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Yosemite morning
Thursday, February 28, 2019
City of Angles.
I am trying to pretend that I am a normal human being and less of a pathetic loser so I am trying to engage in normal human being stuff. Actually had a guy help me in the yard on Monday, first time in about eight months. Weeds were near head high, neighbors starting to give us the look. I feel a lot better when the yard is looking spiffier, just haven't had any energy with the heart crap. Or money for such extravagances as help.
And I got myself a new windshield. Money be damned, couldn't see through the old one anymore. Cracked and scratched. Hail storm in New Mexico did me in. My onetime young hippie cool has turned into primitive old caveman frigid. May be headed for a fall but at least I will now have a clearer view of the event.
Leslie and I drove to Los Angeles yesterday, listened to as much of the Michael Cohen show as we could stand on the way. I dropped off a painting in Beverly Hills, then we hit Canters.
Do you remember last September, I was bitching about a particularly bad lox and whitefish plate? Maybe miserly is a better term.
I wrote the Canters a nice letter, a little hurt but not angry, broke down the essence of my critique and Dena wrote me back and told me to call Mrs. Canter. I did and she was very nice, said that the next meal was on them. Whoo hoo!
They came though in spades and we got our favorite server to boot, Greg. Greg has been there for thirty five years. Everything was perfect, pickles were great and we had a reuben to boot. Life is good.
Happy wife, happy life. Thank you Canters. You are all very menschy and we appreciate it. That is why we keep coming back. If it is not right and it is right 99 % of the time, they make it right.
Stopped by George Stern Fine Arts and saw George and his lovely wife Irene and picked up some canvasses for Gary. I was right there, would save him a trip. A zillion dollars in the back of my van. Then we headed to the garment district and picked up shmattas for Leslie's clothing store on 12th street.
My mother was a native angeleno. Both my parents were Bruin alumni. I know some great people from L.A., people like Roger Genser, Marty, Linda, Isak, Sue, Joseph and George, many others. But I must confess to not really liking the city. There is an oppressive pallor of native hipness and superiority that I find completely unfounded. New York I will buy, Los Angeles, I don't think so. And no, it's not because I hated my mother. Just don't resonate with the place, except for some lovely hideouts, like Canters, Griffith Park and Philippes. Truth be told, we come for the whitefish.
But I do like the rules that Los Angelenos have created to make their mostly miserable lives bearable, like the three car exception at the red light. Very sensible.
And I got myself a new windshield. Money be damned, couldn't see through the old one anymore. Cracked and scratched. Hail storm in New Mexico did me in. My onetime young hippie cool has turned into primitive old caveman frigid. May be headed for a fall but at least I will now have a clearer view of the event.
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| collusion, lots of it... |
Do you remember last September, I was bitching about a particularly bad lox and whitefish plate? Maybe miserly is a better term.
I wrote the Canters a nice letter, a little hurt but not angry, broke down the essence of my critique and Dena wrote me back and told me to call Mrs. Canter. I did and she was very nice, said that the next meal was on them. Whoo hoo!
They came though in spades and we got our favorite server to boot, Greg. Greg has been there for thirty five years. Everything was perfect, pickles were great and we had a reuben to boot. Life is good.
Stopped by George Stern Fine Arts and saw George and his lovely wife Irene and picked up some canvasses for Gary. I was right there, would save him a trip. A zillion dollars in the back of my van. Then we headed to the garment district and picked up shmattas for Leslie's clothing store on 12th street.
My mother was a native angeleno. Both my parents were Bruin alumni. I know some great people from L.A., people like Roger Genser, Marty, Linda, Isak, Sue, Joseph and George, many others. But I must confess to not really liking the city. There is an oppressive pallor of native hipness and superiority that I find completely unfounded. New York I will buy, Los Angeles, I don't think so. And no, it's not because I hated my mother. Just don't resonate with the place, except for some lovely hideouts, like Canters, Griffith Park and Philippes. Truth be told, we come for the whitefish.
But I do like the rules that Los Angelenos have created to make their mostly miserable lives bearable, like the three car exception at the red light. Very sensible.
Down In The Willow Garden
Good southern song, some stabbin', drownin' and a little poison mixed in fer good measure. Nick just burned this album for me. Frank Warfield and the great guitarist/tenor Red Allen, recorded in Wakefield's kitchen by 18 year old David Grisman and his NYU buddy Peter Siegal in 1963.
