Why now?

My father asks which roads led to Yeats. "The Gentleman of Galway," he calls Yeats.

It came about through reading The New Yorker and The Economist.

Every so often I get curious about how people beyond the west coast and people beyond the USA view the world.. I will pick up a copy of The Economist, which is predisposed favorably towards captains of industry, and a copy of The New Yorker, where they are not. Afterwards, enlightened depression usually makes me feel that I don't need to do that again for a while.

I read James Surowiecke in the New Yorker, who wrote:

"But for now we are stuck in a Yeatsian market: the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Let's hope the center can hold."

I read that, and thought those words applicable to a lot more than economic markets just now. This led to a reacquaintance with the poem, which led to its posting.

The Patron Saint of Barbecue

From the Wikipedia entry about unusual deaths:

258: St Lawrence was executed by being burned or 'grilled' on a large metal gridiron at Rome. Images of him often show him holding the instrument of his execution. Legend says that he was so strong-willed that instead of giving in to the Romans and releasing information about the Church, at the point of death he exclaimed "Manduca, iam coctum est." ("Eat, for it is well done.")

William Butler Yeats

The Second Coming

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

You Can't Get It Here

We live in the U.S., population over 300 million. Commerce has become our religion. Yet, there are products readily available in Europe, Africa, and Australia that I can't buy here (yet).

Schweppes Lemonade is a case in point. This is not that awful high corn syrup stuff they call lemonade on American soft drink shelves. This is grownup lemonade, with a taste that can stand alone or be be quite good mixed with a little something.

That something need not be alcoholic, not that there's anything wrong with that. So far, the best pairing we've found is mixed with a bit of Rose's Passionfruit Cordial Blend to make a Passionfruit Lemonade. You have no idea how good this is. A little gin can also be a good thing.



While poking around for links as part of this post, I found this U.S. outfit which sells the stuff. Apparently, they make their living by obtaining Australian goodies which otherwise, You Can't Get Here. I have not yet found a U.S. source for the Rose's yet.

Chinese Computer Spying

There is an official Beijing Olympics web site which offers screensavers of Olympic images.

It turns out that when you install the screensaver, you are also installing a program which logs your keystrokes and reports out.

What chutzpah.

Many Are Called, But Few Are Chosen

I submitted four photos to the Oregon Salon of Photography at the Oregon State Fair.

The letter arrived yesterday (for Patricia Fitzgerald, I might add) saying that one of the four received a score from the judges that qualified it to be exhibited at the 31st Oregon Salon of Photography. The letter noted that 447 of the 1010 prints entered were accepted for display.

This photo is the one that is part of the exhibit:

7th Anniversary

7 years ago today, George W. Bush received a President's Daily Brief entitled "Bin Laden Determined To Strike In US."

Mr. Bush was on vacation at the time. The next day, newspaper stories described Mr. Bush's mood:

"Bush seemed carefree as he spoke about the books he was reading, the work he was doing on his nearby ranch, his love of hot-weather jogging, his golf game and his 55th birthday."

Bin Laden is still free and still determined to strike in the US, isn't he? And as far as I can tell, Mr. Bush is still pretty much on vacation.

Photos of Animals From The Hunt

There is a web gallery of photos of the animals we took while on safari at this link.

It followed me home, Mom, can I keep it?

On returning from Africa, they asked at Customs if I had brought back any animals. I answered "no," believing that answer to be correct.

However, about a week before my return to the U.S., I punctured and scratched the skin on my right ankle in some of central Namibia's many thorn bushes. On the plane ride home, that area began to itch intensely. When I got home, this is what I saw:



Anyone who wants to use the comments section to identify what you are seeing in the photo may go right ahead.

Lawrence of Nambia? Or Sheikh Yerbouti?

I report. You decide.

I expect that if any photo attracts attention to the "comments" feature of this blog, it might be this one.