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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 17, 2014 - 06:46pm PT
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A photo taken after losing my marbles and finding Herr Braun's black cat and Bachar's white dog lost in the ozone. They were Grateful to have them returned alive, though we all know the manner in which everyone gets outa here.
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 17, 2014 - 06:54pm PT
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Let see here 1976 - 1946 = 30. I'd have to say 30 years of age. I didn't know they had color photography then, but the camera does not lie (usually). It's 50 year high school reunion time, so I've dug up a few old things.
EDIT:
Europe 72 it is. That shirt lasted a long time. I finally buried my cat (not shown above) in it in 2000. I guess that's the way alot of us will get outa here - not alive, dressed in a Dead shirt.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 12:29am PT
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That's a great photo of you. It says, "Cat's got my tongue, so I'll just sit here and wait."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 08:54am PT
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Joan Hemingway wrote a book in 1977 with my mom's cousin Connie Maricich, now Chesnel, titled The Picnic Gourmet.
They were friends from Sun Valley/Ketchum, where Connie owned a "boutique," according to the dust jacket of the book. Connie later married Pierre Chesnel and they ran a toney bakery chain.
She is a UC Berkeley graduate, mother of two boomers, "a wild-foods enthusiast,'
and was married to Herman Maricich, a barrel-jumping skater. (Link at the end of this post.)
Connie now lives in Sedona, and I last saw her in Merced at Mom's funeral.
Joan is the oldest of Jack Hemingway's daughters.
She hung out at Connie's Leadville Espresso House in Ketchum (The Coffee Grinder of today),
as well as on creek banks and mountain tops, concocting menus with her buddy.
http://magicvalley.com/entertainment/arts-and-theatre/ernest-hemingway-granddaughter-displays-art/article_46f4c787-61bb-5fa1-82a2-8a8a28d2a94c.html
Margaux Hemingway, 1954-1996, RIP, the middlest sister, is famously dead.
Mariel is the youngest of Jack's daughters, and is shown here top-roping someplace.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
On the trampoline and slack line in the back yard.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Both clips are from a documentary, Running From Crazy (2013).
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2451742/
"Millie Wiggins and the West's First Coffee House," Idaho Mtn. Express article by staffer Dick "Funhog" Dorworth.
http://www.mtexpress.com/1999/12-01-99/12-1dlouies.htm
Herman Maricich.
http://magicvalley.com/entertainment/arts-and-theatre/ernest-hemingway-granddaughter-displays-art/article_46f4c787-61bb-5fa1-82a2-8a8a28d2a94c.html
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 18, 2014 - 12:06pm PT
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Speaking of speaking, here is what the guy says in the trip report I came back and retrieved (in the interest of not cluttering up the slipstream with drivel). Does this tell us anything about him?
Gear Notes:
8 screws, set of stoppers, 2 bugaboos, .5-3" camalots, 4" hex, 10 slings. 2 tools. I would recommend two ropes in case of retreat, although we only took one.
who's gonna take away his license to kill?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 02:58pm PT
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Not Dan White nor Dan Z. Brown.
Not Willie Brown nor Red S. Meadow.
Not Jayne Meadows nor Grant S. Pass.
Maybe M. or Q or Darby O'Gill.
From Sun Valley to Mammoth in one swell foop.
No Twinkies allowed.
Joe Brown from MO?
[Click to View YouTube Video]Arthur Kennedy plays the role of "Red" in this vintage Hollywood film.
America, land of the free and home of the brave cowboy.
The country where everyone owns a gun and we are NOT paid to have more babies than we can support;
and so we have to go rob and steal and become guides. (T.Y., Randisi.)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 18, 2014 - 03:39pm PT
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Meanwhile, back in Berkeley...
Part of an interview with Brad Lackey, motocrosser.
BR: Does the name Buffalo Breath mean anything to you?
BL: "Buffalo Breath is my good friend Bob Briner. Bob just started a new company, called Colt Tronics, with his son – who happens to be named Colt. They deal in all kinds of the sort of flashing lights you might see at a rave, the kind where you swing them around while taking ecstasy and doing all that weird sh#t.
We use them for my company; we have a couple of Harley rallies at Las Vegas at night, and we sell them out of our booth to kids to twirl in the dark. Buffalo is a long-time friend. He was one of the guys in partnership with me back in the early days, when we had a shop in downtown Berkeley: we were the CZ distributor for California at the time.
Then there were the Buffalo Breath motocross jerseys, which were really rugby jerseys straight out of New Zealand, the type you now find in a Nordstrom store (and in old climbing specialty shops in Berkeley). If we had held on to the rights of those jerseys we could have been real rich, but as usual we got screwed."
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 18, 2014 - 11:27pm PT
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That redzMeadows looks like it could be a Devil of a trip. Is there actually a "post" office there or is it just a pile of drivel I've been fed?
