Years Evenly Divisible by Four

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That’s Right: Keep Waving That Flag

The worst thing about years evenly divisible by four is all the political activity that is conducive only to nausea. Oh, and there’s an extra day in the calendar just to rub it in even more.

I do not care what political beliefs you hold. No doubt they are very true—because they’re your beliefs and you will stick by them come hell or high water. Ho hum.

What is particularly galling to me is that this electoral cycle started four years ago and continued in high gear with rallies and other events. Well, although I will vote in November, I have no intention of donating money to any party or candidate, taking any political surveys, following the political news on TV, engaging in political conversations with my friends, wearing any candidates’ buttons, or slapping any bumper stickers on my car.

Effective immediately, I am not playing the game. I am stepping off the merry-go-round and not caring who gets the brass ring. Whoever wins the 2024 election, my goal is simply to survive. The 24-hour news cycle can go fish.

Books I Won’t Be Reading Any Time Soon

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Dreck

On most days, I check the “Deals” section of the Amazon Kindle Store for titles I want to read and can get cheap. As I go through the list of titles, I encounter mostly dreck. I thought I would present a list of the most revolting titles from today’s deals. As they were obviously written with little attention to care, I thought it would be best not to italicize or boldface the titles. They barely even deserve upper case letters.

  • That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Demon by Kimberly [the] Lemming
  • The Perfect Marriage: A Completely Gripping Psychological Suspense [Gripping where?]
  • The Healer’s Way (Book 1): A Portal Progression Fantasy Series [Huh?]
  • Future Proof: The Time Travel Novel That Everyone’s Talking About. [I sincerely doubt that]
  • Stranded: The Bestselling Psychological Thriller with a Jaw-Dropping Twist, Perfect for Summer [of 1953?]
  • Heat of the Moment: A Billionaire Romance [Must be self love]
  • The Patriot: A Second Chance, Fake Relationship Romance [What?]
  • Forge Master: A LitRPG Adventure [When I found out that LitRPG meant literary role playing game, I yawned and thought “greasy kid stuff”]
  • The Hero She Needs by Anna [the] Hack[ett]
  • Come Back for Me: A Small Town Second Chance Romance [Jeez, that must be a whole genre]
  • Fury: A Fake Dating Workplace Romance [So, is fake dating a thing now?]
  • The Silent Wife: A Gripping Emotional Page Turner with a Twist That Will Take Your Breath Away [I’m choking already]
  • Wielder of Shadows: An Enemies to Lovers Fantasy Romance
  • This Is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Young Doctor [Ouch!]
  • The Awe of God: The Astounding Way a Healthy Fear of God Transforms Your Life [About the same way an unhealthy fear of everything would]

I know that most of these titles are destined for women readers; and I know that there is a male equivalent which is just as off-putting. It’s just that Amazon doesn’t feature them in their store deals page.

Chacing [Sic] Comfort

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Squirrel-in-Residence at Chace Park

As the heat continues, I occasionally seek the cool ocean breezes of Burton W. Chace Park in Marina Del Rey. I say occasionally because, on weekends, the park is being loved to death and the parking lots are all parked up. Yesterday, I sat down in the shade at the edge of the Marina while reading Paul Theroux’s The Last Train to Zona Verde (2013).

The squirrel pictured above approached me nonchalantly as I waited for my 90-minte free parking window to expire. The peninsula seems to have scores of squirrels all busily hunting nuts, seeds, insects, and food scraps.

Shade Trees at Chace Park

En route to the park, I had stopped at Ralph’s Supermarket at Mindanao Way and Admiralty, where I picked up a tasty salmon and tuna poke bowl and a can of Japanese iced green tea. I consumed it at one of the three roofed picnic pavilions seen in the distance of the above photo. Then I sat in one of the stone benches with a good view of boat traffic and relaxed while the breeze ruffled my hair.

Sailboat in the Marina

I returned home, where the temperature was about 8 degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius) warmer and cooked stuffed peppers for dinner. Afterwards, I relaxed for an evening of Roger Corman Poe films starring Vincent Price on the Turner Classic Movies (TCM) channel.

“You Are Inside Me Now”

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El Jardin Botanico in the Palermo Neighborhood of Buenos Aires

Since I wrote about Buenos Aires being one of my favorite cities yesterday, I thought I would present a sonnet by Jorge Luis Borges, the poet of Buenos Aires, translated by Stephen Kessler from his collection of Borges’s sonnets:

Buenos Aires

Before, I looked for you within your limits
bounded by the sunset and the plain
and i the fenced yards holding an old-time
coolness of jasmine and of cedar shade.
In the memory of Palermo you were there,
in its mythology of a lost past
of cards and daggers and in the golden
bronze weight of the useless door knockers
with their hands and rings. I felt a sense of you
in the Southside patios and in the lengthening
shadows that ever so slowly obscured
their long right angles as the sun went down.
You are inside me now. You are my blurred
fate, all those things death will obliterate.

