You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘A Glass of Wine With You!’ category.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo settled down to listen to some musick this evening, only to discover that his 25+ year old set of Sony headphones have gone duff.  (Something within the right lobe has broken loose.  It’s not that I can’t hear from that side, but the component keeps sliding around.  Difficult to appreciate a Haydn Mass when it’s permeated by a set of chunks and bangs not contained in the original score.)

So….Any friends of the decanter have any recommendations re a new set of ‘phones?

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

It seems that the Gels’ latest “What a Dinosaur ol’ Dad Is” meme is to make fun of the fact that I still carry around a Motorola flip phone which I must have had, oh, at least eight or ten years now.

Until they started this line of ragging, ol’ Robbo hadn’t even known it was a thing, since I hardly ever use my phone.  In fact, the only reason I even have one at all is for use while commuting in case of emergency or change of itinerary sent out from Port Swiller HQ.  Truth be told, I don’t even know my own cell number.

In response to the question of why I don’t upgrade, I also note:

a) that I don’t want to turn into one of the legion of zombies I see walking about with their eyes locked on their iThingies, and

b) even if I wanted to, from what I understand of our Verizon plan, Mrs. R and the gels have been helping themselves to my upgrades all this time, so I have not even been given the opportunity.

Anyhoo, I bring all this up because I had a dream last night that I was supposed to pick up Jon “Horseface” Carry at the Denver airport but, because I didn’t have my phone on, I had missed the instructions.  Somehow, as I scrambled about trying to get ready and wondering why I had to fetch him, I could hear his voice muttering in the background about “incompetence” and “shoddy service” and “I can’t believe this”.  Yeah, John.  You should talk.

I then further discovered that not only was I late to pick up Kerry at the Denver airport, it was also Thanksgiving Day; I had a house full of family, all of them already sitting expectantly at the table; and that I hadn’t even turned on the oven yet.  I found myself feverishly looking at the instructions on the turkey wrapping, trying to find out the correct oven setting.  The only number I could find was 500°F, which, even in my dream, I knew was way too high for a bird.

Finally, I looked up at my guests and said, “Um, this is going to take a while.”

And then I woke up.

UPDATE: Apropos, I saw this somewhere the other day.  Pretty funny because true:

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

No, I’m not talking about that wretched post-WWII generation who currently are raping the Republic of all the wealth on which they can lay their mitts before they die off and who are, also, directly responsible for the rise of a generation of Millennials who are in the process of establishing a reign of Precious Snowflake Fascist Terror that will eventually come to a painful, violent end when the Gods of the Copybook Headings return.*

From the Port Swiller Deck this evening, courtesy of the Youngest Gel and her iThingy.

From the Port Swiller Deck this evening, courtesy of the Youngest Gel and her iThingy.

Instead, I’m talking about good, old-fashioned, thunderstorms, some of which came a-calling in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor this evening.  First time this season.

Ol’ Robbo used to be quite frightened of thunder and lightning.  I recall distinctly an incident in my misspent yoot in San Antonio.  My bedroom window looked out on a hackberry tree in our back yard, maybe 50 yards or so from the house.  One evening during a storm (I think when I was in high school), I walked in and looked out just in time to see the poor tree hit by a lightning bolt.  (You can always tell that you’re close to a strike because you can hear a distinct vzzzzzt!! before you hear the thunder.)  I hit the deck completely by instinct, all my fears of my earlier yoot very much reenforced.  (I believe that same poor tree got knocked down by either a microburst or an F0 tornado a few years later when I was away at college.)

Anyhoo, I gradually overcame said fear, to the point where I now quite enjoy watching a storm in all its fury.  To sit out on the deck this evening and watch the cell scud past us to the east while the bats flitted about overhead was very delightful.

A little game I like to play in this season is Beat The Storm.  My office is about 14 miles southeast of Port Swiller Manor.  When conditions are stormy, I take a good, hard look at the radar just before I leave work.  If there are storms about, the game is to decide whether to slap the sides up on La Wrangler or to see if I can just beat them home bare-sided.  In some cases, I have cut this close enough that the deluge has hit literally between the time I got into my garage and the time I tried to go back out to the mailbox to retrieve the evening bills.   Very gratifying when I get it right.

And lest you think Ol’ Robbo is delusional on this point, let me just note that others play the same game.  A couple years back, I was on a late-afternoon flight from Dee Cee to Cleveland when the captain announced we were going to take off a couple minutes ahead of schedule.  I didn’t think much of it until, during our descent, the sky suddenly got awfully dark (and the plane suddenly got awfully quiet).  We came down smoothly enough, but by the time we were taxiing to the gate, the heavens had opened up and the tempest was crashing down all round us.  That sum’bitch pilot had beat it in with seconds to spare.

