Born too late to cross the Plains ....

Robert Louis Stevenson. He traveled across America.

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson
From: "Requiem"

From Scotland to San Francisco & beyond ....

I finished a book a few days ago and was reminded yesterday (coincidentally, not intentionally) that I had not started another. So, I pulled out a book I purchased a few months ago, but had not yet opened: "The Travels and Essays of Robert Louis Stevenson." It is proportioned into three sections, "The Amateur Emigrant," "Across the Plains" and "The Silverado Squatters." The book first appeared in print in 1892. My copy is a later edition -- 1899. (Love old stuff.)

My assumption is there should be no need to explain what Robert Louis Stevenson is primarily noted for, but many people do not realize he was a prolific traveler as well as a prolific writer. In fact, he died far away from his birthplace in Scotland, on Upola, one of the Samoan islands. He is buried there. Between birth and death, Stevenson's travels included crossing the Atlantic Ocean by ship and journeying from New York to California by train and stage coach.

There should be no doubt this trip across America was made in part from the love of traveling, but Stevenson also was on the trail of a married woman, and that involved an even deeper love. While exploring France in 1876, Stevenson met Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne at the artists' colony of Grez. She was ten years older than Stevenson, and from San Francisco. (That city just keeps showing up out of the blue.) It was apparently love at first sight for him. He returned to England, but promptly went back to France, where they began "their life."

(Break time: Lynyrd Skynyrd with "Free Bird" came on the radio. Stop. Time out. Listen. Close eyes. Drift on the clouds.)

Back again: Fanny returned to America in 1877. Stevenson did a walking tour of Europe. By 1879, Stevenson must have decided that enough was enough (that expression is my personal property), and he set out after her (so is that one). She was divorced by the time he arrived in San Francisco. They married in 1880. The book I am about to open is Stevenson's account of the sea voyage (Amateur Emigrant), of traveling the breadth of America (Across the Plains) and of a summer-long honeymoon at an abandoned mining camp (Silverado Squatters).

In 1888, the Stevenson family began three years of cruising the Pacific Ocean on a chartered yacht. He suffered from bad health, which was the primary reason he bought property and settled on an island in the Samoan group. No winters. (Yes-s-s-s.) Stevenson died in his home in 1894 at the age of 44, probably from a cerebral hemorrhage.

The reason I bought this book is because I particularly wanted to read the "Across the Plains" segment. (I think I will start in "the middle" of the book with that story.) I keep a lookout for first-hand accounts about 19th Century travel from the Mississippi River to Montana or to the West Coast. You see, I want to know what I missed by being born too late to experience the Plains country wild and natural.

Music Note: Still have the radio on a classic rock station ....

There is sarcasm and there is SARCASM ....

Ambrose Bierce in 1866. After the war, before the writing.

Spending an afternoon
with the master of the invective

There are days when I think sarcasm rules the contemporary world. Sarcasm, satire, cynicism, skepticism -- you get the picture. But then, I think of "Bitter Bierce," and I know everyone since him has been nothing more than a pretentious amateur.

The master of invective writing was Ambrose Bierce.

Here is a brief (and probably boring) biography: Bierce was born on June 24, 1842, in Horse Cave, Ohio. He was the 10th of 13 children. The primary influences in his early life were his father, his father's library and an uncle, General Lucius Bierce. He briefly attended the Kentucky Military Institute.

Bierce enlisted in the Ninth Indiana Infantry at the outbreak of the Civil War, just before his 19th birthday. His battle record is remarkable, and includes Philippi, Shiloh, Corinth, Stones River, Chickamauga, Missionary Ridge and Franklin. He suffered a severe head wound at Kennesaw Mountain in 1864, and was hospitalized for months. After the war, he was part of a small military inspection group that, on horseback and by wagon, crossed Nebraska, Wyoming and Montana, and then turned south to California. The places he saw and the people he met on the way could fill a book, but he wrote hardly a word of this incredible journey.

