MaineCourse

December 31

I’ve been waiting for La Rad to post a comment to the Hemingway story, but it doesn’t seem like that’s going to happen, so I’m moving on.

---

Susan, Larry, Robert, Diane, Katherine, Matt, Emma

---

As I was driving down Central St, I passed by neighbor, Joy. I waved and then I pulled into my driveway. As I got out of my truck, I turned to see Joy had made a u-turn and pulled in behind me. I walked up to her and said,

“We got your grandsons. Another great Christmas card.” (Her daughter has three blonde boys, each a year or two apart, the oldest must be about ten.)

“I didn’t like Kyle’s smile but..”

“Come on, Joy, you’re a nitpicker. It wasn’t as perfect as last years and ...”

“A professional took that one.”

“With the sand dunes and the boardwalk and the beach plums?’

“And that boardwalk has special meaning to Bob (her husband), it’s where he grew up.”

“I didn’t know that. And how did you like our Christmas card?”

“Next time I’m going to put a note in mine nagging you for yours.”

“Believe me, you’ve brought it up so many times, your card already comes with that note.”

The last time I’d talked to Joy was right after Patti died and we’d both, then, caught up on family matters. At some point, we always talk about the two widows, Mary and Dolly, who used to live between us. I'd walk through both yards to get to Joy and Bob’s.

“I guess you heard about Dolly?” My Two Neighbors and Parting Company

“No, I’ve been meaning to visit her again (In the nursing home behind Emerson Hospital).

“Dolly died. She finally got to go to her daughter’s in Texas, but she lived only three months.”

“Three months?”

“She had cancer, but no one knew it. At least she didn’t suffer much.”

“And, Mary, is she still in the same nursing home?”

“Mary doesn’t recognize anyone anymore.”

From "How To Read And Why"

by Harold Bloom

Frank O’Connor, who disliked Hemingway as intensely as he liked Chekhov, remarks in The Lonely Voice that Hemingway’s stories “illustrate a technique in search of a subject,” and therefore become “a minor art.” Let us see. Read the famous sketch called “Hills Like White Elephants,” five pages that are almost all dialogue, between the young man and her lover, while they wait for a train at a station in a provincial Spanish town. They are continuing a disagreement as to the abortion he wishes for her to undergo when they reach Madrid. The story captures the moment of her defeat, and very likely the death of their relationship. And that is all. The dialogue makes clear that the woman is vital and decent, while the man is a sensible emptiness, selfish and unloving. The reader is wholly with her when she responds to his “I’d do anything for you” with “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking.” Seven pleases are a lot, but as repetition they are precise and persuasive in “Hills Like White Elephants”. The story is beautifully prefigured in that simile of a title. Long and white, the hills across the valley of Ebro “look like white elephants” to the woman, not to the man. White elephants, proverbial Siamese royal gifts to courtiers who would be ruined by the expense of their upkeep, become a larger metaphor for unwanted babies, and even more for erotic relationships too spiritually costly when a man is inadequate.

From the book's preface:

There is no single way to read well, though there is a prime reason why we should read. Information is endlessly available to us; where shall wisdom be found? If you’re fortunate, you encounter a particular teacher who can help, yet finally you’re alone, going on without further meditation. Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you, because it is, at least in my experience, the most healing of pleasures. It returns you to otherness, whether in yourself or in your friends, or in those who may become friends. Imaginative literature is otherness, and as such alleviates loneliness. We read not only because we cannot know enough people, but because friendship is so vulnerable, so likely to diminish or disappear, overcome by space, time, imperfect sympathies, and all the sorrows of familial and passional life.

Hills Like White Elephants

Ernest Hemingway


The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.

'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

'It's pretty hot,' the man said.

'Let's drink beer.'

'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.

'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.

'Yes. Two big ones.'

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

'They look like white elephants,' she said.

'I've never seen one,' the man drank his beer.

'No, you wouldn't have.'

'I might have,' the man said. 'Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything.'

The girl looked at the bead curtain. 'They've painted something on it,' she said. 'What does it say?'

'Anis del Toro. It's a drink.'

'Could we try it?'

The man called 'Listen' through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

'Four reales.' 'We want two Anis del Toro.'

'With water?'

'Do you want it with water?'

'I don't know,' the girl said. 'Is it good with water?'

'It's all right.'

'You want them with water?' asked the woman.

'Yes, with water.'

'It tastes like liquorice,' the girl said and put the glass down.

'That's the way with everything.'

'Yes,' said the girl. 'Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe.'

'Oh, cut it out.'

'You started it,' the girl said. 'I was being amused. I was having a fine time.'

'Well, let's try and have a fine time.'

'All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?'

'That was bright.'

'I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look at things and try new drinks?'

'I guess so.'

The girl looked across at the hills.

'They're lovely hills,' she said. 'They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through the trees.'

'Should we have another drink?'

'All right.'

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

'The beer's nice and cool,' the man said.

'It's lovely,' the girl said.

'It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig,' the man said. 'It's not really an operation at all.'

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

'I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in.'

The girl did not say anything.

'I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural.'

'Then what will we do afterwards?'

'We'll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.'

'What makes you think so?'

'That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy.'

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

'And you think then we'll be all right and be happy.'

'I know we will. Yon don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it.'

'So have I,' said the girl. 'And afterwards they were all so happy.'

'Well,' the man said, 'if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple.'

'And you really want to?'

'I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to.'

'And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?'

'I love you now. You know I love you.'

'I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?'

'I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry.'

'If I do it you won't ever worry?'

'I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple.'

'Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me.'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't care about me.'

'Well, I care about you.'

'Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine.'

'I don't want you to do it if you feel that way.'

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.'

'What did you say?'

'I said we could have everything.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can have the whole world.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can go everywhere.'

'No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.'

'It's ours.'

'No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.'

'But they haven't taken it away.'

'We'll wait and see.'

'Come on back in the shade,' he said. 'You mustn't feel that way.'

'I don't feel any way,' the girl said. 'I just know things.'

