Man, look at that dense crema. A quarter-inch thick blanket of coffee gold, insulating the black extraction beneath. Not too shabby for a forty year old machine (and a nearly seventy year old barista).
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Happy Sunday, folks. May all your espresso shots be creamy. 🤌🏼
Back in early 1969, I was driving through Rancho Cordova, California on my way up to the Sierras to spend the weekend at my girlfriend’s parent’s cabin. I was in my mom’s’ 68 Cougar, the radio tuned to KFRC out of San Francisco. KFRC at that time played the top 40 format, and at that particular time in history, it was dominated by pop, acid rock, Motown, the Beatles and local “garage” bands.
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So I’m cruising along and the DJ says “I’m going to play something different. This is country artist John Stewart, who got his start here in San Francisco with the Kingston Trio.”
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WHAT!!? Country music on KFRC? They can’t do this to me! Gimme the Doors! Gimme Jimi! K-Farce isn’t supposed to play country!
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Then the first few plucks on the guitar strings in “Mother Country” got my attention. This is country music? Where’s the part about the guy whose woman ran off with his dawg, his pickup and his last bottle of warm beer? Where’s the country “twang?” I thought; man, this guy’s GOOD. When I got back to the city the following Monday, I bought John Stewart’s first solo album; California Bloodlines. And I still have it to this day.
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Since Covid hit, I’ve pretty much consigned myself to my hovel. And lately, I’ve been re-exploring some of the artists of those days, including John Stewart. You’ve all heard his songs before, even if you’re unfamiliar with him by name. He wrote “Daydream Believer,” for example. And back in the Kingston Trio days, they popularized “Tom Dooley.”
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His musical career spanned four decades, but truth be told, his “sweet spot” was between 1969 to around 1980. The stuff he cranked out after that was mediocre at best, and towards the end of his life (he died 14 years ago), he was pretty much phoning it in—his voice was gone, his lyrics lacked their previous magic, and his health was going downhill fast. He was finally diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, then he suffered a stroke that killed him in 2008.
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But enough of the downer stuff. During that peak decade, John Stewart was what I would call a musical raconteur. He told fascinating stories about the “good old days,” and set them to music. It being my introduction to him, “Mother Country” will always be my favorite. To this day I can’t listen to it without getting a lump in my throat. It’s warm, heartfelt, and on a good stereo, the acoustic resonances of his guitar are particularly rich.
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Stewart’s breakout album, California Bloodlines, was largely just him, with some input from relative unknowns. Then on his next album, his brother Michael and his wife, Buffy Ford joined him. Then the floodgates opened. His next 3-4 albums featured backup vocals and accompaniment by Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, Phil Everly (of the Everly Brothers), Charlie McCoy on harmonica, Carole King, James Taylor, Linda Ronstadt, Nicolette Larson, and last but (probably) least, Bill Mumy. Danger Will Robinson! 🤖
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I liken John Stewart to an acoustical version of John Steinbeck. They both wove intricate stories into their works. Steinbeck, with a typewriter, Stewart with a guitar and banjo. John Stewart’s father was a horse trainer when he was little, so he grew up around that environment. And it pops up often in his works… including an ode to Secretariat; “Let the Big Horse Run,” another of my favorites.
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Anyway, if you’re holed up like I am these days, and you’re looking for something new/old to listen to, try downloading some early John Stewart. If nothing else, at least give “Mother Country” a listen. It’ll get to you right where you live. 💔
I set yesterday aside to cook up some victuals for the coming week, just in case the weather gets really bad. Thus far, it hasn’t. Just a light dusting. Job One: Carve up my Christmas goose and use the carcass to make a big batch of soup.
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As I’m chopping veggies, the phone rang. I look at the ID: My dad. “Hi dad, what’s up?“ “Not much. I just thought I’d call to chat.” So I set my chef’s knife down and we got caught up. Webb, the weather, how big an asshole Trump is, etc. I finally said goodbye and went back to my kitchen.
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[Side story: My dad has this wonderful caregiver named Ana. She’s sweet, a great cook, and takes care of my dad’s every need. He’s 102, so he has many. Plus, she truly cares about him. But Ana is off this week to spend time with her brother who’s visiting from abroad].
