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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As of 5:30 p.m. yesterday afternoon, ol’ Robbo’s summah hols officially began. (I say “officially” because at least in spirit I had already left the office at the beginning of the week, doing nothing much more than sorting things between that which I could ignore until I get back and that which I could ignore full stop.) Tomorrow we go to meet up with the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his family at a lake house on which we’re going snacks, there to loaf about, perhaps kayak a bit, play some croquet and badminton, and drink large quantities of adult beverages.
We tried this a couple years ago down in the Outer Banks and I can’t say I enjoyed it very much. The “house” there was actually a condo built right smack in the middle of a zillion other condos. It was too small for the ten of us and the whole area was far, far too crowded for Robbo’s taste. This year we’ve got a real house, set on its own on a little point of land with a dock and a small beach, so I’m hoping it will be genuinely relaxing.
“Say, Robbo, don’t you usually go up tah Maine and stare at the bay?” I hear some of you asking. Well, yes, we did for many years, but I’m afraid that’s about over. The cottage is crumbling and, not being very efficient slumlords or investment wizards, we just don’t generate the kind of dosh necessary to really fix it up or, better yet, knock it down and start over. So it’s on the market. (If any of you are interested, ignore that part about crumbling.) Also, I just don’t think Mrs. R and the gels really liked it very much – they are of the school of holiday-making that requires stimulation and entertainment, two things you’re just not going to find in Midcoast Maine. I’m sure gonna miss it, though.
Anyhoo, I probably won’t be around here very much for the next week, so for your consideration I present some few thoughts still idling round my otherwise rapidly stagnating braim:
♦ I must say that I continue to delight in watching Gozer the Gozarian Teh Donald flip the bird at the MSM (or, as the Puppy-Blender likes to call them, “Democratic operatives with bylines”) and cause the GOP Establishment to soil its collective undies. The GOPe has absolutely nobody to blame for all this than themselves. While the Donks have gone national socialist, the GOP has gone Vichy despite being elected specifically to stop the drift lurch left. Teh Donald is simply filling the void where we fools thought the Establishment would stand and fight. To hell with them. (Oh, and here’s a pro tip, GOPe: Don’t call us stupid.)
♦ Speaking of such things, I see where Berke Breathed has resurrected Bloom County. Good on him and I hope he keeps it up. I’m curious to see how well he gets on. Although he’s something of a lefty, B.C. was never of the same self-rightious un-funny smarminess as Doonesbury and Breathed wasn’t afraid to go after twits on his side of the fence from time to time. However, that was back in the 80’s and 90’s, before the advent of the Social Justice Warrior cadre. Wonder what will happen the first time he takes a swipe at one of their sacred cows. (Small point of trivia: Breathed went to college with my high school Latin teacher.)
♦ What can ol’ Robbo say of his beloved Nationals except thank God the rest of the N.L. East is so awful this year. In case you haven’t been following things, our trouble is injuries: better than half of our starters are out at the moment. And while the bench guys have been doing as well as anyone could possibly hope, there’s a reason they’re bench guys after all. During the game last evening, F.P. Santangelo (the Nats’ teevee color guy) said the team reminded him of the Memphis Belle – banged up, shot up, but still leading. I chuckled appreciatively at that little bit of historickal allusion.
♦ Following up on our bear-sighting of this week, I was out mowing in the little clearing behind the back fence this morning (keeping an eye peeled over my shoulder, you may be sure) when I suddenly stepped in the answer to the rhetorical question about bears and woods. Yes. Yes, they do.
♦ The Family Robbo has been obsessed over the past couple weeks with playing a board game called Colorku, which seems to be Sudoku involving colored balls instead of numbers. Being a crossword snob, I never got into sudoku myself so have no real interest in this game either, but anything that gets the gels off their damned iThingies is just fine with me.
Whelp, I suppose I had ought to go and see about packing. Or at least thinking about packing. Or possibly thinking about when it will be time to start thinking about packing. Or something. Meanwhile, you all know the drill: Decanter and walnuts are on the table and the Stilton is on the sideboard. Swill till your eyes bubble and I’ll be back later.
UPDATE: Forgot to mention that no, Daisy dog does not accompany us. Instead, she’s off this afternoon to a sort of free-range kennel we found. It’s a big farm of so many acres and they basically just let the dogs run around all day and bring ’em inside at night. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ever have one of those strange, strange days?
This morning teh Eldest called me at work and informed me that a black bear was wandering around outside our back fence. There have been increasing reports of them in our neck of the woods over the past couple years but this is the first time I’d heard of one in our immediate vicinity.