Can anyone point me to the Low Sierra?
This time at the PCT Southern Terminus (I'm scoping out how to do the first 19 miles without carrying much water) I was stopped by not one, but two Border Patrollers on two 4-wheelers. The did call me sir though. We went ahead and signed the book, even though the 19 miler is not actually done yet.
Don't tell Paul Ryan and Doncha Tell Henry.
On the Morena Butte North hike down, discovered they have cable, but unlike San Francisco, no cable cars. WTF?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2014 - 02:47am PT
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Sir, may I suggest a reconnaissance-in-force?
We "Lighties" shall see to it, promptly, of course.
For we are the mighty light brigade of horse,
Willing to do or to die, with or without remorse.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
I found out today that I have no neighbors on my side of the hall--I can play music as loudly and as long as I please with no flack from neighbors.
On one side are two 'Model' apts for prospective tenants. On the other are at least two undergoing renovation at some future date...
I've listened to six different versions of this Suppe piece so far. They are all pretty much the same, but I never knew there were going to be THIS MANY!
Here is my reward for diligence, and for you, a special treat, I hope...
Mozart![Click to View YouTube Video]The Abduction from the Seraglio.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2014 - 10:24pm PT
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Hola, Xenia y Marco![Click to View YouTube Video]
Ya think Rick and Reed can match these two, Andy? I'm sure YOU can!
I say that flame is feating.
Golden slippers are impermanent as well.
Au lasts indefinitely; but 24 carat goodies like these are always welcome at the home of weirdness,
whether from Brooklyn or from the wilderness.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2014 - 10:38pm PT
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No can find Abner's Rattle the Bones.
Betty Boop will have to do tonight.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
It's no turkey, though!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2014 - 11:05pm PT
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Literature as graphic art.
A special hello to Illolo, our feralfae as the fairy tale is mentioned. It's been a while.
How the heck are you, gal?
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 19, 2014 - 11:14pm PT
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Any bones to pick with me? Send 'em to the Homeland Security Complaint desk.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 19, 2014 - 11:48pm PT
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Cavities
http://oregoncaves4u.com/skeleton%20cave.html
can be holey places.
Speaking of holy, St. Joseph, MO, is a western icon.
(The feast day of ST. Joe is today...I had coffee on the patio at the 510 Bistro to celebrate.)
Louis Rubidoux (Robidoux), the adventurous one, eventually settled near Riverside where the town named for him is sited. He set out from ST. Joe and was one of the first settlers from the East in that area.
In Merced, today.Leaving.
Really. [Click to View YouTube Video]
Seriously.
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 20, 2014 - 12:03am PT
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Way back when, a lot of loads came across between Chula Vista and Campo in the backpacks of local turkeys, though there was significant traffic in the ocean on the backs of swimmers (until it dawned on somebody that you could haul a lot more in a boat --> they eventually upgraded to a freighter, would have been cool if they'd bought the Hotel Del, which is where most of the small boats unloaded). WTF, Coronado is pretty much a shitty surfing beach, what else is a poor boy to do?
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zBrown
Ice climber
Brujo de la Playa
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Mar 20, 2014 - 12:20am PT
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THE HARVARD REVIEW: “DRUGS AND THE MIND” (SUMMER 1963)
This issue of the journal, which lists Henry Kissinger as a faculty board member, features the early research on psychedelics that was coming out of Cambridge, Massachussetts, right before all hell broke loose. With essays by Timothy Leary, Richard Alpert (Ram Dass), naturopath Andrew Weil, and ethnobiologists Richard Schultes and R. Gordon Wasson, plus a thoughtful review of the then-banned Naked Lunch (1959), and “before-and-after” artwork by Arthur Hoener, it was one of the first publications to map the emerging frontier of chemical propulsion through inner space.
I've actually read (portions of) this.
THE ACT OF KILLING (2012)Joshua Oppenheimer’s harrowing documentary follows a group of aging murderers as they reenact their participation in the killing and torture spree that ravaged Indonesia in the mid-1960s. These remorseless thugs model themselves after characters from American gangster movies while attempting to make their own film about their real-life pageant of cruelty. Following decades of suppressed trauma, the catharsis that unfolds is devastating
Doncha tell Licky
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Mar 20, 2014 - 09:42am PT
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The Yawp of Reason THE RAINBOW STORIES by William T. Vollmann (Atheneum: $22.95; 543 pp.)
RICHARD EDER
July 16, 1989|RICHARD EDER
The rainbow in the title of this collection of pieces by William T. Vollmann refers to the author's use of different colors as codes for different chunks of human life and human spirit.
[We seem to have dropped the color system last year on The Flames. It was not effectual anyway. Proceed at your own risk, therefore.]
It is a private and hermetic conceit, one of a good many in Vollmann's writing. More immediately, though, the "Rainbow" suggests the extraordinary range and fire of the author's style.
