadows cast by the white curtains seemed somehow menacing – in fact, they were almost sinister. I was in thrall to a darkness more pervasive than any I had known before, and though I could, of course, turn on more lights in the room, even as a young boy I knew that it wouldn’t do any good.
Appalled by thoughts of the awful fate that might overtake me were I to fall asleep, I finished reading the entire volume, but despite my best efforts to remain awake, I drifted off into restless slumber sometime near dawn. Later that morning, seeing the dark circles under my eyes, my grandmother threatened to take me to the hotel physician, but I convinced her that they were merely the visible signs of an allergic reaction to a musty book I had read, which was, in a sense, close to the truth. I admit that the stories left me shaken and filled with vague but troublesome forebodings, but at breakfast I nonetheless asked Buddy if there were any more Lovecraft books in the hotel’s library, and later in the day, when I returned to my room, there were four slender volumes on my bed. Not only had Buddy found two more Lovecraft books in the hotel, but this saintly man had also taken time out of his lunch break to visit the public library and retrieve two additional Lovecraft collections for me, so that, for the following four nights, I was again able to answer the Call of Cthulhu, as I have done on so many subsequent evenings.
By all accounts, Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an unusual man, reclusive but friendly, and always willing to help aspiring writers. A confirmed materialist and agnostic, he lent no credence to the sorts of fantastic creatures who populated his extraordinary tales, and he was amused by individuals who approached his stories with undue seriousness. Influenced by, among others, Poe, Dunsany, and Machen, this quiet, skeptical man produced some of the great horror stories of the twentieth century, and his masterful prose and darkly imaginative storytelling influenced many other writers, including the peerless Stephen King. His ominously ingenious fables capture their audience with a linguistic artistry that is as seductive as it is richly-textured. While Lovecraft is justly famous for what critics have termed his “Cthulhu Mythos,” many of his stories that lie outside this genre are equally masterful. In any case, the universe which the characters in these tales inhabit is, at best, indifferent to human purposes and, at worst, inimical to them, and since any action based on a rational assessment of things leads only to doom or madness for these hapless individuals, the only possible response to such a cosmos is a resigned pessimism. Needless to say, I understood little of such matters when I was ten years old, but I did appreciate the fact that, whenever I began reading a Lovecraft story, I soon felt that something was lurking in the darkness just outside the circle of light in which I was sitting, and that this something was, for reasons either unclear or unspeakable, just biding its time. How could a boy not adore such tales, especially since their gloomy, altogether fatalistic vision contradicted so much of the mindless optimism that informed the suburban culture in which he grew up? How could the man he grew to become not remain grateful to stories that, whatever their horrific content, introduced him to what were until then the undreamt-of possibilities of eloquent self-expression?
Lovecraft’s influence extends beyond literature and can be found in music and in any number of movies, though to date, no film based directly on one of his stories has been unduly successful, although this might be an instance of a prose style that is simply too complex to translate well onto the screen, or maybe Lovecraft simply awaits a director or screenwriter possessed of sufficient talent and vision to give cinematic expression to his genius. Regardless, from The Crawling Eye to The Mist,, any number of terrifying films are at least in part homages to dread Cthulhu, and I confess that, partly because of my youthful infatuation with Lovecraft’s stories, I relish watching horror movies, no matter how awful others might judge some of them to be.
Since he worked in the minor genre of horror fiction, Lovecraft will never receive the same degree of respect accorded by literary critics to major writers, but there are many rooms in the Mansion of American Literature, and while Lovecraft’s chamber in this edifice might be a modest one, it is nonetheless well-appointed, albeit darkly. I still have several of Lovecraft’s books on my shelves, and many editions of his work remain in print. I particularly recommend The Best of H.P. Lovecraft, a Del Ray Book paperback, published by Ballantine Books, both because it has a representative selection of tales and because it contains a splendidly instructive “Introduction” by Robert Bloch. It also features a suitably lurid cover and the appropriately baleful subtitle, “Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre.” I promise that most first-time readers of these tales will quickly appreciate and fear the dread implication of the words, “When the stars are right, the Great Old Ones will rise from their sleep,” especially since foremost among the Great Old Ones is, of course, Cthulhu. Even now, I shudder slightly when I read this passage in my well-lit study, just as I did in a dimly-lit hotel room on a night long ago in Bermuda.