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About two hours later, the phone rings again. I look at the caller ID. My dad. “Hi dad.” Female voice on the other end: “No I’m not your dad, I’m Ruth, your dad’s substitute caregiver. Do you know how to make gravy?”
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“Do I know how to make gravy? Yeah, I know how to make gravy. Why?”
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“Can you teach me? I’ve made a roast for your father. What do I do next?”
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<glances wistfully at the onions, garlic, bay leaves, carrots, Brussels sprouts, parsnip, herbs, celery, tomatoes, mushrooms, barley and wild rice awaiting my return to the recipe> 👀
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“So you’ve NEVER made gravy before?”
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“No, I’m not much of a cook. But there’s about two cups of juices leftover in the roasting pan, and your dad says you’d know.” 🤦🏻♂️
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Have you ever tried to teach someone who doesn’t cook how to make gravy … OVER THE PHONE?
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It’s official: I’m the gravy whisperer.
Mr LINDNER is 102 years young. This photo was taken during his first outing to a restaurant in a long time. I’m not sure if he will be able to do this again soon.
I did something weird. Weird even by my standards. I’ve been wrestling with whether or not to cook up a Christmas dinner. I mean, it’s just me here. 🤔 On the other hand, I love to cook, and I have a gazillion off-the-beaten-path ethnic Christmas recipes in my repertoire. So yesterday afternoon, I decided to go for it. I bought a ten pound frozen goose, all the fixins’ I’ll need to make the dish, and a box of Post Grape Nuts for my breakfast in the morning. As I was driving home, I tore open the box and snacked on the cereal a bit.
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There’s a classic Czechoslovakian Christmassy recipe called (don’t know if it’s Czech or Slovak 🤷🏻♂️) Pečená Husa se Zelim. I’ve made it maybe 5 or 6 times in the past, but probably not at all in the last 10 years. So it’s time. It’s served with bread dumplings called Houskové Knedlíky. I haven’t decided yet if I’m gonna make those too.
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So I left the goose out overnight to thaw. I got up at 3:30 am this morning, went directly to the kitchen, and started cooking. I prepped the bird, made the stuffing, trussed it and placed it in a roasting rack. All that’s left to do now, is turn on the oven. That took me to 6:30.
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Then it dawned on me. I haven’t had my breakfast yet. I haven’t even had my coffee yet! 😱 First things first: I pulled a double espresso. Then I looked around for the box of Grape Nuts I bought yesterday. WTF? Where the hell is it? I couldn’t find it anywhere! Is it possible that I left it out in the car? So I walked out the back door to go check—and there was my box of Grape Nuts, right where I left them: on the porch glider. As I fumbled to unlock the door, I set the bag down, and apparently forgot all about it.
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Those of you in the South and Midwest, I hear you’re experiencing some warmer and drier weather than normal. Such is not the case in Portland Oregon. My $6.00 box of cereal absorbed maybe five pounds of good old Oregon rain during the night. It looked like a Post brand basketball. 😠 And I was soooo looking forward to my morning roughage! 😭
Around 10-12 years ago (when he was still a spry youngster in his nineties), my dad suggested to my brother’s family and mine, that we jot down a list of any of my parent’s household items we’d like to have once both he and my mother had passed on. That way, there will be no question about who gets the hutch, or the couch, or whatevs. Ever the pragmatist, my dad. So that’s what we did.
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I myself have little interest in the monetary value of their trappings, as much as I do the potentially historical value. So I jotted down that I’d like to have his old slide rule. He saw that on my list and asked; “Why the hell would you want that piece of crap?” I told him because of its role in the Manhattan Project, it has historical value. Isn’t that the same one you used at Hanford, Los Alamos and Oak Ridge? He confirmed. Then he asked; “Do you want the abacus too?” 😦
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You used an abacus on the Manhattan Project? Seriously?
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Sure. How do you think we tracked complex calculations before computers came along?
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I never really thought about it. Sure. Put me down for the abacus too. 🤔
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He told me to go ahead and take them then and there. No one else was interested, so have at them. So I did.
