These are a Few of My Favorite Things: Two of Our Dead Kitties, Pat's Dog Rose

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Routine Post About a Routine Bike Ride

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It's a tradition now, my Thursday morning bike ride with Pat. 'T was humid with spitting rain, but overall a fine gray morning with the Bayside track to ourselves most of the way. Pat asked if I was fuelled by my dose of replacement hormones, and I said perhaps I was fuelled by the fact of diagnosis and therapy commenced rather than by the actual therapy.

Who knows? I'm taking a miniscule dose of artificial thyroxin, only 0.05 milligrams. Whether or not this is an effective dose awaits a blood test in six weeks. Now I need to cut down on carbs and push my glucose lower.

And I used to laugh about old folks who talked only of aches, pains, bunions and (oh woe) the quantity and quality of their stool.

Send in the Cows

Image by Wisconsin Historical Society via Flickr

Quite a successful P. Finley Memorial Poetry salon last night, I think.

Pawler hosted it at a spacious quintessential Berkeley house where she was pet sitting -- by quintessential I mean same-sex couple, three cats, a dog, lots of original architectural touches (including picture molding) that settle one down, as if the past is something which one need not flee just because we are locked firm in our embrace of the future.

The usual suspects shone -- The Wieder's "dumb superman" bit; McKenney's double whammy of Wallace Stevens and John Keats; a D-Hard poem from his Dylan Thomas' period. And speaking of Dylans, Newblood Mort read the lyrics to Desolation Row to great effect. (From such mash we brew our potent joy.)

There was more of a goodly nature, but let us cutteth to the chaseth, to the surprises. Pawler finished off the evening with a very effective personal essay involving the 303 books that were listed in the inventory of her father's estate during the time she duelled with sibs and established a conservatorship for his drifting self. (Ancillary point: The lawyers ripped off the estate by producing such a detailed inventory.)

The books were bookends for her essay -- and the spine of it, too -- as she paid tribute to the old man and the churn of love and hate we call family. It was touching and well done, and I suppose that was no surprise at all, Miss Pawler, but you never know what will happen when you toss someone into the cleanup slot at a salon. Lovely writing and lovely telling.

So the *real* surprise was David's telling of what it was like to do real harvesting on a real farm, a dairy farm in Wisconsin, somewhere East of Eden (Green Bay, actually). The declared salon theme was harvest, and people stuck to it to a startling degree. (I was startled. Salonistas are loathe to be told.)

David's reminiscence was short and detailed, about all the planting and reaping that milking 30 cows entailed. The *surprise* lay in the reaction. Let me tell something to my disadvantage. As emcee, concerned with nothing more than pace and none with joy, behaving as one might do running a chain gang, I was ready to give a quick back pat and move on. But Big Pat intervened, asking David about the smells of harvest and of the storing of the sweet, sour, flammable product.

And suddenly, and almost without precedent, we had a discussion of the details of farm life and of the possibility of city agriculture. I don't recall such a moment of real connection at a salon before. Oh sure we will ooooh and ahhhhhh at beauty, giggle when startled, wince when offended. But such give and take!

I call it Salon 2.0.

Well.

If Pawler steps up into the salon rotation and Lyle and Matt step up after Lyle's return from New Mexico, maybe we can jump start yet another cycle of salons, with me and E. doing our share but not making it our show. Pawler's was the first salon in mygod two years? I do love the salons. They mutate, it seems. Who would have thought we would find such pleasure in silage?

Postscript:

E. said hey boyo. Why you dint mention Susana's tribute to Sukkos, Gayle's beautiful Mary Oliver's, Daniel's autobiographical evocation of pain and connection and Kate's tales from a doomed garden?

And I said: oops.

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• These words are from a REAL dairy farmer. (timesunion.com)

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Riding, Walking, Wincing

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What a morning: a brisk hour on the bike in the fog along the Bay with Big Pat, then a quick lunch downtown with E. to leave her the car, then a walk home in the sun beside the lake.

And the ball of my left foot hurts. Dr. Stumpf (codename Stumpy) says no no no don't come in until you try a metatarsal pad, which (he says) is so much better than a mere insole.

Sit quietly without drawing attention to yourself and I will come back later to tell you if I agree with him.

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• Run Well! - Stress Fractures (runnerslounge.com)

A Manly Exchange of Emails Concerning Football, Football, Biking and Poetry

pons." style="border: medium none ; display: block;" height="202" width="300">Image via Wikipedia

Pat and I are going to a UFL game in beautiful Frisco. (To which many will say: Huh?) Notice that Pat *spelled pom-pons correctly.