Artisté
Do you try to touch the greatest amount of people and seek the least common denominator, do you aim for the smartest, the dumbest, those with a common aesthetic or those that might not even resonate with you?
In writing I basically stopped thinking about such questions long ago, I tend to write for myself and then see what happens to stick with other people. But the other platforms are different for me.
I was a very neurotic painter and wouldn't even allow others to turn the pages of my sketch books as a young man. Not sure why but I have never felt quite as exposed with a camera.
For some reason painting and playing music in front of people makes me feel very vulnerable, something I don't experience in the other artforms I happen to engage in.
I left the Irving Penn show thinking that as much as I love his brilliance, if I tried a similar tack and approach today it would be largely lost on people. I am not saying I am in his league and there is a hell of a lot I don't know about studio photography, don't get me wrong.
People want to be hit over the head with photographs today. Studies have shown that people favor oversaturated shots with high contrast and clarity in blind comparisons. In the forties and fifties not everything had to be so pretty. Photography today is really pretty monotonous, lots of perfectly exposed and focused shots that tend to say nothing.
People ask me why I don't try to sell more of my work. I was talking to my friend Vern the other day about the difficulty in selling photographs in today's world. He says that there is not a show he currently exhibits at where someone does not come up at some point and say, "Hey, I took a better shot on my iphone." Everybody is an artist and no one is an artist.
I don't know, perhaps serious photography's time has passed, everything has been done already, only film has the necessary verité, digital is bullshit, classical photography is too depressing for most people. As a longtime merchant, how can I have the soul and credibility of a serious artist, even though I have over fifty years in behind a viewfinder?
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Is there always a victim?
Which makes sense, every Tom, Dick and Larry these days thinks they are going to get rich in the weed business and wholesale prices are said to be plummeting.
Legalization has a way of reducing prices and ferreting out the criminal element that is mostly there for the money. No money, see ya.
One of the best websites to get the libertarian opinion is Reason.com. I am not necessarily a libertarian but I have libertarian instincts and agree with them wholeheartedly on occasion.
I saw this article on Reason the other day, Legal Weed Did More to Stop Drug Smuggling Than Any Wall -Easing pot prohibition is doing what the failed war on drugs never could by Katherine Mangu-Ward & Alexis Garcia. I largely agree and think it makes sense.
Reason had another article the other day that basically said this was a transaction between two consenting adults and that the authorities had withdrawn any initial claims about human trafficking and exploitation. Old story, hooker meet John.
Read Patriots Owner Robert Kraft's Arrest Is Being Billed as a Human Trafficking Bust, but It Looks More Like Ordinary Prostitution by Elizabeth Nolan Brown.
I do not know exactly where the truth lies but think that the discussion is interesting and worthwhile.
We are obviously looking for victims and there may well be victims here but at the same time that people are clamoring for this wealthy widower's head, sex workers in New York are demanding legalization of prostitution, as is Kamala Harris.
Could there be a middle ground where people can operate transactionally in this arena without societal opprobrium and puritanism? Is this sort of activity anyone else's business?
My favorite Kraft headline was the one that said they were seeking stiff penalties; I'm thinking stiff is what got him in trouble. Leave the poor guy alone. Don't care if he is Trump's friend or not.
Do you remember way back when, when I wrote about Gilgamesh? One of the oldest written books in the world, the epic is one of the greatest works of literature, dating from 2100 b.c.. In Gilgamesh we meet the character of Šamhat, a prostitute who makes a tavern wall her place of business. Truly the oldest profession. Will be around forever, along with the coyotes and the cockroaches and the plastic soda rings.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Smell the lilacs
Today was the most beautiful day of the new year, at least here in Fallbrook. Warm and azure blue skies. I saw a large osprey in a tree on the river, poppies are popping up everywhere, coating the lush and green hills in a thick carpet of orange and yellow. The heavy rains have completely changed the contours of the Santa Margarita river I am so lucky to live next to.
Leslie pointed out the first ceanothus, or purple lilac bloom of the season yesterday. A usually rather boring looking weed near St. Peters Church is temporarily sporting a magnificent hyacinth like flower. As the Grateful Dead once so eloquently sang, Might be going to hell in a bucket, but at least I'm enjoying the ride.