'I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do -'

'Nor that isn't good for me,' she said. 'I know. Could we have another beer?'

'All right. But you've got to realize - '

'I realize,' the girl said. 'Can't we maybe stop talking?'

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

'You've got to realize,' he said, ' that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.'

'Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along.'

'Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want anyone else. And I know it's perfectly simple.'

'Yes, you know it's perfectly simple.'

'It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it.'

'Would you do something for me now?'

'I'd do anything for you.'

'Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?'

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

'But I don't want you to,' he said, 'I don't care anything about it.'

'I'll scream,' the girl siad.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. 'The train comes in five minutes,' she said.

'What did she say?' asked the girl.

'That the train is coming in five minutes.'

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

'I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,' the man said. She smiled at him.

'All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer.'

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

'Do you feel better?' he asked.

'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.'

Christmas Givings

Matt sporting his new leather jacket and one of about fifty Italian silk ties his Aunt Joan sent him.

Kibbe's Brunch

By Dan Downing (aka smiling)



The Elegant Christmas Brunch at Kibbe’s two Saturdays ago is worth re-celebrating.

Memorable highlights:



- Individual menus on which the usual suspects mark their eating preferences and hand to short-order-cook Adam for processing.



- Inimitable Kibbe presentation, complete with take-home nips for the guys and Christmas Tree bells for the ladies.



- Schreib on a roll of hilarious one-liners, undoubtedly aided by his new Peruvian hat, egged on by Fan Jan, and laughed at by all.



- Q objecting to his wife’s – and everyone else’s abuse.

***Photo Censored***

- Ginger giving Dan the double-fingered salute (mouth shut, gums still sore from surgery) in response to Dan’s email about flossing better, thereby elevating their relationship to a new level of intimacy.



Hurrah for an emerging Christmas tradition that’s quickly replacing those boring Après Camping dinners!

Michael sent me this photo, his favorite, of his lovely and long-suffering wife, Diane. Look closely at her socks.

Suspicious Food

Following up on the last entry:

From the University of Kentucky Department of Entomology

The Japanese have used insects as human food since ancient times. The practice probably started in the Japanese Alps, where many aquatic insects are captured and eaten. Thousands of years ago, this region had a large human population but a shortage of animal protein. Since the area had an abundance of aquatic insects, this food source became very important for human survival.
The Japanese still use insects in many recipes. If you were to go to a restaurant in Tokyo, you might have the opportunity to sample some of these insect-based dishes:

• hachi-no-ko - boiled wasp larvae
wasp larvae

• zaza-mushi - aquatic insect larvae

• inago - fried rice-field grasshoppers
Grasshopper

• semi - fried cicada
Cicada

• sangi - fried silk moth pupae
Pupae

Most of these insects are caught wild except for silk moth pupae. They are by-products of the silk industry. Silk moths are raised in mass for their ability to produce silk. The larvae, the young silk moths, produce the silk. Once they pupate, they can no longer produce silk and are then used as food.

The Only Thing I Wouldn't Eat

From the unposted rakkity Japan Chronicles

Mike,

Don't post this around mealtime.

Today I dispersed my food items from the warming cabinet onto a tray without looking carefully at the contents of the dishes. After I had started chowing down, I looked more carefully at the strange things on one of the plate (see attached photo). Had I actually eaten one of those? They look like bugs! Nahh..couldn't be. 

Mukul sat down, and I asked him what they were. Insects, maybe? He said, "No, if this were India, I would say yes, but in Japan, I don't think so. We can ask Shibasaki san tomorrow what they were." Mukul ate them with gusto.



Even with his example, I couldn't eat any more. I was sure those little tendils are legs or antennas. And are those little beady eyes? Maybe if they were fried and battered, or saute'd in dark chocolate,
I would go for them. But not as they are. Maybe Peter can illuminate me about their vegetable nature..

rakkity shamaru

The Old Fashioned Kind

Mike,

Is this a suitable subject for the blog. You be the judge.

I was doing my weekly clothes washing and happened into the men's room next door. Pushed open one of the stalls and nearly fell backwards in astonishment at what I saw. See attachment.) I hadn't seen one of these since '72 in Indonesia, where they probably have them still. I checked the other stalls here and in the computer buiding, and there were the usual modern electrically-heated (I kid you not), super-efficient appliances.



So why is this relic still around? My guess is that some of the farm boy students or, maybe, some of the more ancient astronomers, don't know what do do with the new-fangled things, and they resort to the old standby (squatby) that the Shoguns used.

Your faithful reporter on Nobeyama trivia,
Shamaru

Editor's note: Ed's either in the air or back home by now.

Mike's Saga

This is an overly long story about my broken finger. I’m calling it a saga because it began at Saga-Man’s house. Mark Queijo can drive to the local drugstore to buy dental floss and return with a publishable memoir. In fact, he can’t drive to the drugstore without coming back with some kind of this-could-only-happen-to-me tale.

****************

Logging day at Mark Queijo’s country estate follows a well-established routine. Every family member and every friend with an arm to twist arrives after dawn and chooses a specific task. Topple trees, tumble cut logs to the log splitter, split those logs, burn brush - anything but stand around and supervise.

Mark’s wife, Jan, and I manned the log splitter. Though a frighteningly powerful machine, the splitter is a safe tool because it minds its own business. Circular saws have a habit of snuggling up against their owners but this thing is like a one-command genie out of the bottle. Issue an order, stand back, and watch its piston-driven wedge effortlessly cleave logs that would dull Paul Bunyan’s axe. As Jan says, “I feel so powerful.”

For a while there, we were quite a team. Our voices smothered by engine noise, Jan and I communicated at first by hand signals. I’d drop a log in front of the iron wedge, she’d engage the lever that would send the wedge forward, and I’d signal when to release and retract it. We’d both grab the oak sections and together we’d heave the halves at Mark’s feet where he’d stack it as cordwood. Soon Jan no longer needed hand signals and the wood it-was-a-flying off the splitter. We were a flawless team until I reached in to rotate a knotted log as she engaged the lever. My left ring finger snapped like a sun-ripened pea pod.