Michael,

I had to pull in some favors, but being a sports columnist and all I was able to get two seats on the 50 yard line. A miracle no one grabbed these tickets.

So, it’s New York Sentinels vs. California Redwoods, October 17, 2009 6:00PM PST @ AT&T Park - San Francisco, CA.

Of course we must purchase the appropriate jackets, hats, cushions, coolers, pom- pons, and the rest.

On another topic. Can’t think of a graceful way to back out of this but I can't (make it) to your ancestral cottage to watch the Cal game,


Patrick

Patrick:

I am there on October 17. As for the Cal game, I thought you had invited me to your digs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Crossed paths would have been funny. But it’s now moot. Turns out we have A’s tickets, which I want to use more out of curiosity than anything else. We went to a game about a month ago where the announced attendance was 12k, but it looked like half that. Eydie said let’s move closer down to an empty row – that vixen – and she seemed to enjoy the game on account of the weird emptiness. Also, I felt obligated to shout a lot to fill the silence, and that amused her.

But no more about that. My mind is filled with thoughts of Redwoods- Sentinels. Oh I did brag a lot about our biking success to Richmond Marina and beyond on yesterday, that showed (in Tennyson’s words) much have we lost but much remains.

Go, Redwoods.

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Big Pat and Rose, the Wonder Dog, Went Home This Morning

He says he's begun to recover from last weekend's surgery. He was a good houseguest, neat about his person, not much trouble, only ate with his fingers when I ate with mine. As he drove away, we ran after him yelling, "Shane! Shane!"

He never looked back.

Biking: Return of the Kings

Image by richardmasoner via Flickr

Pat and I biked today, but the little camcorder needed fresh batteries,and so only an account is available, not the eyeballed version.

Beautiful day on the Bay trail! My new bike is quite nifty, lighter than the ones I borrowed from Peter and Chris and suited to my frame. (Peter is several inches shorter than I am,and Chris is several inches taller.) The simple fact of 'yours-ness' also counts for something. I am *one* with the *machine*. Or, to put it another way, I didn't fall off, not once.

We'll do this once a week. My heart will soften at the beauty of bayside, and my buttocks will harden. (They darn well better.)

The Bike. The Man. The Adventure.

Today I bought a Trek 7.3 Grand Something-Or-Other bike. Last year Big Pat and I were riding weekly on the Bay Trail between the Berkeley Marina and Richmond Marina -- I believe there's a video back there somewhere. But I was riding borrowed wheels, and last year the owner of the last set asked for them back.

I tried to buy a bike on College Avenue, but the bike they were going to bring over from the Orinda store never arrived. I called a couple times, and then a few weeks later someone called and asked if I still wanted them to bring that bike I was interested in over from the Orinda store. But by that time I had lost faith.

The clerks at a Piedmont Avenue bike shop ignored me. The baby-faced girl clerk at the Berkeley bike shop was so damn grudging and uninterested in my antique quests that I slunk away in shame.

Today Big Pat took me to his favorite little bike shop opposite the Claremont Hotel -- which I *think* is in Berkeley, but the boundary ebbs and flows in that area. A nice lady in her 30s calmly walked me through my price range, and to my surprise one of the bikes on the floor fit me fine. I wobbled around the Claremont parking lot just to satisfy the nice lady and Big Pat -- as if a wobbly 50 yards could tell me anything. Well, they told me this is a pretty nimble bike, and I can get on and off it without doing any damage to latent dreams of fatherhood.

Video to come.

Rose and Her Sweet Sweet Man. Got to Have His Picture on the Mantle of Her Heart

As I Said to Peter: The Menu Was More Memorable Than the Game. And It Was a Good Game.

From The Secret Restaurant (with bonus dog butt)

Sunday February 1, 2009

@ Sweet Adeline

Super Bowl @ home w/ Michael & Pat
Soul Food Farm Deviled Eggs w/ Fresh Wasabi, Mayo, Salt, Wasabi Tokiko
Buffalo Turkey Wings w/ Butter, Hot Sauce Garlic Marinade & Teriyaki Bourbon Pineau De Chartres Marinade
Point Reyes Blue Cheese & Ranch Sauce
Arezmendi Pizza
Edith's Kale w/ Currants
Sweet Adeline Corn Bread

Sasha checks under the tub to make sure Kitty isn't there. (Kitty has been in my room the entire time Sasha has been here)

Posted by Peter Moore at 8:50 PM 1 comments