An NFT 42 Years in Development

Not too long ago, I found this poster tucked away in a corner of my house. The year had to have been 1980, considering that April 16 was a Wednesday that year. Not only do I not remember the event mentioned on the poster — a lecture at Vanderbilt — I don’t remember why I saved it in the first place.

So I decided to post it in the downstairs bathroom, which has been pending renovation for some years now. At 17 inches tall and 11 wide, it covers 187 square inches of bald and unconvincing wall.

I remember Oakley Ray, VU professor and text book author, but faintly. I audited one of his classes, attending maybe 10 times at most. I don’t know whether I went to the event or not, but I do remember one other thing from that week, something that stands out a lot darker in memory — a dark star of a memory from April 1980, seeing Eraserhead at a movie theater.

NFT 4.24.22Simply put, that movie depicted a nightmare. That was my take on it 40+ years ago, and I don’t see any reason to revise it now. I emerged from the theater that night positive I never needed to see it again. I’ve stuck to that, too.

Never mind all that. I’ve created a bit of digital artwork that’s an NFT. Bidding starts at $100,000.

Just Another Spring Break

A pleasant string of warm days came to an end today with cool drizzle most of the time. But at least the snowy mess of February is just an unpleasant memory.

Back again around April 18. Call it a spring break. Who knows, I might have encountered a new thing or two by that time. Never know when you’ll see something interesting.

A recent Zoom. Two participants in Illinois, one in Tennessee, one in Washington state. All VU alumni.

If I were a Zoom stockholder, that is in San Jose-based Zoom Video Communications Inc., I might sell. I’m astonished by the number of people who hate Zoom, the platform, and will probably dump it as soon as they can. I know not to ask about half of my old friends on social Zooms anymore, because they will refuse. Politely, because they are old friends.

I don’t quite get it. Burning out on work Zooms is one thing. But the occasional social Zoom among old friends? On a couple of occasions, they’ve run three or four hours, to great delight of everyone. Sure, if we were obliged to meet electronically even with old friends three or so times a week, that would get old. But more occasionally among people with whom you share a past? Nothing better.

I made a point of watching the new short biographic series Hemingway this week as it was broadcast on PBS. I can’t remember the last time watched TV on a broadcast schedule. Mad Men?

It’s high-quality work on the part of Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, illustrating what a biography should illustrate, the life and times. I knew a fair amount of the material already, though did find out more — another mark of a good bio on a well-known subject — such as the relentlessness with which he suffered major, and mostly untreated concussions. The head injury from the second plane crash in Africa was the only serious one I knew about. Turns out it was one of a string.

That’ll do no good to a man who’s already an alcoholic from a family with a history of mental illness, and who probably had a touch of shell shock thrown into the mix, to use the straightforward Great War terminology. It’s a wonder he didn’t put himself on the wrong end of his shotgun before he finally did.

NC 40 Yrs Ago

March 3, 1981

As I write, each moment takes me further east that I’ve ever been. It’s noon and we’re on NC state highway 64, a rural route to the coast, which is about an hour away. Writing from the front passenger seat, mostly between the fairly few bumps and potholes.

Temps high 50s, so windows up. On a warmer day, this would be a great road to roll down your windows and crank the radio.

We pass on either side of us stands of thick pine alternating with open farmland. To our front, an open two-lane road all the way to a pinpoint on the horizon; a straight-razor cut all the way ahead. Behind me is Stuart, who is napping in the back seat with a silly grin on his face.

Normally, I’d say the day began too early, that is, 6:30 am, but it was worth it. After a breakfast composed of those mammoth Shredded Wheat biscuits, which I hadn’t seen in years, we left Durham.

2:15 Nag’s Head. Saw the Atlantic Ocean proper for the first time just below the Joe Justice fishing pier, which was closed.

3:30 The Bodie Island lighthouse is to my left. In the time it’s taking me to write, we’ve started crossing the enormous bridge to Hatteras Is. Fleetwood Mac is on the radio.

Today’s mostly been a day of travel, with Neal driving his parents’ 13-year-old station wagon, me in front navigating, and Stuart in back among some of the provisions. Once we got to the coast early in the afternoon, heading through Nag’s Head and north to the Wright Brothers National Monument to see where their plane memorably hopped x feet that day in 1903.