In a sense, I have never left that room. I am not claiming that I became an incipient English major when I first encountered Lovecraft, but my initial acquaintance with his work did give me an inkling of the grandeur that the English language can attain when in the creative hands of a master stylist, instilled in me a passion for reading that still burns fiercely, and fueled my boyish imagination in ways that have abided ceaselessly for decades. While I soon discovered that R’lyeh was not on any maps, I eventually learned from Melville that real places never are, and I eventually realized that in some mysterious way, good stories can, like great myths, be true, despite never having happened. Above all, I learned that words matter, and that their artful employment is one of the greatest feats to which humans can aspire.
And so, in my Lovecraft-inspired imagination, it seemed only natural that I would do postdoctoral work in Eldritch Studies at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, where I could assist Dr. Ted Klein in the forbidding task of explicating the Book of Ebon and work with Professor Laban Shrewsbury investigating the balefully cryptic implications of Juntz’s Nameless Cults.. Of course, none of us would ever dare to mention the Necronomicon,though whenever anyone referred to the “Mad Arab,” there would be no mistaking that he was alluding to Abdul Alhazred, the benighted author of this darkest of books. In some wonderful and timeless way, that postdoctoral work continues, and it quite naturally involved my introducing Lovecraft’s work to my sons, who in consequence have acquired a profound love of language and an equally acute understanding of insensate evil.
I will close by recommending that individuals who are not acquainted with the work of Howard Phillips Lovecraft should acquire a volume of his stories and begin reading them immediately. Timid souls can postpone their encounter with beautifully-crafted horror until daylight, and bolder, foolishly optimistic individuals can, of course, attempt to keep terror and panic at bay by leaving lights burning all night, both inside their bedchamber and outside its window . . . even though it won’t do any good.
Since I am an unabashed Zinfandel partisan, it takes an uncommonly good example of my favorite wine to impress me, and so I was delighted to discover the remarkable Dry Creek Vineyard 2006 Sonoma County Old Vine Zinfandel ($28). Sipping this brilliantly-crafted red wine is like listening to a Bach fugue, with all the terraced dynamics and architectonic perfection implied by the analogy. Rich dark fruit and oak aromas lead to a sheath of warm plum and vanilla notes that surround a core of concentrated cherry, black raspberry, and blackberry flavors complicated by nuances of earth, spice, briar, and smoke, all of which find resonant closure in a long, deeply flavorful finish. This superb wine would pair nicely with most meals featuring grilled meats, especially beef, but it would also perfectly complement less lofty fare, such as barbecue or deep-dish pizza.
For three years, I have had the pleasure and privilege of living with Jack, my wonderful Border Collie, and because he is such an extraordinary companion, I have decided to publish a record of our adventures together – under the heading “Border Ballads.” Most people are aware that Border Collies are intelligent, but fewer of them, I suspect, know that these peerless canines have many other virtues, including immense wit, which sometimes expresses itself as an almost clownish sense of humor, boundless affection for those they choose as members of their family, and a touching gentleness, especially with children. However, they can also be quite difficult to live with, as I hope to show in this and subsequent postings.
For example, when he read the first paragraph of this essay, Jack immediately insisted that I inform everyone that the use of “my” in “my Border Collie” is strictly relational and not possessive. No human being, in his view, can “own” a Border Collie, and most people, including and especially me, are lucky to be in the presence of so noble a creature. I could describe almost countless instances of this haughtiness, which Jack terms “truthfulness.” For example, when Jack first entered my life, I looked forward to spending many happy hours throwing a Frisbee for him, but my expectation was confounded on our first visit to the park, when, after I had hurled my disc a considerable distance, Jack looked at it and then at me, and said, “If you want that Frisbee, you’re going to have to get it yourself. I’m a herding dog, not a retriever.” Further, Jack is boundlessly, not to say obnoxiously, proud of his heritage, by which I mean he is a relentless Anglophile, for whom few things American measure up to their British equivalents. His favorite television shows are ‘Allo ‘Allo and I, Claudius, though lately he has become modestly addicted to Extras. The only American programs that he deigns to watch are The Office (though, of course, the British version is “vastly better”), Arrested Development, and, above all, Reno 911, which he considers to be “the finest comedy in the history of American television.” Since he presents all of his opinions in the form of edicts, there is little sense in my arguing with him about these or any other of his views. Finally, Jack is vain, though he quite naturally disputes the allegation, since, in his flawless reckoning, when one has features as “engagingly handsome” as his, it is not vanity to broadcast them but rather “generosity.” At his insistence, I will post below a recent photograph of Jack, and allow readers make their own judgment.
