Move over, moon, between the orange and the blue (see post below) we get a pushy sun burning through the early fog.

Yet another Saturday morning foraging for L’Etoile…

Is it tedious to get up at dawn every week to go to the Market?
No. (I get to see the sun rise; see photo below.)

a dramatic awakening

Is it lonely walking around and around the Square with that rickety old thing that some like to call a red wagon?
No. (I meet more people at the Market than I do all week elsewhere in Madison. The Square is overrun by faculty types. Students drag in as well, but they normally get there toward the close of the morning, when my own work is done.)

Blogger "B" makes a Market appearance 

Do I stock up on too many fruits and vegetables when I shop for myself at the Market (a common complaint)?
No. I stock up on too many flowers. I’ve encountered a lot of purple and yellow lately and so I was tempted by the flowers pictured below. But before I could even dig into the purse, I noticed that I already was the proud owner of another bouquet. Actually three.

purple & yellow: definitely this week's colors 

three vases for one table? 

There’s also the problem of too much honey. When I was told by Ms. Bee Charmer that she now had the “champagne of honeys” (made from the black locust flower) I could not resist. It can now join the others on my cupboard shelf: acacia honey, buckwheat honey, forest flower honey, lavender honey and rosemary honey. What do I do with all that honey??? Tory, L’Etoile’s Chef de Cuisine, suggested I make honey-based vinaigrettes. Okay, that will use about a spoonful a week. Chef Odessa pushed for honey with Darjeeling tea. Too sweet! My grandmother would pour honey over all the berries she served for dessert. That’s harder to do when you’re like me, nibbling your way, all day long, through the containers of fruit in the fridge. For now, let’s just say I have a wonderful collection of honeys to show off to visitors.

Bee Charmer joins the n.c. parade of honeys

Even though the lyrics say that the blue moon turns to gold* in reality the orange moon was yesterday, the blue moon is today.

Thanks to my reader pal who found for me the article in Sky & Telescope on the blue moon phenomenon –the modern definition of which is that two full moons appear in the same calendar month. It's likely that everyone but me remembered that the second of those is called the “blue moon.” [The lunar cycle is 29.5 days and so the event is rare; over the next twenty years, there will be a blue moon only 17 times. One such time is today.]

* Blue Moon,
You saw me standing alone…
I heard somebody whisper please adore me
And when I looked to the Moon it turned to gold..

By the light of the orange moon…

I am writing a post, but my eyes are riveted toward the window. Outside, a bright orange moon is staring straight at me. Why is that an enormous experience? It’s just a piece of rock suspended in the vacuous space. But it’s so beautiful! Am I programmed to believe that it is indeed beautiful? Or, was the day such that whatever I would see at this point would appear beautiful just because things felt so right?

I’ll not go back to the beginning of a good morning – after all, I WOULD THEN BE ACCUSED OF KEEPING A JOURNALISTIC BLOG (see post below). How wrong you all are, fellow bloggers, I DO NOT, DO NOT report on my days with any degree of detail, I DO NOT!

There, having set the record straight, let me proceed with a bit of a recount of the day.

…And jumping to the afternoon, I want to say a few words again about the foreign attorneys who are at the Law School for the Summer Program. I have grown to love this group as much as I love any group of students. It will be hard to let go of them next week as the Program comes to an end.

Today I arranged for a visit Madison’s Capital Brewery (rated no. 7 in the world and no. 1 in the country, or so the guide told us). I am posting a few shots from the tour because I know that a few families back home are logging in to check up on the participants. I could post more photos, but I am bound by my own slogan of “keeping it short and to the point.” I know, I know, nothing about this blog is short and to the point, but I do try.

The tour was especially interesting to the German attorneys because they learned that not a small number of ideas and ingredients are a direct import from Germany.

Afterwards, I took the two dozen or so of them to Hubbard Avenue Diner for the “typical all American dining experience.” Perfect. Listen, attorneys, this is what America eats! Yes, burgers, BBQ’d pork and PIE! [I loved how they shyly asked for doggie bags, having heard that this is the custom, though not one that is practiced back home.]

In a more serious vein, I spoke at length to the attorney from Colombia (he appears in one of the photos below). (I spoke to others as well, but I cannot expound on all that took place today.)
This man had a wonderful, wonderful perspective on his stay here (and his forthcoming year in the LLM program at Harvard). I asked if he would miss his family (mom, dad, brother – all attorneys like him) during his year away? Possibly, he told me. But he has said to himself that if he is going to do this, it will be with joy and an open mind. No sadness. No nostalgia. It is a challenge and a glorious one at that. I’m going to end this post on that thought – one which I’ve been mulling over for the past hour or two.