Once I retrieved my jangled nerves, I tipped my metaphorical hat to the fellah.

 

*No, but it felt damned good to get that off my chest.

 

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ah, Spring!  Season of swings and roundabouts!

On the one hand,  ol’ Robbo learned yesterday that the Port Swiller Manor air-conditioner, which I hadn’t realized was eleven years old, has given up the ghost – rusted coil, leaking freon like a sieve, electrical contacts burning out.  Well, what else can one say except ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching? UPDATE:  The hot water heater decided to get in on the game by leaking while the HVAC guys were putting in the new A/C unit.  This came as no surprise, as I’d been warned two years ago that the thing was nearing the end of its life and had been wondering idly since then when it would go, but still……”When sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions.”

On the other hand, I discovered this morning that both the lawnmower and the weed-whacker are in fine working condition despite my very minimal (which is to say, non-existent) winterization efforts.

On the third hand, I’ve killed about seven wasps on the porch over the past few days.  (Red wasps – fortunately not especially aggressive.)  They must have a nest very near at hand and also must have found a way to get through the screen.  I haven’t found it yet and I’m probably giving myself cancer with all the spray I’ve inhaled while shooting at them.  UPDATE:  A couple yellow-jackets, too.  However, I found the breach – a corner of wood where the roof meets the house that has warped up, leaving a gap.  I think I can block it with a simple can of sealant.

On the fourth hand…….Iced Coffee.  Nectar of the Gods.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo had to drive up to Bal’mur, Murrland yesterday on bizney.

I’ve long ranted here about the bat-shite craziness of Murrland drivers.  Increasingly, I believe that Bal’mur is the epicenter of this cray-cray, the veritable Mos Eisley of the scum and villainy that pollute the local highways and byways.  The place gives me the creeps.

Golden moment: A delivery truck double-parked on Calvert Street blocking an SUV in front of me sporting a “Wag more, bark less” decal on its rear window.  The driver of said SUV was telling off the delivery guy in no uncertain terms with both word and gesture.

Irony status? Prime.

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Well, Spring is finally getting her act together in the neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor.

Late last evening, ol’ Robbo found himself loitering around the parking lot of the St. Albans School waiting around for Middle Gel to come out of the school play she’d gone to see. (A steampunk version of The Tempest, in case you’re interested.  With this particular play, given its majickal character, I’d argue that one can get away with this sort of thing so long as it doesn’t swamp the rest of the production values.)  The school is sited on a hill (Mount St. Albans, in fact) that affords a fine view southeast across downtown Dee Cee.  As I sat there, I got to watch lightning for the first time this year – a small storm way off on the horizon.  Very pretty.  (As a boy, I was terrified of thunderstorms.  Now I love them.)

A few weeks ago, perhaps a bit prematurely, I posted here about some of the signs of spring in the Port Swiller garden.  Well, I’m afraid I have to revise my earlier optimism just a bit:  The knockout rose on the porch stairs did not, in fact, make it, but appears to be dead, dead, dead.  Oh, well.  If we get another, we’ll bring it inside for the winters from now on.

In addition, I am now about 85% sure that my poor jasmine didn’t survive.  (One has what might be a single new stem coming up from the roots.  The others, nothing.)  So much for AlGore’s Globull Warminj.  I’m going to give them a couple more weeks to produce new shoots, then fall back to Plan B and replace them with wisteria which, once established, is practically indestructible.

Now for some genuine good news:  Long time friends of the decanter will know that ol’ Robbo has been griping about the poor flowering of his forsythias for years and years now.  Well, last spring, after an especially anemic showing, I went out and razed those baddies to a height of no more than twelve to fifteen inches.  This spring?  A pleasantly respectable flowering!  The one mistake I made was not doing a secondary cut in August or September to even out some of the longer and stringier branches, but I will remember to do that this summah.

And if you’ve read this far, you may be amused to know that last year I also put in a couple of new clematis by the patio.  (A variety with lovely indigo leaves and a golden center.)  Unfortunately, they’re very near the bird feeder, and in their bottom-feeding activities, the damned squirrels exposed the roots of both plants. I thought they were gonners, but each one has got new growth on it this spring.  (Tough plant, the clem.)  I’ve since put chicken wire around each one, so hopefully the tree-rat problem has been solved.  (You might wonder why I don’t just move the feeder.  Well, it is just where I can watch it from my library comfy chair.)

