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| Richard Dawkins, evolutionary biologist, on right! |
Patrick James Dunn When two opposite points of view are expressed with equal intensity, the truth does not necessarily lie exactly halfway between them. It is possible for one side to be simply wrong. -Richard Dawkins, biologist and author (b. 1941) Particularly when you, Ms Tinsel Town, are so pervicacious!
Hi Giggster!
Would you say that Captain Barnacle is a tad pervicacious? Unlike The Sisterhood, of course! Cheers, Patrizzio The Poifect Pervicoid!
Yes and ‘Your grandmother had spunk, bless her pervicacious soul…’
The Signal, (CBC Radio 2), last night played a blues number: "whisky/murder for breakfast" ,"sex for tea". Missed name of cut/artist. Help please! Patrizzio!
Relatively unknown to the rest of the world, musician Rodriguez was once the most popular musician in South Africa. Standing for anti-establishment through his lyrics on Cold Fact (1970), his songs were the anthem for a generation of revolutionary people standing up against Apartheid. He was rumored to have committed suicide, but two devoted fans set out to find the truth, and in a twist of fate, find their hero.
Hi Lili!
Sorry that it has taken me some time to say hello again, following VWF terrific party. Wonderful to have a bit of a chance to visit with you, as well as de-briefing on "distribuzzione", of course. Have attached a couple of snaps and wonder if you might forward one of Sonya, (I think), to her. I will send some others to Sandra after I obtain, from her, some web-based tool that allows photo transfer without clogging up one's in-box
Hope to take in Searching For Sugar Man matinee this afternoon. In case you don't know about film: Relatively unknown to the rest of the world, musician Rodriguez was once the most popular musician in South Africa. Standing for anti-establishment through his lyrics on Cold Fact (1970), his songs were the anthem for a generation of revolutionary people standing up against Apartheid. He was rumored to have committed suicide, but two devoted fans set out to find the truth, and in a twist of fate, find their hero.
Buona Fortuna with your studies. Cheers, Patrizzio!
P,
A ride won't work for me today but would like to ride Friday. Have MT for PD so will need to negotiate the timing with the authorities.
Nice distance lasterday if somewhat under achieved. W
Hi Giggster!
No mention of Nippon Porch-Climber. Veddy, veddy, bad sign, my friend. I'll trade "under-achievement" for "overly-anaemic" any day of the week, Bob! Hope to take in Searching For Sugar Man matinee soon. Interested? 3:05pm, Cinema Paradiso, for next little while, I gather.
Buona Fortuna with your fading memory and the Authorities. Cheers, Patrizzio!
Pat/George,Not sure about my time commitments tomorrow. I have work at 9:30 and possibly late afternoon. Probably best if you make your plans and if I can fit in, I'll do so. Pete is also interested in a ride and I think he was thinking after 11. Perhaps phone calls in the morning might help sort us out.It looks as though you need the calmer heads of George and I to keep you out of trouble, Pat. At least the West Vancouverites seem to be cooperating.I've heard of several serious cycling accidents of late, both here and overseas. Bradley Wiggins was knocked off by a lady driving out of a petrol station near his home and broke ribs. The following day, the current head coach of the England team was even more severely injured. Be careful lads!Drop by any time for your birthday/Christmas present. You'll need to get it soon in order to have it sufficiently moist by Dec. 25. Lamb's Navy might just do the job.Ray
P,Can’t find the elusive Yamazaki 1993/2008 (62%, OB, Heavily Peated, puncheon, C#3Q70048). Have found other anaemic malts from the same Nipponese distillery.Emphatic yes to Matinee, obviously not today.Lemme know what works for Friday and I will try to find security replacement for the MT. May have to be afternoon – don’t dare wake the 10 year old teenage mutant mongol terrorist. W
Hi Memory Challenged Bobolino and Raymondo!
If my memory serves me well, Robo Man indicated that a start after high noon might well work for Mathematics Man. I'm pleased to meet you two wherever it is most convenient, depending on route you'd like to take. Just let me know about start time, etc.
Today was so gorgeous I knew I simply had to go for an outing. Needed to do a few errands beforehand so I didn't actually leave the HBT until 12:30pm. Had decided to do another up-and-over so did just that. Quite a fierce head wind on way to SP, whipping up waves on English Bay, whitecaps galore. Not much resistance on bridge deck however, and I broke the speed limit, clocking 51.1KPH on way down. Once upon foreign soil, I followed Spirit Trail over ped/bike bridge and then along Harbourside Bike Route, past Fell Avenue to Bewicke where a pesky freight train blocked the tracks! Wasn't going any further, in any event, so retraced my steps and made for the West Van Badlands. Didn't encounter many withering looks from the self-satisfied burghers of Ambleside so had a most enjoyable ride in hostile territory!
