frustrations

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I am trying to paste in a photo of the Greyhound Bus Station in Cleveland. This bus station,, constructed in 1948, is a masterpiece. But I am unable to use the paste function on this stupid iPad.

If  I really, really wanted to put in that photo, I would have to crank up my laptop, but that takes too long.

So please look it up on Google and you will agree that it is a fine building.

I know this because I was in this very building in 1996. I was on a cross country bus tour, from
Boston to Seattle and back ...... That is much too long for a bus ride, but I wanted to take a look at the country, and you cannot be driving if you really want to be looking out the window at the passing scenery..... If you go from Boston to Seattle and back, you will see a great deal of it.

It is my country, every ever loving square inch of it, so I must sometimes go around to take a look and to maintain possession.

I brought along a paperback edition of The Brothers Karamazov. This is a very long and very intense Russian novel. Most Russian novels are very long and very intense, as you may know, but this one is the pinnacle of Long, intense Russian novels, and also the perfect companion to a very long bus ride, in our not quite as big as Russia country, but with much better roads.

So, what was it like on this bus ride. What did you see and how did you feel?

Honestly, I don't know how to explain this, except it felt like I was a character in a very long and very intense Russian novel.

The cat named Ripple

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.Ripple is a very nice cat and would not hurt anything, she hangs around the house and sleeps all day, and maybe wanders around outside a little bit. But last night we had company and Ripple is shy, so she would not come in the house after dark like she usually does. Then sometime in the middle of the night the mean cat who lives next door...... probably the mean cat who lives next door, but possibly some other creature..... attacked Ripple in her own yard and there was much screeching of cats fighting, and then this morning we discovered that Ripple has a pronounced limp in her left hind leg. She is hiding under the bed now and she won't come out. But we think she has been injured from the fight.
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Friday comes after Thursday every week

We watched the moon come up, the full moon, coming up over the mountains. We watched and waited and someone said the moon was late this time.

That is not possible. The moon is always on time. The tide is always on time, just like Fridsy always follows Thursday.

Today I am working for a lady on the Mesa. I work two hours and she pays me $30. She has me maintain  the shrubbery on a steep hillside, so there is much exertion involved in the going up with tools, being careful not to trip, and the going down. Then, invariably, I need to go up and down again until after two hours of this strenuous labor, I become quite tired.

It's Hot

It's hot in Santa Barbara, 29.9 degrees centigrade, according to the kitchen thermometer, which is 86 degrees in Fahrenheit.

The heat saps my energy. I have been lying on the couch, thinking that I would like to spend the next week lying on the couch, just resting.

I need to rest. I have been working too hard, trying to get rich, trying to get ahead, trying to succeed, trying to get somewhere, trying put some simoleans into the bank, trying to save for my old age -- that last one is a joke for I am already in my own old age -- but trying, trying, and sick of trying, and sick of the heat.

There was a crust of bread in a plastic bag in the frig. I took it out and put it in the toaster -- just enough to bring it to room temperature. I smeared a light coat of mayonnaise on it. I added three thin slices of salami. This is a very good sandwich.

it was too easy

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I like Jerry Brown and I am glad he was re-elected, but I  wish he had needed to work harder at getting the votes. ..... From the LATimes....

"Gov. Jerry Brown did not even make a campaign stop until nine days before the election. He did not air any commercials for his own candidacy, even as he amassed more than $20 million in campaign funds. And yet, on a night when so many Democratic incumbents came to woe, he easily defeated his Republican opponent, a businessman named Neel Kashkari, and glided into an unprecedented fourth term as governor."

Airports

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The world's busiest airport is Atlanta. How did that happen? The world's 8th busiest airport is Charles  de Gaulle, some 16 miles to the northeast of Paris.

The old airport, closer to the city, is Le Bourget, but it is only used for general aviation now as well as being the site of the famed Paris Air Show.

My daughter works for Boeing and she is in Paris now attending some kind of aviation conference at Le Bourget.

I am not envious of her journey because I have the highest confidence that I will soon be there myself. In Paris.

My current travel day dreams are...... England, France, and Switzerland, perhaps next September.