In order to better demonstrate the sorts of challenges that I face almost daily in living with Jack, let me provide a typical episode from our frequently contentious life together.
Jack is not fond of baths, since he regards them as an offense to his dignity, and he does not suffer such things either readily or silently. For instance, during a recent bathing, I was using a hose to rinse his belly, and he growled at me. I told him to stop acting like a sissy, and he replied, with thick sarcasm, “Well, how would you like it if I were to spray your undercarriage with cold water?” I ignored the provocation, but it was at that moment that I accidentally sprayed some water into Jack’s eyes, and he distinctly muttered “Get knotted!”
I had never heard this expression before, and when I asked him what he had said, he replied, “Nothing,” but when I pressed him, he finally stated, “I was informing you that your shoe laces had come untied, and I did not want you to trip over them.” I offered my thanks and then finished bathing him, but afterward, when I had partly dried him with the soft towel he requires on these occasions and left him in the yard to let the sun finish the job, I discovered upon entering the house that I was wearing sandals, and so I went to the computer to determine the precise origin and meaning of “Get knotted.” The expression turned out to be a British epithet, likely of Cockney provenance, and it is less than kind in general intention.
I decided not to pursue the matter, and while I was inside changing into something presentable for our post-bath walk, Jack yelled to me, “I’m feeling a bit formal today; so bring me my black collar and pick out one of your better ties,” and then he laughed. His amusement derives from the fact that I have only one tie in my possession, all the others having been mysteriously chewed to pieces. “Probably the cats,” Jack unhelpfully and implausibly suggested. Perhaps it is only a coincidence, but the one tie that avoided destruction is Jack’s favorite, for reasons that will be obvious to everyone when they view it at the end of this posting.
I don’t actually mind sporting a tie on our walk, since in the past I have endured a much greater trial. I once lost a bet on a cricket match with Jack, and my penalty involved my wearing one of Jack’s less-attractive collars on our afternoon walk, while Jack kept hold of the leash. This was humiliating enough, but what embarrassed me beyond measure was the fact that every time I stopped to talk with one of my neighbors, Jack would soon tug on the leash and tell me to “get on with your business.”
At any rate, I first brushed Jack to the point of what he terms “lustrous perfection,” and then we set off on our walk, during the course of which he flirted egregiously with a female Lab who lives a block away, even though he claimed that he was merely “giving the wee lass a chance for some intelligent conversation.” This purportedly “wee lass” outweighs Jack by nearly thirty pounds – or, as he prefers to put it – by about “two stones.” The rest of the walk proceeded without incident, and by the time we returned home I thought that we had both put our most recent “battle of the bath” behind us. As usual, I was wrong.
As Jack sat at the table, sipping his afternoon tea – Earl Grey, I believe – and munching contentedly on a digestive biscuit, he turned his attention to me and, after a moment’s appraisal of what he usually calls my “sartorial challenges,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “Well, Old Sport, I can’t speak for your person, but I must say that your tie, at least, is nicely knotted.”
During the summers of 2004, 2005, and 2006, under the auspices of my Asian Horizons program, I took some of the students who had taken my Asian Studies class on treks in Tibet, India, and Nepal. In 2005, these two of these three-week treks took place in Sikkim and Ladakh, two Himalayan provinces in India. Fortunately, one of my students, Aaron Nugent, carried a thirty-pound movie camera with him on both of these adventures, and he graciously edited some of the footage into the brief documentaries that I have posted here.
Sikkim is a verdant and fecund land located in northeast India, bordered by Bhutan in the east, Nepal in the west, and Tibet in the north. During our hike to and from the base of Mount Kanchenjunga, we encountered rain, snow, and all the other sundry challenges to physical and mental endurance posed by trekking at altitude. It was a glorious journey, and I hope that you enjoy the video.
