my beloved beet

My dad, cousin, and sister, circa 1990. (I’m guessing). I love this pic. Nice sweater(?), sis!

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I’m sure many of you already follow Ted Gioia. But for those who don’t, he’s one of the country’s most perceptive cultural critics, as well as being the world’s preeminent jazz historian. Check him out. It’ll be well worth your time.

I’m really enjoying this audiobook of The Odyssey read by the actor, Anton Lesser. The translation by Ian Johnston is very accessible (if a bit awkward at times). I think this story has legs. 📚

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It’s nineteen years today since he last held
A drink in his hand or held his breath while smoke
Filled as much of him as he could stand
Till, letting it out, he sought oblivion
Of the trace of memory or anticipation,
And his life fell into a death spiral. Since then
He’s been around folks like him. When he’s been asked,
And sometimes, eager, when he hasn’t been,
He talks to the ones who are not even sure
They want to learn how to stop killing themselves.
That feeling still seems close to him some days.
Right now he’s okay, and that’s enough, right now.

RIP, Ken. You were important in my life.

Things I Really Like: an Ongoing List

• Birdsong
• Tottenham Hotspur Football Club
• Archie
  
• Tamales
• Black licorice
• Woodsmoke
• Good Table Talk (more often, actually, Bar Talk)
• a Ploughman's Lunch in a pub's garden
• a 5:1 Martini, with a dash of orange bitters and 3 olives
• Wind Chimes
• Telephone calls with my out-of-town kids
• Tacos with my in-town kid (and kid-in-law)
• Resident Taqueria
• Heat
• Daffodils
• Steel-cut oatmeal and a soft-boiled egg

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RIP, Bob Edwards, host of NPR’s Morning Edition for almost 25 years.

from The Atlantic

Fascinating to learn during the Super Bowl halftime ads that the NFL is working to bring traumatic brain injuries to Ghanaians and the rest of the globe.

Wet things smell stronger,
and I suppose his main regret is that
he can sniff just one at a time.
In a frenzy of delight
he runs way up the sandy road—
scored by freshets after five days
of rain. Every pebble gleams, every leaf. 

When I whistle he halts abruptly
and steps in a circle,
swings his extravagant tail.
The he rolls and rubs his muzzle
in a particular place, while the drizzle
falls without cease, and Queen Anne’s lace
and Goldenrod bend low.

The top of the logging road stands open
and light. Another day, before
hunting starts, we’ll see how far it goes,
leaving word first at home.
The footing is ambiguous.

Soaked and muddy, the dog drops,
panting, and looks up with what amounts
to a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him,
nicely winded, and looking down on the pond.

A sound commences in my left ear
like the sound of the sea in a shell;
a downward, vertiginous drag comes with it.
Time to head home. I wait
until we’re nearly out to the main road
to put him back on the leash, and he
—the designated optimist—
imagines to the end that he is free.

1942 📷

Interesting.