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Easter Monday afternoon found ol’ Robbo ensconced in the hammock on his back porch, reading Robert Hugh Benson’s Lord of teh World. (About which I shall certainly post when I am done.)
Suddenly, a literal cat-fight broke out to my left. I have posted here before about our two young kittehs Ginger and Fiona, now around a year old, and their elder cohabiter Bella who hates them both. Well, old Bella had managed to corner young Ginger under a chair and was going at her with tooth and nail.
Wishing to break things up quam celerrime, I went to hurl my book (a paperback, rest assured) in the general direction of the melee. Unfortunately, as I brought my right arm over and across my body, I also managed to upset the equilibrium of the hammock so that the beastly thing pitched me out good and proper. I landed rayther heavily on my knees.
The book itself hit in the general vicinity in which I’d aimed it, but I think it was the surprise at seeing Robbo flip over and go down hard that actually broke up the fight.
My knees have hurt ever since. I wouldn’t mind so much, except for the fact that Bella and Ginger had another dust-up this evening and there is much fur to clean up.
Have I mentioned the fact that although I have myself owned cats since shortly after Mrs. R and I got married (21 years ago this June) and grew up with them , I have never really liked them?
As Robbo’s beloved Nationals had an afternoon meeting today (sweeping the Feesh, I may add), this evening’s entertainment consisted of a rerunning of the very excellent 1989 movie, Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.
Although I’ve seen this movie something better than twenty times already, our old VCR gave up the ghost several years back and I only had a tape of it. So it was because I tossed the DVD into the Netflix queue on a whim recently that I got to see it again tonight.
I must say the movie holds up surprisingly well after all these years. It’s light-hearted, silly and yet morally sound at the same time. (The sequel, which took itself waaaaay too seriously, was comparatively rotten.) It’s also full of most excellent quotes. Perhaps my favorite exchange is this between Bill and Ted’s little brother, Deacon:
Bill: You ditched Napoleon? Deacon! Do you realize you’ve stranded one of Europe’s greatest leaders in San Dimas?
Deacon: He was a dick!
I love that.
As for the “history” presented in teh film, Robbo was reminded once again of his sole real gripe about it, which you will have to endure here since this is my blog. And it is this:
Among the historickal periods which Bill and Ted visit was that of 15th Century England, where Bill says, “That must be the castle of King Henry.” There, he and Ted come across two babe princesses, identified as Joanna and Elizabeth. Eventually, both of them are whisked away to 1989 San Dimas by Rufus the time-traveler and join Bill and Ted’s band, Wild Stallyons.
Well, okay. But the only King Henry of 15th Century England was Henry VII. He had no daughter named Joanna. He did, indeed, have daughters named Margaret and Elizabeth (and also Mary and Katherine), but Margaret died when she was 10 and Elizabeth when she was 3. Hardly what Ted would call “historickal babes”.
I only bring this up because all of the other historickal characters encountered by Bill and Ted – the aforementioned Napoleon, Socrates, St. Joan of Arc, Billy the Kid, Abe Lincoln, Sigmund Freud and Beethoven- are at least plausible. It’s always struck me that this vague reference to a medieval “King Henry” and his babe daughters was a piece of sloppy shorthand on the part of the writers.
Oh, and git off my lawn.
By the way, the older this film gets, the more prophetic one of its throwaway lines gets. I’m speaking, of course, of the oral history report given by “Ox” Robbins in which he tries in his jock way to describe an historickal view of the modern world:
“Everything is different, but the same… things are more moderner than before… bigger, and yet smaller… it’s computers… “
Yep. What else can one say to this than, “SAN DIMAS HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL RULES!!“
Ol’ Robbo is enjoying the game this evening between his beloved Nationals and the Feesh of Miami. I don’t want to comment on the game itself while it’s still in progress. Rayther, I have two more general things on what passes for my mind re the glorious Game of Baseball.
First, Memo to Major League Baseball re this year’s innovation of challenged calls and instant replay: Kill it. Kill it dead. Kill it completely dead. Now. Beat it about the head with a tire-iron. Drown it. Drive a stake through its heart. Put several bullets into its brainpan. Toss it into an industrial turbine. Let the dingo eat it. Draw and quarter it. Chop it up into very small bits and jump up and down on them with hobnailed boots. Burn the bits, toss the ashes into acid and then scatter what’s left to the four corners of the Earth. Do you see where I’m going with this? Stopping play for review goes against every single particle of Baseball’s DNA. It’s wrong. It’s baaaaaad. It’s eviiiil.