We were led to believe that, in contrast to our experience in Sikkim, our trek in Ladakh’s Markha Valley would be “high and dry,” but as the video shows, we instead encountered the first July blizzard that our guide had ever experienced, and we had left most of our winter gear in our hotel. Nonetheless, we persevered, and this trek, difficult as it might sometimes have been, is certainly one of the great experiences of my life. Again, I hope that you enjoy the video.
These videos were originally accompanied by some wonderful music, and we have petitioned to have it restored to them under the policy of “fair use.” I hope that we are successful in this venture, because the scenery is enriched by the musical accompaniment. I want to thank Aaron Nugent both for making this video and for making the journey to Sikkim and Ladakh with me. I also thank all of my other students who accompanied me to Asia: You were brave to take my class and just as courageous to accept my challenge to go trekking in the Himalayas. Finally, to anyone else who wishes to explore Asian horizons, I strongly recommend contacting Dharma Adventures at www.dharmaadventures.com, since on five different occasions this wonderful organization delivered what it promised to – a true adventure.
Last year, Verge Wine Cellars made a decidedly dramatic entrance onto the stage of the wine world with the release of its Verge 2006 Dry Creek Valley Syrah ($40), and people who delighted in this wine’s robust complexities will likely find at least as much to enjoy in the newly-released Verge 2007 Dry Creek Valley Syrah ($40), though their enjoyment might take a somewhat different form. By way of musical analogy, Verge 2006 Syrah is like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: it announces itself dramatically, and then delivers on its bold promises; Verge 2007 Syrah is like a Mozart concerto: it reveals its major themes in a subtle introduction, and then proceeds to elaborate them stylishly. Verge 2006 Syrah shouts its glories; Verge 2007 Syrah never raises its voice, but it nonetheless communicates as well – and as much – as its predecessor.
The restrained eloquence of Verge 2007 Syrah is largely attributable to its having been produced from the fruit of several vineyards, a fact which afforded winemaker Mike Brunson considerable latitude in blending the different lots of wine into the sort of Syrah he envisioned. The result is a wine that opens softly with rich dark berry and spice flavors that are soon complicated by notes of vanilla-oak, black cherry, plum, and earth. These flavors are supported by ample tannins and find closure in a long, polished finish. While this Syrah will certainly evolve in the bottle for many years, it is irresistible now, especially as a companion to hearty fare, such as grilled meat, savory stew, or barbecue.
I offer a second musical analogy to help my fellow Woodstockers better appreciate the different but equally attractive characters of the two Verge Syrahs: Verge 2006 Syrah is Janis Joplin; Verge 2007 Syrah is Gracie Slick.
When asked to recommend a white wine to accompany rich fare, I always suggest that, with its generally fruit-forward character, a good Chardonnay tends to amplify the flavors of the repast, while an excellemt Sauvignon Blanc will generally contribute its own delicate fruit and herbal tones to the meal and then, with its traditionally crisp finish, clear the palate for the next bite of food. Verge Wine Cellars 2008 Dry Creek Valley Viognier ($24) manages to accomplish both these feats, since it is filled with abundant, beautifully orchestrated peach, apricot, citrus, and tropical fruit flavors accompanied by hints of almond and fig that emerge on its long and delectably crisp finish. The whisper of fig in the wine’s flavor profile might be attributable to the fact that, rather than being given any time in oak, the wine was blended with 12% Semillon for depth. While this complex Viognier can certainly complement a wide variety of good food, including salmon, trout, seafood, and most poultry dishes, it is also charming enough to accompany picnic fare – or to be sipped lovingly on those occasions when the temperature does not go down with the sun.
By any reasonable measure, Verge Wine Cellars 2007 Dry Creek Valley Syrah and Verge Wine Cellars 2008 Dry Creek Valley Viognier have been crafted deftly enough to be considered among the finest wines of California. In fact, after tasting these two new releases from Verge, many wine lovers are likely to conclude that rather than being on the verge of greatness, the winery has crossed the threshold and entered its precincts.