Chalked up some enemies on the bridge deck, nonetheless, as I made far, far better time than the crabby commuters in their fancy car people transporters, backed up all the way to Taylor Way. Passed by a cheeky mountain biker on ascent but I kept him in my sights once over crest. My tail-gating must have given him second thoughts as he took the sidewalk through the Causeway while I followed the exit to Prospect Point. Try as I might, I couldn't push past 49.1KPH down the Stanley Park Drive Hill, so strong was the wind I was bucking.
By the time I was back at Ceperley Playground I had 47K on the clock so made for Seawall to Coal Harbour/ Canada Place. Not much foot traffic but quite a few meandering tourist cyclists! By Convention Centre there was quite a bit of rock salt on the bike path so I assume there must have been some frost earlier in the day. Was on "high alert", at least when traversing this section. Fortunately, no mishaps and once at Pan Pacific I turned around. (Noticed, a few rides ago, that signs have now been posted ordering cyclists to dismount if proceeding to the end of cruise ship pier. A good idea, especially in tourist season.)
View from boardwalk outside Convention Centre was stunning, especially vista of North Shore Mountains. There were large bands of deep shadow across the dark, dark green of the forest, the Lions, without a trace of snow, were silhouetted, and magnificently so, against the light, greyish-blue sky. Thrilling to ride with such vistas bombarding one's senses. Even treated to a bulk freighter loading, not far from where I had ridden along Harbourside, when I rounded Brockton Point and proceeded towards Lumberman's Arch. As I neared the pillars supporting the bridge a container ship steamed under the Lions Gate and I wanted to reach out and touch it, so close did it appear, moving in slow motion, at a snail's pace compared to my own warp speed!
All went well until the stretch near Tatlow Walk, I believe, where I usually am so bold as to ride on the pedestrian section to avoid the bike barrier. Almost made it through, but a few metres from freedom, a female jogger literally threw up both hands and stood in middle of sidewalk, yelling at me to ride on the bike path. I put my head down and charged ahead, winning the Chicken Game! This section of the Seawall was all but deserted but The Sisterhood simply can't let things go. I didn't bother to stop to tell her how many pedestrians I had had to avoid, earlier in my ride, some walking three abreast on the bike path. But moments later, as I was rounding a corner on quite a narrow section, a woman with a pair of binoculars, oblivious to any approaching bikes, completely blocked the path. I had to bite my tongue to keep form shouting "Use the pedestrian lane!", but I settled for snatching her binoculars and then, much to her horror, I smashed them on the rocks exposed by the low tide!
Rest of ride was uneventful so I my blood pressure was back to normal by the time I hit the HBT at just after 4:00pm, logging 71.3K over 3:29:47, AVG 20.4KPH, MAX 51.1KPH. Brewed a pot of Bodum before I even took off my clip-ons and luxuriated, with it, while I showered away the travails of such a stressful ride!
Any word, Giggleworts, as to when you might be set free from the TMMT? So let me know your individual preferences, Gentlemen of the Pervicacious Peleton and we will endeavour to plan accordingly. Cheers, Patrizzio!
PS: Raymond, Cora Lee and her parents were at Ikea this afternoon and we now own a large container, I hope of size able to accept your aforementioned Christmas cake. I could pop by after I drop off the Campagnolo at Porch Climber Heaven! Let me know when transfer might work. Desperately seeking marzipan!
PPS: Whirlage, thanks ever so much for the Finnish UNNU! Haven't had a cramp since I started brushing my teeth with the dissolved, in malt inferiore, mixture. Mind you, I don't have many fillings left either! Did you say you used it as a de-greaser?
PPPS: Dom Marcello is keen on a matinee as well so perhaps we can dovetail flick outing.
Bolt the exit on that upholsterer, just beautiful work, fit for a queen's posterior, and a place in your warehouse, if it fits. S
Hi Stefano!
Bolts in place, alarums set, Maggie on High Alert!!! Only require a shapely and firm posterior! Hope to take in Searching For Sugar Man matinee soon. 3:05pm, Cinema Paradiso, (5th Avenue), for next little while, I gather. Giggster and Kjell are keen on viewing so hope to catch flick early next week when weather deteriorates. Cheers, Patrizzio!
