Who fawted?

The other day I received an early birthday gift from the Nattering Nabob (see left). It was a thoughtful gift, and, I assure you, well received. That I have not yet thanked the Nabober for the gift is unforgivably rude.
 Some readers will recall that one the of the early poems in the infamous collection Verse and Verse refers to the family interest in flatulence. Well, one reader, unrelated to the author, left the book out in plain sight, and a casual peruser noted this prediliction, and made a observation through the Internet. Fame spreads, some faster than others.
 Some people do not see the humor in farts. Hey, look here and see what a master of the genre can do. Wish we had him here in the U.S. Oh, wait, congress...
 Should you wish to visit the fartless factory, here you go.

Catharism today

We have been thinking of taking a self-drive barge cruise in the southwest of France next spring. Watching videos about the Canal du Midi and other barging options in that area, at the same time as my Senior College class was wrestling with some of the God-man puzzles in Paradise Lost, drove my thoughts to the Cathars, who lived there. The Cathars believed in a duality of God and Satan. Of course, this upset the good Catholic fathers, and the crusaders wiped out the Cathars in the thirteenth century. Many of their buildings still stand, and I understand that their beliefs are having a resurgence today. Makes sense to me. Give God credit for the cheap Belgian waffle iron and the spork. From Satan: the zipper, the blister pack.

Dern it!

I recently sent around an article about Bruce Dern and his role in the new movie Nebraska. Two readers asked how I am related to Bruce. I am not. He is Other Mama's nephew, and while he was at Penn, he would occasionally come out to see the folks in Chestnut Hill. One summer, while I was there visiting Pete, we saw quite a lot of him. Several times he took us to movies, westerns, and when we got back, he would practice stunts, like getting shot on the upstairs landing and crashing down onto a small loveseat below. It was great entertainment for us.
One day we went across the lane to the Cricket Club golf course with Bruce. We were messing around on the practice putting green when a guy from the pro shop came down and tried to kick us off. Bruce turned to him with a menacing sneer, and said, in that memorable high register tone, "Don't get a hardnose over it, buddy." I believe we stayed.
He has great range as an actor.  In what I believe was his first movie, a biker B or C flick, he played a corpse that was carried around from place to place. And once we took Flash to New Canaan to see "Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte." Bruce was murdered, and his head fell out of a box and rolled down the stairs.

Paradise Lost

My Senior College class on Milton's Paradise Lost ended on Monday. The students sent me off with the flowers you see to the right. Just like teenagers, they looked expectantly to see if I would know what the flowers were. Well, Laguna Beach is full of birds-of-paradise, and I had no trouble. Whew. Rep unsullied.
It was quite a different experience, reading this work with "mature" folks, compared to the adolescents who studied (I use the word advisedly) it with me for years at Andover. But equally fun. However, now I have put Milton away. Bye, Milton. Off to green woods and pastures new.

Water colors

This time of year we get some wonderful light on the river. This one is just past sunset.

And, in other news, the "stealth" destroyer has been launched into the river by BIW. However, the previous secrecy seems to have evaporated. Here's the story. We did not see it slide in from the drydock. Stealthy, what?

Out of the lineup

There is a cliche in sports that holds that a player cannot lose his job because of injury. Bushwah, of course. And the falsity of that canard is being proven here at The Crotch. Papa has lost his position. No more hauling logs, no more mowing lawn, no more grilling steak. These duties have been taken over by Grandma. Furthermore, she has done a better job. So Papa is relegated to the bench. Ah, the bench. Now, you're talking.

Dirt bombs in Paradise

I am teaching a Midcoast Senior College course on Milton's Paradise Lost. In the sixth book, Milton describes a war in heaven between the forces of Satan and those of God. After Satan's angels pelt the good angels with cannons, the other get angry and hurl pieces of mountains. Soon all the angels are flinging dirt at each other. Apparently, in Milton's time this passage was not thought comic. Oh, c'mon.
 When I was a kid, images of World War II were all over the B/W TV and we boys played various war games. One of the things we did in our back yard was to throw dirt bombs. A clod of that good Jersey soil, hurled high in the air, would rush to earth with a craaack and a puff of dust that looked like the smoke of a mortar. The deal was to throw them high enough so that the other guy had time to move away. (Of course, occasionally, a warrior might throw two at the same time....)
  I haven't seen a kid throw a dirt bomb in years. On the other hand, there seem to be plenty of guns around. Glad, sometimes, that I am old.