For Jon Tenzing Neralich, Exercise Guru Extraordinaire
Like many time-mellowed males, I have undertaken an exercise program that includes doing roadwork four mornings a week. Please note that I did not use the term “run,” because that would misrepresent the truth, nor did I employ “jog,” since I associate this prissy word with self-indulgent yuppies whose athletic wardrobes often cost more than the annual income of people in undeveloped countries, nor did I use “plod,” even though this bluntly unattractive term is closest to the reality of my movement. Besides, “roadwork” is fundamentally honest: My feet make painful contact with a road, and the endorphin high-related claims of marathon jocks notwithstanding, it is work – hard, unpleasant work.
As long as I am being frank, I should justify my unduly poetic usage “time-mellowed,” which is, of course, a euphemism. After all, the word “elderly” is both quaint and demeaning, though in my case accurate, and the term “decrepit,” while apt, is rather discouraging, though in unguarded moments I am wont to confess that rather than “staying in shape,” my chief ambition in undertaking a disciplined approach to exercise is merely “to slow down the rate of my increasing decrepitude.” Men for whom middle age is now a phantom rapidly receding in life’s rear-view mirror know perfectly well what I mean. For the uninitiated, by which I mean the obnoxiously young, I offer this anecdote: I have elected to run on a mile-long circular roadway on the top of a local hill, rather than along the boulevard nearest my house, because on the latter there is an antique shop, and dragging myself past it four days each week made me self-conscious.
Soaking in a tub of hot water a few days ago, in a futile attempt to sooth my sore and time-ravaged muscles, I decided that it might be instructive and even inspiring (I dream a lot) if I were to share some of my training experiences, at least selectively, with a wider audience. After all, my fellow “athletes” (please indulge me – we all require a few harmless but sustaining fantasies to get through the day, even if describing them requires stretching the definitional limits of words to near their breaking point), especially younger ones, might discover in my brief narratives something of the joys that lie ahead of them, while “battle-hardened road warriors” (see my comments on “time-mellowed,” above) will likely find much that is familiar in the tales of my victories (regrettably few) and follies (alas, legion), and misery truly does love company. I begin, then, with an incident that took place during my morning plod just a few days ago.
I was hobbling along at super-sub-sonic speed, which I call my “stealth mode,” since I am moving so slowly that no one notices me, when I saw a man sitting in a battery-powered golf cart on the road ahead of me. As fate would have it, I came upon this cart in the exact spot where I used to speed up as part of my interval training, until I discovered that doing so took effort, and, being a dedicated foe of the work ethic, I immediately amended the alternating pace of my intervals from slow-fast-slow to slow-stop-sleep. Nonetheless, when I saw the driver sitting in this cart, my competitive spirit suddenly quickened, and with the bravado characteristic of all emotionally mature males, if any such there be, my immediate thought was, “I can take this guy.”
A few words about my pace on these runs: I generally move along at a fairly good clip, except, of course, for those occasions when I either begin crawling, stop for an extended rest, or collapse in a ditch, times which grow increasingly frequent. I know that “fairly good clip” is vague, but everything is, after all, relative. I mean, I move slowly compared with, say, a speeding bullet, but I move quite quickly compared with a tree, at least when a breeze is not blowing too briskly. However, honesty (not one of my favorite virtues in matters involving my numerous shortcomings) compels me to admit that I was once lapped on my morning circuit by a snail, but those ready to mock my infirmities should know that this was no ordinary snail. As the creature sped by me, I noticed that it was wearing a shell made of a titanium-carbon fiber composite, just like expensive, ultra-lightweight bicycle frames, while I was burdened with two t-shirts, and so any comparison of our respective speeds must take into account the heft of the two layers of thin cotton with which I was handicapped. Besides, this snail-related humiliation took place on a day when I was feeling a bit sluggish.
Returning to my narrative, as I sped up in an effort to overtake the golf cart, and keeping in mind how much I detest effort, I noticed that the driver had what I interpreted to be a look of disdain on his face, though it could also have been indifference, but his body language seemed unambiguously to suggest contempt (hand placed provocatively on the steering wheel, back arrogantly braced against the seat – he might as well have spit at me). I am always prepared to meet any challenge, especially one that hasn’t been offered, and so I shifted my pace into a higher gear (from first to first and a smidgen, to be exact), and raced past the cart. Its prideful driver did not take this insult to his prowess lying down, since he was, after all, sitting, and so he, in turn, shifted his vehicle into a higher gear, or perhaps he just started it, but in either case it took no more than a few seconds for him to pass me. As the distance between us rapidly increased, I recalled something that I have always told my sons, a sort of code by which I have always lived, a code that has brought me most of what I call success, such as it is, in my life. “Boys,” I always began (Well, not always, since I usually address them as “hey you”; there are three of them, after all, and I have trouble recollecting their names, and their birthdays, and, truth be told, their appearances; that’s all Mom stuff, anyway.), “there is one thing that I want you always to remember. Life will present you with many difficult challenges, but you must face them all boldly. You must never give up. You must never quit. Never! Unless, of course, no one is watching.” And since no one was present to witness my being embarrassed by a golf cart, I quit.