I called up the County Animal Control people to report the sighting, since ours is a residential area and a lot of people like to walk their dogs in the woods behind us. “Oh,” said the dispatcher, “We don’t respond to that sort of thing.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied, “Just a wild animal being part of nature, that’s all.”
This must be a new policy. I know for a fact that when a bear popped up a mile or two away from us last summah the County police tracked him down and carted him off.
This afternoon I told the Eldest what they’d said. Now she worries the bear will come back. “Dad,” she said, “Do you think the bear could climb the fence, come up to the basement and get in and get me?”
“Sure,” I replied, “All bears carry skeleton keys and glass-cutters for that very purpose.”
She was not amused.
Meanwhile, when I went to start up La Wrangler yesterday afternoon after work, she wouldn’t fire. So I left her at my work garage and metro’d home. Today I spent rayther a lot of time dealing with Triple-A, as first they sent a battery guy and then later a tow-truck (driven by the tightest-mouthed badasss I’ve ever met, who also happened to be a wizard at navigating extremely tight spaces with his truck). I just got home a while ago from dropping her off at the dealer and am in dread: The last time they got their hooks on her, they found about a zillion different things that needed “immediate attention”. Although I think in this case the alternator just went out, I bet they’ll do so again. Must. Be. Firm.
In the meantime, my loaner is a Nisan Versa “Note”, a vehicle I’d never heard of before that looks not unlike a shuttlecraft from Star Trek: TNG. Driving it, I feel like a complete hipster doofus. You might as well slap “Co-exist” and “Draft Lizzie!” stickers, together with a rainbow flag, on the back and have done with it.
What makes this week a bit more tolerable? The fact that I go on summah hols Friday and have slipped into that pre-vacation who-really-gives-a-damn mindset.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! A rainy Saturday morning at Port Swiller Manor allows me to duck mowing the lawn and instead bore those two or three who still gather over the decanter with my first impressions of the great state of Wyoming, or at least of its south-easternmost parts. (Ol’ Robbo was taken camping in Yellowstone as a toddler, but that hardly counts.)
This area is pure High Prairie, the westernmost part of teh Great Plains lapping up against the Rockies, and resembles, in large part, nothing so much as the Ocean. George Armstrong Custer puts it rayther well in the early part of his “My Life on the Plains”:
Starting from almost any point near the central portion of the Plains, and moving in any direction, one seems to encounter a series of undulations at a more or less remote distance from each other, but constantly in view. Comparing the surface of the country to that of the ocean, a comparison often indulged in by those who have seen both, it does not require a very great stretch of the imagination, when viewing this boundless ocean of beautiful living verdure, to picture these successive undulations as gigantic waves, not wildly chasing each other to or from the shore, but standing silent and immovable, and by their silent immobility adding to the impressive grandeur of the scene. These undulations, varying in height from fifty to five hundred feet, are sometimes formed of a light, sandy soil, but often of different varieties of rock, producing at a distance the most picturesque effect.
The constant recurrence of these waves, if they may be so termed, is quite puzzling to the inexperienced plainsman. He imagines, and very naturally, too, judging from appearances, that when he ascends to the crest he can overlook the surrounding country. After a weary walk or ride of perhaps several miles, which appeared at starting not more than one or two, he finds himself at the desired point, but discovers that directly beyond in the direction he desires to go rises a second wave, but slightly higher than the first, and from the crest of which he must certainly be able to scan the country as far as the eye can reach. Thither he pursues his course, and after a ride of from five to ten miles, although the distance did not seem half so great before starting, he finds himself on the crest, or, as it is invariably termed, the “divide”, but again only to discover that another and apparently higher divide rises in his front, and at about the same distance. Hundreds, yes, thousands of miles may be journeyed over, and this same effect witnessed every few hours.
In fact, thanks to modern speed (80 mph speed limit, baybee!), these “gigantic waves” do seem to chase each other wildly. I’ve been on the Plains before, mostly in Illinois and Iowa. I’ve driven between Omaha and Lincoln. Because I flew in and out of Denver on this trip, I got a chunk of Northern Colorado, too. But it was only once I got into Wyoming, especially north of Cheyenne, that I really got the full effect, most of these other areas being either urbanized or else thoroughly tamed farmland. It was absolutely humbling – wave after wave after wave of land, all under an enormous sky. However, it was not all plain sailing, because these hills are also broken up by a succession of creeks and rivers.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
For those two or three of you who still gather over the decanter on a regular basis, I just wanted to let you know that I will be away on biznay travel this coming week, arriving back at Port Swiller Manor some time Friday afternoon. (Eastern Wyoming this time, in case you’re interested, an area I’ve never visited. My plan is to fly into Denver and drive up so that I can see a bit of the country.)
