NOVATOWNHALL

Man was it hot in Sterling today.

I’m no stranger to heat at all, having lived in southwest Florida for ten years in an era when I could not always afford a vehicle with air conditioning. Yes, I am that old and yes I was that poor in my 20s. Summers in Florida driving with your windows open is manly business, and there was more than one summer when my work was construction and my drive home was in a non-air conditioned car.

But today was a complete ass-kicker, unlike any I’ve experienced in recent memory. I had to do the lawn, which is about a 2.5 hour exercise with the edging and trimming included. Unfortunately, my basic laziness was in full force this morning and I did not manage to break out the equipment until about 11:00 am. The “temperature” was only showing at 94 degrees, and there were numerous areas of shade in the yard, so I thought I could tear through the job with no problems. But the humidity and “heat index” were at another level altogether.

So as much as I like to tell people that 47 is not really so old thanks to modern science and I still get carded in 7-11 by cashiers from the other side of the world, I must admit that mowing the lawn on days like today is no country for 47-year old men.

Within roughly 15 minutes of embarking onto the front lawn (do that first, so if you die in the process at least the neighborhood standards will be maintained) my head started to burn and I had to breathe a LOT. So I mowed a stretch, then went inside for a cold drink and a chance to let the breathing slow down.

By the time I got to the back yard, which was around noon, the overall sensation could best be described as stinging from the inside out. Luckily, portions of the yard were still shaded, so I could strategize by doing a circuit in the sun and circuit in the shade, then the occasional break in the house for a cool down. The internal temperature continued to build, though, because during my circuits in the sunny portions, when I had to stop and empty the catcher for the obligatory stop in the sun, the heat-and-sweating sensation got so intense there were brief periods of chills. This, I would tend to think, is not a good thing.

Eventually, I managed to get the front and back yards both done, and by the end my ears felt like they were chimneys, almost burning. Needless to say, I spent some time in the house cooling down before moving one step further.

I also did a number of errands throughout the day, and the overriding characteristic was brief moments in the sun (or hopping into the car) were like a shot to the head.

Now it is 1:00 am, and I still have the burning sensation in my ears. It’s the heat combined with humidity. This has been one hot damn day in Sterling.

Tomorrow is supposed to hit 98 degrees, and we will be at the Steve Winwood - Tom Petty concert. I will try to send some Twitter updates from the concert on how that is going and how everyone is surviving the heat.

We just finished a nice visit to a somewhat rural area of North Carolina to see relatives. Some reflections:

Item 1 -

Maybe not Digital Camel-level material … but evocative. Click on image to get a better look (it’s a big file but worth getting the full effect).

Item 2 -

I got to operate my brother in law’s riding lawnmower to “help” with the yard work, for which I was unduly adulated … but let me tell you, riding a pretty quick tractor around a multi-acre lot was a sheer brer rabbit/briar patch scenario. It’s practically like running a dirt track race or the Baja 500, in my book. My own private tractor pull. A total blast. The only way he could have topped that would be to have me help fire an AK-47.

Item 3 -

You will not believe this, but between Fredericksburg, VA and northeastern North Carolina lie huge sections of our nation where our fellow Americans apparently have not gotten the memo about “jobs Americans won’t do.” These misguided folks are roughly 100% of the work force in lots of restaurants, stores and other businesses. Imagine a fast food place where every employee speaks English. Crazy, I know. Apparently the armies of illegal workers have not discovered these areas and employers are paying the price. Someone needs to notify the White House of this travesty.

Item 4 -

Speaking of retail, guess how much this item cost?

“I don’t know, Joe” you are probably saying, “$10.00? $30.00?”

No, my friend, this bottle of Oak Leaf cabernet, purchased at the Goldsboro Wal Mart, was competitively priced at … $2.97! And no, I did not leave any zeros off that figure. So now you are thinking, “that must be one skanky wine.”

But in fact, I hereby pronounce it … DRINKABLE! Oh yes, boy howdy is it drinkable and then some! Anyone who would deem it unacceptable is - well, I’m glad I couldn’t afford to have YOUR palate. It’s a perfectly nice wine, bottled in California, and I sampled a good bit of it. It does not have a pretentious “year” indicated, but for me that simply makes it easier to evaluate: Cabernet; $2.97 - two pieces of information, just enough to make a decision.