The pieces in "Rainbow" extend from fiction to spooked poetic narratives to intoxicated reportage to reportage so meticulously uninflected as to suggest Dada. Vollmann manages a whole wardrobe of voices: ornate, inconsolably bare, romantic, and something resembling messages on computers. A single author's voice would imply synthesis and connection; Vollmann's pieces are rafts foundering in the divided waters of a world blown apart. [I am minding visions of Bimbo and bales of marijuana in an icy lake at the moment.]
He writes with a fierce and bright-hued sensibility, perpetually inflamed. The disconnection and threat of modern, or if you like [I don't like--sorry, just old-school 'me.'] postmodern life--Vollmann stands in our avant-garde--goads him to the farthest possible remove from the minimalism that reigned in our fiction a decade ago, and still has important voices. He is the most maximalist of writers. "Ladies and Red Nights" is a series of notes on Vollmann's nights spent touring San Francisco's Tenderloin, inventorying the different kinds of sex offered, talking to prostitutes and strippers. He is punctiliously detailed; writing down what each experience or encounter costs him. (A peep-show slot machine, 25 cents; an hour or two with a call girl, $150.)
{Avant-garde, apres-ski, tout de suite, all best avoided in English. Gide has a translation fetish, too.]
From the blur, one or two women emerge. There is Brandi, the exuberant extrovert [who writes this alliterative way besides porn mag editors?] who has pricing down to such a fine art that she is able to cost out each conversation with Vollmann. Having told him she loves to eat, she charges an additional 50 cents to disclose her favorite dish: spaghetti.
There is Christina, bolstered by eight or nine steady customers but diligently patrolling her three Tenderloin blocks each night. "The Tenderloin does not seem to be so much good or bad as constricted," Vollmann writes.
It is an odd phrase, that. Equally odd is a sudden burst of pathos amid his note taking: "The sorriness of what she had to do for 10 years was almost enough to make one believe in the Divine--there must be something else." We realize that Vollmann is up to something other than realism, with its hunger to know what is.
[Modern parlance has it, "'sup, dude?"]
Vollmann's is a deflected hunger. His focus is not his subjects but his own act of looking at them. He tries out different voices--objective, sentimental, dislocated--as if one of them just might help him break through. I am cut off but I am trying, he seems to say.
There is an equivalent dandy-in-spite-of-himself quality to "White Knights," another bit of urban reportage. Here, though, there is the ghost of a connection, and it is an unlikely one. His subject is the San Francisco Nazi Skinz, a gang of skinheads.
They are rough, all right. Anthony, for example, polishes his boots obsessively. "People are gonna see their reflection right before I kick them in the face," he explains. Curiously, though, the tone is elegiac, almost tender. The Skinz are washed up; most have left town. Vollmann uses a past tense. "They used to go into bars and find fighting, punch people in the face when they didn't like the way they looked (being Nazis, they were conscious that appearance is everything)."
Nazism is simply the nearest rebellion at hand. He has a devastating thought, watching the Skinz in their hangout. They remind him of pictures from Buchenwald. "Stubble-crowned, tattooed, naked, and angular."
In "Blue Yonder," Vollmann mixes reportage on the city's street people with a vein of Expressionist nightmare. It is a semi-fiction; his portrait of drifters and bums is counterpointed by his account of a schizoid madman, Zombie, who moves among them stunning them with his cane, pouring Drano into their mouths and decapitating them. It is a horrifying piece, claustrophobic in its intensity and detail. [Not so good or bad, but simply constricted?]
In "The Indigo Engineers," again a mix of fiction and reporting, Vollmann writes of the Survival Research Laboratory. It consists of three engineers who design and build terrifying machines with scythe blades, flame-throwers and sensors. They star in theater-of-cruelty spectacles. Rabbit-like and human-like robots are released; the killing machines go after them and tear them bloodily to pieces.
The piece takes the form of interviews with the engineers, who are passionately matter-of-fact about their job. Intercut with these is the story of Pawel, whose family was taken to Gestapo headquarters in Poland when he was a child. An officer gave him an apple; the family was suddenly and arbitrarily released. And Vollmann weaves the two stories together.
And as I stood talking at the register to Alyssa at the bookstore, in walks John the Bartender from the pub. He is looking for a copy of The Rainbow Stories, and there is one, after some looking around, and this is how it came to be mentioned here.
I finished Lafcadio's Adwentures, aka the Vatican Swindle, aka Caves du Vatican. It was good. I plan on another bottle of Gide someday.
Maybe one will wash up on Coronado Beach.
Doncha tell zBrown or Licky--one is on the wagon, the other is off his rocker.
The Vole is the 'most maximalist' and the 'ex post fatualist' in one small corpus literatus.--MFM, gone to sunrise
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