I recently spent ten days in Spain, so that fired up my international rating. Then Laurie and I booked a ten day tour of  Guatemala in February.

So it seems that travel day dreams are closer to reality.

improving my life

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We should always avoid making deliberate improvements in our lives. Everyone has problems. If you solve one problem, another problem will show up in your life the very next day. It will never get  any better than it is now.

Whatever is wrong with you -- obesity, flatitude, anger, loneliness  -- just live with it. Don't try to fix it.
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Dating is Dumb

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Dating in 2009

I’ve been divorced five years and I’m on Match.Com. People say computer dating is dumb. It is, because dating is dumb. Computer dating is just the latest version of an old custom.

Dating is dumb. In fact, dating is the principle motivation for people getting married. Then they don’t have to date anymore.

Old dating customs linger in my age bracket. The man usually initiates contact. He journeys to a location convenient to her house for a first encounter. He does most of the talking, because she wants to check him out, asking questions in order to screen for perversion, psychosis, malignant jerk-itis, or chronic creepitude.

After that initial phase, one is supposed to achieve “chemistry” or to “feel a sense of connection” or to laugh.

I don’t get that part. Chemistry?

I have just achieved three first dates in this past month. I wasn’t hoping for chemistry, just survival. They were very nice women -- wholesome, intelligent, accomplished, good-looking, understanding, and kind of fun. That part was gratifying, knowing that women of a decent quality were interested in getting to know me.

The first date was pretty easy. She took off from work at lunchtime and we spent a pleasant half-hour on a park bench looking over the water. She brought a snack and we talked.
Then she said goodbye and it was fun, and I said I would call her, but I didn’t. I mean, I still could call her -- the ticket hasn’t expired. I thought about calling her today. I still have her number.

The second date, we met at the Honey Bear Cafe in Seattle. She was nervous. She said she wasn’t used to meeting men. So I became nervous too. Even so, I liked her, and the conversation was pleasant. But after 45 minutes, I figured that was enough talking, so I kept giving these “we’re done” signals because, being a gentleman, I wanted her to have the opportunity to say “I have to go now.”

She missed the signals. She became more nervous, and continued talking. I became silent. Her monologue went on for another 30 minutes. I finally said, “I have to go now,” but very nicely.

I still liked her. What’s wrong with being a little nervous? I suggested a couple of things we might do together some time, like go to a movie, or rent a rowboat in Lake Union. I selected those two options, because there’s not much talking involved

I don’t like talking that much, even talking about myself. After a while my jaw starts to hurt from too much flapping. I especially like being with women who do not rush to fill-in every pause. I like silent pauses. Actually, I need pauses, because I come from several generations of slow-talking men.

My third date was awesome, like a major event. I noticed her profile on Match.com. She was too rich, too beautiful, and too young, so I did not contact her.

But guess what? She contacted me and said she’d like to know more about me. I was being set up nicely. I wrote back and told her about myself, but I kept thinking she’s not going to be interested in a chump like me -- this woman of high income and professional accomplishment. And she’s eight years younger than me -- a bit of a difference.

Then I said to myself -- Fred, have a little confidence in yourself. She likes you because you’re such a class act, one-in-a-million. Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I said, doing a one-man pep rally.

So I’m ready for the next step, but my expectations are rising, and I didn’t think that was good.

Beryl (an old-fashioned English name ) replied from her home in Vancouver -- “I’d like to meet you.”

Not only that, she wanted to come down to Fir Island, because I told her about the trail across the salt marsh and we could walk on the beach. My expectations continued to rise.

She drove down on Saturday afternoon. I met her at the Rexville Store. She was gorgeous, better than her photos, wearing dazzling jewelry and a pair of sunglasses that cost more than my car.

I think I’m in over my head now, but off we go on the hike. She’s asking me the usual questions -- the vetting process. Only it’s much easier because we are walking down a trail, so I get my necessary pauses.

The fragments of my life do not quite make a whole -- it often seems that way to other people. Well, too bad. My life has been about making mistakes, being in the wrong place, and saying the wrong thing.

That’s how I got to be so smart -- because I took chances.