Jerry Hall sent over the cool kite video. Very nice. We had lunch the other day, his recent operation finally freeing him from years of spinal torment. Free at last. Rich, poor, smart, dumb, you get one swing at the pinata, make sure you make it count. And to quote the dead again, without love in the dream it will never come true.
Life has been tough, all out of free credits, like many people. But I have an incredible wife and incredible friends in my life. Can't give up. Didn't go see the fortune teller but grabbed a card off the deck. The world, upside down. My world. Time to turn it around.
Southbound
Leslie and I drove to Balboa Park yesterday with a friend, we wanted to hit a few museums. We stopped at Jasmine for a little dim sum first, were pretty judicious in our consumption, discrimination being the key in these sorts of matters.
I was going to bring my camera but ran out of time, had left it in my office, phone would have to do if called upon. Good for me to just be there from time to time, as my wife pointed out.
The Botanical Garden was very happy after all the rain, lots of nice dendrobiums and bromeliads afoot.
I headed over to the Museum of Photographic Arts. They have a wonderful Irving Penn exhibition hanging in the main gallery.
It was supposed to be over last week, not sure how long it will stay up. Glad I caught it. Marvelous work.
Afterwards I went to the San Diego Historical Museum and finally caught Carol Lindemulder's show.
I used to hang her in the gallery, just don't have the touch with contemporary artists for some reason. It was a very nice exhibition from the wonderful San Diego/Borrego Springs colorist.
Park was nice, happening, my ability to cover ground now hampered by the new potassium channel blocker. Did my best.
Tromped over to the Natural History where I never go and looked at rocks and stuffed birds. Leslie, not stuffed in the slightest, was in her native purple element.
We drove up to Hillcrest and stopped by Bread and Cie to see if our pal Warren was there. Bingo, right there on his regular perch. Had an excellent meet up with our ex Fallbrook pal. Bought some of their scrumptious walnut raisin bread.
Excellent day, all around.
The Botanical Garden was very happy after all the rain, lots of nice dendrobiums and bromeliads afoot.
It was supposed to be over last week, not sure how long it will stay up. Glad I caught it. Marvelous work.
I used to hang her in the gallery, just don't have the touch with contemporary artists for some reason. It was a very nice exhibition from the wonderful San Diego/Borrego Springs colorist.
Park was nice, happening, my ability to cover ground now hampered by the new potassium channel blocker. Did my best.
Excellent day, all around.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Happy hens
Portlandia was obviously quite prescient.
ZhongAn Online, a Chinese insurance company, has already outfitted more than a 100,000 chickens with trackers. The sensors upload information, such as how much exercise each chicken gets and what it ate. The company says the technology will be on 2,500 farms in China by next year.They are also working on facial-recognition technology so that consumers can one day make sure the organic chicken they saw on the farm is the same one that ends up on their plate.
Reading the tea leaves
Tasseography? I confess that is a new one. What does it mean? I looked it up.
In medieval times, fortune tellers augured the future by reading splatters of wax and lead, in the seventeenth century reading tea leaves came to the fore when the dutch started bringing tea from China.
And now we know.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
In a silent way
Bass – Dave Holland Drums – Tony Williams Electric Piano – Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock Guitar – John McLaughlin Organ, Electric Piano – Josef Zawinul Tenor Saxophone – Wayne Shorter Trumpet – Miles Davis
New offerings - Blue Heron Gallery
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| Trinidad - Ethel Fisher (1923-2017) |
Ginger Baker
A Who classic, Peter Noone does an excellent job here on vocals. The guitarist is the late Peter Banks, he was the original guitar player for Yes and has been called one of the founding architects of prog rock.
The Professor
Grayson Boucher is a hooper. An undersized five foot ten inch white guy from Oregon, who played at a small Oregon community college. He eventually became a streetball legend, first as a basketball celebrity on the And1 tour, later for Ball Up. Now he travels the globe playing basketball, often in underdeveloped nations. No less a figure than Isaiah Thomas recently said that he was one of the best ball handlers in the business. I watch a lot of his videos. He has an amazing repertoire of moves, plays on the street, in prisons, for charity. Guy turns people inside out. Reminds me of Curly Neal of the Globetrotters. Check out his many videos on YouTube.