His writing habits changed during the next four decades. Bierce wrote dozens of short stories (perhaps the best known is, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," hundreds of essays and a few thousand newspaper columns -- among other things. His most recognizable work probably is, "The Devil's Dictionary." He lived in England for a few years. For a few months, he was manager of a gold mine in the Black Hills of South Dakota. But, he spent most of his adult life living and working in San Francisco.

In the fall of 1913, Bierce paid a final visit to a number of his old Civil War battlefields. His plan was to enter Mexico, find Pancho Villa and witness first-hand the Mexican revolution. He passed over the Mexican border in late autumn, and wrote one last letter on December 26. Bierce then disappeared. He was 71 years of age. Despite the many rumors and hypotheses concerning his death, nothing substantial is known about his final living days on earth.

Some biographies of Bierce's life include: "Alone in Bad Company," by Roy Morris, Jr. (1995); "Bitter Bierce," by C. Hartley Grattan (1929); and "Portrait of Ambrose Bierce," by Adolphe de Castro (1929). One of the more entertaining (if not accurate) accounts about the disappearance of Bierce is a work of fiction entitled, "Old Gringo," by Carlos Fuentes. A very well done movie of that novel was made with Gregory Peck as Bierce. Jane Fonda and Jimmy Smits had supporting roles.

Now, why am I writing about Bierce? I have no idea, other than to say that for the past few days I've really been thinking about sarcasm, satire, cynicism and skepticism, and it's relevance to contemporary society and, once again, "Bitter Bierce" is the all-time master of the invective. Maybe someone will read this commentary and become interested enough in Bierce to read some of his short stories. He wrote a number of them I would consider classics.

He is such a fascinating and perplexing character that I would include him on my list of the three people from history (from "before my time") who I would most like to interview. All right. To be honest, by interview I mean to spend an afternoon with him, asking him questions and listening to him talk about his life, while we both proceed to get drunk. Guy thing; reporter thing; truth-teller thing.

From "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce:

ABSURDITY, n. A statement or belief manifestly inconsistent with one's own opinion.

ELOQUENCE, n. The art of orally persuading fools that white is the color that it appears to be. It includes the gift of making any color appear white.

CYNIC, n. A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among the Scythians of plucking out a cynic's eyes to improve his vision.

CONSERVATIVE, n. A statesman who is enamored of existing evils, as distinguished from the Liberal, who wishes to replace them with others.

Music Note: None; currently sort of watching "Somewhere in Time" on television ....

There's always next time, so they tell me ....

Ava Gardner

December 24, 1922 – January 25, 1990 / three marriages

Mickey Rooney

September 23, 1920 – still with us / eight marriages

Mickey, Ava -- I've enjoyed the visit with you (especially with you, Ava)

Here we end this particular train of thought where we began it 19 days ago with the inauguration of this blog -- thinking about Mickey and Ava -- in California, and the vicinity of San Francisco.

Happiness lasted a year or thereabouts for them as a couple. Just look at their faces. Have your eyes ever been those eyes? Ever? That was during 1942-1943. That is a long time ago in terms of an individual's life. In as much as I know, they never appeared together in a movie before, during or after their marriage. Too bad there wasn't a movie during each. It would be "fascinating" to be able to watch them work together during each of those three stages of their relationship. The more I think about you, it is very possible I'll revive the two of you, Mickey, Ava, here again ....

Happiness is momentary, a wise, old man told me

As has been amply evident, I no longer care for a prolonged winter. The problem is what to do about it. I once owned a home I named "Sanctuary." It was a house on a hilltop, with a seven-acre barrier between me and the nearest neighbor, surrounded by woodlands. In not much more than a year, I learned there was no such thing as sanctuary. I suppose I knew that all along, but sometimes we try to fool ourselves. So, I renamed the home "Refuge," as representing more-or-less the half-way point between the actual world and sanctuary. That worked for a few years.