Beryl’s life at work is very different than mine. She is in command of her enterprise and she expects the seas to part before her.

I’m very impressed by this, but I wish she hadn’t brought this attitude along on the date. I wanted to tell her -- I’m a boy, you’re a girl, we’re on a date, and we’re just supposed to be having fun.

I sensed that her life was her career and she didn’t really have time for someone like me. And I felt sympathy, in that a woman of high professional status might actually have a hard time finding a date.

But it was lovely on the beach, wading in the water and picking up driftwood.

Afterward, she emailed me and said there was no chemistry -- that word again.

I really liked her brilliant mind. She inspired me to write and that was like heaven. But I doubt that I will see her again.

So I’ll keep looking. I feel like that 12-year-old boy who liked the girl with the curly hair. He’s standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, pawing the snow with his boots, not knowing what to do or what to say.

It’s no different now, although I am much older.

dating advice

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Dating advice to a female friend.

I wrote an engaging profile and a got a lot of coffee dates. After a dozen coffee dates I met a woman -- all I can say is that the next day I called her for another date, and we kept going after that and we've been together four years now...... Dating is boring and frustrating, whether high-tech or old-fashioned, but that's how we do it here in America. The alternative is an arranged marriage........ Dating is a volume business -- once you screen for creeps, which, I understand, can be a big bother for females, but once you screen for creeps, then you meet nice guys, and you either like them or you don't. It's not complicated...... You keep seeing the one you like and take it one day at a time.

Mr. Linke lived in this House

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Mr. Linke Lived in This House

Mr. Linke was the janitor at St. Joseph's School where we went. His house was right across the street from Mr. Schaeffer's....... It was much smaller, a bungalow without a full second story.

They told me that the house belonged to the school and Mr. Linke got to live there with his family.

Mr. Linke was a exceptionally ugly man with tortured skin on his face like he was the last living victim of small pox. He had snarly, jagged teeth and most of them were gone anyway.

But it was hard to see him as ugly because he always had such a big smile and gave you such a nice hello. Everybody liked him.

The Mail Man

Mr. Schaeffer's house in 2014 -- it looks a bit different than it did in 1962.

The first gardening job, one of my first jobs of any kind, was working for Mr. Schaeffer, who was a mail man. He finished delivering the mail about the time I finished school -- I was a sophomore in high school at that time

Mr. Schaeffer lived two blocks down the street, in a tall white clapboard house on the corner of the block and directly across the street from the Convent of the St. Joseph's church and school.

Mr. Schaeffer was short, compact and fairly fit. He smoked a pipe. He had wiry tufts of grey hair coming out his ears, and he wore some kind of hat. He seemed to have a wife in the house somewhere but we never went in the house -- I just kinda knew she was there.

I went over to his house after school and we got in his truck and maybe over to Indian Hill, a more affluent neighborhood, where Mr. Schaeffer had lawn-mowing and gardening work.

He had me mow the lawn, or rake the leaves, while he pruned the roses and the lilacs. He had those nice clippers in a holster on his belt. He never let me do the pruning -- just the lawn-mowing.

But I told myself that someday I would be the guy with the clippers, and I would be the guy who pruned the roses and the lilacs..... That is what happened.

After the Hypnosis

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The hypnosis session was very good. And who knows? It might help. I mean, nothing else works, So I'm trying this.

Kelley is a rock star -- the lady I am working with. We will meet again next Tuesday...... We did this on Skype, by the way.

I am not always a nervous wreck. I am not always lamenting my fate.

Some days it all makes sense -- hence the abundance of broccoli, which I grew in the winter garden.

Success

I work in two organic gardens. I get paid $10 per hour. It's hard work. I can't say that I really like this kind of work very much.

If I was a successful writer, I would not be doing this hard labor.

If I was a successful writer, I would have a modest income from that work, from the sale of my books, and from my weekly column in a national publication.

I would do some gardening work, but only as a volunteer, only for my own pleasure and good health, not for money. Oh, that would be wonderful.

If I was a successful writer, I would have an office or study dedicated to writing -- with a desk and chair and good lamp, with an ample shelf of books, with a semi-easy chair for reading. A place to work. A place that was mine. And that would be wonderful too.