Okay, patience everyone else – let me have a photo run now:

the excuse that brought us together this afternoon 

special bonds 

sample beer, sample friendship 

these guys know their beer 

it's just a rock, it was just a day... a lovely rock, a lovely day 

A comment on the green-eyed monster play

During last night’s dinner (see post below) the topic of what to do with out-of-town visitors came up. I was asked if I had taken my group last week-end to American Players Theater. I replied that I hadn’t because they were performing Othello and I didn’t much care for Othello.

Dead silence. You could hear the proverbial grease sizzle on a hot platter in the kitchen 1 mile away.

Finally, The Question sprang to the lips of one shocked listener: “You don’t like Othello? Is there something WRONG with Othello? What the hell is the matter with you??” (perhaps I only imagined that last part).

I couldn’t think of a reason for my anti-Othello stance. I quickly went on assure everyone that I did like Twelfth Night and Macbeth alright, and blog readers have heard me rave about Romeo and Juliet (a bit déclassé these days perhaps, but what can I say, it’s the truth), just so everyone would resume eating and the dreaded silence-after-a-bombshell would cease to be (or not to be).

This morning, still burning with shame I clicked through my favorite online presses and lo and behold, what light through yonder paper shined if not an article in the International Herald Tribune (here) on Shakespeare-hate.

The author describes the waning popularity in England for the works of William S.. According to the journalist, this is for good reason, which can be summarized thus: boring and incomprehensible.

I wouldn’t go that far. Listening to the poetry of Juliet’s speech to Romeo is, in my opinion, unbelievably moving. Tear-jerking, in fact, in its loveliness. And how about Macbeth’s words:

“Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Whoa! That’s positively chilling!

But I am with the IHT writer when he says this about professed Shakespeare-love:
"There are those who believe that to sprinkle his words into a conversation shows how smart they are. Discussing politics, you might hear someone say: "A peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience." You know it's Shakespeare because you don't have a clue what it means. But you feel obliged to nod knowingly."

I feel empowered after reading this. Suddenly I feel no compulsion to suck up to the Othello lovers amongst you. Chances are you don’t much care for it either but are afraid to admit it. What's wrong with it? Plenty! It’s depressing, it’s long and it gives us the green-eyed monster label to a perfectly normal feeling that every person in the world experiences now and then.

Convention notes: no, not THAT Convention!

The monthly convention of UW bloggers (A, B, C and F) took place last night at L’Etoile, pulling together for me different strands from my days into one tasty package.

Though blogging about blogger digestion (indigestion?) is proving less compelling now (as opposed to after the first such meetings some months back), I did want to offer a comment about the effect of regular convening on one’s awareness of the passage of time. Weren’t we just toasting the end of  Spring teaching? Heavens! How did we move so quickly into (almost) August, with its odd mixture of vacation days and Fall teaching preparations?

Last night’s dinner meeting had many more serious elements than in the past. We returned to the topic of challenges facing bloggers again and again. Perhaps for this reason, all* but one of the bloggers (I’ll let the readers guess which one) chose to end the evening with  a rousing spin on the hip hop dance floor.

All conventions should end with such a healthy discharge of physical energy.**

* Those that hip hopped late into the night were impressive. Really impressive. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a blogger by his/her blogger image. Sedate? Staid? Serious? Sedentary? Certainly not. 

** I could not resist this plug at physical activity, if only to live up to the pronouncements made last night about this blog. It was determined that “Ocean” ranks highest (of the 4 blogs) in terms of spewing forth mantra about good, healthy living (what with references to long walks and market foods, it appears to read like a column out of “Organic Lifestyle” or some equally virtuous, health-oriented magazine). “Ocean” was deemed also to be the most chronologically journalistic. Though I disagreed vehemently with this latter description (come on, this post is the exception!), I was glad that at least it did not get the “weirdest blog” award. No such prize was granted last night, but since “Ocean” was, in terms of awards and characterizations, on a bit of a roll, I was worried.

Food, grocery stores and idealism

David Brooks, author of “Bobos in Paradise” and the more recent “On Paradise Drive,” has a way of tapping into the sore spots in my generation’s outlook on life, love and consumer goods. I was not surprised, therefore, to see him cited in this week’s Isthmus article on the Madison organic food market expansion.

Why do we shop at Willy Street, Magic Mill and especially Whole Foods? Well yes, because the food is damn healthy and tasty, and efforts are made by the stores to support small, regional farms that have respect not only for the food but for also the environment (meaning they practice sustainable agriculture). A win-win situation –but for the prices.

Enter the cheaper, but still trendy Trader Joe’s. Or – about to enter, since, as the Isthmus piece tells us,  no decision has been made as yet if it will occupy the anointed grocery spot on Monroe Street (EVERY grocer in town wants that spot which lays there waiting for the well heeled click click of Vilas – Edgewood area shoes.) The battle between Trader Joe’s and Willy Street to woo the developers is at the heart of the news story.