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The history of this slide rule is itself kind of interesting. He bought it second hand in 1939 from someone in Chicago for $3.00, because he couldn’t afford a brand new one, which sold for $11.75. I’ve researched this particular model. It was patented in 1908, manufactured in 1932 by an outfit called Keuffel & Esser in New York. The model number is 4092-3. It is a “log log duplex” type slide rule (whatever the hell that means). He even kept the original leather case, which its previous owner scrawled weird shapes into. My dad covered them over with a stylized M L, his initials.
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Keuffel & Esser remained in business for decades. But then in 1975, the market for slide rules skidded into the porcelain fixture when, not coincidentally, the pocket calculator came along. They were ultimately swallowed up by AZON Corporation in 1987.
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As for the abacus, I have no way to determine its date of manufacture, or by which company—it has no markings on it whatsoever, which suggests to me that it was provided by the government. My dad can’t recall where he got it. Oh, and the “technology” of the abacus goes back a bit farther… the first known use of an abacus was by the Sumerians, in the 3rd millennium B.C. So, 5,000 years, give or take.
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So what’s the relevant history of THIS particular abacus, and THIS particular slide rule? These two “computers” were the very devices used to determine the properties, yield, and half life of plutonium.
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So, yeah. I wanted them. 🤨
Well, I’m not having any fun. I had an allergic reaction to a flu shot, so here I am keeping this bench warm with my lower quarters. This is the second (and LAST) time I had a flu shot reaction. The first was maybe 5-6 years ago. I rode it out that time, which was pretty awful. But I wanted to check with my doc to see what he recommended.
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Nurse Jen Psaki picked up: “Bruce! What the hell did you do this time?”
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“Nothing! I’m a victim of soykumstances. I’m feeling a little better, but I want to check in with Mr. Big, and see what he suggests.”
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“I can tell you what he’ll suggest. He’ll tell you to get to the ER right now.”
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“But I’m feeling better already!”
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“Go to the ER, Bruce. It’s less than a quarter mile from your house.”
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“Seriously?”
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“Seriously. But take a Benadryl first, then check yourself in.”
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🤦🏻♂️
So I drove down to the ER. It looked like they were having a 2-for-1 sale on sutures. The place was packed.
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“I approach the window: “I really don’t think I need to be here, but I had an allergic reaction to a flu shot this morning. I look okay, don’t I? 😗”
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“That’s not my place to say. What are your symptoms?” 🧊
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“Wellllll… my lungs have been producing fluid like an artesian spring, I’m cold and trembling, and the little finger-looking thingies under my tongue have swelled up to the size of lab rats.” (Rick, does that sound familiar?)
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“Let me see.”
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👅
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“Not rats. Mice. What’s your name and address?”
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I gave her my info, then took a seat. An hour later, they called on me from triage. The woman there said it would be another three hours before a doctor could examine me. That’s 1+3=4. 😠 I asked her if I walk out now, will I get billed for an ER visit? She checks my coverage. “No you won’t, but you really should let me check you in and take a seat.”
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I told her I’m outta’ here. Four hours on my ass with a room full of hacking sick people, and if I sign the dotted line, MediCare will pick up $2,000 and leave me responsible for $1,000… If I’m lucky!
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So I left, and stopped back in at my doctor’s office and explained myself. Then I drove to Safeway and picked up a box of Benadryl and went home.
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You know what? I feel GREAT now. The shakes have subsided, my lungs are behaving themselves again, and all is right with the world. And the best part? No more nosebleeds!! 🎉 🎈
.It’s always somethin’. 🤨
This is a before & after picture of the little radio my late friend Terry gave me a few months ago (I’ve christened it “Squirt II” in her memory).
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To be clear, I myself am not technologically capable of restoring 83 year old electronics. I can do the simple stuff, but I rely on my friend Bill to do anything remotely techy. And man is he GOOD. I have a very old (1975), very rare, very powerful amplifier that went belly-up on me around fifteen years ago, that NO ONE in Portland could fix. But Bill took it on, restored it to factory specs, and it’s been my main bass driver amp ever since.
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After the rebuild, he uploaded an entire web page dedicated to that single restoration, including a comments section for other techno-geeks to weigh in. And who should comment? The original designer of the amplifier! A medical surgeon who got into designing stereo gear back in the ‘70s on the side.