Second, my children have noted that my habit of yelling “SQUIRREL!” at the teevee just before a pop fly lands in an opposing player’s glove has yet to save a Nats batter over all these years. I simply reply that teh Baseball Gods reward loyalty and consistency and that somehow, some day, my efforts will be answered. Oh, yes. Yes, they will.
This latter observation reminds me of an incident a couple years ago where my eldest, then in parochial middle school, tried to get me in trouble. “Hey, Father S,” she said, “My dad believes in Baseball Gods! What do you think of that?”
“Well, of course there are Baseball Gods,” replied the good Father, a well-known Sawx fan.
Update: Naw, I appreciate the pro-review comments but my objection stands, especially after having sat through another round of it last evening. Having Big Brother looking over your shoulder changes the whole dynamic of the game, making it more litigious and less personal, and also disrupting the traditional flow of things. No, thankee.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, Ol’ Robbo is once again playing semi-bachelor, as Mrs. R and the Youngest Gel departed Port Swiller Manor for Noo Yawk City this morning, along with the rest of the gel’s class at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method, to participate in the annual Model U.N. session held at their H.Q. This sounds fun and exciting and all that, but as a matter of fact it is an extreme pain in the backside in terms of covering logistics (not to mention costs) and the Missus and I are both heartily glad that this will be the last year we have to deal with it.
Teh gel is representing Australia this time around. I’ve been trying to teach her the proper inflection while saying, “G’day, mate” but she still comes out sounding Cockney. Oh, well.
Her issue this year seems to have something to do with banning child labor in the Third World. In connection with this, we were discussing recently some proposal or other floating about in the real U.N. that had to do with amending its declaration of “universal rights”. She couldn’t understand why so much of the World seemed to be in favor of this proposal while the United States, Great Britain and most of the Commonwealth nations oppose it.
“Ah,” I said, “Well, you see, that’s because our understanding of the relationship between the governing and the governed is (or at least used to be) based primarily on what are called Negative Rights. That means rights that are not given by the government but endowed in us by God and with which the government is not allowed to interfere. Our right to free speech and assembly, for instance. Our right to practice our religion. Our right to defend ourselves. Our right to be secure in our property. Our right to due process at law. And so on. The message there is that these are ours and the government cannot take them away from us or unduly limit them. Most of the time, we ask nothing more of Uncle Sam than that he just bug off.”
“On the other hand, the sort of rights bandied about at the U.N. - like a right to education or housing or water or a job at a decent wage – are called Positive Rights. That means they require somebody, usually a government, to do something positive on its citizens’ behalf. Now, the Third World likes this sort of thing in part because a Positive Rights philosophy makes a people that much more beholden to its government’s largesse and thus much more subject to its power and control. If Dear Leader “gives” you a house, Dear Leader is going to tell you exactly what you can and can’t do with it. (And who to “vote” for if you know what’s good for you.) Also, since you can’t just “get” tangible things like water, education, houses, wireless networks or wage-paying jobs from the Magical Land of the Rainbow Skittles-Shyting Unicorn, but have to, you know, actually buy them, they can hit up countries like the United States and the Commonwealth Nations for mucho moolah. Of course, most of this is pocketed by the governments themselves and very, very rarely actually produces any benefit for their people.”
Thus ended the lesson.
I’m fairly sure only a little of it sank in, but I believe mustard seeds are very small, too.
UPDATE: I forgot to mention a semantic problem baked into this debate. “Negative” Rights sounds, well, negative. On the other hand, “Positive” rights sounds, well, you know. How do you suppose the average LIV-type is going to respond? Somehow or other, we need to get back to the rhetoric of Magna Carta and Wicked King John if we, that is the Negative Rights side, hope to sway the general publick.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo was casting an eye over his old school alumni calendar this afternoon for scheduling purposes when he noticed a curious thing. According to the entry for Saturday, April 26, “Yom Hashanah” begins at sundown that day.
Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert on Jewish holidays, but my reaction on spotting this was an audible, “Say what? Where does that fall in relation to Rosh Kippur?”
I mentioned the thing to a little FB group to which I belong and one of my fellows suggested that the writers probably meant Yom HaShoah.
Now, as I say, I’m not up on Jewish holidays, so I looked up Yom HaShoah for some education, only to discover that a) it is the annual remembrance of the Holocaust (the existence of which I knew but not by its Hebrew name), and b) it actually starts at sundown on April 27 this year. And never mind that Rosh Hashanah is actually an early fall holiday.
So, if I am reading this aright, not only did the calendar manage to mix up the celebration of the Jewish New Year with a day of utter grimness, it even got the date of the latter wrong.