Grayson is a devout christian, and the best kind you could ever meet. Humble and kind. Gets beat on occasion but never gets mad. Last week I watched videos of him teaching James Harden a couple of his patented moves. He has also hung and played with Steph Curry and Iverson. Now 34, many current NBA stars grew up watching him play and love the guy. As do I.
Friday, February 22, 2019
Drobkin effect
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| Kliban |
Barry Friedman, my friend the schmatta magnate, was kvelling about some guy he knew on the phone the other day, some big shot wacko psychiatrist. Why wacko?
Because all headshrinkers are nuttier than fruitcakes, everybody knows that. You think you could listen to that tsoris all day without springing a sprocket, good luck.
He sent this note over.
***
How’s this for a CV?
What it doesn’t mention is as a very young man he did all the research for Paddy Chayefsky for Altered States.
***
I am not completely sure what Friedman's exact relationship with the shrink is but knowing him as I do, if he was a patient I would definitely demand my money back.
I guess the doctor wins on points in any case. That is quite the curriculum vitae. But I didn't want to make it too easy. I sent Barry this text rejoinder:
That's it? Did he ever bowl? Can he make nachos? I especially like the part where he puts his hand in his armpit and makes fart noises...
Barry was quick to put me in my place:
The psychiatric facilities he heads – Long Island Presbyterian and Columbia University – are the two biggest in the country. He has 3000 doctors who report to him including a dozen Nobel Prize winners. Our claim to fame? We know Danny Verrier.
Talk about arrested development, perhaps I maybe should get an appointment with Schlieberman myself?
I can see old Sigmund now, looks like a classic case of anal fixation, "Bobby, vy did you write on the bathroom walls mit your own scheisse as a kinder? Vot is mit der fahrtze tink? Vershtinkinverin.
It is difficult to talk about. There are not enough therapy sessions in the world left to broach that topic.
I cut an unfortunate cheeser in France that may have irrevocably harmed a lifelong friendship. I blamed the fromage but my cohort ascribed the ill wind to some misplaced passive aggression on my part.
Far be it for me to toot my own horn. But since I have brought it up, I thought that I should mention a new skillset in my sexagenarian quiver, my newfound ability to simultaneously pee and bark one off at the public urinal. Like, how many guys can do that? My newfound talent reminds me of a Jack London novel, the call of the wild prostate.
Which leads me to another good doctor, Doctor Drobkin. His story follows:
Dr. Drobkin was a world-famous cardiologist who earned his undergraduate, graduate, and medical degrees in his hometown and then left for Manhattan where he quickly rose to the top of his field.
Soon he was invited to deliver a significant paper, at a conference held in his hometown. He walked on stage, placed his papers on the lectern, but they slid off onto the floor.
As he bent over to retrieve them, at precisely the wrong instant, he inadvertently farted. The microphone amplified his mistake resoundingly through the lecture room and reverberated it down the hall! He was quite embarrassed but somehow regained his composure just enough to deliver his paper. He ignored the resounding applause and raced out the stage door, never to be seen in his hometown again.
Decades later, when his elderly mother was ill, he returned to visit her. He reserved a hotel room under the name of Cohen and arrived under cover of darkness.
The desk clerk asked him, "Is this your first visit to our city, Mr. Cohen?"
Dr. Drobkin replied, "Well, young man, no, it isn't. I grew up here, received my education here, but then moved away."
"Why haven't you visited?" asked the desk clerk.
"Actually, I did visit once, many years ago, but an embarrassing thing happened and since then I've been too ashamed to return."
The clerk consoled him, "Sir, while I don't have your life experience, one thing I have learned is that often what seems embarrassing to me isn't even remembered by others. I bet that's true of your incident too."
Dr. Drobkin replied, "Son, I doubt that's the case with my embarrassment."
"Was it a long time ago?"
"Yes, many years."
The clerk asked, "Was it before or after the Drobkin Fart?"
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Aglow at the El Tovar
Yet there was always something curious, if not baffling, about his occasionally aberrant behavior. It could not all be traced to his Swedish lineage, his overconsumption of pickled herring.
There was always something even darker, lurking, right beneath the surface. Something wasn't right.
