I am a star, I am blue & I wish I knew

Russell, Dopey & Fram not only talk the talk, they walk the walk .

In next week's coming attractions ....

I keep forgetting to mention that my life experience includes a couple of roles in movies which, in all probability, you might have seen. The first was in "Dances with Wolves." I could not handle the day Kevin Costner was running around naked, so I went into town and had a few beers. I thought I performed my role of illustrating fierce loyalty and devotion with elegance. I am certain you saw this in me, too. And, my death scene. I was brilliant, was I not?

I greatly preferred my role in "The Gladiator." Did you notice the photograph of me, alongside of Russell Crowe and his horse, Dopey? I was disappointed with the photo (you can hardly see me, low in the center right, watching out for that idiot horse's big feet), and I did not get a credit in the movie. But, I did lead the charge through the woodland when Maximus ran his cavalry into the ranks of the Germans. You had to have seen me there. I am out in front of everyone, even in front of Russ and Dopey. Was I not brave and fierce? And, I pose a mystery within the movie. While saving Maximus, did I die, or did I not? Movies are peanut butter for the imagination, are they not?

Some serious, some not; figure it out ....

On my (actual) father's side, I have two cousins who are clergy, one an attorney, one a doctor (a shrink, no less) and one who is married to a foreign diplomat and has lived in exotic places. It should be evident that I am the only one among the group who does not think I know everything.

On my mother's side, everyone actually works for a living.

My mother still lives, but in a distant city. I telephone her two or three times a week. She spends some time telling what she knows, and a great deal of time explaining to me what she does not know. She would fit right in with CNN, Fox News and cable television in general.

Is there anywhere to surf in the Mediterranean?

Is it possible to eat French grapes, as well as to drink them?

One way to guarantee I actually accomplish these things I have been writing about is to start betting me real money that I will not do them. I never, ever lose that sort of bet, and I always collect.

I am a "being-in-itself," I think, in accordance with Jean Paul Sartre's definitions. (How is that, Katy?) That is, I do not separate myself from nature.

I am wanting for my mind to take a sabbatical so the rest of my body can enjoy itself for a while.

Sometimes I wonder if I am entering the proverbial "mid-life crisis," however, I shuffle that thought to the side because I am relatively certain that I have been experiencing one approximately every three years since I was 15. Right now, my crisis is to find an explorer whose helmet reads, "no fear," and who is capable of being as excited about life now as she was when she was around 20 for about 20 hours out of the day. Do you notice that I sometimes repeat myself? I especially would appreciate the company of one who could teach me how to play the guitar, with a minimal charge for lessons.

Women always have been more important than men, in most ways conceivable (yeh, yeh, I know what I just wrote), but few younger ones seem to realize it. Young women, as Kelly, TheChicGeek, mentioned a few days ago at her blog, have no idea of the power they have over young men. The time approaches, I think, when it will be essential for young women to display their power intelligently rather than randomly. Take control, until partnership truly develops. As a civilization, more races than one are in progress. In the meantime, I will hunt, if you wish. You teach, until there is no more need for hunters, and we will be the better for it.

I can cuss with the best of them, and there have been times when I have gone nose-to-nose with another to see who would run out of expletive-deleted words first. I also go along with profanity when it is used in a colloquial sense in speech or writing. But, profanity in ordinary, typical, day-to-day conversation annoys me to no end. (OK, honestly, it angers me.) There is a time and a place for everything, including cussing, but casual conversation is not one of them.

Fine, now another revelation that I did not particularly want right now, but since I was asked: I have been officially divorced since July 9, 2007, and was separated before then. The anniversary of my marriage was July 10. How is that for down-to-the-wire timing?

To do it or not to do it ....

One of the reasons I want to learn more about depression is because I have known four people who have committed suicide, all adult men: One over a woman, one about money, one for why I cannot guess because I hardly knew him, and one a very good friend who was a great success at everything he did except find happiness. He was a natural leader, handsome as John Wilkes Booth (well, I would hope everyone can visualize him), university educated, intelligent, a talented newsman, a guy who would literally give the shirt off his back, but, a heavy-duty drinker with a few other problems.

