Musically speaking, I was transported back to my college dorm in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, on Wednesday evening when Kategory 5 took the stage at Anson B. Nixon Park. The band specializes in the hits of my youth (don't you dare call them "oldies" or "classic rock"), like Steely Dan's "Rikki Don't Lose That Number," Boz Scaggs' "Lido Shuffle," Boston's "Foreplay/Long Time" and "Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas.
One of the friends we were at the show with used to play in a band himself and revealed himself to be a master of "Name That Tune." He'd hear the first few notes or even drum rolls and knew what song was coming, and who performed it.
"Turn Me Loose. Loverboy," he'd proclaim with absolute certainty.
He even -- and this amazed his wife and me -- delayed eating his popsicle so he could focus his full attention on the guitar duel during "Hotel California."
Wonderful show. A great evening!
Thursday, July 6, 2017
STEREOTYPES: Don't judge a book...
I love it when someone blows a stereotype into smithereens.
On Independence Day I was standing in line for food at a picnic. The procedure was that you filled your plate from the buffet set out in the garage and then, carrying your plate, returned to the backyard seating area past the people still waiting in line. By pure chance, I happened to be standing next to a burly, heavily tattooed stranger who, according to a patch on his denim vest, was the vice president of a motorcycle club.
We were making pleasant small talk about how hungry we were and how hot it was standing in the sun -- I was perspiring through my little summer frock and he kept wiping his brow with a red bandana -- when a fellow guest passed by carrying a plate full of sushi.
"Ooh!" my new friend exclaimed. "Aww, man! There's sushi!"
He went on to describe his love for sushi in vivid language. But when we finally reached the buffet table, I noticed he skipped the tray of seaweed-wrapped rolls and dug into the bowl of tortellini salad instead.
"What?!" I asked him. "Weren't you just saying you loved sushi?"
He explained that yes, he was -- but he was also very particular about what kind he liked, and this just didn't meet his standards.
On Independence Day I was standing in line for food at a picnic. The procedure was that you filled your plate from the buffet set out in the garage and then, carrying your plate, returned to the backyard seating area past the people still waiting in line. By pure chance, I happened to be standing next to a burly, heavily tattooed stranger who, according to a patch on his denim vest, was the vice president of a motorcycle club.
We were making pleasant small talk about how hungry we were and how hot it was standing in the sun -- I was perspiring through my little summer frock and he kept wiping his brow with a red bandana -- when a fellow guest passed by carrying a plate full of sushi.
"Ooh!" my new friend exclaimed. "Aww, man! There's sushi!"
He went on to describe his love for sushi in vivid language. But when we finally reached the buffet table, I noticed he skipped the tray of seaweed-wrapped rolls and dug into the bowl of tortellini salad instead.
"What?!" I asked him. "Weren't you just saying you loved sushi?"
He explained that yes, he was -- but he was also very particular about what kind he liked, and this just didn't meet his standards.
Monday, July 3, 2017
BOOKS: A new biography of Douglass
The new biography "Women in the World of Frederick Douglass" is not your average light summer selection, but it's an excellent read. The author, Leigh Fought, covers Douglass's childhood as a slave, his two marriages, his family life, his involvement in the abolitionist and feminist movements and particularly his friendships with female activists. The personality clashes and the petty quarrels between the various factions sound very contemporary.
I proofread the book for the Oxford University Press before it was published, so I read the review in the "Wall Street Journal" with trepidation lest the reviewer had spotted some whopper of a typo that I had overlooked. If he did find one, he didn't say anything.
I proofread the book for the Oxford University Press before it was published, so I read the review in the "Wall Street Journal" with trepidation lest the reviewer had spotted some whopper of a typo that I had overlooked. If he did find one, he didn't say anything.
WRENS: Birthday for the birds
Some wrens built a nest in my bird feeder and laid four speckled brown eggs. I've been checking out the nest every day, and on Saturday I got to watch a hatchling emerge from his egg. He was about an inch-and-a-half long, gray, and naked except for a tiny tuft of light-gray feathers atop his head. He was soon joined by another little guy, both wriggling around.
The parents have been flying into the feeder often, caring for the infants, and I've been reluctant to lift the lid to see their progress lest I disturb them. I haven't heard any peeping noises yet, but I'm sure I soon will.
What a privilege it was to see this new life emerging!
The parents have been flying into the feeder often, caring for the infants, and I've been reluctant to lift the lid to see their progress lest I disturb them. I haven't heard any peeping noises yet, but I'm sure I soon will.
What a privilege it was to see this new life emerging!
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