My Cities: Buenos Aires

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Plaza de Mayo with Jacarandas

In my mind, Buenos Aires is forever associated with Jorge Luis Borges. It is my love of the author’s works which led me to Argentina three times: in 2006, 2011, and 2015. God knows, I would welcome a fourth visit. It’s a huge city (17 million population in the metropolitan area); it’s difficult to get around in; but I love it nonetheless.

What does one say to a city whose biggest tourist attraction is a cemetery? Each time, I visited the Recoleta Cemetery and viewed the crypt where Evita Peron is buried. Yet, poor Borges is buried in Geneva, Switzerland.

Funerary Monuments at Recoleta Cemetery

Borges taught me that Buenos Aires is a city of neighborhoods, of which my favorite is Palermo. At Borges 2135 in Palermo is where Jorge Luis spent his boyhood.

Palermo is also home to some of the loveliest parks in the city, including the Botanical Garden and the zoo where he visited the tigers that appeared in so many of his poems and stories.

Palermo’s Jardin Botanico

One thing that impressed me was the large stray cat population of the Jardin Botanico. While I was there, a local resident came and fed them. He then folded up his bag and walked toward the exit.

I think I would probably choose to stay in Palermo the next time I visit.

Going Vegetarian With Style

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You Start by Fire-Roasting Hatch or Ancho Chiles…

I think that if you are seriously interested in going vegetarian, you should avoid bland vegetarian dishes altogether. That’s why I think that most American vegetarian recipes are yuck.

Of late, I have been working on a Spanish rice recipe that is inspired by three sources:

  • Rice-a-Roni Spanish Rice, combining rice with vermicelli
  • Mexican dishes based on fire-roasted chiles
  • My Mom’s unbearably hot home Hungarian lecso, or tomato and pepper stew (unbearable because I was only a kid at the time)

Here are the steps to making my Spanish Rice recipe:

  1. Get two or more Hatch or Ancho or California or Pueblo chiles. They are about six inches long. Fire roast them until the skin is black and blistered, as in the above photo. Lay them aside to cool.
  2. Toss a half handful of vermicelli or fideo noodles in a pan with olive oil and heat until they turn dark brown. Lay them aside. Pieces should be 1/2 to 3/4 inches in length.
  3. In a large pot with cover, add about a quarter cup of olive oil and begin to heat (medium).
  4. Peel and chop one Spanish onion and add.
  5. Using a small sharp knife, trim the blistered skin from the chiles you have fire roasted. Chop them and add to the onions.
  6. Crush six (yes, six!) cloves of garlic and add to the onions and chile.
  7. Add one cup of long grain rice (I use Trader Joe’s Jasmine Rice) to the mixture and stir for a couple of minutes.
  8. Chop up a pound of ripe, fresh tomatoes and add to the rice. I like Campari Tomatoes for this.
  9. Add the browned vermicelli noodles at this point.
  10. Add salt and pepper to taste.
  11. Add one can of chicken (or vegetable) stock and about 3/4 cup of water.
  12. Lower heat and cover.
  13. When most of the liquid has been absorbed, chop one can of pitted black olives roughly and add to the rice mix. Stir to prevent burning from the bottom.

And that’s pretty much it. The fire-roasted chiles give this dish a nice background burn. If you’re a real chile-head, you can also add a Jalapeño or Serrano chile for an added foreground burn. Yow!

I’m still playing with this recipe, so you may hear more from me about this.

Dog Halloween

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Fireworks Galore, But Does Anyone Care What They’re Celebrating?

As I write this blog, I hear the spluttering of fireworks near and far. What I do not hear is the barking of dogs. No doubt they are cowering under beds and couches while their super-sensitive ears are assailed by the endless sound of explosions.

I used to attend fireworks shows, until I used to dislike parking miles away and joining a large crowd of people for a show that lasted all of fifteen or twenty minutes. Hell, I even set off some illegally purchased firecrackers myself—and I still have all ten fingers and toes! Eventually, I just decided that here was another holiday which didn’t really mean much to anybody.

Which holidays have any meaning any more?