And now I guess we know. According to an article in the Arizona Republic, people in the Grand Canyon, who lived and worked where my friend lived, were possibly exposed to radioactive uranium ore for almost twenty years. Three five gallon open paint buckets worth of the potentially cancer causing material, to be exact.
In a rogue email sent to all Park Service employees on Feb. 4, Elston "Swede" Stephenson — the safety, health and wellness manager — described the alleged cover-up as "a top management failure" and warned of possible health consequences.All kidding aside, it is an unbelievable story. After the whistleblower's email, park employees dumped the buckets of radioactive ore out at an old mine two miles away and then brought the empty buckets back into the building. Watch the powers that be do nothing re: this story. Nothing to see here...
"If you were in the Museum Collections Building (2C) between the year 2000 and June 18, 2018, you were 'exposed' to uranium by OSHA's definition," Stephenson wrote. "The radiation readings, at first blush, exceeds (sic) the Nuclear Regulatory Commission's safe limits. … Identifying who was exposed, and your exposure level, gets tricky and is our next important task."
In a Feb. 11 email to Acting Interior Secretary David Bernhardt and Deputy Inspector General Mary Kendall, Stephenson said he had repeatedly asked National Park executives to inform the public, only to get stonewalled.
Stephenson said the containers were stored next to a taxidermy exhibit, where children on tours sometimes stopped for presentations, sitting next to uranium for 30 minutes or more. By his calculation, those children could have received radiation dosages in excess of federal safety standards within three seconds, and adults could have suffered dangerous exposure in less than a half-minute.If you read the comments from the locals in the Arizona Republic and other experts, the story is much ado about nothing, the exposure levels minimal. I wonder...
Liars figure
I got to coffee late this morning. I went to the SDSU and Nevada basketball game last night with Kent and it had a late tipoff, eight o'clock. Nevada had been rated number six in the nation but the young and improving 17-9 mighty Aztecs took them down with their guard play. With my help, of course.
Student section was full for once and swarmed the court in their black shirts after the win, most jazzed game since the great New Mexico contest I witnessed a few years ago.
Anyhow I think that we can now make the definitive statement that eating chiliburgers from Tommy's will guarantee an Aztecs win. I believe that I am now three for three in this particular experiment.
Or can we make that statement?
The boys at coffee are generally far more intelligent than I am. This morning Bill let loose some latin phrase, I had no idea what it meant; Post hoc ergo propter hoc. I hate being the dumbest guy in the room but he was talking to Alex and you know how smart he is... Anyway, somebody has to bring up the rear.
I asked him what he was talking about, the meaning of the phrase, obviously secure enough to display my ignorance publicly. Although it really ticks me off when people have to show off their latin.
Post hoc ergo propter hoc - It is a latin phrase that means "after this, therefore because of this." It is known as a logical fallacy, the error of thinking that correlation constitutes causality. In other words, as wiki so ably states, Since event Y followed event X, event Y must have been caused by event X.
Ergo, the Aztecs win can be traced directly to my chiliburger with cheese. (Had I mentioned the cheese?)
I believe that I would have to be devouring my burger at the game for that to occur. The Greek and Latin types obviously spent a lot of time splitting hairs on these sorts of conundrums.
Our conversation sort of ambled over to the funny ways people can manipulate graphs and data to make their points and often to obscure facts.
Bill sent over a website called Spurious Correlations.
You can see from the data that per capita cheese consumption is closely related to people who expired while wrapped up in their bedsheets. Or to keep the dairy theme going, there is this one:
Be careful with facts, they are pesky little critters.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
2-20
Acting EPA director Andrew Wheeler criticized last year's Federal Climate Change report as being based on a "worst case scenario."
Acting Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) chief Andrew Wheeler on Wednesday downplayed last year's dire federal government report on climate change, saying some of the report's conclusions "were based on the worst-case scenario."Isn't that what responsible scientists do, analyze and measure the full range of potential impacts? Seems reasonable to me to plan for the worst and hope for the best but what do I know? I am sure that I would see things differently to if I was an ex industry lobbyist, like Wheeler.
"Some of the conclusions were based on the worst-case scenario. ... And so, I’m trying to take the report as a whole.
