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Here’s a bit of wisdom I’d like to pass along: If you don’t want to do something, you have to say ‘no’.

A couple of months ago, I found myself added to a committee for a local ‘attraction’ which is attached (so to speak) to the municipal fine art museum.

Here is a partial description:

The Ware-Lyndon House is a circa 1840s late Greek Revival home with Italianate influence. It is the last remaining house in its once fashionable 19th century in-town neighborhood. The interior has been restored and arranged with decorative art and furnishings of the period.

This committee I’ve mentioned took on as a project the creation of an online database of a wide swath of those period furnishings and objets in the house.

Here’s where I enter the picture.  Since for a sustained 22 years of my 30-year ‘association’ with the local university my business card included the descriptor ‘photographer’, assumptions were made.

I did not say ‘no’.

I’ve set up a small studio in the house and am currently spending hour upon hour photographing the length and breadth of the contents, from chifforobes to dainty porcelain.  I’m killer at dainty porcelain, chifforobes not so much.

Truth is, I’m not suffering as much as implied.  My only paranoid ‘dismay’ is that in this iPhone world, people think photographs just happen: I sense a phantom bit of impatience from the other committee members.

Well, f*ck ‘em.  Oh, I don’t mean that.  Actually, yes, I do.

On an occasion or two, I’ve mentioned that I’ve weeded — scythed, actually — posts from this blog since 2009.  The other week, however, I stumbled onto the fact that my WordPress ‘Media Library’ remains completely intact.  I discovered this noticing in my ‘stats’ that people’s internet searches will occasionally ferret out a image from my trove.

In late 2011, when the late Kim Jong-il of North Korea, became ‘late’, photos and video online depicted the most outrageous displays of public grief, simultaneous theatrical weeping and sobbing by throngs of North Korean nationals.

At about the same time, someone sent me a video entitled ‘I Hate My Job’.  Don’t remember why, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a statement about the possibility that Kim Jong-il hated his job.  I cobbled together this ‘chimera’ below, when I noticed that the relative leg/body positions in two very separate images were just crying out to be joined.  (And the shoes and hatband match.  Kismet!)

We recently learned that Donald Trump thinks that Kim Jong-il and his son Kim Jong-un are the same person, and thought he’d sent a U. S. Navy aircraft carrier to threaten him, but actually hadn’t.

With things this très screwed up, reposting this picture can’t do that much harm.

‘… they are so unlike your Christ.’  — Mohandas Gandhi

On this, the ‘Holiest Day in the Christian Calendar’, I have a proposal for all  ‘Christians’.

If you don’t already have one, get yourself one of those ‘Red Letter Bibles’, the ones that have the words attributed to Jesus of Nazareth printed in red ink.

Jettison all the what-notery in the rest of the tome, and I don’t mean just the ‘begats’, which as a matter of fact, you can keep if you absolutely cannot part with them.

If you cannot do this, then please call yourself something other than ‘Christian’.

I myself continue to struggle with ‘The Risen Christ’, but I’m pretty much 100% on pixies.

A number of years ago for three years running, we would rent a house on the coast after Christmas for a week spanning New Year’s Day, with a group of friends and friend/acquaintances.

The last time we participated, before the week was out there was ‘tension’, and we subsequently opted out for upcoming treks; the report coming back the next year included one couple abruptly leaving mid-week.  Boom.

Part of the tension during our ‘last’ arose from a lady couple of our many years’ acquaintance (friends of friends) bringing lady colleagues from Washington DC, taking a nearby house, but using ours for evening board games.  Loud ones.

One individual amongst the ladies was second in command at the EPA at that time and a major power lesbian.  Her general disdain for gentlemen was — How to put it? — not well-concealed.

What sent me into the recalling of all this was running across Bessie Smith’s ‘Foolish Man Blues’ the other day:

“There’s two things got me puzzled, there’s two things I don’t understand, that’s a mannish-acting woman and a lisping, swishing, womanish-acting man”

(Over time I’ve seen ‘skipping, twisting’ substituted, ‘skipping, hopping’, too.)

Now, as to the aforementioned lady’s alleged disdain for men, I want you to take it on faith that during that week there was no lisping or swishing, no skipping that I am aware of, and absolutely no hopping.  Scout’s honor.

