Recently in Miscellanea Category
"Succotash" and "lima" are not in my cell phone's predictive text dictionary.
Oh... I also like toast.
K-
Oh... I also like toast.
K-
I've been meaning to post this photo for a while (taken with my crummy cell phone camera). I was so tickled when I saw it. My one and only reserved parking space. Made available to me while traveling for work in Tucson back in December.
K-
Three things I changed today to prepare for the new year:
1. The oil in my Camry.
2. The furnace filter.
3. The light bulb in the freezer.
My attitude is still the same.
Happy New Year.
K-
1. The oil in my Camry.
2. The furnace filter.
3. The light bulb in the freezer.
My attitude is still the same.
Happy New Year.
K-
I'm home again. Four days, five states, and 800 miles. I crossed and recrossed the Susquehanna, Delaware, Hudson, and Lehigh. I suppose I accomplished what I set out to do.
Last Thursday Sarah Palin said:
I am sure Woodstock, Maryland, is not real America to Palin. We're too educated and make too much money. We rely on intellectual endeavor, not our hands, to earn our livings. We can be inside the Beltway in under 45 minutes. Palin would have you believe that pointy-headed intellectuals like us Woodstock Marylanders don't live in real America.
Real or not, authentic or not, it's good to be home.
K-
Last Thursday Sarah Palin said:
"We believe that the best of America is in these small towns that we get to visit, and in these wonderful little pockets of what I call the real America, being here with all of you hard working very patriotic, very pro-America areas of this great nation."I'm not sure if I visited pockets of real America while I was away or not. It all seemed real to me. I've no doubt Palin believes Republican economic policies will help the people of Newburgh, Torrington, and Nazareth. But I kind of doubt it. Palin is a chatty Cathy who lacks the guile to conceal her vacuity, and she was McCain's first major decision as nominee. I hope the people of these places - immigrants, shabby innkeepers, guitar factory workers - can see through her and the galling condescension of the Republican Party.
I am sure Woodstock, Maryland, is not real America to Palin. We're too educated and make too much money. We rely on intellectual endeavor, not our hands, to earn our livings. We can be inside the Beltway in under 45 minutes. Palin would have you believe that pointy-headed intellectuals like us Woodstock Marylanders don't live in real America.
Real or not, authentic or not, it's good to be home.
K-
I feel like a traitor: disloyal, derelict, and two-faced. But I am here nonetheless.
The C. F. Martin Guitar Company.
The Martin guitar factory is in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, where they have been making Martin guitars since 1833. The place is resplendent in acoustic guitars in all stages of manufacture. The air in Martin's sawmill is redolent of exotic wood. Today it is Indian rosewood and mahogany. The scent is indescribable - pungent and sweet - not like any wood I've ever encountered. Beautiful acoustic guitars are everywhere. I demo 4 or 5 Martins in the picking parlor including the Elvis Presley model, the renowned D-28, and a 7-string Roger McGuinn model. In the right hands, angels would weep at the beauty of its tone.
I started to play the guitar back in February. Both my children play. Guitars are all over my house. I've always envied that my kids are musicians. So last winter - on a whim - I picked up Danny's Fender Squire electric and started to learn. I decided I didn't want to arrive at the Pearly Gates not knowing how to play a musical instrument. I have zero chance of ever being good, but I play every day.
When it came time for me to buy a guitar, I was too embarrassed to audition anything. I brought Danny along as my auditioner. He played, I listened. We looked at many different brands: Yamaha, Breedlove, Ibanez, Fender, Gibson, Seagull, and Taylor.
But not Martin.
Martin guitars are for real guitar players, for people who have paid their dues, for people who don't have a day job: Cash, Presley, Clapton.
Danny tried them all for me, one after the other, until I decided on a Taylor DN-4 dreadnought.
Tried them all, that is, except Martin.
K-
The C. F. Martin Guitar Company.
The Martin guitar factory is in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, where they have been making Martin guitars since 1833. The place is resplendent in acoustic guitars in all stages of manufacture. The air in Martin's sawmill is redolent of exotic wood. Today it is Indian rosewood and mahogany. The scent is indescribable - pungent and sweet - not like any wood I've ever encountered. Beautiful acoustic guitars are everywhere. I demo 4 or 5 Martins in the picking parlor including the Elvis Presley model, the renowned D-28, and a 7-string Roger McGuinn model. In the right hands, angels would weep at the beauty of its tone.
I started to play the guitar back in February. Both my children play. Guitars are all over my house. I've always envied that my kids are musicians. So last winter - on a whim - I picked up Danny's Fender Squire electric and started to learn. I decided I didn't want to arrive at the Pearly Gates not knowing how to play a musical instrument. I have zero chance of ever being good, but I play every day.
When it came time for me to buy a guitar, I was too embarrassed to audition anything. I brought Danny along as my auditioner. He played, I listened. We looked at many different brands: Yamaha, Breedlove, Ibanez, Fender, Gibson, Seagull, and Taylor.