I might have seen that one coming if I had been in his neighborhood, but he had moved to Florida and our contact was down to a few emails and a few telephone calls a year. I do not understand why any of them did it and, since I cannot ask them, I would like to learn from those who have considered it or even come close to it.

By the way, he was the "dummy" in the Lake Superior canoe dump that I have written about, so at least I was around to save his sorry butt once. On the river canoe dump, he was in the second canoe that rescued my fishing gear. No guilt here, but questions that never can be answered, that I wish could be.

Music Note: Listening to Boston ....
Specifically, the first album: "Boston" ....

Some lines from: "Something About You:"

When I was younger I thought I could stand on my own
It wasn't easy, I stood like a man made of stone

But there was something about you
I want you to know
It brought a change over me
It's startin' to show
I've got this feelin inside
Gotta have ya, have ya, ain't no good to hide

Following ancestors & "versing" the river

Before reaching the Mediterranean, there was this.

Fram the First was an avid tourist ....

Sometimes it is a bit embarrassing to admit ancestors were less than perfect, but eventually it is best to reveal the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Fram the First was less than perfect. There, I said it. Now, we will move along to the next item on today's agenda.

What? You're asking me in what way he was not perfect? Oh, I suppose I can tell you.

He was with a group of guys who raided Sarzana way back when. Yes, they did the usual amount of burning and looting. What do you expect Norwegians, Swedes and Danes would do after being cooped up all winter in an era before the age of televisions and personal computers? A guy can practice his swordsmanship only so long before going a little goofy.

What? Yes, fine. I'll tell you everything. They thought it was Rome they were sacking, not Sarzana. So, they got lost and were a little confused. They were only a few hundred miles off course. No one is perfect, you know. They still came home with a ship full of gold and Italian girlfriends, didn't they?

And, yes, before the Mediterranean and Rome ... I mean before Sarzana ... they did do a float up the Seine River and they did do a little damage in Paris. So what? That's what guys did back then to earn a buck.

Was Fram the First involved in any other mischief, you ask?

I will have to look at his other travel journals before I can answer that question. I'll get back to you.

Swim with me where the river flows deeply ....

The moment has arrived. Not since I was a college boy have I tried expressing myself in verse. I am not certain if this would qualify even as free verse. Probably not, but it at least tells another true tale. Think of this as a story told in column form, rather than in paragraph form.

A nearly identical event to this had taken place only a month or two earlier on Lake Superior. The "dummy" on that occasion was in the second canoe on this trip. After this, I banned liquor from my canoe trips until camp was set for the night. Two strikes were enough.

The canoe spills,
not by accident,
but by drunkenness,
and down the river we go.
I love it,
and swim with the current.

But dummy cannot swim.
The other idiot, me,
did not think to ask.
He is under, then up, choking.
He grabs the rope I trail behind,
clinging to it for his life.

I know I am smiling.
I should not be, but I am,
I am one with the river now.
I catch the canoe and pass it
and grab onto it, pulling, towing.
The current finally is cut.

I slap dummy around and curse him
after I get him to shore.
He laughs,
too drunk to know he has been a whisper
from watery, meaningless death,
from killing the both of us.

The other canoe rescues my fishing gear.
I had known my priorities,
and tied my own life vest to it.
I lost my grandfather's sweatshirt, though.
It still rests, I know, beneath fast, deep water,
one with the Escanaba River now.

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

("Wheel in the Sky" by Journey is playing)

Riding the "Superior" surf & chasing girls ....

"When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;"

John Keats
Some lines from: "When I Have Fears"

Racing & canoeing have one thing in common ....

I would consider myself to be a "sort of" stock car racing fan. I watch a few races on television during the course of the season, and one of the items on my "bucket list" is to see a race at Talladega in Alabama. Better track than Daytona, I think. Race speeds there once topped 200 mph (that is as in miles-per-hour) until political correctness caught up with racing and restrictor plates to limit the speed to around 185 mph became required there. The single lap speed record at Talladega is 216 mph.

