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THE COLLECTOR’S DILEMMA
It was stuffy, and very quiet. I got the feeling that everyone in the ashram was deep into the traditional afternoon nap. Even my guru seemed to be dozing, but an eyelid fluttered when I knelt before his dais. Just the same I had to wait. A fly buzzed. A full minute passed. The fat man finally spoke.
“I thought you were never coming back. You left in a snit last time.”
“Let’s not discuss that. This time I’ve come about a friend.”
“And I suppose he’s in trouble.”
“Maybe.”
“The friend isn’t you, is it?”
“No, no, he’s a nice guy.”
“Not you. All right. What’s he done?”
“During his forty years in West Marin, he’s amassed a remarkable collection of native American artifacts. Now his house is full of the stuff, and it’s a very small house.”
The big guy scratched his naked stomach pensively. There was a lot to scratch. I waited.
“It’s hot.”
“Shall I open a window?” I asked eagerly.
“No, no. I mean the stuff is hot. He probably found these artifacts on federal or state lands and brought them home when he should have turned them in. The nice guy is a thief.”
“God, no. It was all very innocent.”
“So where did this friend, who is not you, find these artifacts?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Humph. You’re wasting my time again. Your friend probably needs an attorney.”
“I don’t think that’s an option.”
“I suppose he’s tried donating the collection to a museum.”
“Yes, but there seems to be a tribal problem. Natives claim a proprietary interest in early American artifacts.”
“Embarrassing, particularly for a museum.”
For a long time, he remained in the lotus position. I knelt. We both listened to the persistent fly. Finally I asked, “What would you do?”
“If I were a nice guy?”
“Yes.”
“I’d sneak all the stuff back and put each artifact exactly where I found it. Artifacts don’t mean much without location.”
“Wow! That would be a lot of work.”
“Plenty of time, and you’re still not doing anything else worthwhile.”
“Thanks a lot.” I got up abruptly, eager to leave.
“Glad to help, and have a nice day.”
This time, I swear, I’m never coming back. Never.
CHARLIE THE SEWER SNAKE
Those who know Jean may not have to be told that one of her talents is the big tease. Early in life, she practiced on sister Sheila, younger by three-and-a-half years. The teasing took many forms. Typical, was making her treat, usually a package of life-savers, last longer so she could taunt Shiela sister, who often finished hers off in the first hour.
But Jean’s imagination sometimes went to greater depths. Once at the diner table, Sheila announce that she liked string beans better than anything.
Jean said: “That means you can no longer be a member of the Watermelon Club.”
Sheila exploded in tears and the family meal was disrupted.
I was told this story as aa warning soon after our courtship began. I wasn’t deterred. Sheila, after all had matured unscarred. Once she stopped reacting, Jean stopped teasing. The sisters became close friends, not to mention a formidable team on the tennis court. Meanwhile, Jean found other targets.
When our children were young, she invented Charlie the Sewer Snake. He lived under the bathtub, and when the kids wanted to linger in the tub after the plug was pulled, Charlie brought action, particularly when the drain went glub-glub like a hungry snake.
“Here he comes,” said Jean, and the child would rocket out of the tub.
Charlie may have cause emotional damage, but when our children had kids of their own, the sewer snake was recalled and brought into action again with the same satisfactory results. In fact, Charlie may continue for several generations to come. I for one, certainly hope so.
GET IN THE HOLE
Those who watch golf on television these days might help me with this mystery. There’s a fan who is setting some kind of record for mobility, not to mention inanity.
At every stroke of the club, no matter whose playing or where on when it is, the guy’s there shouting: “Get in the hole.”
It’s never “Stay out of the sand trap.” Never “Get half-way down the fairway” even when these admonitions would be far more appropriate than “Get in the hole.” Shouting that when a player is teeing off for a 700-yard, five par hole is simply silly.
Now this fan not only covers golf like the proverbial blanket, but as far as I can tell, he also hasn’t yet missed a tournament. I hate to think of the air fare and the jet lag.
The television cameras never show the bozo, and that makes you wonder. Maybe his voice is on some kind of sound track installed by a prankster. Or maybe it’s even the cameraman himself.
No matter what the explanation, I’d like to see it stopped. Just grab this guy by the seat of the pants and the scruff of the neck and march him off the links. The players should insist on this.
If I knew that someone were to shout “Get in the hole” each time I took a swing, I’d be so edgy that I’d probably whiff. Actually, I whiffed a lot during my golfing career even when everyone always remained deadly quiet afterward. The plus side of whiffing, of course, is that you don’t lose many balls. I actually had some rounds when I came back to the clubhouse with more balls that I had when I began – a good day indeed. But after bragging about my “score,” I was told that one had to count each whiff as a stroke.
Soon after learning that, I put my clubs in a garage sale. At least I didn’t go completely in the hole.
GET IN THE HOLE
Those who watch golf on television these days might help me with this mystery. There’s a fan who is setting some kind of record for mobility, not to mention inanity.
At every stroke of the club, no matter whose playing or where on when it is, the guy’s there shouting: “Get in the hole.”
It’s never “Stay out of the sand trap.” Never “Get half-way down the fairway” even when these admonitions would be far more appropriate than “Get in the hole.” Shouting that when a player is teeing off for a 700-yard, five par hole is simply silly.
Now this fan not only covers golf like the proverbial blanket, but as far as I can tell, he also hasn’t yet missed a tournament. I hate to think of the air fare and the jet lag.