A few months back, Ol’ Robbo’s employer took away his Blackberry and wished on him an iPhone. Although I generally hate change, and although I particularly hate the zombie-like stare that seems to come over so many iPhone users, it occurs to me that at least said iPhone has a camera, and that there’s really no good reason I perhaps can’t take some snaps on it and post them here. (Teh Middle Gel promised to show me how.)
So start looking out next weekend for some pics. I ‘ll see what I can do.
In the meantime, as always the port stands before you along with the walnuts and, as always, the Stilton is on the sideboard. Feel free to tuck in.
UPDATE: Wake the kids and phone the neighbors, ol’ Robbo has arrived home safe and sound. And yes, I did take some pics and yes, I will put up a post this weekend incorporating them. (Not that I’ve been exactly inundated with requests, but I put nearly 700 miles on the rental car this week traveling about terra incognita, so you’ll get Uncle Robbo’s slideshow, and you’ll like it!)
In the meantime, a couple travel notes: I find that my irrational fear of flying grows steadily weaker for some reason. Alas, all that brain capacity freed up now finds itself contemplating the more mundane hardships of commercial aviation, the crowds, the petty indignities, the endless blaring of CNN. I’m not sure if the trade-off is worth it.
Coming back this afternoon, the fellah sitting next to me – who I gathered was from abroad – tried to give the stewardess his cup and napkin, inadvertently putting them in the wrong bag. “We recycle,” she snapped. “Some people don’t….but we do.”
After she passed, I let out a snort. The fellah turned to me and shrugged.
“Let that be a lesson to you, young man,” I said, waiving my pen ponderously.
He shrugged again and muttered, “Nobody has ever been that rude to me here.”
Friendly Skies, indeed.
Oh, and on a more serious note, because I avoid CNN and USEless Today, I only got some of the details of the Marine massacre in Tennessee this afternoon. God help the victims and their families. One question: Has anyone checked to see if the shooter had a Confederate flag?
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo has no brief for Donald Trump as a serious politician statesman.* The man’s really nothing more than a carny-barker. But I must say that I am increasingly delighted at the way he’s poking the press in its collective eye and giving the establishment parties heartburn.
I hope he keeps at it.
UPDATE: Word choice corrected for accuracy. As a pol? How is he any worse than the pros?
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo came home to Port Swiller Manor this evening to the sound of vehement bickering between teh Eldest Gel and Mrs. R somewhere above stairs. As an old campaigner, I did my best to ignore the spat in the hope that it would resolve itself without my having to become involved.
Thus, I poured a glass of wine and applied myself to firing up the stovetop in preparation for making myself some din-dins.
Well, as my burger started to sizzle*, the squabbling failed to peter out as I had hoped, but instead got more vehement. Taking a large swig of courage, I sighed and plodded upstairs to find out what was all this, then.
Turns out that the thing centered on the fact that teh Middle Gel is going for her learner’s permit tomorrow. I had known this but had not paid that much attention, since I had been through it before and knew the drill. However, when I broke in on the squabble, I found that teh Eldest was berating Mrs. R for allowing her younger sibling to do something so brash, so reckless, so fraught with potential danger. “I’m her sister,” I heard teh Gel declaim, “I’m just trying to protect her from your lack of parental responsibility! I know what happens…..”
Groaning, I invited teh Eldest to just walk away, promising her I would get to the bottom of her grievance while at the same time pointing out that Mrs. R and I are in charge, not her.
Welp, it didn’t take me long.
You see, the thing is that tomorrow is the first day said Middle Gel will be eligible to get said permit and she has always been a goer. I recalled as the facts were laid forth that the Eldest had backed and filled for several months after her own eligible date before she eventually resolved to obtained such a permit for herself.
So the whole kerfluffle turns out to be nothing more than Sibling. J. Rivalry, as we used to call it.
Siiiigh. Barkeep, where is that courage? I’ll have another, please.
* Yes, stovetop burger. Deal with it. It was hot as hell and humid and threatening to storm, so no grill for me.
UPDATE: License secured. Aaaaaaaand, she’s off!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! A few odds and ends on this stormy, Nats rained out, evening, for your consideration:
♦ Ol’ Robbo continues to believe that Social Media is the new young god on the political scene these days: swaying Low Information Voters, stampeding Big Biznay and scaring the absolute shite out of the politicos. Unfortunately, it’s also a petulant, spoiled, adolescent god with a massive Narcissist complex, an absentee father, a mother driven to bribe it for faux-affection, and an agenda that amounts to showing them all how wrong they were.