Just how many levels of editorial review this thing managed to get through without notice, the world wonders.
I flipped through my pile of school calendars from prior years (yes, I keep old calendars – got a problem with that?) and found that there was no equivalent entry in any of them, so this appears to be a new innovation on the part of the dear old Alma Mater.
Given the weapons-grade tackiness of the attempt, easily exposed with about five minutes of research on the innertoobs, it might want to reconsider such innovations.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
If you had told ol’ Robbo last fall that he’d be shoveling snow off the Port Swiller Manor driveway on March 30, he’d have said you were crazy.
And yet, here we are.
Damn you, Algore!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Regular friends of the decanter who have been paying any attention of the past couple weeks will recall ol’ Robbo’s project to lattice up the pillars of the back porch so as to give some lovely jasmine vines a place to grow.
Well, tomorrow was going to be the Big Day. The lattice panels are here, I’ve got a saw, a new drill and a fistful of wood screws, and we are good to go.
The forecast now is that Ma Nature is planning to deluge the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor with rain over the weekend. Back when I was a new, young homeowner some 20 years ago, this probably wouldn’t have mattered to me, and I would have been out there in the downpours
industriously idiotically doing the things that I thought needed to be done. Now? Meh. I’m going to stay inside, drink lots of coffee and watch, “Tora! Tora! Tora!” which just arrived from Netflix today.
Maybe next weekend……
By the bye, it’s been quite a long time since I had any direct contact with kid’s shows. Is Bob the Builder still a thing? And while I’m on the subject, what’s up with the Wiggles these days? And am I correct in my heartfelt hope that Barney lies dead in some remote gulch, his utterly inedible carcass of no use to the vultures, but instead being used to line birds’ nests? (Ain’t it odd how something you thought at one time would cause you to puncture your eardrums and gouge out your eyes with a screwdriver eventually subsides to the point where you can barely even remember it?)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here but ol’ Robbo has been dealing with a sinus infection off and on for the past few weeks, something that always seems to happen round about this time of year. I say “off and on” because the symptoms have waxed and wained, sometimes getting to the point where I think that yes, I probably ought to go see the doc, but then moderating again so as to encourage just toughing the thing out. (One of ol’ Robbo’s medical maxims is the avoidance of antibiotics unless and until they’re absolutely necessary, lest trivial dosings render them ineffective when they’re truly needed.)
The past couple days, the symptoms seem to be getting worse again. My sinus cavity feels as if it’s lined with several inches of lead, there’s a constant irritation at the back of my throat and I’ve been feeling generally run down, dizzy and beat.
I report all this not in an attempt to to garner cheap sympathy or to worry teh Mothe, but to lay the foundation so that friends of the decanter will understand the dread with which I faced the prospect of attending teh youngest gel’s recorder and choral concert at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method this evening. Nineteen 4th, 5th and 6th graders, of (shall we say) varying degrees of talent, playing about fifteen different tunes, from “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “‘Tis A Gift To Be Simple” through some Mozart, some Stravinsky and a couple of Irish jigs to “Amazing Grace”, all tutti ensemble and maybe 20 feet from where I was sitting would have been a tall order even were I in perfect health.
So, pardon me a second while I close my weary eyes just remembering it.
Anyhoo, I did a bit o’ research this evening to try and discover who had the bright idea of championing the modern, plastic recorder as the grade-school musickal instrument of choice but, after a whole five minutes on the Innertoobs, drew a blank. The closest relevant information I could find came from the ‘recorder’ entry at “Simple English Wikipedia”, which seems to be a dumbed down version of Wiki prime. The relevant paragraphs:
Plastic recorders were invented in the 20th century. They are cheap and vary greatly in quality (that is often not related to the price) depending on the manufacturer. They are easy instruments to play simple music. Many elementary schools use plastic recorders to teach music to children.
The head joint of the recorder is used as a noise, rhythm and effect instrument, and as a toy musical instrument with children. Because the recorder head works like a whistle, it can be used as such. With a bit practice, it is easy to play all kind of rhythms. Effects are made by opening and covering the lower end of the head joint with the hand while blowing. Many players blow harder like “normal” recorder playing (like with a pea whistle), to get a very shrill and loud sound. Professor Agnes Dorwarth of the Hochschule für Musik Freiburg argues this is an attractive way to get children to play with part of the instrument, which can make playing the entire instrument more inviting.