I have tasted the bitter dregs of defeat many times in my long life – marriage and the aforementioned three sons spring immediately to mind – but this loss, this debacle was of an altogether different and far more baleful order from my usual setbacks. However, while almost anyone can learn from success, I am one of those rare people who can learn from failure, which is the only reason I passed high school trigonometry, albeit barely. Therefore, when I returned home, I swore to myself that I would learn a valuable lesson from this defeat, and so I have. I am not a man given to making casual promises, unless love or money is involved, and so I have made a pledge to myself, a pledge that I fully intend to honor. I vow that someday soon – very soon – I am going to purchase a golf cart.
Posted 1 year, 2 months ago at 2:10 pm. 5 comments
I know that my family, friends, and former students have been concerned about my recent decision to enter government service. For those who have not yet heard the news, the Obama administration has asked me to be our country’s unofficial representative to Freedonia, with the hope that I can help to bring peace to this currently volatile part of the world. While I quite naturally accepted this great honor, I admit that the appointment does come at a time of crisis. The current problems in Freedonia, particularly the tensions that exist between it and its neighbor Sylvania, tensions which on one occasion flared into armed conflict, are, to say the least, formidable. Therefore, in order to allay the fears of people concerned for my safety, let me explain briefly why I chose to accept this challenge.
Freedonia is an openly Marxist country, but its leader, President Firefly, has expressed an interest in allowing the United States to help solve his country’s contentious differences with Sylvania in a manner acceptable to both nations. To that end, he has enlisted the services of Gloria Teasdale, who is both a loyal citizen of Freedonia and a notably skilled diplomat. She is in constant communication with Mr. Trentino, Sylvania’s ambassordor to Freedonia, and the two of them have laid the diplomatic foundation for my mission.
Further, I shall be working closely with Bob Roland, President Firefly’s personal secretary, as well as with Mr. Chicolini, Freedonia’s Secretary of War. I have even expressed a willingness to engage in a dialogue with the mysterious “Pinky,” purported to be the leading member of Freedonia’s spy service, but he has never replied to my many messages, and rumor has it that though he rarely speaks he is nonetheless given to blowing his own horn. Nonetheless, with so many cabable assistants, I have every hope that my peace-making efforts in Freedonia will prove successful.
Finally, I know that many skeptics have already dismissed my appointment as a mere “fact-finding mission,” but I have some advice for these cynical people. When two parties are engaged in a conflict, whether they are individuals or nations, don’t underestimate collecting knowledge; sometimes order unexpectedly prevails.
And so I am off to Freedonia. I will continue to make postings from this distant land, and I hope to have good news about my endeavors there very soon. Until then – Hail Freedonia!
Students often help their teachers discover interesting things, and thanks to my pupils, a few years ago I learned a great deal about an area of American culture that has been largely neglected by scholars. I noticed that many of my students used hand lotion almost constantly, and when I teased them about it, they informed me that this “practical cosmetic” is immensely popular, and not just with young people. Confucius said that if everyone likes something, it must be examined, and I therefore decided to investigate the appeal of hand lotion.
I know that some people will consider this a lightweight topic, and they probably regard hand lotion as merely another manifestation of our national obsession with self-adornment, but I am convinced that something subtler is also involved in its popularity. Important matters often reveal themselves in small things, and I believe that hand lotion is a quietly eloquent example of the poetry inherent in American life. I therefore ask readers to put aside their skepticism and consider the results of my research into the surprisingly lyrical character of some of these immensely popular emollients.