If I was a successful writer, I would be going to Los Angeles every month -- to have lunch with my editor, or to give a reading at some club or college.

It seems like no more than an idle day dream, and that I must toil in the garden and earn my living by the sweat of my brow all the days of my life. Such longing and lamentations!

A Nervous Wreck

I am about to undergo a course of hypnotherapy to help me overcome a phobia -- a fear of crowds and crowded rooms.

The prospect of this therapy, done via Skype, has me in a nervous condition. For one thing, just for starters, I have never used Skype.

The therapist is someone I have known for 35 years, although I cannot say I know her well. I mean, we never hung out together or anything like that, but we did live in the same very small town -- LaConner -- for many years, and that gives me a feeling of kinship with her, plus I believe her life has not been particularly bad..... In other words, I believe her to be a genuinely caring person with good intentions.

But I'm still nervous about this. I will ask her that maybe we should just talk, this first session -- too scary, let me get a feel for this.

Bacall Loved Sculptor Henry Moore

Bacall loved Sculptor Henry Moore

Bacall loved Moore and his works -- That makes perfect sense to me. I have always greatly admired him myself.

Ebolar scare is Bad for African Wildlife

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It's just the way people are. Rather than figure it out, they say let's just not go to Africa.

Ebola Scare.
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Cardinal Blowing in the Wind

A cardinal blowing in the wind, not the bird, the prelate, a prince of the church, in a pretty classy outfit, especially the red hat.

I met this man in Madrid at the Basilica, that being the Number One church in the entire country of Spain, and this cardinal being the man in charge.

The meeting was by chance. Eva and were on a walking tour which finished in front of the royal palace. The king and queen were out for lunch, so we didn't go to the palace, but right next to the palace is this enormous, huge church -- the basilica.

Let's take a look, we decided. And inside, at the back of the all the pews, was the cardinal himself and a small crowd of nuns and other well-wishers, eager to shake his hand and kiss his ring -- that is the custom -- to kiss the ring on his hand, or merely to shake his hand.

I opted for the handshake, not being accustomed to the bending from the waist, which is required for the kissing of the ring, not being in the best of condition, vis-a-vis the church, not being in good standing, so choosing the lesser embrace.

But still it seemed like a kind of blessing, to be there with this man, who was a prince of holiness....... "Cardinal Rouco Varela was appointed by Pope John Paul II as Archbishop of Madrid in 1994."
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Bobby Vilinsky

From New Jersey to Boston

Artist Bobby Vilinsky has traveled the world from New Jersey to Boston....I just wrote that because it sounds funny. Bobby is a good friend of mine and he has seen many things in many places, but it is true that he grew up in New Jersey and has spent most of his adult life in Boston.

Not Boston -- Cambridge. Local neighborhoods count quite a bit in New England. Cambridge -- anybody who lives there will tell you -- is on the other side of the Charles River from Boston and quite a different town.

Then, people in Cambridge will want to know in what part of Cambridge does one live -- certain neighborhoods have their peculiarities.

Bobby Vilinsky, depicted here, in a handsome and appealing portrait, used to live near Central Square in Cambridge, but now he lives almost midway between Harvard Square and Central Square and partakes of both, or neither.

More importantly, his apartment comes with a parking space for his Honda Civic, plus he can walk to either Harvard Square or to Central Square and descend to the Red Line subway, which will take him in to Boston if, for example, he wanted to visit the Museum of Fine Art, or go to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox.

Bobby has had his art displayed at the Museum of Fine Art, an august circumstance which has not gone to his head. Bobby is the same old friendly fellow I have always known.

I would display a photo of his art, but it is conceptual, often three-dimensional, and does not reproduce well on this flat screen. But I think a photo of the artist himself works quite well. Bobby has a strong smile and it comes easily.

Cereal

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I ate a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I read the newspaper and watched the TV news. I talked with Laurie about what I am going to do today at work and after work.

At work, I intend to take a photo of Oscar and have him take a photo of me, using the i-pad. After work, I will stop at Whole Foods to buy tofu and a few other goodies.
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