Circumstances change, and probably people, too. (I think I've said that before.) This, I suppose, is the simple answer as to why I have a tendency to keep looking for some sort of hidden, mystical, (almost certainly non-existent) Holy Grail. The searches are enjoyable. It is the time spent between each jump off that becomes a tad tedious.

Journalism for me has ranged from country weekly to metropolitan daily. I like to take what I call "mock sabbaticals" from journalism. When I am in a more taunting mood, I refer to these episodes as what I did in "another life." That is closer to the truth than most people recognize. As example, I've also taught journalism at a university (I did not say a BA was the only degree); I've done paid, partisan, political public relations; I've been a policy-management analyst/writer; plus I've taken a couple of jaunts outside the field of writing. All these things have been fun (really), but I tend to get restless after a year or two and begin yearning for different scenery (lakes, rivers to canoe, mostly) and new challenges. During this time, I have lived in four states and have visited several others, as well as a few other countries.

I have unforgivably disappointed at least two women during my relatively brief existence. While wandering the sea of blogs, I noted several instances where writers (mostly women) stated that they are living with their "soul mate." Frankly, I doubt there is such a thing and wonder if these writers are a bit delusional. To me, such a statement carries the believability of a pitch from a used car salesman. But, the beauty of it is that I might be wrong. There might be such a thing as a "soul mate" for some individuals. Still, I wonder how often this arrangement actually is a two-way street. I suppose I am pretty much a nihilist in this regard.

I have spent a great deal of time in a canoe, and generally drive my companions to the brink of anger because I never want to stop. I want to see what is around the next bend; I am impatient to traverse the distance from one point to the next. I have lived out of a canoe for as long as a month at a time. Possibly, that is where I am the happiest (at least temporarily), drifting in a canoe with the wind behind me and the sun in my face.

I think I am ready for another change. Maybe travel for a year or two until I run out of money. Maybe buy another "refuge" in some (warmer) back country and sort of live off the land for a while (but only for a while); many people do. Maybe jump off to another country altogether. If I cannot read or understand the language spoken there, life would revert to simplistic basics, which frequently seems like a good way to live. Maybe even become the proverbial beach bum. No, I guess no, not that. I need to have too, too many books around me.

Now, the new loop begins. There is birth; there is death. Between them there is life. With all the possible things within our own lifetimes to do, with all the possible places to see, with all the possible people to meet, how can anyone be content to spend 25 or 30 years living in the same city, maybe in the same house, maybe at the same job? Why does anyone do that? Why?

There is so much wonder in the world, to see and to know. My choice would be to have experienced 1,000 jobs in 1,000 different locations before I "cash in." Maybe I might make it if I quit talking and start moving once again. How about you?

Music Note: Currently listening to Johnny Cash ....
Specifically, "Solitary Man" ....
(A couple of really super songs here, such as "One")

(Not all country music is country)

The price of romance might be high ....

But first, cold water prepares one for California

I did a lot of swimming while I was in California. The water of the Pacific Ocean was pretty cold, but I was prepared for it. Anyone who thinks the Pacific Ocean is cold ought to try a Minnesota, spring-fed, gravel pit. Now, that is really, really cold water, and I grew up in it. And, even before California, I'd dumped a canoe a couple of times in Lake Superior. Try holding a rope between your teeth and swimming ashore in "The Lake," towing a canoe filled with water and an idiot hanging onto it, dodging mini-icebergs along the way. (There he goes, sidetracking again.) "The Lake" has cold water, but I think the old gravel pit has both it and the Pacific Ocean beat. By the way, most old gravel pits are great places for moonlight parking, too.

Some of my California swimming was close to shore. Some of it was 90 miles off shore, give or take. Either way, if I would have known at the time great white sharks liked to prowl the California coastline, I probably would have stayed in Minnesota. Well, not really. Who spends any time thinking about sharks, anyway? I saw live sharks and dead sharks, cute sharks and ugly sharks, smiling sharks and sinister sharks, and I didn't give any of them a second thought. They really weren't very frightening. The ones I saw, that is. It's sort of like, "beware the ides of March."