I liked the part about the binoculars
Hi Erich!
Trust freeway ride went well. Today was so gorgeous I knew I simply had to go for an outing. Needed to do a few errands beforehand so I didn't actually leave the HBT until 12:30pm. Had decided to do another up-and-over LG so did just that. Have Daniello take you there next time you are in town! Cheers, Patrizzio!
Patrick,
Marilyn and I am really very sorry to hear that your mother died. She was such a nice person. She was really fortunate to have such good care from Corinne and you for so many years. Also, when she was more herself, Corinne and you did a lot of things with her that she really enjoyed. Further, to live almost 99 years was a remarkable thing and you were lucky to have her for so long.
I have been slowly recovering from the surgery and it has not been as bad as the first one three years ago. However there is still a very long recovery to go. Best wishes, Mike
Hi Michaelo and Marilyn!
Trust recovery process proceeds, if slowly then surely! None of us here, (Clarisse/Dusty/Chloë, Cora Lee, even Maggie The Devil Cat!), and the squash fraternity can believe your simply amazing surgical journey. Onward!! Fight!!! Fondestos from The Canadian Sisterhood to you both. Cheers, Patrizzio!
Hi Giorgio!
Finally managed to get around to reading this! Terrific! Thanks so much! Cheers, Rico!
My 6,128 Favorite Books
Joe Queenan on how a harmless juvenile pastime
turned into a lifelong personality disorder.
I started borrowing books from a roving Quaker City bookmobile
when I was 7 years old. Things quickly got out of hand. Before I knew it I was
borrowing every book about the Romans, every book about the Apaches, every book
about the spindly third-string quarterback who comes off the bench in the
fourth quarter to bail out his team. I had no way of knowing it at the time,
but what started out as a harmless juvenile pastime soon turned into a lifelong
personality disorder.
If you have read
6,000 books in your lifetime, or even 600, it's probably because at some level
you find "reality" a bit of a disappointment. Fifty-five years later, with at least 6,128 books
under my belt, I still organize my daily life—such as it is—around reading. As
a result, decades go by without my windows getting washed. My reading habits sometimes get a bit loopy. I often
read dozens of books simultaneously. I start a book in 1978 and finish it 34
years later, without enjoying a single minute of the enterprise. I absolutely
refuse to read books that critics describe as "luminous" or
"incandescent." I never read books in which the hero went to private
school or roots for the New York Yankees. I once spent a year reading nothing
but short books. I spent another year vowing to read nothing but books I picked
off the library shelves with my eyes closed. The results were not pretty.
I even tried to spend an entire year reading books I had
always suspected I would hate: "Middlemarch," "Look Homeward,
Angel," "Babbitt." Luckily, that project ran out of gas quickly,
if only because I already had a 14-year-old daughter when I took a crack at
"Lolita."
Six thousand books is a lot of reading, true, but the trash
like "Hell's Belles" and "Kid Colt and the Legend of the Lost
Arroyo" and even "Part-Time Harlot, Full-Time Tramp" that I
devoured during my misspent teens really puff up the numbers. And in any case,
it is nowhere near a record. Winston Churchill supposedly read a book every day
of his life, even while he was saving Western Civilization from the Nazis. This
is quite an accomplishment, because by some accounts Winston Churchill spent
all of World War II completely hammered.
A case can be made that people who read a preposterous number
of books are not playing with a full deck. I prefer to think of us as
dissatisfied customers. If you have read 6,000 books in your lifetime, or even
600, it's probably because at some level you find "reality" a bit of
a disappointment. People in the 19th century fell in love with
"Ivanhoe" and "The Count of Monte Cristo" because they
loathed the age they were living through. Women in our own era read "Pride
and Prejudice" and "Jane Eyre" and even "The Bridges of
Madison County"—a dimwit, hayseed reworking of "Madame
Bovary"—because they imagine how much happier they would be if their
husbands did not spend quite so much time with their drunken, illiterate golf
buddies down at Myrtle Beach. A blind bigamist nobleman with a ruined castle
and an insane, incinerated first wife beats those losers any day of the week.
Blind, two-timing noblemen never wear belted shorts.
Similarly, finding oneself at the epicenter of a vast, global
conspiracy involving both the Knights Templar and the Vatican would be a huge
improvement over slaving away at the Bureau of Labor Statistics for the rest of
your life or being married to someone who is drowning in dunning notices from Williams-Sonoma. No matter what they may tell themselves, book lovers do not
read primarily to obtain information or to while away the time. They read to
escape to a more exciting, more rewarding world. A world where they do not hate
their jobs, their spouses, their governments, their lives. A world where women
do not constantly say things like "Have a good one!" and "Sounds
like a plan!" A world where men do not wear belted shorts. Certainly not
the Knights Templar.