But I want to return to the Brooks comment, which addresses (ridicules?) our state of the mind as we enter the grocery store. We are indeed longing for that feel-good market shopping experience. And, ever since Whole Foods and before that, Magic Mill, moved to the west side, grocery shopping has become a happy experience for me. I hated grocery shopping prior to this in the same way that I still hate going to big malls. But is it only because of the better food that I am now happily throwing pricey items into my green cart? Brooks says that the “feel good” experience stems from something else. He writes:

“You get the impression that everybody associated with Trader Joe’s [fill in: Magic Mill, Willy Street, Whole Foods] is excessively good – that every cashier is on temporary furlough from Amnesty International, that the chipotle-pepper hummus was mixed by pluralist Muslims committed to equal rights for women, that the Irish soda bread was baked by indigenous U2 groupies marching in Belfast for Protestant-Catholic reconciliation and that the olive spread was prepared by idealistic Athenians who are reaching out to the Turks on the whole matter of Cyprus.”

Exactly! You mean all that’s not really the case????

I have to add, as a post scriptum, that Brooks doesn’t forget to throw a quick little punch at our restaurant culture. He writes: “the rule in these pedestrian-friendly town centers [nc: hello State street] is ‘Fight a war, gain a restaurant.’ You’ll find Afghan eateries, Vietnamese restaurants, Lebanese diners, Japanese sushi bars alongside dining options from Haiti, Cambodia, India, Mongolia and Moscow.” No wonder there aren’t any Polish eateries – America hasn’t had much grief with Poland in the last century or two. 

Convention notes from someone who is still a bit mystified by American elections (even though these will be the 5th* in which I will be voting)

Ann writes (here) that she doesn’t “want to watch the phony display that is a political party convention.”  Household preferences do force her to tune in, at least in the first days of the speeches. By the third day she prefers to retreat into a room where she can flip on “Amish in the City.”

I am less critical of the speechmaking. Where Ann sees Obama’s words as “banal” with perhaps excessive references to “hope,” I see them as a rather successful attempt by a novice politician to position himself as someone who can speak well to the general public. As for Clinton’s rapid-fire words delivered with his typical (and contagious) pleasure in being on the stage,  aren't they exactly what Kerry needs to buffer his own lackluster oratorical style? And Edwards? Half of the country is taking in that Southern accent, watching the aged parents in the audience and believing that the ticket represents more than just the viewpoint of the liberal Democrats of the Northeast.

A commentator on NPR’s Fresh Air yesterday (believe me, if I remembered who it was, I would have said the name) noted the great transformation that has occurred in the last 40 years where politics have now become quite public. Before, politicians got elected, passed laws, waged wars, while the public watched performances of people belonging to the performance world. Now the two are intrinsically intertwined. We know that, like it or not, selling an image on TV is crucial. Who can deny that Gore lost in part because he could not shake the fueled-by-media accounts that he was two-faced? And how often did the media scramble to show us every instance of GWB misspeaking to reaffirm the idea that this man is basically illiterate? [In the end, it was argued that Gore ran the stupid campaign and GWB was the bigger liar of the two.]

In these times, then, the Convention is monumentally important. If GWB’s image is bolstered by the “performances” of the politicians who surround him, so, too, Kerry must enter on the wings of the best of the best, so that he can minimize his own particular shortcomings. And he has had a splendid crew. Clinton (whom Ann admits is an “engaging” speaker) roused the audience on the first night, Obama (whom I did not hear, but I did read his speech; Ann gave him high marks for his “delivery” and so I’ll go with that) delivered a speech that was rated A+ by a vast majority of the pundits and Edwards reeled in the unity theme with a number of well chosen and well stated sound bites.

I don’t even have to watch tonight (and I wont because of “blogger dinner” – more on that later). Kerry had his henchmen and women working hard to use the stage in the way that we have come to expect it to be used. Insofar as politics now belong on that stage, we had as good a presentation as we can get. Me, I’m saying a silent thank you to the openers -- Clinton, Obama and Edwards. Kerry can't carry the show alone. He needed their act and they served him well. Now we can all just sway and sing along to the well-known favorite songs.

* Presidential, that is (Blogger refused to let me insert a single other word into the title).

The tears have got to stop!

But what can you do? The night is magnificent! A clear sky, a setting sun and an evening Concert on the Square that is set to bring down the house (indeed, it was so crowded that people turned a bit vicious in overlapping their blankets on top of your own).

Tonight, the New Zealander, Hayley Westenra sang in her debut orchestral performance. The music was deliberately powerful: Bocelli’s “Time to Say Goodbye” from Romanza (download it, the version with Sarah Brightman, everyone! Guaranteed tears! Or is it me? I heard this song repeatedly on my very first visit to China several years back: I will always think of it as a mix of China where I heard it and Italy – the country where I secretly buried my roots way back when... more on that next month), and then a beautiful piece from New Zealand – Pokarekare Ana. Sob city! I could not stop bawling. My co-listeners shifted the blanket a bit to disassociate themselves, but it was no use, because the songs call for hugs and embraces and tears. Schmaltzy? No, not at all. Beautiful.