  • Halloween, because it’s still fun and everyone likes candy
  • Thanksgiving, so you discover who in your family is demented enough to vote for Trump
  • Christmas, so you can spend $$$ on what you don’t need and your friends and relatives don’t want

Independence Day has become a kind of Dog Halloween. It results in scaring your dogs and cats half to death. At least, Roxie, the little lapdog downstairs, hasn’t barked once today. It would be too much to hope that her silence will continue, as she still, after more than a year, regards me as little more than a bindlestiff.

Comprachicos

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Conrad Veidt in Paul Leni’s Film The Man Who Laughs (1928)

It all started in the elevator to the Trader Joe parking lot. Two odd women first commented that I looked like the actor Wilford Brimley, and then asked me why I didn’t smile. That set me off: I don’t particularly like to go around with a smile on my face, and I don’t think much of people who do. Were these frustrated dental assistants to go around accosting strangers for not airing their teeth?

Then I thought of one reason I didn’t like being all smiley. I remembered Victor Hugo’s novel The Man Who Laughs (1869), which was turned into a 1928 silent film by Paul Leni starring Conrad Veidt, better known as Major Strasser “of the Third Reich” in the film Casablanca (1942).

Well, anyway, the novel and film were about people called comprachicos who, as children, were mutilated to look pathetic so that their handlers can could use them for begging:

The Comprachicos, or Comprapequefios, were a hideous and nondescript association of wanderers, famous in the 17th century, forgotten in the 18th, unheard of in the 19th. They traded in children, buying and selling them, but not stealing them. They made of these children monsters. The populace must needs laugh, and kings too. The montebank is wanted in the street, the jester at the Louvre; the one is called a clown, the other a fool. By the artificial production of teratological cases the Comprachicos developed a science and practiced an art. They kneaded the features, stunted growth, and fashioned hunchbacks and dwarfs; the court fool was their specialty.

The Conrad Veidt character in the film was a child who was kidnapped and had a permanent smile carved on his face, which made him look pathetic. And that’s what comes to mind when people tell me to smile. I just don’t care to oblige them.

Wilford Brimley (1934-2020)

By the way, I look almost exactly like Wilford Brimley, except that his mustache was a little bigger than mine. Of course, I would prefer that strangers think I am a dead ringer for Brad Pitt, Robert Redford, Warren Beatty, or some other dolicocephalic heartthrob. But then, so it goes.

Jains: The Most Gentle People

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Detail, Pilgrimage to a Jain Shrine c. 1850

Compared to the Jains of India, the Quakers and other pietists seem positively warlike. I am currently reading William Dalrymple’s Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India (2009). In it, a Jain adept describes her initiation:

[W]e were led back onto the stage, and told our new names. I was no longer Rekha; for the first time in my life I was addressed as Prasannamati Mataji…. Then we were both lectured by our guruji. He told us clearly what was expected of us: never again to use a vehicle [to avoid crushing insects], to take food only once a day, not to use Western medicine, to abstain from emotion, never to hurt any living creature. He told us we must not react to attacks, must not beg, must not cry, must not complain, must not demand, must not feel superiority, must learn not to be disturbed by illusory things. He told us we must be the lions that kill the elephant of sexual desire. He told us we must cultivate a revulsion for the world, and a deep desire for release and salvation. And he told us all the different kinds of difficulties we should be prepared to bear: hunger, thirst, cold, heat, mosquitoes. He warned us that none of this would be easy.

As they would walk along, Jains would sweep a peacock feather fan in front of them lest they inadvertently took the life of any creature, regardless how small. During the wet monsoon season, they stayed indoors because the omnipresent puddles were teeming with microscopic life.

Dalrymple’s source, a Jain nun called Prasannamati, blamed herself for being closely attached for twenty years to another Jain nun until the latter died of tuberculosis and malaria. Toward the end, the friend gradually cut down on her intake of food until she in effect died of starvation. Although she was only 38 years old and still healthy, Prasannamati was in the beginning stages of the same kind of starvation suicide, called sallekhana.

As Prasannamati said to her questioner, “Sallekhana is the aim of all Jain [monks or nuns]. First you give up your home, then your possessions. Finally you give up your body.”

“The City”

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Alexandria, Egypt in the 19th Century

Every once in a while, when I’m feeling restless, I think of the poet of Alexandria, Egypt: Constantine P.Cavafy (1863-1933). I first learned about him from reading Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet, where he is referred to as “the poet of the city.” Appropriately, here is one of his best poems, which is called, simply:

The City

You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
And my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.”

You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You’ll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
You’ll always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:
there’s no ship for you, there’s no road.
Now that you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you’ve destroyed it everywhere in the world.