****************
I arrived home with my left hand in a bag of ice, and Diane insisted she drive me to the emergency room. I shrugged her off (like she needed another afternoon in a hospital?), slipped into a warm bath, then dressed in decent clothes and packed Ed’s most recent book loan – “Ice: Stories Of Survival From Polar Expeditions” - and two New Yorkers. I hoped to be home by dinner.

But this was my lucky day. My competition for the medical staff’s attention was an eleven year old hockey player with a head injury. I thought surely my bent finger would take precedence over his vomiting and even if it didn’t, I’d be home in an hour. Sure enough, moments later I sat talking to the pretty, Eau de Something Erotic smelling x-ray tech, lead apron still on my lap.

“You’re all done,” she said. "The x-ray’s readable. I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“How about my finger? Is it broken?”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“No it doesn’t,” she smiled. As we neared my room she said, “You know, I’ve got a friend who’s going to split logs this weekend. She thinks nothing bad can happen. I might show her your x-ray.”

I read Ed’s book until the emergency room physician, reserved, Germanic Margaret entered. She ordered a finger splint, explained why she thought I’d need a pin or two (“The way it flopped over”), and quizzed me intently on how the injury occurred. You see, she too intended to use a log splitter over the weekend. Suddenly log splitters are as common as vacuum cleaners. She also referred me to Dr. Jeffrey Brown, a plastic surgeon. Dr. Brown, I remembered, saved Adam’s routed finger. Whereas others would have lopped the tip off, Dr. Brown shaped the mangled flesh like wet clay, and today Adam has a fully functional middle finger.

****************

Jeff’s a handsome guy at six feet tall, with traces of gray in his brown hair, and a solid frame that suggests daily workouts. We quickly developed a good-old down-home rapport. We talked about the mellow Midwest - he’s from Michigan - his family, his Christmas plans, the book I brought with me (“Ice”), hardy folk of yore, the weather on the Great Lakes, college football, and what to do about my finger.

“You pin it or you plate it. A plate will allow you to bend your finger and use it right away. However, I don’t have experience with plates that small. I’m not sure they are even appropriate in this case, but I could refer you to an orthopedic surgeon.”

I mulled that one over for about three seconds. Not only had Adam raved about him, but the ER nurse had hollered, “He’s good,” as I'd turned to leave.

“A referral would mean I’d have to start all over, which means waiting around for another appointment, all with no guarantees. I’ll stick with you and the pins.”

****************

The pinning process was a rather casual event. The day surgical suite required only that I remove my shirt. A Johnny covered my pants and booties my work boots. And like my knee scoping, I was fully awake, but without the cozy Valium blanket. Jeffrey numbed my hand by injecting it with Lidocaine in four different places. As I lay on my back, arm outstretched, the surgical nurse bathed my hand in Betadine, and Jeff responded to my earlier statement, “We could do this at my house.” “See, this is why your kitchen wouldn’t work. The procedure’s messy and we need an x-ray machine.”

With a numb hand (and believe me, this is just like dentistry), until they drill into you and there is no feeling, you’re never really sure you won’t leap out of the chair, or in this case, off the table). Jeffrey pulled the end of my finger back in place - I felt the tugging on my arm - drilled into my finger - I heard the whirring - and inserted two pins.

“Okay, maybe not my kitchen, but how about my shop? It sounds like I’m at work.”

Jeffrey and his assistant chattered throughout the procedure. I heard constant updates about how things were going and believe me, it didn’t sound good until the very end, when Jeff said, “That’s perfect.”

“Aaah, Dr. Brown, I hate to tell you this, but if the homeowner’s around I say the exact same thing. I don’t care if I’ve hung cabinet doors upside down. Half the job is how you sell it.”

His assistant offered, “You’re a woodworker, right?”

“Yep.”

“How does within a thirty-second of an inch sound?”

“Like it’s time for me to go home.”

****************

In spite of the perfect x-ray and the proclamations from all, when I returned the next week for my first office visit and the splint was removed, my ring finger looked like it was in love with my pinky. It had turned around to face its new friend and bent over as if to give it a hug. By my description, you’d a thought there would be no discussion about repair. Break it and re-pin it. However, we debated for so long, I finally said, “Okay, Dr. Brown, in my line of work if there’s a question about the quality of a material, or the design of a project, I’ll say to the homeowner, “If it were my house… .” How about if it were your finger?”

“Let’s get a second opinion.”

****************

Dr. Feldman, an orthopedic surgeon, saw me later that same day. In sharp contrast, he is thinner and darker than Dr. Brown, without the Brad Pitt short hair look, but he’s equally personable. We talked about frivolous lawsuits, malpractice insurance, comparisons between carpentry and orthopedic surgery, how different his practice in Lowell is from his wife’s in Concord, growing up in Newton, living in Carlisle, and my finger.

“It has to be re-done, but you know, we don’t get too many shots at this.”

I laughed - two plain-speaking regular-guy surgeons in a row. How could I be so fortunate?

“I wouldn’t be worried about this finger if I hadn’t already done this.” (I held up my right hand showing him the missing top of my index finger and the thumb that bends only with help).

“Who would you like to do it?”

I wavered. I had hoped to retackle this project with Dr. Brown, but Dr. Feldman reminded me of the basketball player who demands the ball in crucial situations.

“Dr. Feldman, I should know the answer to this, but why was I referred to a plastic surgeon in the first place?”

“Jeff works on hands too, but I do more of them. I only do hands.”

“Then when can you do mine?”

He put his head in his hands and hesitated. “ I think I can do it tomorrow.”

“I hate to keep making comparisons between your profession and mine, but when pushed, I always promise more than I can give. Deep inside I know I’ve shoved out of my mind the six other reasons why it would be impossible.”

“Give me your number and if I can’t I’ll call you tomorrow.”