That’s the good news, that there is a Wal Mart in North Carolina where you can get a cab that passes the Joe test for less than three bucks. The bad news is I was not thinking clearly enough to buy 50 bottles of it, and I don’t think the Loudoun Wal Mart sells alcohol. (Though I will double check, believe you me).

Item 5 -

Locals report they have lousy beef in that part of North Carolina. Most steaks are only half edible, and ground beef is chock full of unchewable bits. So my relatives buy beef at Sam’s Club which does have some good product. But on the plus side, they do pork real good down there. I imagine this has religious-demographic implications.

Item 6 -

Very, very troubling development: Local radio station 100.7 “The River” has a “best of the 60s and 70s” format. It was sort of cool, to hear stuff like “Reeling in the Years,” “Band on the Run,” “Gold Dust Woman,” “Down on Main Street” while we were driving around on Friday and Saturday. It was far less cool to hear “Reeling in the Years,” “Band on the Run,” “Gold Dust Woman,” “Down on Main Street” while we were driving out on Sunday.

Because we did not have the radio on for very long, this tells me they must have a play list of about 60 or 80 songs, just like all the other crappy radio stations we have nowadays, and just like it was when those songs first came out and played numerous times throughout the day and made me sick of them. We ran through another “60s and 70s” station through Richmond, and for all I know we have twelve of them here in DC now (I only listen to CSPAN radio, sports talk and WTOP, so I would not know).

Typical corporate radio: Take a good thing and run it into the ground. As my wife noted, at least the “new music” stations have to rotate new music into the 60 or 80 on the list.

Item 7 -

There is a “Travelers… something” truck stop just north of Richmond that has the usual quirky assortment of trucker items available in the store: Fighting knives and throwing stars, DVDs, last minute gifts for the kid or wife. And also “Asian Massage” in an upstairs room. I think that’s nice for the truckers, and probably gives this business the necessary advantage to help differentiate them from the competition. They probably did a SWOT analysis and determined that prostitutes would provide that extra marketing umph. Truck stops are seriously in danger of becoming commoditized.

I left yesterday around 4 in the morning for a relaxing vacation.  On the road and headed for Wake Forest to pick-up mama.   Imagine my surprise when we arrived.  Seems that Hilly, the man hater, was doing a stump for the cracker po’ white vote.  Before you could say “Yankees!  Fire!” we were on the road again.  This happened before breakfast and I’m just glad there wasn’t more of a delay.

 Heading to Myrtle you have to go thru Chadbourn-the strawberry capitol.  I couldn’t figure out what all the dust was off in the distance.  Once we got to the single traffic light, we saw what the deal was.  Can you say “strawberry festival?”  We are talking bigtime here.  The dust was from the hotrod riding lawnmowers-and those babies can really cook!  We had outdoor barbaques, classic car show and parade.  Life is good.  The simplistic things of small towns and the south.

 Moving onward without further interruption we made it to Myrtle where we settled in for a cool spring’s night.  The spring “breakers” are gone and the bikers haven’t arrived yet.  Just fishing, catching up on times with old friends (which for the older crowd consists of what ailments, what operations and who died), partaking (embibbing) of the favorite beverage(s), eating and soaking up the rays.

Now if you all are headed down this way, look me up.  Otherwise I will check-in to see the news and update this post with what I’ve caught and how big.  Maybe even some earth-shattering news if they re-open the Sante Fe restaurant.  We’ll see.

Update 5/5 Soaked up some rays. Got extra zzz’s. Went fishing but caught nada. Same with crabs. We went and got ice cream and they make some monster banana splits. Toasted Almond and cheese with crackers. Dinner. Another slow day in paradise. I might do something tomorrow but don’t hold your breath!

Well well well, what in the bushy eyebrows of Satan do we have here in today’s mail:

An AARP card for yours truly! There is so much that is wrong about this I hardly know where to start, but in full awareness of the crew who are most likely to opine here I must begin by acknowledging the utter inappropriateness of this particular piece of mail and the OBVIOUS fact that there is certainly nothing FUNNY about it. About which fact I am confident we are all of the same mind.

I am an exceptionally young 47, and on good nights, when the lighting is just so, and the cashiers are sufficiently culturally remote, I still get carded. SO THERE, YOU BASTARDS.

