Monthly Archives: February 2025

Winter Hiatus

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Time to take the rest of the winter off. Not from living my life (I hope), but posting. Long enough to be a genuine hiatus: back in mid-March. Of course, it won’t really be spring in northern Illinois even then, but the odds of a blizzard will be low.

Where did that word come from, anyway? Hiatus, that is. Latin: opening, aperture, rupture, gap.

But I always like to go back a little further, if possible.

*ghieh-

Proto-Indo-European root meaning “to yawn, gape, be wide open.”

It forms all or part of: chaos; chasm; dehiscence; gap; gasp; gawp; hiatus; yawn.

Till then, a selection of items, in honor of the chaos and gawp of the next month or so.

I snipped this a few months ago when pricing a room. Maybe things have changed since then, though I doubt it.

Yea, a $90 room! Competitive with a motel. Wait, not so much. Why would I stay at a random peer-to-peer room unless it’s either competitive on price – the original deal with the tech, as I recall – or so interesting or well-located that it’s worth the extra fees? Talk about drifting away from what made the platform attractive, once upon a time.

A view from the Getty Center about 18 months ago. Wonder what I’d see now.

One more mid-century scan: my mother and brothers, before I was born, at the Colosseum in the mid-50s. Must have been a chilly day in Rome.

I stood there myself, maybe at that exact spot, but not till 1983. Call it the Flavian Amphitheater, my henna-haired high school Latin teacher Mrs. Quarles would have said. 

Once upon a time, as recently as the early age of photography, it looks like you could wander right in. Those were the days.

Have a Nice Trip, Sucker

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As scam text messages go, this one needs work. Mostly literate, but the tone is off.

I don’t think the tollway authority has a bit of girlishness in it. Or boyishness either, or any particle of human emotion. It functions as a machine: in its own small sphere, a calculating, persistent revenue-generating engine. Then again, I guess it’s fitting that the text message is likely machine produced.

That’s pretty heavy. Something a little lighter.

Floral studies by my father.

Mid-Century Slides

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Some years ago, I scanned some of my father’s slides from the 1950s and posted them, including family pictures in London, one of the lost and lamented Penn Station in NYC, and on the Texas coast in 1958. I didn’t lose interest, exactly, I just never got around to doing any more.

This time around my nephew Robert, who also visited San Antonio when we were there, took some of the slides back to New York for scanning, and later shared the results. I hadn’t seen most of them. Such as at Jay’s fifth birthday party, which would put it in 1957.

You could call it Mid-Century Birthday Party. Next, my brothers playing with balloons.

And the two of them in cowboy getup.

By the time I could remember, cowboys were becoming old hat. Spacemen were the thing, though I never dressed up as one (but I could have). The Woody-Buzz dynamic originated in that changing taste.

Algorithm Goo

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I could pay to ditch all the ads on YouTube, but for now I stop the them after five seconds – and leave pages that don’t offer that option, to teach the system not to do that. Sometimes I also marvel at just how wrong the algorithm seems to be in terms of pitching ads to me.

For some reason, for example, the bots are positive, completely positive (to anthropomorphize), that I’m going to open a restaurant soon. At least, that is my conclusion, since the same two ads for a restaurant supply store keep popping up again and again and again.

Also, some bot somewhere believes (to anthropomorphize again) that I’m in the market for a wife from one Slavic-language nation or another. Must be a guess based on the fact that I’m not young any more. But I’m not a fan of mail-order marriage, whatever the tech. Want a spouse from outside your cultural milieu? Go get her or him yourself, in person.

I haven’t seen an ad for this product, though I did see it on the shelf recently, which is about as random an appearance as many YouTube ads.

Another in the long list of things I will never buy.

P.D.Q. Bach 1980 (Not 1780)

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Below is a poster I picked up among the debris in the closet of my former room in San Antonio, and brought back north last month. I probably originally liberated it from a wall at Vanderbilt, though I would have had the good manners to do so after the concert.

I remember going to see P.D.Q. Bach in Nashville in early 1980, but, maybe true to the spirit of the not-great composer himself, I don’t remember much about the concert. After all, Schickele.com says: “P.D.Q. was virtually unknown during his own lifetime; in fact, the more he wrote, the more unknown he became.”

It’s easy to believe that after 45 years, my memory of the concert is slight. I saw Bob Marley in concert in 1980 as well, and mostly I remember the various kinds of smoke at the venue, and Marley’s frequent cries of “All hail Jah!” and “Free Zimbabwe!”

Back to P.D.Q. Bach. I must have been amused by the concert. Not as much as if I’d actually known anything about classical music, but I’m sure Peter Schickele’s antics were amusing above and beyond mere music spoof. I’m also pretty sure I went by myself, since even the student price (more than $34 in current money) would have been a lot for an act no one else had ever heard of.

But I had. We had at least one record of his around when I was in high school, namely Report from Hoople: P. D. Q. Bach on the Air, which was in personal heavy rotation for a little while, along with all our Tom Lehrer records.

That reminds me: I need to get around to writing that short bio of that other non-famous musician, Irwin Hepplewhite, leader of Irwin Hepplewhite and the Terrifying Papoose Jockeys during the gold and silver age of American pop, since clearly no one else is going to do it.

Back to P.D.Q. Bach again. I didn’t note the passing of Peter Schickele last year, but I’m going to now. Here’s an interview he did only a few years after he came through Nashville. Everybody comes to Nashville, even Irwin Hepplewhite and the Terrifying Papoose Jockeys, who brought the house down – literally, a ceiling fixture fell on them – at the Ryman in ’69, one of the lesser-known events referenced in “American Pie.”