****************

My second pinning in two weeks took place the next day as promised. So close in time leaves room for nothing but comparisons. Lowell General’s approach is crisper than Emerson’s - similar operating rooms, but the staff felt more caffeinated. After Staci, the OR nurse, swaddled me in that fresh-out-of-the-oven warm blanket, I drifted off. As I do in the dentist chair. It’s something about the prone position that puts me to sleep.

“Mr Miller … Mr. Miller.”

I opened my eyes to see Dr. Feldman hovering over me.

“What?”

“Were you up all night?”

“No." (Actually, I had been, but I couldn’t think fast enough to simply say yes.) "But how often does someone tuck you into bed? With a warm blanket no less?”

“You mean your wife doesn’t do that?” It was a rhetorical question which didn’t need an answer. He was laughing too hard to hear me anyway.

Dr. Feldman removed the two pins Dr. Brown had inserted and drilled one right down the center of my finger, through both joints to where the tip of the pin just kissed the knuckle joint. I’d been peacefully zoning in and out, but he snapped me back to the present.

“Raise your right hand.”

“You talking to me?” Remember, they also tent your head, so there’s a certain feeling of remove.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

He wanted to compare my two hands. I opened and closed my right hand and he looked to see how my fingers lined up. Dr. Feldman then tore a hole in the blue blanket and raised my left hand so I could see it. He twisted my wrist this way and that, asked me to straighten my fingers and then make a fist.

“How does your finger look to you?, ” he asked.

“Straight,” I answered.

Behind Dr. Feldman hung a screen with my latest x-ray. The pin almost perfectly bisected the first two digits in my ring finger.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Place that pin so perfectly? My friend, Adam, is the best woodworker I know and he couldn’t have done that with a clamp, a drill press and nothing at stake.”

“What can I say, I’m good, but there’s one more thing I could try.”

“No, let’s call it a day.”

****************

I’m not dragging this on much longer. The night before my office visit after the second pinning, I removed my splint to see my ring and middle finger lining up like pickets in a fence. Rather than write about that visit, I’m ending with an email from Bill Lewis, longtime friend, sometime camping partner, and the missing character in “Cheers.” Bill could have occupied the bar stool between Norm and Cliff. Anyway, he’s on our email distro list, so he gets sporadic updates to which, curiously, he rarely replies.

Mike,

I sometimes feel out of the loop with a lot of what you guys are doing, but let me see if I get this straight. You were out chopping wood‚ with Q's wife, and when she pulled the trigger, you got a broken finger. This has started an on-line dialog between Mark and Jan, presumably because they no longer talk face to face. You get an x-ray showing chopsticks protruding from the afore-mentioned digit, looking more like an apprentice carpenter gone wild with the nail gun than something done in a Boston hospital.

The worry in the whole situation centers around your ability to play the dealer in some sort of low rent ESPN Texas Hold tourney, with no one mentioning the obvious fact that a more clean cut would have given you a pair of halves.

Meanwhile, the banter continues in a syrupy cyber exchange that sounds about as sincere as a Shoe Box Get-Well-Soon card. Even if I got a few facts jumbled, be sure you know that even Bill Lewis cares.

Bill

Red Piano and the Very, Very, Very Baffling

Dan Downing (a.k.a. smiling)

At the other end of Chris' musical / celebrity adoration spectrum is where I live.

My butt found itself comfortably ensconced in the third row Orchestra at Caesar’s Palace for Elton John’s Red Piano extravaganza last October, spitting distance to where Elton planted his.  The Colosseum was full of screaming, delirious fans, many of whom paid $250 for the privilege.  I paid zero, this being part of the computer conference package I attended.



Baffling to me was the apparent adoration of this overweight, aging rock star and of his music.  Baffling again was the evidently turned on audience in last evening’s NBC’s telecast of this same concert. With the exception of a couple of his hit songs (Daniel, Rocket Man), his music, to me, is not in the same class as that of my musical heroes of the 60s (Judy Collins, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens, Buffy Saint Marie, Joan Baez). I loved their music, but did not fawn at their stages nor identify myself as a fan.

In fact, the whole notion of celebrity adoration is very, very, very baffling to me.  Yes, I can admire both form and content of a Jewel at the Boston Opera (attended by a subset of the usual canoe-group suspects in 1999?), but people that can put their feelings and life insights into thought-provoking poetry, sing them lucidly, and accompany them with understated guitar chords so you can clearly hear the words and get the message, are relatively few.

And very baffling to me also is that anyone would pay dearly for an event like this in a theatre as large as the Colosseum for a view that from most seats requires binoculars, and requires sullying yourself with that weirdest destination in the Universe, Vegas.

But that’s me; clearly left behind in a gentler subset of my 60s generation.

Black and White Vs Color

Mike,

Have a look at APOD (below) and compare it with the original Adams picture Link (below that)..Even if you convert the color picture to B&W and fiddle with the overall contrast, gamma, andbrightness, you can never get that magical glow of light above the mountains that Adams somehow created. And the contrast in the mountains where the snowfields and glaciers were is just incredible. (Admitedly therewas more snow in 1948 than now.)

Ansel must have dodged the moon in the darkroom to make it so bright relative to the mountains. Nothing like a comparison of amateurs and professionals to show the difference between them.

Amateurs



Ansel's

-rakkity--Just another amateur

Mike,

Tonight at dinner, Mukul brought down a bottle of sake that he thought we should finish off, since "Sake always goes better with dinner, right?" So after finishing it off along with dinner, I decided to go for a walk in the night. Being well insulated and especially well lubricated, I headed for the 45-m dish, which is well lit even in the wee hours of the morning. It appears to be only about 100 m away, but when I got further down the road, it didn't seem to be any bigger. Like a mountain in the distance, it seemed to remain the same size as I walked. But after 10 min or so of walking, it did seem to loom larger. 