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So anyway, Bill got this little gem singing like it’s 1938 all over again. Take a close look at the picture of the dial. All those cities listed at the bottom are/were shortwave stations. Most are long-gone. But it’s the top half that cracks me up! Those were all the major AM radio stations West of the Mississippi back in 1938. (Call letters beginning with W are generally East of the Mississippi, those that begin with K are West). Granted, there were probably lots of sparrow fart stations back then too, but I think it’s quaint how they listed ALL the biggies on this tiny dial. There are currently some 4,800 AM stations in America today.
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As for performance, now that Bill has completely re-capped it, it sounds great. It picks up a few foreign broadcasters, but they’re weak; what you’d expect from pre-WWII technology. But I didn’t want to restore this to listen to talk radio. I restored it because I wanted to restore it. It’s out of love of history, not love of blowhards.
#SquirtII
When this image was first released maybe 10-12 years ago, it intrigued the bejezuz out of me. Partly because it’s just plain breathtaking, and partly because it tends to confirm a concept that I first read about in a kid’s book that my parents gave me back in the late ‘50s.
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This is a newly reprocessed version of the original Hubble image. The image itself was captured near the infrared spectrum; the same wavelength that the Webb Space Telescope will use exclusively to image deep-space objects. So if all goes well, we’ll be seeing a LOT more eye-popping stuff like this in the near future.
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So what’s going on here? What process of astrophysics could possibly explain a spiral in the sky?
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Try to imagine a binary star system (our galaxy has billions of them), with two stars locked in orbit around a shared gravitational point. Picture a dumbbell tumbling end over end in space, only one end is more massive than the other. The more massive star is drawing out a stream of hydrogen from its partner, and as the pair orbit each other, the stream gets thrown off into space (the two stars themselves are hidden by a dense debris cloud).
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NASA estimates the orbital period of the two stars—one complete revolution around their common gravitational point—to be roughly 800 years. The spiral, most of which isn’t visible, is 1/3rd of a light-year across; so about 2 TRILLION miles. If in fact the orbital period of the system is indeed 800 years, in theory, there should be an 800 year “gap” between each new winding of the spiral.
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Guess what? It checks out. Those spiral arms are being created in synch with each completed revolution of the binary system: once every 800 years, and with astonishing regularity. This is all taking place kinda’ far away, so it’s not as if we can waltz out there and confirm it. But short of any other theories, this seems most likely.
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I’ll post a picture from the kiddie book that my parents gave me at the top of this thread. It was published in 1956, by the way.
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Far out, huh? 🌀
Paraphrasing from Cool Hand Luke: “What we have here, is a failure to caffeinate.” <spits> 💦
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My dad quit drinking coffee decades ago. So knowing this fact in advance, I brought a pound of Stumptown coffee with me from Portland. My day begins with coffee. That’s more than a tradition; it’s a necessity. 🤨
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But I am a stranger in a strange land—a land where the substance of my sustenance is but a faded memory.
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So I got up at my usual 3:00 am, 🚽, 🚿 & 💈, and started looking around for the necessary hardware to brew up a cup of coffee. But it ain’t lookin’ good:
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No coffee maker.
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No drip cone.
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No coffee filters.
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Not even the old French press I gave them 50 years ago. 🤦🏻♂️
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So I’m gonna science the shit outta’ this. 💡
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Paper towels? ✔️
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Small saucepan? ✔️
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1960s era orange juicer? ✔️
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1) Cut a paper towel in half, lengthwise.
2) Wrap the juicer with a paper towel.
3) Measure out 6 ounces of water, bring it to a boil in the saucepan.
4) Geeeeeeently spoon out 3 Tablespoons of coffee into the juicer.
5) Place the back of a spoon against the edge of the saucepan to keep it from dribbling, and slowwwwwly saturate the coffee grounds.
6) Once saturated, add the rest of the water.
7) Drink. ☕️ 😊
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Tomorrow I plan to reinvent the wheel. 😬
Apparently, the secret to a long, healthy life is DiGiorno pizza. My dad has gained six pounds since I was last here in September. Not too shabby, considering everyone else he‘s ever known now looks like this: 💀. We just polished off a half pepperoni / half mushroom combo.
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I still need to work on him about his whiskey preferences though. 😖
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