I read books—mostly
fiction—for at least two hours a day, but I also spend two hours a day reading
newspapers and magazines, gathering material for my work, which consists of
ridiculing idiots or, when they are not available, morons. I read books in all
the obvious places—in my house and office, on trains and buses and planes—but
I've also read them at plays and concerts and prizefights, and not just during
the intermissions. I've read books while waiting for friends to get sprung from
the drunk tank, while waiting for people to emerge from comas, while waiting
for the Iceman to cometh.
In my 20s, when I
worked the graveyard shift loading trucks in a charm-free Philadelphia suburb,
I would read during my lunch breaks, a practice that was dimly viewed by the
Teamsters I worked with. Just to be on the safe side, I never read
existentialists, poetry or books like "Lettres de Madame de Sévigné"
in their presence, as they would have cut me to ribbons. During antiwar
protests back in the Days of Rage, I would read officially sanctioned,
counterculturally appropriate materials like "Siddhartha" and "Steppenwolf"
to take my mind off Pete Seeger's maddening banjo playing. I once read
"Tortilla Flat" from cover to cover during a nine-hour Jerry Garcia
guitar solo on "Truckin'" at Philadelphia's Spectrum; by the time
he'd wrapped things up, I could have read "As I Lay Dying." I was, in
fact, lying there dying.
I've never
squandered an opportunity to read. There are only 24 hours in the day, seven of
which are spent sleeping, and in my view at least four of the remaining 17 must
be devoted to reading. A friend once told me that the real message Bram Stoker
sought to convey in "Dracula" is that a human being needs to live
hundreds and hundreds of years to get all his reading done; that Count Dracula,
basically nothing more than a misunderstood bookworm, was draining blood from
the necks of 10,000 hapless virgins not because he was the apotheosis of pure
evil but because it was the only way he could live long enough to polish off
his extensive reading list. But I have no way of knowing if this is true, as I
have not yet found time to read "Dracula."
I do not speed-read
books; it seems to defeat the whole purpose of the exercise, much like
speed-eating a Porterhouse steak or applying the two-minute drill to sex. I
almost never read biographies or memoirs, except if they involve quirky loners
like George Armstrong Custer or Attila the Hun, neither of them avid readers.
I avoid inspirational and self-actualization books; if I
wanted to read a self-improvement manual, I would try the Bible. Unless paid, I
never read books by or about businessmen or politicians; these books are
interchangeably cretinous and they all sound exactly the same: inspiring,
sincere, flatulent, deadly. Reviewing them is like reviewing brake fluid: They
get the job done, but who cares?
I do not accept
reading tips from strangers, especially from indecisive men whose shirt collars
are a dramatically different color from the main portion of the garment. I am
particularly averse to being lent or given books by people I may like
personally but whose taste in literature I have reason to suspect, and perhaps
even fear. People who need to possess the physical copy of a book, not merely
an electronic version, believe that the objects themselves are sacred. I dread that awkward moment when a friend hands you the
book that changed his or her life, and it is a book that you have despised
since you were 11 years old. Yes, "Atlas Shrugged." Or worse,
"The Fountainhead." No, actually, let's stick with "Atlas
Shrugged." People fixated on a particular book cannot get it through their
heads that, no matter how much this book might mean to them, it is impossible
to make someone else enjoy "A Fan's Notes" or "The Little
Prince" or "Dune," much less "One Thousand and One Places
You Must Visit Before You Meet the Six People You Would Least Expect to Run
Into in Heaven." Not unless you get the Stasi involved.
Close friends rarely
lend me books, because they know I will not read them anytime soon. I have my
own reading schedule—I hope to get through another 2,137 books before I die—and
so far it has not included time for "The Audacity of Hope" or
"The Whore of Akron," much less "Father John: Navajo
Healer." I hate having books rammed down my throat, which may explain why
I never liked school: I still cannot understand how one human being could ask
another to read "Death of a Salesman" or "Ethan Frome" and
then expect to remain on speaking terms.