The television cameras never show the bozo, and that makes you wonder. Maybe his voice is on some kind of sound track installed by a prankster. Or maybe it’s even the cameraman himself.
No matter what the explanation, I’d like to see it stopped. Just grab this guy by the seat of the pants and the scruff of the neck and march him off the links. The players should insist on this.
If I knew that someone were to shout “Get in the hole” each time I took a swing, I’d be so edgy that I’d probably whiff. Actually, I whiffed a lot during my golfing career even when everyone always remained deadly quiet afterward. The plus side of whiffing, of course, is that you don’t lose many balls. I actually had some rounds when I came back to the clubhouse with more balls that I had when I began – a good day indeed. But after bragging about my “score,” I was told that one had to count each whiff as a stroke.
Soon after learning that, I put my clubs in a garage sale. At least I didn’t go completely in the hole.
DEATH BOOK
You may remember from last month’s episode that some crooks highjacked my Face Book account to post an endorsement over my name for some kind of life enhancement extracted from a berry. As soon as friends alerted me to this invasion I cancelled my Face Book account. Problem solved, right? Wrong.
Yesterday someone, probably this same crook, reactivated my account without any authorization from me. Fortunately, the people at Face Book asked if I approved. This time I demanded to be permanently deleted. Yes, it’s death before my time, but evidently that what this berry extract does to a person.
Avoid it if you can.
THE HUMAN FACTOR
Recently, in a report on a show of new electronic gadgets in Las Vegas, I discovered that there is a move afoot to introduce three dimensional televison. There are even TV cameras available now for the amateur to make home movies in three dimensions. How low can we get?
Enough all ready. I’m satisfied with two dimensions and think the world would probably be much better off if television were limited by federal law to just one dimension. We get one dimension sometime even now, a blue, horizontal line that wavers across the screen. I’d call the neighbors in to enjoy it, but it’s not reliable. By the time everyone crowded into the livingroom, the Viagra ads would be on again.
My big hope with this new development is that it won’t catch on. Those old enough may remember the effort back in the 60s to introduce three dimensional movies. A flop, I’m happy to say. Everyone in the audience needed special glasses and the general result was really not worth the trouble. I think there was even some resistance among the theater owners themselves. Sweeping up all those discarded glasses was a drag.
It might be different this time, however. The electronics industry has learned how to force things on us even when those things are among the last things we need.
Recently we all got high definition or HD televison, certainly something I never asked for. Some people had to buy a plug in device to convert low definition to high definition. If you didn’t buy the box, you’d never see another Viagra ad. It was cruel, but that’s the way the electronics industry works. And the industry counts on the old keep-up-with-the-Joneses syndrom.
If the Joneses have a three dimensional picture everyone on their street will soon have the same thing. That’s the idea. In it’s greed, the industry ignores the human factor.
So I’m taking the opportunity right now to announce that I won’t have it, and I’d appreciate it if you got together with me on this. Let’s just say three dimensions is one too many, thank you.
.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE
Driving a Prius any distance has one troublesome drawback. You don’t have to stop often for gas. We drove to Fresno and back recently, taking the Pacheco Pass option which crosses from Gilroy to Los Banos. There are now no rest stops on the entire route.
Stopping for gas when you don’t really need gas is a little embarrassing. Liquid weight for liquid weight, we probably left about what we paid for at each station.
Yesterday, coming north on 280, we were both counting on the rest stop under the statue of Junipero Serra, but alas, that has been closed and we ended up in the complex warrens of Daily City in search of a gas station our car didn’t need.
Still, the advantages of our hybrid outweigh by far any disadvantages.
THE ABSTRACT DILEMMA
The challenge of abstract painting is to avoid shapes that might be recognized as an image of a real form. An elephant, for instance. The late-lamented Polonius made it painfully clear that finding shapes in random patterns such as clouds is an all-too-common human trait.
Unfortunately, the abstract artist often unintentionally includes shapes he or she doesn’t recognize, shapes that are spotted immediately by a perceptive viewer.
The other day, for instance, I showed a recently completed abstract to Jean. “Oh,” she said, “it’s a man, isn’t it? Here’s his nose and this bit is his hair.”
“No,” I said impatiently and turned the painting over. “How about now?”
“It’s a man upside down.”
Maybe she’s doing it deliberately. The very next day, I showed her another new painting. “Oh lovely,” she said. “It’s a horse standing on it’s hind legs.”
Sometimes I believe my cause is hopeless.
JEAN OF THE QUICK WIT
Earlier this month, we were sitting on a log at Limantour Beach worrying our sandwiches when two woman and a dog left their spot on the sand and approached. The dog looked as if it might have had some retriever tendencies. “Do you know the time? One of the women asked.
Neither Jean nor I had a watch, but I guessed it was about twenty passed twelve. That didn’t seem to satisfy them, so I said, “Doesn’t your dog carry a watch?”
Jean snorted disdainfully. “Really, Dear,” she chided. “Can’t you see it’s not a watchdog?”
The ladies and the dog wandered away without laugh or comment. Probably from Berkeley.
THE ABSTRACT DILEMMA
A subscriber who describes herself as a “Sassy Lady” responded to last months complaint about abstract art:
“Must comment on the abstract vs. recognizable form distinction. As you can imagine, it's something that comes up with just about every painting I do.
“Once someone said, ‘Oh, look, it's a duck!’ Ruined that piece for me forever; damned duck just kept quacking.”
At another time, our subscriber writes, a customer brought back a large, commissioned painting complaining of an unintended image. I won’t say what it was, but turning the painting over might have solved the problem.