Pretty obvious, isn't it? I've got California, especially San Francisco, on my mind. Or, is it princesses, divas and contessas I have on my mind? Or, is it something else altogether? With those questions hovering above us like ethereal spirits, it is time to wind down the exercise.

The Ideal Couple: Episode III

Moving to San Francisco and wearing flowers in my hair? I don't know about that. Maybe I'll just head down there long enough to find a princess or a diva or a contessa, and use my powers of charm to convince her we should settle down on neutral ground. Not in San Francisco. Not in Minnesota. Concentrating once more on great romances in the wonderful world of motion pictures, but this time not just movies confined to San Francisco, one possibility would be for us to find a peaceful, middle-class town and to live our lives as normal, ordinary, the-kind-of-couple-you'd-want-next-door people. People like Marge and Norm Gunderson.

Remember "Fargo?" You betcha. Great place to live, and it's a hotbed of entertainment up there in Fargo, Nort Daakotaa. I saw Don Dokken actually live on stage up there last summer. What's San Francisco got that Fargo doesn’t? And, isn't it preferable to be "up there" instead of "down there?" I'd even be willing to change my name to Gunderson if I found the right princess or diva or contessa, or reasonable facsimile thereof. Maybe she would want to become a sheriff. You have to confess, there is something compelling about a woman wearing a badge. Just check out Marge.

I'd even make breakfast for my contessa. Ya, you betcha.

I suppose I must admit that it would be possible some very few young ladies would soon grow disenchanted living in the midst of potato and sugar beet fields, and yearn for a more glamorous, adventurous existence cruising the highways and byways of Europe in the footsteps of Jason and Marie in "The Bourne Identity." Yes, I suppose members of the fair sex might prefer that to the simple life of touring the badlands, hunting antelope and visiting the grounds of General George A. Custer's last duty station. I suppose Europe would be ok. Sometimes, to win a princess or a diva or a contessa, a man must compromise. All right, we'll do it your way, but you have to drive.

It costs how much in euros? Well, I suppose, if you say so.

With apologies to Geoffrey, here ends the new Pardoner’s Tale -- except -- maybe -- for an epilogue tomorrow to complete a circle.

Music Note: Listening to (and, again, sort of watching) Queen ....
Specifically, "Live at Wembly '86" ....
(Wish I would have seen them perform live .... little late now)

Romance, through the eyes of Hitchcock ....

But first, there are many things to do in California

I've only been to San Francisco once, and that was in the winter, February, as a matter of fact. My California time otherwise has been during warm-weather months, and my excursions largely ranging between San Diego and Los Angeles.

I tried to learn how to surf (on big waves, really, in the actual ocean) when I was in California. The only thing I learned was what it feels like to be a basketball -- tossing, tumbling, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing. Among my favorite California places were a bar called Maynard's in La Jolla and a nearby six-floor hotel, in which only the first floor was occupied. (The other floors, most likely, were condemned.) I cannot recall the name of the hotel, but I have come to refer to it as the "Hotel California." Most certainly, you remember the Eagles' song:

... "So I called up the Captain,
'Please bring me my wine'
He said, 'We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine'
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say ...
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
They livin' it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Bring your alibis" ...

Is this relevant?

Of course not, but I thought I'd mention it, anyway. Now, to the subject at hand:

The Ideal Couple: Episode II

Continuing our seminar regarding some of the great romances of San Francisco as depicted in the magical world of motion pictures, Alfred Hitchcock has produced a pair of my favorites. First, let us turn to the "The Birds." Notice here how gently Mitch is holding Melanie after she single-handedly fought off an attack from the feathery fiends. My assumption is that the woman on right is from PETA, and is trying to steal Melanie's fur coat during the confusion.