We climbed to the top of Kill Devil Hill, from which the Wrights tested their gliders. We then wandered south to Jockey’s Ridge, a titanic sand dune, and climbed to the top. We watched hang gliders launching from the dune and befriended a big black dog, who was chasing hang gliders when he wasn’t playing with us. Must have belonged to one of the people hang gliding, since he didn’t look ragged enough to be a dog living on its own.

As we left, he followed us part of the way toward the parking lot, but then turned around. We were sorry to see him go, but he couldn’t have come with us even if he wanted to. We headed south to where we are now, Hatteras.

Forgotten Cherihews

Too cold and rainy this weekend for walks in the woods. Too pandemicky for entertainment outside the home, or even casual shopping. So what did I do on Saturday? Another social Zoom. Summer was a good time for them, then I let it slack off, but the holidays seem like a good time to organize them again.

This one was far flung. One participant in New York, one in California, one in Tennessee and one in Illinois.
I’ve left the names on this time, since our participation has been documented already by one or more of the other participants on social media. Also, so I can quote some of the clerihews we discussed.

I’ve been acquainted with the members of this particular group since the early ’80s, when we all contributed in some capacity to the Vanderbilt student magazine of the time, Versus. It came up in conversation somehow that Geof wrote clerihews back then about people we all knew.

He did? I had no memory of them. Time flies, memory disappears. Writing cherihews would have been in character for him, though, so I’m sure it happened.

Steve Freitag,
Always the shytag,
Hid in the tunnel
To drink from a funnel.

Geof Huth
Ensconced in his booth
When asked if he cometh or goeth
Replied “boeth”

Dees Stribling,
Always dribbling,
Said it didn’t matter
That he would splatter.

They couldn’t remember one for Pete, so Geof wrote one on Facebook the next day:

Pete the Wilson
Only ate stilton.
When he ran out of cheese,
We felt a warm breeze.

Thursday Dribs & Drabs

Over the years in mid-August I’ve sometimes spent time in the back yard after midnight, looking up for the Perseids. Not a lot of time, since my sleep habits are fairly regular, and the washed out suburban skies aren’t the best for any kind of observation. So usually I don’t see much.

Just after midnight today, Thursday — about a day after peak — I saw one bright meteor whiz by Cassiopeia. Nice.

A recent Zoom.

Two in Washington state, two in Tennessee, and one in Illinois. There’s another social Zoom tomorrow night for me, involving an entirely different group: besides two in Illinois this time, there will be three in Georgia, including some people I haven’t seen in about 20 years.

I’m using a free Zoom membership, which specifies only 40 minutes per meeting. Yet so far there has been no time limit for me. I figure that’s like the old dope peddler giving out free samples for a little while.

The Perseids and dope, at least one kind of it, bring to mind “Rocky Mountain High.” It’s a lovely song and a paean to the Colorado Rockies, which certainly deserve one. I understand that watching the Perseids while up in the mountains was part of John Denver’s inspiration for the song.

Colorado Rocky Mountain high
I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky

Then of course, there are these lines:

Friends around the campfire
And everybody’s high

Denver denied he was singing about anything as crass as chemical enhancement under a sublime firmament. Those friends were just high on nature! But I believe he was bending to popular prejudice at the time, saying what he felt he had to say.

One other thing about the song, its least likable aspect. Early in the song, a young man comes to the mountains: He was born in the summer of his 27th year. I’ll take him as a stand-in for Denver. That’s fine. Discovering new places that touch your soul counts as a good thing. Later, however, the song bemoans people moving to the area: more people, more scars upon the land.

I’ll give Denver the benefit of the doubt when it comes to conservationism. I’m sure he was genuinely concerned about the state of the environment, especially the mountains he loved. Yet the song pretty clearly contains the following sentiment, even if unconsciously on Denver’s part: it’s OK for me to be here, but not you.

The Summer of Zoom

If you’d asked me a year ago — six months ago — whether video conferencing would be a good way for old friends to meet, I wouldn’t have believed it. Now I do. Over the weekend, I participated in two Zoom conferences, all involving people I’ve known for nearly 40 years.

Besides me in Illinois, the other participants were in Tennessee and Washington state.

Again, besides Illinois, the participants were in Alabama, Michigan, Massachusetts and Peru.

Most enjoyable, both of them. That makes three social Zooms so far, with no more scheduled right now, but I have another few groups in mind for the not-so-distant future.