God (the real one) help us all.
♦ On these lines, I recently looked into purchasing a complete DVD set of The Dukes of Hazzard in protest of the sudden urge to airbrush the Confederate Battle Flag off the top of the General Lee. 250 to 300 bucks? Not bloody likely!
♦ An completely gratuitous note: John Schneider, who played Bo Duke in TDoH:TOS, bought a house in San Antonio originally built by ol’ Robbo’s parents. Yeah, buddy, I and my brother were the guys who first cleared that 2.5 acres of brush and scrub and established the lawn and gardens. You’re welcome.
♦ Also, perhaps more importantly, on these general pre-totalitarian lines, I absolutely love this bumper sticker.
♦ Speaking of new things, are other friends of teh decanter slightly creepified by the new Kentucky Fried Chicken ad campaign featuring a zombie Colonel Sanders? I’m old enough to remember ol’ Harland himself doing said spots. He was gracious and dignified. This new fellah? Snarky, flippant, and, for lack of a better term, icky. Not a good thing. Is there no one in the Sanders family who could step up and do a legacy thing the way Dave Thomas’s daughter did for Wendy’s? (Okay, I confess that I thought the “Wendy” Thomas ad campaign was rayther lame and much prefer the current hot ginger, neo-Dana Delany thing, but that’s a different matter.)
♦ Dana Delany. Be right back.
♦ Modern Times. I was 13 before I took my first commercial jet flight – a fly-fishing trip to Alaska, accompanied by much ballyhoo and bedlam- and also accompanied and heavily monitored by the Old Gentleman. This evening I finally caved in to teh youngest gel’s request to hop a flight some time soon with her best friend to Chicago to visit said friend’s father.
♦ Okay, to finish up, I still love this.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Because his beloved Nationals were early on obviously on the way to defeat this evening, ol’ Robbo popped in his latest Netflix serving, the movie version of The A-Team.
I used to enjoy the original series very much in my misspent yoot. And as much as I hate reboots as a general rule, I also like the more recent movie enough to have seen it multiple times.
As I was watching said movie, teh Eldest wandered into the room. In answer to her questions, I said more or less what I have just written. However, I also pointed out that I’ve never quite got used to the idea of Liam Neeson as Hannibal Smith.
“Wait, what? Why?” she said.
“Well, I don’t know,” I answered, “He just doesn’t seem…tough enough to me.”
“Liam Neeson?” she said, “Are you crazy? Why not?”
“Oh, I dunno, ” I said, “He just seems too…Sensative-Irish to me and only fake-tough, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” she replied, “I don’t. I think Liam is teh awesome.”
“Fine,” I said, “But let me tell you two things. First, Liam Neeson is no Aslan. Second, George Peppard could have beaten the living bayjaysus out of Neeson without even putting out his cigar. So there.”
She walked off, shaking her head and muttering.
I don’t care. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo’s “Independence Day” weekend this year was capped off by an impromptu BBQ at Port Swiller Manor yesterday afternoon. As I laid out the ingredients of said BBQ – which consisted of dogs and burgers – teh Eldest Gel ( a confirmed carnivore, much to my satisfaction) asked, “Dad! Why can’t you cook a hotdog wrapped in bacon?”
Why, indeed. This wants looking into….
More generally, said Gel is passionately fond of ribs. I often have thought of doing some up for her (the raw materials can be obtained easily enough from teh butcher shop at the local Gourmet Giant – pronounced “Ger-may Gee-yaunt”), but I am mostly a steak and burger guy and don’t know jack about smoking, much less baby-back sauce prep. Any suggestions/comments/pointers would be accepted most gratefully.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo will be away tomorrow retrieving the younger gels from camp and probably will not have much time for posting over the holiday weekend, so let me go ahead and wish you all a happy 4th of July here and now.
Unfortunately, I must say that I cannot recall another 4th in my half century on this earth when I did not feel more anger, disgust, and fear about the state and direction of our country than I do now. We’re despised by our allies and laughed at by our enemies. At home, we’ve slipped into what amounts to soft fascism and rampant social libertinism, all the while floating our “lifestyle” with money that doesn’t actually exist. 21st Century bread and circuses, indeed.
Of course it can’t go on because both math and the gods of teh copybook headings are hard. My only hope is that when the crisis comes on (and it will), we remember what we came from and will rebuild accordingly.
In the meantime, fire up your grills, grab your favorite adult beverages, pop a few (real) fireworks, and salute the flag, not for what it represents now but for what it has stood for and can stand for again.
UPDATE: Sorry to be such a grump, especially after I had counseled my own brother (a Ditto-Head of long standing) against despair.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
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