Mitch must be a wimp to allow Melanie do the fighting.

None of us, I am certain, will ever forget Scottie and Madeleine in Hitchcock's San Francisco classic, "Vertigo." I've never figured out how such an old dude like Scottie could land such a hot, young chick like Madeleine, but I guess that's just the way "old Alfred" envisioned the story. Anyone else besides me keep getting dizzy all during that movie?

So, men actually once wore hats instead of caps? How classy.

To be concluded tomorrow (barring the unforeseen) as Episode III

Music Note: Listening to (and sort of watching) David Bowie ....
Specifically, his "Glass Spider" concert ....
(Unbelievable guitar work, especially when five on stage at once)

Waiting for the howl of romance ....

Winter doldrums require diversions

This blog (god, what an ugly, unappealing word) was started as a distraction from winter, and as a bit of a farce.

January and February have become more-or-less a period of winter doldrums for me in recent times. Some years I go on a reading binge. Other years I try to spend a few weeks on a sunny beach. This year, for a diversion, I began randomly "cruising" the sea of blogs -- reading, reading, reading.

What began last August as "following" the writing of an individual turned into sifting through a gamut of thoughts, ideas and expressions produced by countless people. Such is the experience of surfing upon the sea of blogs. As a result, I have grown sort of attached to a couple of writers -- at minimum, feeling empathy, at most, feeling attraction. Empathy is fine; attraction is not what I want or need at this point in my life.

By that I mean while I do very much enjoy a pretty face, I find intellectual stimulation and commonality of interests more fascinating right now. And, on that note ....

The Ideal Couple: Episode I

My mind has been wandering lately, of that you can be sure. It's been drifting southward from cold, snowy Minnesota to the foggy, damp climes of San Francisco, California. "Why?" I just heard someone ask. Thank you, for asking. Because there are princesses, divas, contessas and other assorted wolf-loving ladies by the thousands, listening and waiting there impatiently for the howl of romance to pierce the silence of their drab, soggy lives.

Inflating my memory, some of the great romances of San Francisco as depicted in the movies float to the surface. Who can forget Chris and Walker in "Point Blank?" See Chris gripping Walker during a confrontation with "Archie Bunker?" See Walker calmly gripping his Model 27, Smith & Wesson, .357 magnum, with a four-inch barrel? Nice piece. That is true love.

Chris holds Walker while Walker holds his revolver. A man's got to know his limitations.

Near the top of the list among the more attractive couples of San Francisco movie fame must be Matthew and Elizabeth from "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." Here we see Matt clutching Liz in a rather informal manner. I'm not certain if the action in the photograph is related to the title of the movie but, since we’re all pretty much adults here, I won't worry about it.

There’s Matthew. There’s Elizabeth. Don’t use your imagination.

To be continued tomorrow (barring the unforeseen) as Episode II

Music Note: Currently listening to Alice Cooper ....
Specifically, "Mascara & MONSTERS" ....
(Never a fan of Alice, but I think every boy/man can relate to "Poison")

Books produce more questions than answers, I think ....

"My mistake was in ever opening the books."

Just for the sake of argument, I have decided to name my own selections as the ten best novels of the 20th Century (plus a couple of extras). Just be thankful that I did not go for the full 100, as Random House did with its selections. Fram's list:

1. Ulysses by James Joyce (Also No.1 on Random House list.)

2. The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel by Nikos Kazantzakis (Some would call this an epic poem; not on Random House list.)

3. The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis (Not on Random House list.)

4. Giants in the Earth by O.E. Rolvaag (Not on Random House list.)

5. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce (No. 3 on Random House list.)

6. Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson (No. 24 on Random House list.)

7. Deliverance by James Dickey (No. 42 on Random House list.)

8. An American Dream by Norman Mailer (Not on Random House list.)

9. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (No. 45 on Random House list.)