Easy Day in Palm Springs

My recent visit to Southern California involved a lot of motion, by car and light rail and on foot. By the time I got to Palm Springs, I was ready for an easier time. Steve and Jack’s hospitality made that possible for me from late afternoon on February 24, when I arrived, to the morning of the 26th, when I left.

If you have the means, Palm Springs is a good town for taking it easy, especially in the winter, which is like a pleasant springtime in a lot of other places. The full day I was in town involved getting up late — a necessary part of any easy day — looking around Palm Spring’s main shopping street and some of its neighborhoods, including visits to a few shops, then lunch and a drive out to the town of Indio to see its main tourist attraction.

If I’d been in full-tourist mode, I might have taken a closer look at some of the town’s modernist houses, or visited its art museum, or taken a hike in the hills, or ridden the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway. If I were another person all together, I would have played golf. I hear a lot of people do that in wintertime Palm Springs, and maybe that’s why Gerald Ford spent a lot of time there.

I took in a few sights. Such as the view across the street from Steve and Jack’s.
We took a stroll down Palm Canyon Dr., which includes restaurants, tony shops, tourist shops, design showcases — modernism is the thing, an aesthetic fully occupying a number of shops — and more.
Palm Springs 2020More, as in stars in the sidewalk, featuring celebrities who lived in Palm Springs at least part of the time. Such as good old Adam West.
Sonny Bono rates a bronze on the street, maybe for his efforts in Congress to ensure that his distant descendants retain the copyright to his songs.
Palm Springs Sono BonoLucy has a bronze, too. Here’s Steve with Lucy.
Palm Springs LucyLunch, at Steve’s suggestion, was at the Haus of Poké just off Palm Canyon. The small chain’s web site tells us that “poké/poukei is a raw fish salad served as an appetizer in Hawaiian cuisine, and sometimes as an entree. Poké is the Hawaiian verb for ‘section’ or ‘to slice or cut.’ Typical forms are aku (an oily tuna) and he’e (octopus).”

Haus of Poké is on the Chipotle model — seems like a long time ago that that was novel — in which you pick a series of ingredients for your meal from a limited selection. Step 1, size. Step 2, base: brown rice, white rice, chips or salad. Step 3, protein: octopus, tofu, ahi tuna, salmon, yellowtail or shrimp. Step 4, mix-ins: edamame, cucumber, red onion, green onion or mango. Step 5, a selection of sauces.

I can’t remember exactly what I had now, though it involved white rice and salmon and other things, and it was delicious combo. I can see why Steve’s a regular.

Also not far off Palm Canyon: The Church of St. Paul in the Desert, Episcopal. Unfortunately closed.
St Paul in the Desert Palm SpringsThat afternoon, we went to Shields, a date farm that’s also a tourist attraction in Indio, California. The sign has been a fixture of the road since the 1950s.
Shields Date signWe stayed for a short film — Romance & Sex Life of the Date — which was something like a film you (I) might have seen in elementary school, and at times a little hard to stay awake for. But I can’t say I didn’t learn anything about date agriculture. I didn’t know, for instance, that about 90% of U.S. date cultivation is in the Coachella Valley (Wiki says more than 95%, but I’m citing the movie.)

Steve said that Shields used to offer a selection of date samples on a table, as many as you cared to eat, but we didn’t see that. Turns out you have to ask for a sample now, which includes two dates. Is a new private equity owner clamping down on the freebies?

We bought two date shakes, which were good, and looked around a bit. You can’t wander around the date-growing grounds any more, either, Steve said. Used to be able to. The best view of the Shields date trees turned out to be from the edge of the parking lot.
Shields Date farm palmsAfter Shields, we returned to Steve’s house to loaf around (now there’s a verb we shouldn’t let die). I wasn’t completely idle, however, since I spent time writing postcards. In the evening, we had a pleasant dinner and then sat around and talked and watched TV. The Food Network, I have to say, is a whole other world I knew little about.

The Bears’ Cookbook

The pit of winter hasn’t been very deep this year, but on Wednesday night, snow fell and today temps have been sliding all day. As of this evening, it’s about 5 degrees F. above, with subzero expected by dawn tomorrow. That’s the classic harsh winter pattern we’ve mostly avoided so far this year, when temps have actually risen after snowfall, enough to melt most of it each time.

Then again, forecasts call for above-freezing air by Sunday. The pit still seems pretty shallow. Suits me.