But not Martin.
Martin guitars are for real guitar players, for people who have paid their dues, for people who don't have a day job: Cash, Presley, Clapton.
Danny tried them all for me, one after the other, until I decided on a Taylor DN-4 dreadnought.
Tried them all, that is, except Martin.
K-
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, proudly proclaims to the world that it was founded by Moravians.
What the hell is a Moravian?
There are multiple Moravian churches in town. The Moravian church near me boasts a free Tuesday afternoon Bach concert each week. The Moravian College lies at the end of Main Street. There are Moravian ruins being restored by a cooperative venture between Bethlehem and Yale University. There's a Moravian bookstore next to the college but it seems no different than any other bookstore.
Some day I hope to get to Moravia. Wherever the hell Moravia might be.
K-
What the hell is a Moravian?
There are multiple Moravian churches in town. The Moravian church near me boasts a free Tuesday afternoon Bach concert each week. The Moravian College lies at the end of Main Street. There are Moravian ruins being restored by a cooperative venture between Bethlehem and Yale University. There's a Moravian bookstore next to the college but it seems no different than any other bookstore.
Some day I hope to get to Moravia. Wherever the hell Moravia might be.
K-
After a spot-on, picture-perfect New England day I arrive in the northwest Connecticut city of Torrington to check into my hotel. I had never heard of Torrington, but it's like many old New England cities: still going but seen better days.
I found the Yankee Pedlar Inn on the Internet. The Inn dates from 1891. The website made the place look inviting, hospitable, and awash in New England charm. I half expected Bob and Joanna Hartley to welcome me and help me with my bags.
But reality does not match the illusion.
At 6 PM I get to the Inn. Everything within eyeshot is dirty, chipped, faded, worn, peeling, tarnished, dull, leaking, or broken. My room isn't ready despite a 3 PM check-in time. The surly clerk simply shrugs his shoulders and says "I'm just a clerk. There's nothing I can do." He shows me a piece of paper with the room numbers remaining to be cleaned. There are dozens. At 9 I get my room. The bed is made but all indications are the housekeeper hasn't wiped the bathroom. Despite website assurances of air conditioning and heating, there is no way to adjust the room temperature other than opening or closing windows. Traffic noise and raucous bar patrons from across the street keep me awake till 2:30. If it weren't for the myriad other dissatisfied guests, I would have thought I was living in Elwood Blues' flophouse.
I've had better accommodations at Boy Scout camp.
K-
I found the Yankee Pedlar Inn on the Internet. The Inn dates from 1891. The website made the place look inviting, hospitable, and awash in New England charm. I half expected Bob and Joanna Hartley to welcome me and help me with my bags.
But reality does not match the illusion.
At 6 PM I get to the Inn. Everything within eyeshot is dirty, chipped, faded, worn, peeling, tarnished, dull, leaking, or broken. My room isn't ready despite a 3 PM check-in time. The surly clerk simply shrugs his shoulders and says "I'm just a clerk. There's nothing I can do." He shows me a piece of paper with the room numbers remaining to be cleaned. There are dozens. At 9 I get my room. The bed is made but all indications are the housekeeper hasn't wiped the bathroom. Despite website assurances of air conditioning and heating, there is no way to adjust the room temperature other than opening or closing windows. Traffic noise and raucous bar patrons from across the street keep me awake till 2:30. If it weren't for the myriad other dissatisfied guests, I would have thought I was living in Elwood Blues' flophouse.
I've had better accommodations at Boy Scout camp.
K-
The fall color in western Connecticut is at its peak. Birch trees -
not seen in Maryland but a warm memory from my Massachusetts boyhood - glow yellow; sugar maples, red and orange; and pin oak, ochre.
Leaf-peepers clog Route 6 driving north from the interstate.
Litchfield, Connecticut, is something out of a Currier & Ives print. All clapboard houses, congregational churches, village commons, fall color, and white people. Everyone in town seems to have hopped out of a Bean, Woolrich, or Talbot's catalog. The town smells of tweed and pipe smoke rubbed on the bottom of a leather-soled Gucci.
The first law school in America was founded in Litchfield. But it's gone now.
The only detectable blot on this archetype of picturesque quaintness is the rampant display of those detestable roadside political signs. Litchfield, judging by the plethora of signs, is staunchly pro-McCain.
And I was so hoping to like the place.
K-
Litchfield, Connecticut, is something out of a Currier & Ives print. All clapboard houses, congregational churches, village commons, fall color, and white people. Everyone in town seems to have hopped out of a Bean, Woolrich, or Talbot's catalog. The town smells of tweed and pipe smoke rubbed on the bottom of a leather-soled Gucci.
The first law school in America was founded in Litchfield. But it's gone now.
The only detectable blot on this archetype of picturesque quaintness is the rampant display of those detestable roadside political signs. Litchfield, judging by the plethora of signs, is staunchly pro-McCain.
And I was so hoping to like the place.
K-