10. The Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man by Thomas Mann (Not on Random House list.)

11. The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell (No. 70 on Random House list; I'm particularly thinking of book three, "Mountolive," from among the four.)

12. Earth Abides by George Stewart (Once a professor of English at the University of California, Berkeley, among other things. Not on Random House list.)

13. McTeague by Frank Norris (I'll cheat. "McTeague" was published in 1899, the 19th Century, but what's a year in the overall scheme of things? It also has a San Francisco connection. Norris lived there for a time, and died there, and is buried across the bay in Oakland. Not on Random House list.)

14. The Sea-Wolf by Jack London (Another San Francisco connection. London lived there much of his life, and it is the point of origin as the story opens. Not on Random House list.)

To each his own. Actually, I'm not at all certain about the order in which I would place the final half-dozen. Too subjective a decision. Care to argue, debate, differ? Opinions are always welcome.

The quote above which I used to begin this segment, incidentally, comes from the lips of Wolf Larsen in "The Sea-Wolf:"

"And he (Wolf Larsen's brother, Death Larsen) has never philosophized on life," I added.

"No," Wolf Larsen answered, with an indescribable air of sadness.
"And he is all the happier for leaving life alone. He is too busy living it to think about it. My mistake was in ever opening the books."

That thought has bounded about inside my mind any number of times. Books produce more questions than answers, I think.

Music Note: Currently listening to a classic rock station on the radio ....

Wolves in the wild, Ambrose Bierce & other obscurities ....

Super Bowl. When?

Two weeks between the last playoff games in professional football and the Super Bowl is too long to wait. I've already lost interest. It's the same for me every year. Get on with it, while I'm still a little bit excited. I've already forgotten who's playing in the Super Bowl this year. Two weeks is too, too, too long.

Time to join the Republicans?

Little more than a week into the presidency of Barack Obama, I am moving away from being politically independent toward becoming a card-carrying Republican. (Well, maybe not card carrying.) Obama is not the only reason. In fact, Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi are just as much the cause. I believe their spending plans, if approved, will bankrupt the nation. I wonder how many first-time voters in 2008 who danced in the streets upon Obama's election will still be dancing a year or two from now. Living in the streets is a more likely possibility.

Ambrose Bierce & San Francisco

One of my favorite writers, Ambrose Bierce, spent much of his life living and working in San Francisco. I do not think there has been another like "Bitter Bierce," before or since, and do think it would be fascinating if he were alive today and issuing his edicts. Having been a Civil War veteran, having seen severe combat, having been seriously wounded and having produced some of the finest short stories written about "The War," I wonder how he would react to the anti-military climate present in today's San Francisco. It puzzles me how some people fail to distinguish that there is a distinct difference between being anti-war and being anti-military.

Wolves in the wild, a true story ....

While wandering these endless blogs, I paused to read a "young lady's" list of "likes and dislikes." One of her listed "likes" was, "Wolves in the wild." My often dazed mind recalled that I have encountered wolves in the wild on two occasions. The first took place while I was bear hunting. I do not believe he ever saw me, but almost certainly he sensed my presence, and eventually trotted off his own way. The distance between us was a measured 17 yards. The second time was while I was hiking on a deer trail along a high bank skirting a lake shore. I saw a wolf prowling the shoreline, about 12-15 feet below me. As I watched the wolf hunt, on this occasion, I was the one who sensed still another presence. I turned to look behind me. Not more than six feet away stood yet another wolf. His eyes were fixed upon my own. I had not heard his approach. Contrary to common sense, I kept continual eye contact with him. We looked at each other, probably for a minute, maybe, two. Then, with what almost seemed to be a shrug, the wolf dropped his gaze, moved past me and continued his march along the trail. He passed so closely I could have touched him with my hand. Draw a moral from that, if you would ....

Today is No. 10

Today, I file my tenth consecutive post on this blog. I am still not certain why I do it, or why anyone does it.