One more unusual book around the house: The Bears’ Cookbook. In this case, I didn’t nab it from my mother’s house. Rather the authors, Steve Freitag and Jack Garceau, gave it to Yuriko and me as a gift in 1998. I knew Steve back at VU; in fact, I was a senior staff member at Versus magazine when he was editor in ’82-’83.

The Bears’ Cookbook was a spiral-bound, privately published effort by Steve and Jack, who produced about 100 copies. As they explain in the book:
“What could be a better Christmas gift for our loved ones, our friends and family, than a cookbook of our favorite recipes? Welcome to our table. Sit, eat, enjoy.”

And so we have over the years. Yuriko and I have used the book, especially her, but so have Lilly and Ann, as soon as they’ve gotten old enough. Just a few weeks ago, Ann made chocolate chip cookies using the recipe on p. 97.

Besides cookies, subjects include breakfast, appetizers, soup, salads, breads, pasta, chicken, other meat, seafood, vegetables, condiments, and cakes and pies. Sources — one given for each recipe — are as diverse as “Ivan, a friend from New Brunswick who now lives in Vermont,” Alice’s Brady Bunch Cookbook, “Mayflower Restaurant in Albany, NY,” “Some men’s magazine Steve read long ago,” Julia Child, and “lost in the mists of time.”

The book actually has three covers. Flip over the first one, and you encounter this amusing, all-text cover.

A note inside the book explains: “We wound up with several covers, each with different titles, and we couldn’t decide which one to use. So we decided to use them all! Well, actually, just a few of them…

“Pick the cover you like best for a cookbook that may very well grace your coffee table, bookshelf or nightstand for years to come. Fold back the other covers (one of the few advantages if spiral binding), so that the excess covers become mere interior pages. Voila! The cover you prefer graces this lovely book.”

The third cover.

The inside cover of each of the covers includes biographical notes about Steve and Jack, such as under a cartoon of them:

Steve Freitag and Jack Garceau are not cartoon characters by a real flesh-and-blood couple who live high above San Francisco in an 18th-floor apartment they never call the ‘Treehouse of Justice.’ 

They’ve since moved to Palm Springs. Under a photo of them decked out in Western duds:

Steve Freitag and Jack Garceau — known far & wide as two of the orneriest, grizzliest old hashslingers in the West! — started out as mama’s-boy East Coast fops…

Under another cartoon of them with oversized heads:

Enormous heads like these require plenty of food! So it’s no surprise that Steve and Jack like to cook. Like to eat and like to read — and now, write — cookbooks.

I’m no judge of cookbooks, but I know this one is fun to use and fun to read.

RIP, Donald Ault

The other day I learned that Donald Ault died in April at 76. Sad to hear it. Among my college professors, he was one of the more interesting.

Besides being a William Blake scholar of renowned, Ault also had an early academic interest in comics, especially the work of the talented Carl Barks. Most of the rest of the VU English Department didn’t think much of that — comics (and balloons) is for kiddie-winkies, after all — and a few years after I took his class, Donald Ault was off to the University of Florida. That was a better fit for him than Vanderbilt, where he had come to from Berkeley.

Ault said so himself in a short memoir republished by the International Journal of Comic Art blog. An appreciation for Ault by another former VU student is here, better than anything I can write about him.

Ault taught the last English class I took at Vanderbilt, in the spring of 1983, whose formal title I don’t remember. But I do remember an assignment for that class that had me write an interpretation of a Carl Barks’ Donald Duck story. Out of a number of ideologies to choose from in doing the paper, I picked a Marxist interpretation. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I do remember having fun with it.

We also watched some videos — items in those pre-Internet days that were hard to find. One in particular was J-Men Forever, an insane romp of a thing put together by a couple of members of Firesign Theatre. As it happened, I’d heard of Firesign because a couple of their records were floating around my freshman dorm hall, but I’d never heard of J-Men Forever.

RIP, Dr. Ault.

A Terrible Loss

Very sad news today. On Friday, a young man named Avram died. He was the eldest son of Steve, a friend of mine since college, and his wife Debra. Avi, as he was called, was 21.

A mutual friend called me this morning to tell me. I didn’t know Avi, but on some of those occasions when I corresponded with his father, and the one time I visited with Steve since Avi was born in 1996, I heard about him.

By all accounts, including this one, Avi was highly intelligent and had a large heart. Knowing his father, I wouldn’t expect anything else.

R.I.P., Avi.