For one thing, although I have been admittedly proven grumpy way beyond my years since approximately the age of 24, I am in no wise a “grumpy old man.” I am a realist, which entails a certain amount of clarity that the mindlessly youthful have often interpreted as crotchety. I’m as young at heart as they are, although much quicker to strike with my cane. Experience.

For another, I am sure we are all aware that “retired” in my own case is at least 20 years hence because of the utter discombobularity of the whole Social Security scam - thank you very much Franklin D. Roosevelt and every president since - and as long as I am laboring out here like a dog to support the aged lard-asses living off my dime I would expect to be viewed at very least in a different demographic class.

As sure as they’re all down in Florida playing shuffleboard I’ll be up here paying FICA to cover their whiskey and bingo, and I frankly don’t see enough commonality in that relationship for us all to be carrying the same card. Really, it should be two totally separate cards: One, AARP, and the other, AARP Sucker.

Yes, all ego aside, I am going on record as a resister in this particular case. It’s a matter of principle, and some principles are too important to stand aside and watch the corrupt game keep on going. I prefer to fight.

And there is the ego aspect as well.

UPDATE: Yeah, I just replaced the original card with one with the “Authorization Code” whited out, because on second thought I have no idea what this behemoth organization has access to, such as possibly my grocery records. I don’t want those stolen.

Jacob already noted this, and of course it’s the big story of the day in the conservative blogosphere: But for the record, I’ll miss William F. Buckley and I am grateful for all he did for me.

As a college kid in the early 1980s, still trying to figure out what I thought, I religiously read The Nation, The New Republic and National Review, basically unconsciously covering all parts of the political spectrum (New Republic was a middle of the road publication back then). If there was a “truth,” it definitely seemed like it would inhere somewhere within this troika of magazines.

By 1986, National Review had become my philosophical home, in large part because of Bill Buckley’s commentary. At age 25, I became a “conservative” for life. My first vote for a Republican was for George H.W. Bush in 1988. (Then, my first vote against a Republican was for Ross Perot in 1992, but that’s a story for another day).

Apart from his fantastically helpful idiosyncrasy of including in every op-ed column a single word I would need to look up in the dictionary (a mantle since picked up by R. Emmett Tyrrell), and the fact he was right about so many issues back when “conservatism” was by no means assured a place at the table of policy respectability (the Reagan Era was not judged a success until long after the Reagan presidency was over), Bill Buckley’s work ethic was the stuff of legends. He wrote extensive commentary in the magazine on a weekly basis, maintained a nationally syndicated 2-3 times a week column, did the weekly Firing Line television show for a decade or three, and of course wrote all the books and ancillary essays.

He penned op-ed pieces in the limousine on the way to the airport, for crying out loud. It took me an entire weekend to write a 5-page, double-spaced paper at the time.

While trying to overcome laziness and my own wide-ranging stupidity, having WFB as an example of what a human can do was immensely valuable. I never met the guy, but throughout my 20s he was one of my few mentors, at a time I needed all the help I could get.

I didn’t go to Yale. I wasn’t rich. My forebearers - back to the beginning of time, as far as I could tell - were blue collar. I started a family during college and consequently we were not well off. But I never got a whiff from all of WFB’s writings that he was in any way intrinsically different from me. I eventually learned that he was wealthy, but in the miles of column-inches I never read anything that set him apart.

And what a legacy he left! I have a ton of his essays and my stock of NR magazines, but there are gems like the Firing Line interviews with Malcolm Muggeridge discussing Catholicism and other topics - such important cultural artifacts.

The specifics of WFB’s contributions in the ideological arena are not within my range of expertise to discuss, simply because the content was, in essence, the content of the conservative revolution which took place in America from the 1980s on. There are much better informed people out there who can limn out the details of what Bill said and when, and what followed.

(And be sure to dig into the writings over at NRO, where the folks who know are spelling it out.)

But here is one I can do.

Many years ago, I think back in the early 1990s, Bill wrote a column reporting on his and his wife’s struggles to quit smoking. The gist was they both had decided to quit smoking cigarettes, and after some time in the project they - two life-long smokers - were at each others’ throats. They sat down to discuss it, and recognized they could not both go through the ordeal and live in the same house with each other. The physical and mental stress of overcoming the addiction was too much - you could not have two baskets of crazed atoms in close proximity at one time.