When I first started watching stock car racing in the 1990s, "my driver" quickly became Ernie Irvin. He skipped his high school graduation so he could drive in a race. Reminiscent of my own youth, but I at least attended the ceremony before heading out for Flying Cloud Airport in Eden Prairie (that's in Minnesota for you far-awayers). Never mind why. Ernie was a California boy, by the way, and had the words, "No Fear," painted on his helmet. He retired from racing after a pair of near-fatal crashes.

This has been the long way of leading up to the subject of conquering one's own fears. A young lady asked via email how I overcome fear when canoeing on Lake Superior. This was my answer:

How girls, women, ladies, do it (overcome fear), I have no idea. With guys, it often is peer pressure. I'm not just talking about little boys, either. Liquor often has something to do with it. Showing off for girls frequently enters the picture. (Yep, right, I'm not just talking about little boys, either.) How does one master fear when there are no peers, no liquor, no girls around? By doing, but by studying and practicing on gentler ground (or water) before doing the real thing.

When I arrived at a newspaper on the shores of Lake Superior in mid-winter and mentioned that I could not wait to get a canoe into the lake, one of the reporters wrote my obituary as a joke. I learned that the children of a very prominent family had drowned in a canoe accident at some ridiculous date like 1910, and that had done it for canoeing on the lake in that region ever since.

I have to admit, Superior is big water, and it did make me nervous simply because of its sheer size, its rapid changes of weather and waves, the unpredictability of winds, its chilling water temperature, not to mention the looks of doom on the faces of people who knew of my plans. Cutting to the chase, I first launched my canoe on one gray and cloudy day in April, with a stiff wind and three- to four-foot swells running -- much larger than any I had previously encountered with my canoe.

I went out about a half-mile offshore and lay down in the canoe. That is a Native American maneuver, as reported by an early Minnesota fur trader. Lie down to distribute your weight evenly, and allow the wind and the waves to carry you to safety. Lying there, it appears as though the waves will come down into the canoe and right on top of you. They don't, but it is an "interesting" position in which to watch them. Within 10 minutes, I no longer had any fear of the lake, and I began to "play" with it.

I learned how to surf on the waves with my canoe, how to run with the waves, into them and parallel to them. I took my canoe into the sheer rock cliffs, and learned how to gauge the rebound action of the waves off the cliffs, and to navigate beside the rocks without smashing into them. I could not have done these things without having considerable practice behind me on small lakes and in rivers. Inside of a few hours on a single afternoon, I had fallen in love with Superior, and the lake had become "The Lake."

Plenty of respect, yes, but no fear. I recall one time when, within the span of five minutes or so, gentle swells had become five- to six-foot waves. And, there was no wind. The reaction to an earlier storm 150 miles away had reached my side of "The Lake" without warning. “She, The Lake,” is a living entity, and always requires her lovers to treat her with respect, as well as affection.

Within a matter of months, it was not unusual for 10 or 12 others to join me on weekend canoe trips on "The Lake" or on area rivers. The newspaper-types among us sometimes wrote our own obituaries for entertainment bravado and competition at our evening campfires. Some boys forever will be boys ....

How can a guy chase girls if ....

I have no consistent pattern to exercise. I'll do it for a few months, maybe a few years. Then, I'll stop doing it for a few months, maybe a few years.

Sometimes running has been the primary drill. I've never been a fanatic about it. I'll do it for a mile, three or four times a week, and maybe work it up to five miles before I say enough is enough and take a break. When I was a smoker, it was not unusual for me to begin the run with a cigarette in my mouth.

Only once did I belong to a gym. That lasted for a little more than two years. When I started, I did four routines over the span of about 15 minutes, and then spent 45 minutes visiting. By the time I said enough is enough, I was up to 20 routines lasting two and one-half to three hours, three or four times a week. It is amazing to me why any of us often turn a simple activity in a time-consuming, complex, ritualistic near-addiction.