My first stop was at a local Yuppie Store; I rarely shop in this place, because it is largely filled with overpriced items designed to satisfy the status hunger of socially insecure people. But I was pleased to discover that my cynical views about this shop were at least partially modified by what I found on its cosmetics shelf. Its hand lotions bore lovely floral names, such as Lavender and Freesia, and it was delightful to find a distant echo of pastoral gardens in the aisles of a pretentious boutique.
Alas, my hopes for yuppiedom were soon dashed, for I found a lotion that contained nonfat dry milk (for hands on a diet, I suppose), avocado, and shea butter in its blend. When I asked the clerk if shea butter is what fans of the New York Mets spread on their toast, she stared at me uncomprehendingly and then said, “I don’t have a clue. I’m just here to sell product.” I immediately left the place and headed for the New Age Emporium.
The staff at this establishment is invariably friendly and informative. After smelling an aggressively floral concoction, I asked a sales clerk why it is necessary to so heavily perfume some lotions. “Sir,” she replied, “have you ever smelled an unlotioned hand?” I stood before her, utterly mortified, my offensively lotionless hands hanging at my sides. Later, when no one was looking, I gave one of them a surreptitious sniff, and though it was not stenchful, I confess that it did smell of soap, and unscented soap, at that.
Most of the labels on New Age lotions follow the same pattern: They tell what the product is for and then list its ingredients. For example, people in need of “Relaxing” can cover their hands with a blend of rose, lavender, camomile, and safflower essences – a very attractive combination. For individuals who require “Renewing” (And who doesn’t?), the shop offers a lotion that contains rosemary mixed with oils of spruce and pine – another appealing blend.
I was tempted to try a lotion laced with the essence of Green Tea, a concoction that advertised itself as an “anti-oxidant” that would help to keep hands young. But I finally rejected this emollient, mostly because I think that my hands should age at the same rate as the rest of me; I don’t want to end up in some circus sideshow being gawked at by people who paid a dollar to see “The Old Man With Baby Hands.” Nor was I inclined to follow the clerk’s suggestion and cover my entire body with the stuff. My appearing in a classroom smelling like tea would be an invitaiton for one of my clever students to pelt me with stale crumpets.
My favorite discovery at the New Age Emporium, and a fine example of populist poetry, is something called Star Dust Lotion; I did not care a whit about its ingredients; just holding the bottle in my hand made my aura tingle.
I concluded my investigations by visiting the
Hippie Store, an establishment that still maintains a steadfast loyalty to the social activism of the 1960s. Happily, a former student of mine works there, and she proved a knowledgeable and judicious guide to the store’s many lotions.
I first sampled something called Borage Dry Skin Therapy; the word “therapy” is nearly always a provocation for me, and in this instance it seemed to suggest that my hands needed to deal with their “wrinkle issues.” But this lotion had a lovely aroma, and the word “borage” is somehow conducive to fantasy. I would like an attractive lady to ask me, “My dear sir, do I detect the heady fragrance of borage emanating from your person?”
Another hand lotion proclaimed itself an Intercellular Cleansing Gel; now I’m not happy with the filth that has accumulated between the cells of my hands, even though I hadn’t been aware of the problem until I visited the Hippie Store, and I hope that I haven’t unintentionally offended anyone with my manual impurity. My parents never instructed me in the importance of intercellular hygiene, and I cannot recall my mother ever saying, “You’ll get no dinner tonight unless you wash your hands thoroughly; and we’re having company – so I’ll be checking between your cells.”
My guide allowed me to sample a lotion with the lovely name “Milk and Honey,” and at first I thought that I might purchase some, but then she said, “All the girls who work here use this, and they tell me that it really attracts men.” After reflecting for a moment, I decided that perhaps I needed a different sort of hand lotion.
Some of the lotions had names that are saucily impertinent (Wild Banana and Vanilla), one excited my Inner Coach (Skin Fitness), others had a Woodstock-era tone (Coconut Skin Trip), while some were so exotic (Caribbean Heat) that they immediately filled my head with pleasant daydreams: I imagined myself in the company of a beautiful Oriental woman who tells me, “The scent of your hands is attractively tropical.” I reply, “Yes. You are right. It’s my hand lotion. I bought it at the Hippie Store.”