So they had to decide - either we both keep smoking or only one of us can quit, if we want to stay together. Bill quit, and Pat resumed smoking and became the stabilizing force while he overcame the addiction to nicotine.

This story had an impression on me, both because I have my own addictive tendencies and because self-sacrifice seems to be such an essential part of life particularly manifested in our most immediate relationships. The decision Bill and Pat Buckley made was one I had never even thought about, but after I read his column I never forgot it. Throw aside all the levels of analysis that could be brought to bear on the question: It’s a pretty stark expression of life - human life, relationship reality - is it not? It makes you think, What would I do? What decision would I and my spouse make to preserve the relationship if it came down to that.

Pat Buckley died in April, 2007. Honestly, back when I read about the poignant story above, I assumed Pat had consigned herself to a much earlier demise to preserve the relationship. But they were only off by ten months. I hate it that Bill Buckley died; I hate it that Pat Buckley died. But I am glad they got almost the full time together. I think God looked kindly on their difficult decision.

It appears the need has arisen to access an archive of our Zimzo’s writings here. With the search feature in the old blog broken, we are left with Google, which is probably better anyway.

Here it is.

Quite the trip down memory lane.

One of our cats died yesterday.

Lois the Cat was the longest-tenured animal in our menagerie, and she predated me in fact because my wife got her before we even met.

Things were always a little rocky between Lois and I, because I am allergic to cats and Lois was one of those who could not take no for an answer. She was a love-and-purr machine: Regardless of how much an ogre you might be, Lois would unflinchingly approach seeking to be petted. Back in the days when we actually had company, Lois would inevitably be the hit of the party, throwing herself with abandon at anyone who might have an inkling to Pet The Cat.

She had to deal with some curveballs, such as being transformed from an indoor cat to an outdoor cat around the age of 12 in order to allow your humble narrator to continue to live in the house. But her disposition never changed; she adapted to life in the cat house and the backyard, and she remained a very sweet creature wanting nothing more than to be stroked by anyone in the vicinity. This included me - the decidedly non-cat lover - despite the fact that she surely had me figured out. She was not a stupid cat. So her indefatigable advances, her blatant flirtatiousness despite the wall I attempted to maintain between us, served as a reminder that she was, in an important sense, a better person than I.

My wife rescued Lois from a shelter (and a previously abusive owner), giving her what turned out to be a good life.

Reflecting puts the significance of the past in perspective - (and this is not just for pets obviously): Altogether we had Lois for over 13 years. That’s a serious slice of our life. We had a lot happen during that time - we each in the family accomplished things, we had our rough spots, and a lot changed. BOY did things ever change. Among the constants during that period, Lois was a key one. She was really a good natured cat, a blessing to us.

Try as I might, I still can’t get enthused to any great degree to weigh in on the news of the day. In recompense, I know our esteemed family of readers will appreciate the news feed from World Net Daily which now appears in the right sidebar.

What I can do, in the spirit of the holiday season, is offer some memorabilia of personal history, which in contradistinction to the ubiquitous news environment should help bring the blogosphere a little closer to what most of us believe it is really about in the first place; namely, endless prattling on about one’s own life. When I first started blogging many years ago, a wise mentor told me I’d do best to write about things on which I had a uniquely informed perspective. My life, it turns out, is aces in that category. I recently needed to do some organizing of mountains of family photos, so the time seems ideal to branch out in that direction.

Here is me with my late dad and late grandfather, Christmas 1967. I still own that hat.
This is me sitting in a sprint car at A.J. Foyt’s “Coyote Enterprises” headquarters in the early 1970s. My dad was a PR executive with Purolator - which was a major sponsor of Foyt’s racing team - and I spent several summers at the Coyote shop in Houston.

About 8 years later, this is in Key West after my 1979 high school graduation. The familiar beard and anomie had even then begun to take shape.

Fast forward about 18 years to my best friend’s wedding south of Rome, held at an amazing venue - an ancient Christian church built onto a pre-Christian Roman temple. It was a pretty spectacular experience which all who attended will no doubt remember forever. A fantastic family and friends get-together.

More of this incredible history below the fold.
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