I had this idea that I'd shoot a picture of it with the moon over the big dish, but as I got closer, the idea lost all its practicality, as I'd have to tramp into the snowy woods about a km off to the left to get both the telescope and the moon into the same frame of my camera. Then I was under it, and it looked like the spaceship in Chicken Little. When you peered up, it was all there was.. But back in the direction I had been walking from I could see Mt Nobeyama ski area with all its photogenic but light polluting beacons on the slopes. "That should make a good picture, combined with the massive support structure of the telescope", I said to myself. So I found a good support for the camera and took the attached picture. I think it's one of the most interesting shots I've taken here. But that may just be the sake talking. I'll be glad to hear any contradictions.

Shamaru



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Circadian Rhythms

Rakkity/Shamaru

The space-time confusium

Let's see now, as I write here it's 8:40 pm JST; that's 6:40 am EST, so this email is arriving at Central St blog factory just before dawn. It's Wednesday here, so it's Tuesday there. These are my thought
processes as I write to my intern back at Goddard in MD. (His name is Rick, and he's a recent graduate from UMd.)

Every day Rick sends me some figures that he's made for the paper we're writing together. If I write in the morning, he doesn't get that email till the next day, which is really the previous day, and if he writes to me in the afternoon, I get it in the morning of the same day. Right? Except when I write to him late at night, and he is at work and actually gets the message in near real time. When that happened once, Rick asked, "How did you do that?"

So when I critique his work, he has to figure out what I'm talking about. Is it the figure he just sent, or is it the one he sent yesterday? Or maybe its the one he will send tomorrow, and I've got advance notice of it.

I don't know how we've done it, but together we've actually done some productive work in this time warp. 

Mike's the only person that I've been able to quasi-IM with. But Mike's always in a time warp. (That's due to the Black Hole in the library.) Time is only a coordinate that measures the distance between blog entries, right?

Joe Barbato

Photos of Joe wrestling his opponent at tonight's meet between Acton Boxborough and Lincoln Sudbury. Those pictures pretty much show the whole match, except for the end when Joe pinned the guy. Matt calls him a "beast," and now I know why.

Leon

Diane enjoyed Saturday night’s Leon Russell concert; I say, put the poor wretch out to pasture.

The Bull Run in Shirley is a dinner theater. The dining room’s a perfect rectangle seating three hundred people. The so-called stage is not elevated, and this night’s opening act, a banjo and steel-guitar-playing rockabilly soloist, disappeared below the heads of those diners in front of us. His music disappeared too. He touched on those famous locomotive cord sounds, but the train never arrived.

During intermission, Leon’s drummer and two guitarists set-up largely unnoticed. Then Leon, with his ghost-like flowing white beard and hair, and wearing a jacket, white fedora and dark sunglasses, limped to his keyboard from a nearby stairwell. There were no introductions, nor much time for applause. Leon laid his thick fingers on the keyboard and from that moment on, he pounded out unremitting wake-the-dead material.

I turned to Diane, pulled her head close, and screamed, "This is what the first act lacked," but she couldn't hear me. I gave up, pivoted back and waited for the quiet break between songs - except there were no breaks, because there were no intros, no repartee with the audience, and no intelligible words. With his lips pressed against the microphone, and the volume and treble maxed out, Leon rasped his way through the entire set like a hack saw screeching through a rusty Studebaker fender.

Two hours later and a single song before the end, his band stumbled away to recover while Leon played on. Stiff back, seemingly frozen at the mike, Leon shattered ear drums until his mates returned. Together they banged out a final number, after which Leon stood up, said, “Thank you,” and walked away.



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Chris And The Very, Very, Very Good Night

By Chris



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I think I first became a Bon Jovi fan back in the early 80’s in college.  Not just because Jon Bon Jovi is so adorable, but mostly because of that.  Mark is a fan as well and my friend Shelley, like me, has gone from fan to fanatic.   I love his music, his tight pants, his New Jerseyness.  He makes me smile, and has for some 20 something years.  We have seen him many times over the last several years and I never cease to be 21 again at his concerts.  And he and I are the same age, so we’ve grown up together.  At least I think I’ve grown up.

Tonight we weren’t sure we were going to make it due to the weather, which fortunately let up by 4:00 enabling us to get to the FleetBankNorthBostonGarden Center or whatever it’s called now.  We met Shelley and Paul there.  Imagine my surprise when I saw a small platform set up right in front of us.  “Bon Jovi will be singing two songs there” was the rumor.  I certainly never anticipated being that close to him, ever.  We were in loge seats and not that close to the real stage.  I must say the entire first part of the concert was spent anticipating the arrival.  About two songs before his, for lack of a better word, ascension, security lined up at the aisle.  “Don’t grab his ass” were the instructions to those of us closest to this platform.  Soon a microphone was brought out and the giddiness I was feeling was something I haven’t felt since the Sox won the Series.  And then he was there.  Guitar strapped on him and the first song he sang was Blaze of Glory from Young Guns.  Because he was facing the larger audience his behind was facing us.  This was not an issue, trust me.  But then he turned around.  He’s as attractive as he looks on TV, very petite but with muscular legs and arms.  That hair and those lips.  I couldn’t take a photo I was somewhat frozen.  Then he sang song number two, Bed of Roses, and then he turned around to sing to us and started shaking hands.  So my right hand touched his and I swooned.  I was like those girls you see in those Beatles clips in the audience at Ed Sullivan some 40+ years ago...crying and shaking.  Shelley was too.  Mark couldn’t contain his laughter.  Jon Bon Jovi has very soft hands, which surprised me given he plays guitar for a living.  I would think he’d be callused.  But no matter.  I wish I had gotten some better shots, but these give you a sense of how close he was to us.

A fantastic evening all around.  I had a chance to go see him tomorrow night as well and I declined.  Nothing can come close to this.

Chris

Chopsticks

How's your hand?

Ed

---

The worst thing, beyond not being able to work, is how hard it makes typing.
Which only reinforces your god-like status..

Mike

---

You are a better typer than I am, so reverting to one-hand typing is much worse for you than it is for me. But some things are impossible with one hand--ctrl/alt/del for example. I did find that I could press3 keys simultaneously using one hand and a chopstick in my mouth. Not that I've needed to do it here, though chopsticks are easier to find in this country.