Yeah. Whenever I’m subjected to this particular “shrill and loud sound”, I renew my resolve to track down the originator of the bright idea of mixing school kids with recorders and doing something to him or her with one or more of the latter quite unprintable on a family blog. If nobody else comes forward, Professor Dorwarth better not let me catch her alone in a dark alley.
At any rate, I survived. So I got that going for me.
Still, it’s slowly sinking in that after fourteen years (if my math is right) of having one or more of the gels at St. Marie, we are down to our final semester of student participation there (although Mrs. R will continue to teach and I’ve a feeling they won’t let me resign from the Board no matter how much I want to). Somehow, that makes these little events – however teeth-gritting they may be in themselves – all the more important in a symbolic sense, the back markers (as it were) of a particular stage of the life of the Family Robbo. Next year, teh youngest will go off to middle school, while her elder sisters will both be in high school with the eldest eyeing her collegiate options (prayers, please). This nostalgic reflection provides at least a bit of armor and is allowing ol’ Robbo to treat these things with something approaching good will. Why, I might even go so far as to attend the annual spring fair without becoming enraged by the inevitable clown’s refusal to confess, confess!, that wearing thick face paint, a heavy wig and a polyester suit while making balloon animals under a bright sun and in humid, 90 degree heat makes her happy-go-lucky air a complete put-on.
Lousy, rotten clowns…..
But that’s a topic for another post. In the meantime, as I say, as much discomfort as this evening’s concert caused on one level, on another I’m glad I went.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, even as I type, teh eldest gel is upstairs, glued to her school district website and hitting the “refresh” key with the same fervor as a crack-addicted lab rat in anticipation of tomorrow being called as yet another snow day.
At this point, I’d say she’s got about a 50/50 shot. The latest forecast suggests Snow-nunciation is’t going to produce all that much white stuff in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor (1 to 3 inches, maybe), but it’s going to be flying most of the day, which might make both morning and afternoon bus service a bit dodgy.
As for myself, I must say that the prospect of another snowstorm on March 25 just seems absurd. Granted, I was in Cleveland on biznay a few years ago and watching the white stuff come down on opening day of baseball season, but that’s teh norm in more northerly climbs. Snow Miser has no biznay in the mid-Atlantic at this time of year.
Indeed, I was looking out the window this afternoon, which was absolutely crystal-clear and brilliantly sunny, and noticing the change in the light and shadows heralding spring. Nonetheless, the thermometer was only in the mid-30′s. That ain’t right.
UPDATE: Better news. Even as I was posting this, I heard the rumble of a truck out front and went to find out that my lattice for the porch pillars had arrived. It was scheduled for delivery today, but as it was already knocking 8:00 pm, I figured they were going to be no-shows. I bustled out to throw a tarp over the package against whatever snow hits us. Take a wild guess at what ol’ Robbo will be doing with his time this coming weekend.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Mrs. Robbo and the younger gels flew down to Flahr’duh to visit grandparents this morning, leaving Self and the eldest to bach it for a few days here at Port Swiller Manor. So eldest and I headed over to the local diner to grab some breakfast.
I recall that whenever I used to take one of the gels out to eat when they were younger, I would often intercept looks from people that in effect said, “Oh, must be his visiting weekend. Mmmm, hmmm. Wonder where he’s stashed the home-wrecker honey while seeing his kids, the sum’bitch.”
For some reason, I didn’t get that vibe this morning. Is there less of a psychological instinct to pigeonhole ol’ Dad when he’s out with an older kid? Have we become that much more permissive in the last ten years that nobody gives a damn anymore? Is it possible some people might have thought the gel was the home-wrecker honey? I don’t know.
Anyhoo, we talked mostly about politicks and current events, in which the gel is starting to take more and more interest. (She’ll be able to vote in the next Presidential, which is a scary thought.) Suffice to say, I don’t think the gel is going to join the Army of Julias any time soon. Her summary comment was, “Gee, Dad, I wish I had grown up in the 80′s like you.”
Yeah, so do I.
UPDATE: Despite the fact that there’s still talk of snow next Tuesday, it’s a very nice day here today and I was able to get out and continue with some of my early-early-spring cleanup, this time pruning the climbing rose by the front door. Over the years, the thing has got to be very tall, now reaching up two stories and overtopping the gutters. I really ought to whack it back by about a third or so but decided to let it go one more season, just lopping off the visibly dead canes (of which there were surprisingly few).
This rose, which is on a southwest-facing wall, always does spectacularly well in the spring, erupting in mounds and mounds of dark red flowers. Alas, by mid-summah, it almost always gets sulky because of the heat and starts shedding leaves. By Halloween, it invariably provokes snarky comments from the gels about haunted house decorations.