Saddling another
person with a book he did not ask for has always seemed to me like a huge
psychological imposition, like forcing someone to eat a chicken biryani without
so much as inquiring whether they like cilantro. It's
also a way of foisting an unsolicited values system on another person. If you
hand someone whose mother's maiden name was McNulty a book like "Angela's
Ashes," what you're really saying is "You're Irish; kiss me." I
reject out of hand the obligation to read a book simply because I share some
vague ethnic heritage with the author. What, just because I'm Greek means that
I have to like Aristotle? And Plato? Geez.
Writers speak to us because they speak to us, not because of
some farcical ethnic telepathy. Joseph Goebbels and Albert Einstein were both
Germans; does that mean they should equally enjoy "Mein Kampf"?
Perhaps this is not the example I was looking for. Here's a better one: One of
my closest friends is a Mexican-American photographer who grew up in a small
town outside Fresno, Calif., and who now lives in Los Angeles. His favorite
book is "Dubliners."
A friend once told
me that he read Saul Bellow because Bellow seemed like the kind of guy who had
been around long enough that he might be able to teach you a thing or two about
life. Also, Saul Bellow never wore belted shorts. This is how I feel
about my favorite writers. If you are an old man thinking of taking early retirement,
read "King Lear" first. Take lots of notes, especially when the
gratuitous blinding of senior citizens starts in. If you're a middle-aged man
thinking of marrying a younger woman, consult Molière beforehand. If you're a
young man and you think that love will last forever, you might want to take a
gander at "Wuthering Heights" before putting your John Hancock on
that generous pre-nup.
Until recently, I
wasn't aware how completely books dominate my physical existence. Only when I
started cataloging my possessions did I realize that there are books in every
room in my house, 1,340 in all. My obliviousness to this fact has an obvious
explanation: I am of Irish descent, and to the Irish, books are as natural and
inevitable a feature of the landscape as sand is to Tuaregs or sand traps are
to the frat boys at Myrtle Beach. You know, the guys with the belted shorts.
When the English stormed the Emerald Isle in the 17th century, they took
everything that was worth taking and burned everything else. Thereafter, the
Irish had no land, no money, no future. That left them with words, and words
became books, and books, ingeniously coupled with music and alcohol, enabled
the Irish to transcend reality.
This was my
experience as a child. I grew up in a Brand X neighborhood with parents who had
trouble managing money because they never had any, and lots of times my three
sisters and I had no food, no heat, no television. But we always had books. And
books put an end to our misfortune. Because to the poor, books are not diversions.
Book are siege weapons. I wish I still had the
actual copies of the books that saved my life—"Kidnapped," "The
Three Musketeers," "The Iliad for Precocious Tykes"—but they
vanished over the years. Because so many of these treasures from my childhood
have disappeared, I have made a point of hanging on to every book I have bought
and loved since the age of 21.
Books as physical
objects matter to me, because they evoke the past. A Métro ticket falls out of
a book I bought 40 years ago, and I am transported back to the Rue
Saint-Jacques on Sept. 12, 1972, where I am waiting for someone named Annie
LeCombe. A telephone message from a friend who died too young falls out of a
book, and I find myself back in the Chateau Marmont on a balmy September day in
1995. A note I scribbled to myself in "Homage to Catalonia" in 1973
when I was in Granada reminds me to learn Spanish, which I have not yet done,
and to go back to Granada.
None of this will
work with a Kindle. People who need to possess the physical copy of a book, not
merely an electronic version, believe that the objects themselves are sacred.
Some people may find this attitude baffling, arguing that books are merely
objects that take up space. This is true, but so are Prague and your kids and
the Sistine Chapel. Think it through, bozos. The world is changing, but I
am not changing with it. There is no e-reader or Kindle in my future. My
philosophy is simple: Certain things are perfect the way they are. The sky, the
Pacific Ocean, procreation and the Goldberg Variations all fit this bill, and
so do books. Books are sublimely visceral, emotionally evocative objects that
constitute a perfect delivery system.
Electronic books are
ideal for people who value the information contained in them, or who have
vision problems, or who have clutter issues, or who don't want other people to
see that they are reading books about parallel universes where nine-eyed sea
serpents and blind marsupials join forces with deaf Valkyries to rescue high-strung
albino virgins from the clutches of hermaphrodite centaurs, but they are
useless for people engaged in an intense, lifelong love affair with books.
Books that we can touch; books that we can smell; books that we can depend on.
Books that make us believe, for however short a time, that we shall all live
happily ever after.
—Adapted from "One for the Books" by Joe Queenan. With permission from Viking, a member of the Penguin
Group
P, I would drop MT at UBC around 1: pm or later if that is better for you two. We could meet there or some where else. W
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