Ed

Hot Springs II

Just before we headed out the door, Deguchi san explained what he wrote in thenote at the desk. He described the camera, the black pouch, and the blue bag."What blue bag?" I asked. "Your blue bag on the bench. I put your camera in the pouch, and then into the blue bag", he explained. "But I had no blue bag. That must have been someone else's." Deguchi san was crestfallen. "Then it was my mistake. I put your camera in another bag, and the owner must have taken it away. Wait here, I'll
go look around." He headed off into another part of the volumnious lobby area and disappeared for awhile. I wondered what he was doing. Maybe looking for someone with a blue bag? In less than 5 minutes he came back with the camera! He said, "I saw someone with the bag and asked them if there was a small camera in it. And there was. The person who had it was very apologetic at having your camera.

On the way out, he was still crestfallen at having made the mistake. I patted him on the shoulder, and said, "there's an old English saying, All's well that ends well".

So here's some bath pictures. You can see Mt Fuji in the background. And there will be new pictures in the following week (which is my last one in Japan).





Shamaru

The Baths

Towel Racks

rakkity shamaru

Hot Springs

Saturday Dec 9, 3:00 JST

Mukul and I met in the cafeteria and waited for Degushi san, who was going to take us to a nearby hot springs. Promptly at 3, his little grey car drove up to the entrance, and Degushi waved us in. Degushi san is a balding, thin, professorial type, who's part of the Nobeyama "cosmic" staff, as opposed to "Solar" staff, like Shibusaki san. Apparently he's working with one of his students using the 45-m telescope (the biggest in Asia) to observe the mm spectrum of galactic nebulae. While we waited for Mukul, still backin the shoe room, tying his boots, Segushi san asked me my first name.

I said, "Ed. That's short for Edward."

He repeated the nickname and the name, which were both new to him. He's on a first name basis with Mukul, but it takes time for a Japanese person to use a gaigin's first name, so I didn't ask him his first name (which is Shuji; you can google him using deguchi nobeyama).Mukul entered the front passenger seat, and we sped out of the lot.

We drove towards Kiyosato on the same roads I had taken on my snow-biking tour. Just a few 100 m before I had given up and turned back home, we turned right at the "Nokyo" sign (one I recalled as the only English sign in sight.). We drove past hundreds of discreet apartment-like buildings, mostly hidden behind pine trees. Degushi said they were condos. About 15 minutes after we started, we were driving up to Yatkasutake ski area. My ears popped, so we had climbed a lot, and suddenly there was a great view of a spectacular mountain like Mt Adams or pre-eruptive Mt St Helens. I asked Degushi san, "Is that Fuji?", and he said that it was. So one of our objectives had been accomplished. we'd be able to see Fugi san from the baths.

But the baths were not at the ski area any more, so we headed down hill to another town about 15 min away. Behind a parking lot with about 30 micro-minivans and and many non-Toyota-Honda-Nissan, nondescript, blocky cars that would never sell in the USofA), was a flat-topped building like a bowling alley. Inside, there was the mandatory shoe corral, where we dutifully shelved our shoes. We stuck 1000-yen bills into a machine (Y700 apiece), which expectorated 3 tickets. Five m away, we proffered the tickets to a little lady at a desk, and walked through the inviting lobby to another machine that, after some touch-screen finger gymnastics, popped open a locker for our use. We put in our keys and wallets, and proceeded to the men's locker room.

Up to that point, we were about as far as you could get from the ancient steam baths of the Shogun era. But the locker room was partially modern, partially traditional. In the middle of the room were wooden stands with bamboo baskets for your clothes. On one wall were lockers where you could stash your clothes (all of them, no bathing suits allowed) and take the key with you on a bracelet. On the other wall were sinks with modern plumbing and mirrors. But out the door you could see a darkish, steamy room with stone walls and a big pool.

We entered the dim room, each with a towel draped modestly in front. Degushi san scooped up some water from the pool and poured it over his head. He indicated the showers on the left wall where some old guys were industriously washing with soapsuds and sprays. We stepped into the hot pool and looked at the view. A large glass wall on the far side of the pool kept out the wintry winds, but allowed us a good display of Fuji san off in the distance. The pool was just hot enough that you had to go in slowly, but it was wonderfully relaxing. We chatted a bit, and I observed that there was another pool right outside. Maybe we could go out? We waited for Mukul again, and shortly after he arrived, we decamped for the outside pool. After a few minutes of soaking, I told Degushi san that I wanted to take a picture, and went over to the bench where I had left my camera.

With damp hands, I carefully extracted the camera from its little black pouch, and got a good shot of the submerged bathers with Mt Fuji in the background. Deguchi san offered to take a picture of me, so I handed him the camera, and pulled back into the depths. After he took the picture, and verified with me that the picture was good, he put the camera back on the bench, and returned to the pool with us.

We chatted and soaked for about half an hour, and decided to head on back to the lobby for a drink or some ice cream.

DISASTER! END OF JAPAN BLOG PICTURES!

My camera was nowhere to be seen on the bench. It had nominally been in sight all the time we had been bathing, but all of us had been looking at the view, not at the bench. Deguchi san said, "I'll ask at the desk." He donned some shorts and disappeared out of the locker room. It took me a little longer to go out to the lobby, since somehow I had managed to drench my towel in the pools. But when I got out and met him, he downcastedly said that the desk people hadn't heard or seen any camera.

We sat around on one of the benches numbly eating ice cream (a box of chocolate-covered ice cream bonbons for only Y100. Great stuff!) Deguchi san decided we should leave a note at the desk with names and phone numbers, in case someone returned with the camera. "Sure", I said, disconsonantly. My faith in the honesty and reliability of the Japanese had been shattered. But at the desk, Deguchi san wrote up a detailed description of where he put the camera, what it looked like, and all the circumstances, including the blue bag that he had put it in. This was all in Japanese script, so I had no clue what he was writing until he told me afterwards.