Music Note: Currently listening to Heart ....
I think I’m in love all over again ....

Liberalism run amok .... what's that, you say?

I am approaching my one-year anniversary since visiting San Francisco. Recently, I described my trip there in the following manner to a young lady who resides in the city by the bay.

-- I stayed at the Sir Francis Drake, and thought the bartenders were adequate.

-- I walked on the Golden Gate and cruised under it. I resisted temptation to jump off of it.

-- I stormed the Haight-Ashbury district and laughed a lot.

-- I inspected China Town, but stuck to bacon-cheeseburgers.

-- I prowled Alcatraz prison and island, and spotted three ghosts, as well as Clint Eastwood's shadow.

What else could I or should I have done in San Fran?

Officialdom in San Francisco appears to hate the Marine Corps. Makes a guy feel really welcome. Apparently, they who rule the city hate everyone associated with the military. Recruiters are virtually banned from San Francisco. The city school board does not want them in the schools; university officials do not want them appearing at the so-called institutions of higher learning, and protesters literally have attacked recruiters on campuses; city officials, elected and appointed, say, "go away, soldier boy."

Marines, soldiers, airmen and sailors put their lives on the line for every American citizen, yet are figuratively spit on for wearing a uniform in service of their country by the gentry of San Francisco. My viewpoint is that such crude, rude, hateful and contemptible behavior is the legacy of liberalism run amok, and that same radical left attitude seems to be taking over Minnesota. Just look at "what" probably is going to be the next senator to represent the once great state of Minnesota. Absolutely shameful ....

Music Note: Currently listening to Cheap Trick, a giant of rock ....
"Cheap Trick at Budokan" is the best ....
By the way, I studied for a few months at the Kodokan ....
Know the difference? Budokan & Kodokan? Probably not. Who does? Fascinating times, anyway ....

The keys tell all ....

Fram's primary set of keys ....

Fram's secondary/spare set of keys

I have heard that what a woman carries in her purse reveals a great deal about her personality.

I wonder if the same is true about what a man carries on his key chain?

I carry two sets of keys with me 99 percent of the time. The primary (top photo) is pretty much a complete set of just about everything I might need a key for, while the second (bottom photo) holds spare keys only for the vehicle I usually drive and for my house.

Do keys reveal their carrier? What do you think about my sets of keys?

What do these comments have to do with San Francisco, California or Minnesota? If you gotta ask ....

Three from San Fran vs. one from L.A.

Gentlemen, all ....

I visited San Francisco once. I was constantly peering around corners hoping to see Dirty Harry Callahan (left) or Frank Bullitt (center) or even Sam Spade (right) in action, but I had no luck.

Never-the-less, I am thinking about taking night classes, changing careers and modeling my life style after one of those three tough guys. Let's see. Callahan and Bullitt were coppers, and had to put up with bureaucratic xxyyzzssmm ... you get the picture. Spade also had cops to work around, but he was "private" ... he was his own boss. Hard choice to make. Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Maybe I'll just head down to Los Angeles and pick up where Philip Marlowe (below) left off. You know, Marlowe looks a lot like Sam Spade. I wonder if they had the same old man, a mean-looking guy who traveled a lot? Who's the chick with Marlowe? Whatever, I think I'll forget about the badge and go the "private investigator" route. That sounds classy, like me. I wonder if the chick has a blog?

.... but, maybe L.A.

I'll put your name and number right here in my personal file.
Nice veil.
Had lunch yet? I know this great saloon ....

San Francisco or vicinity ....

.... vicinity

Have you ever seen a cuter couple?

Mickey Rooney and Ava Gardner, married 1942 - 1943.

.... Frisco

Just to prove a point, whether necessary or not.

(This photo is an "inside joke." Sorry.)
It was mostly sunny while I was there.

I doubt there will be many words posted on this bog.

Actually, there might not be much of anything posted here.

But, thoughts, opinions and comments are appreciated ....