There was traipsing.

Come to think of it, I suppose we were just asking for it.

I believe yesterday’s post reinforces at least the appearance of my being a detail-oriented person.  When I found this picture of my new boyfriend online today, I noticed that all he’s wearing is the wristwatch I believe I gave him.  So, do you believe this post will get more views than the previous one?  I know I do.

I know I’ve trotted out this milestone before, but since I’ve ditched all the posts before late last year, please allow me to re-trot it.

Today is the 40th anniversary of the boys’ first date, April Fools’ Day 1977.

Stephen and I were both Graphic Design majors in college, and attended classes together, but never spoke, since as we later confessed, he thought I was too starched, and I thought he was too à la mode.

Well, the starched part is just ridiculous (Tut-tut! Did I ask for your opinion?) but the à la mode part, SO true.  Years later, opposites attracted.

BTW, pinpointing the origin of our couplehood, Stephen argues that August ’77, when we moved in together, is more accurate.  Successfully enduring this kind of petty parsing all these years?  I thank my gentle and centered nature.


A very long time ago, a reader of Domani Dave said some of my posts were ‘haiku-like’.

Can you imagine it?  I cannot say how much that remark meant to me, though there has since (and certainly at that time) been ample reason to wonder where that impression came from.

The posts have with the passage of time become more ‘tweet-like’ in length, stemming from my belief that in the immortal words of George: ‘A man can put up with only so much’.

Here’s more brevity.  Or, more accurately, less… non-brevity.

I started thinking about terms and expressions I don’t care for.  After my previous post, hard to imagine where that rumination got started?

Apologies to the Brits, but one I don’t for a lot is ‘gobsmacked’.  My friend Roger uses it incessantly.  I learned the ‘gob’ part from my first viewing of ‘A Clockwork Orange’, when poor Little Alex is told to ‘Shut your filthy, bleeding gob!’  Maybe that’s the problem.

I also don’t like the word ‘corpse’, which sounds crunchy and gooey at the same time.  What are some words you don’t care for?

You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

Yesterday, I stumbled onto the White House Press Briefing in progress on television, Press Secretary Sean Spicer at the podium.

There are a number of topics upon which I am apparently completely bipolar.

For example, whereas I am famished for manners and civility, a fantasy I have begun to entertain is having someone in the press corps who has an unassailable, credentials-heavy, thriving journalistic career, sacrifice that career by barking something at Mr. Spicer to make him explode.  Literally.

I’ve chosen a Greek curse (though I have since learned that its origin is Arabic) gifted to me fifty years ago: ‘I defecate on the vagina of your mother’.

For the sake of delicacy, I have softened the translation here somewhat…

I wonder if — like bringing poor Tinkerbell back to life by chanting ‘I do believe in faeries, I do believe in faeries’ — I can bring this about with chanting.

Well, it is almost March, but …

Everything — large and small, pastel and not! pastel — is blooming here in the South.  Fact is, we’ve been sans a decent Winter for years, and are unlikely to get another.  Global Warming, don’t you know, but that’s just Fake Science.

I’m glad to see that they still have actual Winters in places like Prince Edward Island, though perhaps residents there might not want them to be quite so ‘actual’.  These pictures go out to my ‘Ether Friends’ there.

But, even if you aren’t a P. E. Islander, you can look at them, too.  It’s okay.






I/we had a quite old-fashioned movie experience last evening watching the 2015 version of ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’.


I enjoyed it far more than the fifty year-old John Schlesinger version, starring Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, Peter Finch, and Alan Bates (and photographed by Nicolas Roeg and scored by Richard Rodney Bennett), which I saw only fifty years ago, so I could be wrong.

I judge some movies by my ‘mesmerization’ gold standard, ’Howards End’, and this one measured up.  (I recall being mesmerized by Ben Kingsley’s UK mob picture ‘Sexy Beast’, too, so ixnay on the pigeonholing.)

While I am somewhat of a suspension of disbelief whore, and Carey Mulligan did have quite a few exceptional ‘country’ outfits, never mind all that.  Have a look.

So, that was last night; this morning we had breakfast.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but September 2015, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas as my old friend Susan once said, 'Compulsion is a cruel master'.

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