We sat some more, and I bought another package of ice cream bon-bons for my dessert back at the dorm. I thanked my lucky stars that I had taken the 512 MB memory card out of the camera this morning, and was running on camera memory, so no pictures were lost--except the two of us in the bath! So I was crossing my fingers. Maybe one of the bath customers would call Deguchi san and say that he had taken the camera accidentally. It was a long shot. I'll tell you later if we get a call. Unless someone calls, this is the end of the Japan pictures.

To be continued

rakkitty/shamaru

Houses & Mushrooms

rakkity/shamaru



Mushrooms



Houses

Susan's Snow

Snow Day

Rattletraps & Partially Finished Feathery Constructs

rakkity/shamaru

My perambulations around Nobeyama Observatory via foot and rattletrap 2-speed.

And next door to that observatory is a museum with.....

(Editor's note: I think shamaru's having entirely too much fun.)

Why I Travel

By Birdbrain



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Mike -- long overdue....

I am completely enjoying (vicariously) the trip to Japan. Clean and clear writing, photos, even the food looks clean and clear. In contrast, I've promised you a story about my trip to Morocco...which was delightful....but hard to grasp....particularly for a white, blue-eyed female....it's hard to connect with the locals. With a few notable exceptions:  

Towards the end of the two week trip - we were in the famous main square in the heart of Marrakesh's old city. The square is completely mis-named -- as the  "Square of the Dead", it is neither square nor dead. It has to be one of the livliest places I've ever seen. Crowded at all hours of the day and night with snake charmers, monkey handlers, jugglers, musicians, transvestite belly dancers, and everyone selling everything, it puts Times Square to shame. I even spotted one fellow with a table full of false teeth available to sell (and a large pair of pliers to remove yours!)...... There are oranges, dates, olives heaped all around, storytellers surrounded by pensive audiences and mounds of incense, frankincense and every other conceivable herb. Horse carts, taxis, women in veils, men in jellaba pixie hoods, and the call to prayer in the air....This is not a tourist attraction; there are plenty of Moroccans in the square.

Selling is brisk, constant, and always in-your-face. "Regarde ceci ? Aimez-vous ceci ? Combien?" Constant tugging at your sleeve...look at this, buy this...."Non, merci" became my mantra. I'm a reluctant shopper at best, and this was daunting. But it was live theatre and once or twice I stepped up and haggled in high school french. No mean feat.



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In any event, in this midst of this crazy place, I found myself standing quietly waiting for 2 friends to finish the time consuming process of buying $2 perfume....wondering why it was taking so long. A fellow salesman came over and tried to get me to make an offer on his stuff...we started in French...
He: "Aimeriez-vous acheter ce parfum" (would you like to buy this perfume?)
Me:...."Non, merci"
He: Just smell it! It's jasmine, heavenly!
Me: No thank you.

Him: Where are you from (In English)
Me: USA. Your English is good. How many languages do you speak?

He starts counting on his hand...looking up to the sky.... "Arabic, French, Berber, Italian, a little English and a little Spanish...." I start to laugh...

I ask: Do you know the joke? What do you call someone who speaks 3 languages? Trilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks 2 languages? Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks 1 language?? AMERICAN!

We laugh loudly together.  Clapped and started a long and wonderful conversation about Americans and the rest of the world.... "Why are we the way we are??" (was his theme).... while I would blither "Don't judge us on basis of our government actions....people are people..." Which led to talking about our shared joy in traveling, learning and meeting new people.

At the end of this exchange - he touched his heart, bowed and said: "this conversation has warmed my heart".

"Moi aussi" 

Kilauea

Peter's been touting Kilauea's most recent eruption.

3 Squares

Mike,

I'm getting a little back-logged here with pictures and stories. Could you send Adam over to help me put these pictures on your blog? I'll pay him with a dozen varieties of fresh, yummy mushrooms per story.

Due to popular demand here's more about food.

--rakkity/Shamaru

Japanese Gastronomic Delights

Friday is shopping day for the guests of Nobeyama observatory, since no meals are servedon weekends. A driver picked Mukul and me up at the dorm (we were the only visitors at that time)and we drove to the closest supermarket--about a 20-m drive away. The store was like an American supermarket, except they didn't accept credit cards and had no ATM. Since I was short of local currency, I needed an ATM. Our driver didn't speak much English, so I mimed sticking my ATM card into a slot, and pulling out bills. He understood immediately, and took me down the street to the post office, where I filled up my wallet with several 10,000-yen bills.

Back to the store. I wandered down the produce line, and found mushrooms. Mushrooms galore! The greatest variety of mushrooms I had ever seen. It was a mushroom lovers paradise. I was tempted to buy several packets of odd varieties, but ended up picking just one. I went on to the fruit area. They had some good looking big apples. Initially I was turned off by the size. because in the eastern US, the bigger the apple, the worst the taste. But Mukul assured me that this is not the case in Japan. He also encouraged me to try a persimmon. (He bought 6.)

Then on to the meat area. I selected two packets of sliced fish from the myriad of choices. The only way I could cook these little fishlets in my room was to fry them, so I had to get oil. After wandering around a bit, I found some shelves with a huge array of bottles containing what might be oil. There wasn't a single English word on any of the labels. I began to wonder if they might in fact be some other liquid--vinegar, perhaps? I turned around, and on the opposite shelves there were other similar bottles, and one of them, thankfully, was labeled Italian Olive Oil. I was saved. Got the smallest one there--200 g.

I also found some shelves of wine, whiskey and sake. I decided to try a local red wine called "Alps". A few other items like broccoli, cereal and milk, and we checked out. My tab for the weekend spoils was 5500 yen.



That night I cooked one of the packets of fish, 1/3 of the broccoli, and half the mushrooms. Delectable, if I do say so myself. For dessert, I had half the apple, which was perfect.

My own meals are not as complex and colorful as the ones we have been having on weekdays. If you are a mushroom and fish lover, you would enjoy Japanese cooking very much. I am, and do. The only thing I can dispense with is the vast quantities of rice that everyone eats. But there's so much food in our meals, I can get by with only one scoop of rice, and I'm satisfied.