I actually purchased some hand lotion at the Hippie Store, a delicately fragrant blend called “Chinese Botanical” – a name laden with irresistible implication for an Asian Studies teacher. It contains about twenty ingredients, and all of them have alleged benefits. Here is a sampling: Asparagus for healing – though I do not customarily think of my hands as sick; Wild Ginger for its anti-inflammatory properties; I rarely set fire to my hands, but I now keep a small bottle of wild ginger extract next to the stove; Chrysanthemum for clarifying; while my hands have frequently been dirty, I cannot recall an instance when I thought of them as nebulous, but I intend to examine them carefully on the next cloudy day; Peony Root for its nourishing qualities; I had never before considered the matter, but I cannot remember the last time that I fed my hands; the poor things must be famished.
One ingredient in “Chinese Botanical” deserves special mention – Kudzu Root, which, like asparagus, supposedly helps to heal. I have a suggestion for State Highway Departments: Advertise the “healing qualities” of kudzu root in a few New Age journals, and I predict that very soon this pestiferous weed will be picked clean from our roadways.
While I am amused by our collective preoccupation with hand lotion, I am also charmed by the poetry that sometimes informs these products and by their capacity to nourish the imagination of those who use them. Americans have always been visionaries – our Republic is itself a noble dream – and it is therefore not surprising to find in even the humblest and most unexpected places an affirmation of our love for romance and adventure. Some might scoff at such claims, but I believe that, in its own modest way, hand lotion is another expression of our depthless capacity for wonder, and I am delighted by the several ways that, beneath its cosmetic appeal, it ministers to our national spirit.
Posted 1 year, 5 months ago at 7:03 pm. 2 comments
Pascual Toso
2007 Malbec
Maipu Vineyards, Mendoza
Argentina
Price: about $12
This Malbec is certainly one of the “best buy” red wines that I have tasted recently. It has appealing cherry and dark berry aromas with hints of cocoa lingering in the background, dark raspberry, currant, and vanilla-oak flavors, a soft texture, and a polished, lingering finish. Pascual Toso 2007 Malbec would make an ideal companion for grilled meats, savory stews, and hearty pastas, though its reasonable price definitely allows it to be served with less exalted fare, including burgers and pizza.
Posted 1 year, 5 months ago at 5:54 pm. Add a comment
Since I am an unabashed Zinfandel partisan, it takes an uncommonly good example of my favorite wine to impress me, and so I was delighted to discover the remarkable 
The restrained eloquence of Verge 2007 Syrah is largely attributable to its having been produced from the fruit of several vineyards, a fact which afforded winemaker Mike Brunson considerable latitude in blending the different lots of wine into the sort of Syrah he envisioned. The result is a wine that opens softly with rich dark berry and spice flavors that are soon complicated by notes of vanilla-oak, black cherry, plum, and earth. These flavors are supported by ample tannins and find closure in a long, polished finish. While this Syrah will certainly evolve in the bottle for many years, it is irresistible now, especially as a companion to hearty fare, such as grilled meat, savory stew, or barbecue. 
When asked to recommend a white wine to accompany rich fare, I always suggest that, with its generally fruit-forward character, a good Chardonnay tends to amplify the flavors of the repast, while an excellemt Sauvignon Blanc will generally contribute its own delicate fruit and herbal tones to the meal and then, with its traditionally crisp finish, clear the palate for the next bite of food. Verge Wine Cellars 2008 Dry Creek Valley Viognier ($24) manages to accomplish both these feats, since it is filled with abundant, beautifully orchestrated peach, apricot, citrus, and tropical fruit flavors accompanied by hints of almond and fig that emerge on its long and delectably crisp finish. The whisper of fig in the wine’s flavor profile might be attributable to the fact that, rather than being given any time in oak, the wine was blended with 12% Semillon for depth. While this complex Viognier can certainly complement a wide variety of good food, including salmon, trout, seafood, and most poultry dishes, it is also charming enough to accompany picnic fare – or to be sipped lovingly on those occasions when the temperature does not go down with the sun. 
Students often help their teachers discover interesting things, and thanks to my pupils, a few years ago I learned a great deal about an area of American culture that has been largely neglected by scholars. I noticed that many of my students used hand lotion almost constantly, and when I teased them about it, they informed me that this “practical cosmetic” is immensely popular, and not just with young people. Confucius said that if everyone likes something, it must be examined, and I therefore decided to investigate the appeal of hand lotion.