Normally, my idea of exercise is to do a few pushups, a few sit-ups, a few other odds and ends over the span of about 20 minutes, five or six days a week. I have no desire to replace California's governor, either politically or in the movies.

Why do I mention this? Because, tomorrow I resume my exercise routine again. My last pushup or sit-up was the week of Thanksgiving. Three months is enough of a break this time. Besides, how can a guy chase girls if he cannot keep up with them?

What if the word verification system fails?

I tried leaving comments at a couple of blogs on the other side of oceana maximus Monday evening, but the word verification system was not working for me. Either that, or a few people were telling me to get lost all at the same time. Anyone else ever experience this sort of problem? Any suggestions?

Tuesday evening ---- it's all better now ....

Instead of music ....
John Keats ....
The entire poem: "When I Have Fears"

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love; -- then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

A queen! A queen! My kingdom for a queen!

Queen Sibylla is very lovely, indeed. But, can she paddle a canoe?

As one search ends, another begins ....

I am sorry to announce that I have ended my search for Ms. Perfect.

I have been informed, by a reliable, trustworthy, non-partisan, unbiased source, that Ms. Perfect has been won over by Mr. Perfect. (That scoundrel!) She no longer is available.

There is, I also have been told, a distinct possibility that there might be a Ms. Best-For-Me just waiting for my arrival, somewhere. With this thought in mind, I further announce that my search for her will be launched immediately upon the completion of this commentary.

Might I even find an actual queen? How many of them are on the loose these days? The last one I remember seeing was in a movie about Jerusalem with Crusaders and Moslems and big siege machines. "The Kingdom of Heaven." That was it. Queen Sibylla ran off to France with some guy at the end of the movie but, who knows? Maybe they got divorced, or maybe he went off on another Crusade, or maybe she's on vacation by herself in Greece.

It probably would cost a lot of money to keep a real queen happy. I'm sure she'd always be wanting more jewels and expensive clothing. Could be worth it, though. Just look at her in that outfit. Really nice. Exotic. Beautiful. Stunning. All right, cool off, boy.

Expensive? I suppose but, on the other hand, if she came with her own retinue I wouldn't have to worry about cutting the grass or shoveling the snow or feeding the camels. Her servants could attend to those chores.

Whoa, now. Not camels. If I remember right, she liked riding horses. She could ride far better than I can. I guess that would be OK. I’m pretty sure I can paddle a canoe in a straight line better than she could do it. If she'd be willing to practice her canoe work, I'd be willing to start riding again. Opposites might attract, but they don't last. I managed to figure that out.

I remember something else. Queen Sibylla liked dogs, too. All the better. There are some possibilities here. Something to think about.

Computers, cameras & suggestions?

Only one suggestion each so far regarding computers and cameras and Greece. Either no one is reading here or no one has any suggestions. Oh, well, such is life.

I did contact a friend, who is a programmer for Intel, regarding suggestions about middle-of-the-road computers (price, that is, not politics) and two friends, one who is a photography hobbyist and another who is a professional photographer, about possibilities for cameras. Never-the-less, I would value advice from anyone who has experience, good or bad, with a particular product. Any ideas?

A guy has to earn his banana cream pie ....

I don't know what it's doing in your neck of the woods (country talk for "your corner of the world"), but it's snowing here, with a cold wind pushing it. Winter returns. There are three to four inches down. I think it is done, but the wind might pile it up.

That means there are a driveway and a bit of sidewalk to shovel. Yes, shovel. At the risk of offending someone, snow blowers are for old folks. So are riding lawn mowers. I've always looked at shoveling snow and cutting the grass as forms of exercise. (Well, maybe not when I was a teenager.) It's no fun, but it's good for you (and it's good for me), and it reduces feelings of guilt about sitting down with an entire banana cream pie now and then.

We are what we eat, so I guess I'm sweet.

Music Note: Listening to Foreigner ....
Specifically, "Classic Hits Live" ....
Featuring, "I Want to Know What Love Is" ....
(Me, too)

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)