I look forward to our next supermarket foray. This time I'll get 3 or 4 packages of mushrooms, and some other kind of fish. Itadakimasu! (Bon appetit!)

Shamaru

Shopping Day

Snow Biking at Nobeyama

Rakkity ( December 4, 2005)

It was snowing lightly when I started out on my bike excursion yesterday. My plan was to check out the museum in Nobeyama village, and then ride to the tourist town of Kiyosato. The bike I had picked out was a woman’s bike (they all were), had exactly two gears, and the seat was too low. But the bike path was flat and easy, so I got to the museum in about 10 minutes, and found it was closed. The notes I had read said that the museum was open on Sundays, but the notes were pretty old, so the hours may have changed recently.

So I rode on up to Kiyosato on the bike trail that parallels the main highway (141). In about 2 km, I reached the highest point on the road (shown by a sign in English)--1360 m. That’s about 3000’. As I continued on, the snow started falling in earnest. My glasses were fogging up, and I could only catch glimpses of the ground now and then.

There happened to be a little store like a mini 7-11 across the street, so I decided to stop and go in just to get out of the snow. A little lady, the proprietor, was sweeping the snow off the steps and in a large area outside the shop. I started to brush the snow off my jacket and pants, but the lady waved her hand indicating it didn’t matter if I dumped snow on her floor. When I looked around in the store, there didn’t seem to be anything warm or hot for sale. So I bought a can of Sapporo beer, paid 105 yen, said “Arigato!” and went out to continue riding. I didn’t get far into Kiyosato before the falling snow got really thick and furious, so I decided to turn around, .I shot a picture of a park from a bridge before heading back. Didn’t see much of the town, but maybe I can next weekend.



The cars on route 141 were driving verrry cautiously, going only 20 kph or so. Apparently no one has snow tires. On the way back to the “highest point”, I found a nice looking restaurant. It reminded me of the Italian refugios. Lots of wood paneling, old, massive table, and big windows to look out at the view (which was mostly white on white). I asked for a beer by pointing at one in the menu. Then the waitress asked something incomprehensible. She went over and picked up mugs of 3 different sizes. I smiled and pointed at the middle one. She also brought hot tea and two little slices of braised beef, which apparently always come with beer. Everything was great. Afterwards I polished off a dish of ice cream, which they never provide at the observatory.

The tea house was just above the railroad where it reaches its highest point, 1375m. There’s a good walking/biking trail by the railroad, and it turned out to be a shortcut back home. I saw some charming Japanese houses and even other bikers on the way back. When I returned to my room, I took a hot bath and defrosted.

Not an excellent day but a good one. Any day in the snow is better than a day indoors. Now if I could only find XC skiis.

shamaru/rakkity

Bike Ride


--

Setting A Fine Example

Hi Mike,

Three more small blog entries from Japan. Here is #1:

On Friday we had a "1-day symposium", actually a 2-hour, 5-people symposium, and then a 7-person party. (Where did the extra guys come from? What attracted them? Sake & sashimi?)

The 2nd entry is about a shopping spree on Friday when I got my weekend meals.

It's been snowing heavily here today (Sunday), but I got out on a bike and pedalled about 10 mi. That's entry #3. I'll send you the URLs with some words tomorrow.

Sayonara!
Ed

---

Photos from Flo's 93rd birthday party.

Mozilla & Dust Devils

Mozilla browser window.

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Mike,

Today I made a great discovery—the observatory has guest bikes for anyone to take out. So tomorrow (Sunday) I’m going to ride to the history museum in Nobeyama, and see the sights of the nearby tourist towns. I walked about 5 or 6 km today, mostly on bike trails, and watched the winds whip up soil from the plowed fields nearby. The locals ought to leave the stubble like most American farmers seem to since the great Dust Bowl of the 30’s. But here we are in a deep valley hemmed in by mountains—unlike the Great Plains—so the soil probably just gets blown from farm to farm instead of into the Atlantic.
There were also quite a few dust devils over the farms. I haven’t seen any of those before except in western deserts. I didn’t get a picture of one today, because I was on a quest for camera batteries, but now, thanks to the Nobeyama Co-op store (Domo arigato gosiemas) my camera is re-empowered. Maybe tomorrow I can get a dust-devil photo without being swept up in one like Dorothy.
Shamaru/rakkity

Japanese Keyboard & Blog

Mike,

Here are two pictures of where my fingers are doing their pecking these days. The first is my workspace, where you can see my laptop sitting next to a keyboard and the corner of a monitor "pcheliog2" (which is currently crunching away on a project). Look closely at the laptop screen and you might recognize someone drinking an Old Fashioned.

The 2nd picture shows the bane of my existence, the Japanese keyboard--it's about half katakana and half english. The upper line of keys has different locations for "&","'", etc. In fact almost all of the symbol keys are mispositioned for american fingers. And the space key is shorter to accomodate more katakana keys. What a mess! No touch typing on this baby, for sure. When I set up my password, which ends in &&, for this computer network, I didn't realize I'd need to log in on another workstation to copy files over, and that that workstation has an american keyboard. My password didn't work on it because the & is over the 7 (where it's 'sposed to be). The only cure was to change passwords, and let the new one propagate through the network.

If you think the Japanese keyboard is an accident waiting to happen, you should see the Japanese Mozilla browser. It's an accident in progress. I'll try to send a picture of that one later.

Shamaru (alias rakkity)

News From Japan

Mike,

I'm losing track of what I've sent you and what I haven't. So here are all the URLs of Japan stuff:

The dorm room I'm living in.

Shots of the observatory and mountains.

I've learned how to say Schmahl in Japanese.

In the last few days I've written a lot of emails to P,B,&K which I should collect together. Since I have internet access in my room I can do that anytime.

How's the hand? Why not a story on the blog? Or is it too embarrassing?



Ed (rakkity)