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“Americans wake up! Men and women altogether. You have much to do while you live under our greatest enemy, enough of your sleeping! Go on drivebys, and spill all of their blood, or rent a big truck and drive all over them. Veterans, Patriots, Memorial, etc day … Kill them.” Hoda Muthana
“I think a lot of people should have sympathy toward me for everything I have been through. I didn't know what I was getting into when I left.” Shamima BegumPound sand, Hoda and Shamima.
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Jews in the Labour Party in England are resigning en masse due to the ever increasing anti-semitic nature of that Party. I predict that it is only a matter of time before it happens here in America. I was listening to new congresswoman Rashida Tlaib lambasting jews for having "dual loyalty" to Israel and thought,"Isn't that exactly what you are doing here too?" How ironic.
Of course, things aren't much better in France.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJeAzx3453o
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Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Mod affair
Modernism Week in the desert brings people in from all over the country. The way it was raining last Thursday I was surprised any one would make it, braving traffic jams, road closures and extreme weather. But they did. Place was packed, even with near five inches of rain.
Also, this year featured tours of iconic mid century modern homes this year that never get open to the public. Modernism Week is a big deal and functions and lectures sell out quick.
Luckily I got most of my merchandise in to my show on a dry Wednesday, Thursday morning the sky broke open and floodwater was cresting over the sidewalks, making crossing the road a portage expedition.
The show was pretty good for me, could have been much worse as I said. Sold a few things. Next door was the very interesting Palm Springs Art Fair. Someone over there had a great Bay Area figurative collection including large works by Hassel Smith. Vincent Vallarino had a very nice John McLaughlin canvas. Some dealers from years passed were notable in their absence, Novak, Victoria among others.
I shed tears this year with a late friend's sister who I hadn't seen in ages, her brother's passing still hurts us both deeply, even with several years to process. Everything came bubbling up.
Anyway, on a happier note, people really pull out the duds. Place was awash in sartorial splendor, of a flavor that many would be frankly petrified to wear in other haunts. If not arrested.
Certain outfits just send me running for the Nikon.
Great mole and carnitas at El Mirasol with our dear friends Frank and Joy.
I got into an interesting conversation with a few people at one point. It was my contention that gay people have done more to revitalize urban neighborhoods than anybody else in America.
I have seen it in many places, Hillcrest, Long Beach, Greenwich Village and Palm Springs to name but a few. Gay people move in and the place goes to heaven. Property values go up, things get less scroungey.
And I think there is a similarity with what Jews were able to do in the province of movies and television.
They moved into occupations that were thought of as low class like stage and theater at the turn of the nineteenth century, occupations thought beneath the dignity of the majority and developed them and made them lucrative in their later incarnations. Made them their own when no one else cared.
Both groups felt alienated and divorced from mainstream society so they found certain islands like Provincetown, Palm Springs and Hollywood and created a new lexicon, fresh aesthetics and media delivery systems from scratch, unencumbered by the prevailing winds and design motifs. Perhaps the alienation and perceived persecution brings the blessing of a certain liberation from conventional morés.
This particular show ended with a loud clunk for me, the be backs didn't come back, no sales on the last day, t'was a very lonely Monday.
Maybe I will get a call one day soon from someone who simply can't sleep with the thought of the painting they passed up? Here's hoping anyway.
I had nice stuff, including a rare triptych from the late Susan Bright Lautmann Hertel, a remarkable artist who worked with Millard Sheets. Booth looked good.
Met a one time blog reader who said she will still occasionally venture in to listen to the music but honestly finds the commentary too dour and depressing for her taste.
Truth is, life has been tougher than shit this year and I have never been one to sugarcoat my feelings and probably am not emotionally equipped to change my m.o. at this point. But I will try.
Everything is fucking wonderful.
How is that?
Traffic on the 10 was really backed up after my two hour pack out. I needed to gas up and lose some personal fluids. I stopped at Morongo, signed up for a rewards card and had the buffet, which was decent.
Found a fifteen dollar blackjack table and could do little wrong for an hour. Got up and skeedaddled home, completely exhausted and a little bit richer. Almost fell asleep at the wheel two or three times.
Haven't even unpacked the van this morning, pretty drained. But it was, all in all, a good experience in Palm Springs, if you have never been they do it twice a year, although the February show is by far the best. Check it out.
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