 

 

James-BestGreetings, my fellow port swillers!  A toast, if you please, to the memory of actor James Best, whose death at the age of 88 was announced today.  Requiescat in pace.

Best is, ah, best known for his portrayal of Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane in the teevee series The Dukes of Hazzard, but anyone who spends any time at all watching old westerns will also remember that back in the day he seemed to have had an awful lot of minor parts in them, always playing one of the bad guy’s henchmen or a member of the posse or a ranch hand.  From what I know, Best never had much by way of dialogue, but he was a predictable part of the ensemble.   Frankly, I admire workaday actors of that sort much more than I do the sooperstar snowflake types.

As a matter of fact, I never much bought Best as one of the baddies.  He always came across as so…..nice.  Which is why I think he worked so well as Sheriff Roscoe, who was bumbling and corrupted,  but ultimately good-hearted.

And yes, I watched them Duke boys loyally  in my misspent yoot.  And no, I didn’t just watch so to see Daisy sporting cut-offs.  (That was a mere bonus.) Got a problem with that?  Remember:  For all ol’ Robbo’s crankiness about matters of High Art, he also has an earthier side free of condescension and snobbery.  After all, for all I am on about Bach and Handel, Mozart and Haydn, I also derive great pleasure singing along to Joe Diffie’s “Pickup Man”.

Eh.  As Popeye says, I ams what I ams, and that’s what I ams.

Speaking of Sheriff Roscoe, a bit of Duke Boy trivia for you:  John “Bo Duke” Schneider bought the house my parents built in the (then) exurbs of San Antonio.  Not from them, but (I think) from the people who bought it from the ‘rents when the Old Gentleman retired and they moved away.

 

* Those who know will know.

 

 

jesus jerusalem

jesus crucifixionjesus empy tomb

Well, friends of the decanter, ol’ Robbo will be knocking off posting (among other things) until after Easter Day, the better to focus on Higher Matters.

After Palm Sunday Mass tomorrow, we will be toddling down to the National Cathedral to hear the Middle Gel perform Bach’s St. John Passion.  (I met her for lunch between rehearsals today and caught the first part of the afternoon session.  Exquisite.)

This year I also intend to do the full Tenebrae and Paschal Triduum.  And by great fortune, I was able to arrange so that I can go to the Easter Vigil Mass this year, having had to miss it for other commitments the past couple years.

So all in all, it’s going to be a mighty full week.  Hope you all have a blessed one.

I’ll see you all on the other side.

 

 

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers! Teh Vic ought to get a particular chuckle out of this one:

Seems teh Eldest Gel recently was showing pics of me to some of her friends.  One of them said, “Oh, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Why not?” responded teh Gel.

“Well,” said the friend, “When we met, I kinda think he gave me the fish-eye.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” said teh Gel.  “He does that to everybody.”

Yes, yes I do.  Problem?

 

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Let me make this very clear:  The “t” in “often” is silent.  Silent, as in not spoken.

Offen.  Not Off-ten.

Dammit.

Thank you.

UPDATE:  I should have cited no less an authority than the great Sir W. S. Gilbert to back me up.  Quote:

Gen. Stanley (aside): Hah! An idea! (Aloud.) And do you mean to say that you would deliberately rob me of these, the sole remaining props of my old age, and leave me to go through the remainder of my life unfriended, unprotected, and alone ?

Pirate King: Well, yes, that’s the idea.

Gen.: Tell me, have you ever known what it is to be an orphan?

Pirates (disgusted): Oh, dash it all!

King: Here we are again!

Gen.: I ask you, have you ever known what it is to be an orphan?

King: Often!

Gen.: Yes, orphan. Have you ever known what it is to be one?

King: I say, often.

All (disgusted): Often, often, OFTEN!

Gen: Eh, ah, I don’t think we quite understand one another.  When you said “orphan,” did you mean “orphan ” — a person who has lost his parents, or “often ” — frequently ?

King:  Ah! I beg pardon — I see what you mean — frequently.

Gen.: Ah! you said often — frequently.

King:  No! Only once.

Gen.:  Exactly! You said often, frequently, only once.

The Pirates of Penzance, Act I, Scene somewhere toward the end.   It’s a cheap joke, but it simply wouldn’t work if there was a “t” sound in “often”.   So there.

Recent Comments

Robbo on Gratuitous Musickal Posting
Old Dominion Tory on Gratuitous Musickal Posting
Old Dominion Tory on On Seeing Red
Robbo on On Boomers
rbj1 on On Boomers

Blog Stats

  • 410,245 hits
April 2015
M T W T F S S
« Mar    
 12345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
27282930  
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.