My pal, John, from the L’Etoile bakery crew was there, performing with the Madison Chamber Orchestra. That, too, was sad – he’s leaving next month to study in Switzerland.  I know he’ll be famous someday, especially if fame is determined by kindness and a good soul.

In the end, as I wrote in Japan, what you notice every time is the presence of the children. These little girls (see below) climbed up to the podium and swayed to the music. But then, so did the grownups. God, it was a beautiful evening. (And we got back just in time to catch the Edwards speech.)

Concert in full swing: always, it's the children that inspire 

you saw him here first: John Patek. Remember the name. Talent and kindness -- how rare! 

Calling all blog readers: help save Pimbury

You may have missed the short little story in the NYTimes today (here) announcing the sad fate of Mike Pimbury. It appears that he is the last of the living Pimburies, having never married nor produced offspring. After his demise, the name belongs to history. [And not much of a history at that, since a quick Google revealed few Pimburies of note that could potentially survive in our collective memory. Most of the Pimbury hits are news articles about Mike searching for more Pimburies, as in for instance the piece titled “Y a-t-il un Pimbury dans la salle?” – is there a Pimbury in the room? And so on.]

I have no similar sad story to relate, since my maiden name of  “Lewandowska” is about as ubiquitous in Poland as Smith or Brown are in this country. But simply because I am one of a million or more doesn’t mean that I cannot empathize. And so, I am issuing this appeal: if you are about to marry and are caught in the trap of having to pick a name (his? hers?) and a hyphen will no longer work because two generations before you have made a menace of your now multi-part names already, consider Pimbury. It’s easy, it’s classy, it’s short. Your offspring could be academics (Professor Pimbury) or cheesemakers (Pimbury cheddar) or book publishers (Pimbury Press) – it all sounds good. Maybe not gravediggers (“bury with Pimbury”?), but just about anything else. Give Mike Pimbury hope: keep his name going for a couple more rounds.

Get out and smell the summer air

Sometimes I cannot get off of the computer in the morning. Small tasks pile up and by the time I'm done, the day is half over.

I should have this cartoon pasted on my screen (or, not to point fingers, but there's a colleague or two out there who might find it fitting):



But today, I was restless enough to push myself out that door early. I went to Owen Woods (a mere 5 minute walk from my house) and now I have to say, if anyone wants to see a dazzling array of prairie flowers, they should go there right now, this week, this day! 

I'm  including a photo below to help set the stage. But the real display of prairie color is even more beautiful. My advice to every blog reader in the Madison area -- go take that hike through Owen Woods (Old Sauk Road and Old Middleton)! It's worth it.

a walk through fields of color 

Café chatter

Oh my God, the woman at a nearby table is explaining to her professor the details of her nervous breakdown that lead her to not prepare for his exam. Does she know that all of us are only pretending we can’t hear?  I am tempted to jump in and say: you were so right to go to student mental health services! You sound like you are completely beyond the beyond. Get more help! And pick a more private spot to explain your suicidal tendencies. Twenty of us know too much and are now sitting at the edge of our seats, waiting to hear his response.

UPDATE: He’ll let her retake the (philosophy) class in another semester. She is pleased. Morbid thoughts are pushed aside, the future looks good to her again. Such power in the professorial magic wand (or in the student threat of mental collapse)!

UPDATE no.2: Ah! Having addressed one issue she is forging ahead with the next: “what about my GPA?” she groans. He cuts her some slack here as well. Incomplete this, drop that, do this and it’ll all work out. She is dripping gratitude. She is also stacking her other health issues on the table for him (and us all). Enough! The problem has been taken care of, move on, move on! He cannot also be expected to fix your eating habits! The professor, the god, the therapist, the healer, the dietician – how much is placed on the shoulders of this poor man... How bad he is at saying “I’m sorry, I only teach philosophy, nothing more.”

Has no one noticed all the pretty little stop signs around here?

I think I am an okay driver. I have been behind the wheel of a car since I was 18. I was in NY then and decided the time was ripe to learn and so I called a driving school that advertised its services on the back of a matchbox and asked for a couple of lessons. The instructor came over to where I was living in Manhattan, sat me behind the wheel and said “drive!”

Since then, I have logged in what seems like millions of miles on several continents, in bad weather, poor road conditions, amidst tractors, cattle and bicyclists, in the glare of broad daylight and in the middle of a pitch black night. I have never had an accident. My driving is so calm and predictable that it puts most passengers on long hauls to sleep. I stop for pedestrians on crosswalks and I try not to run over little critters on the road.

But I am at my wits end when I negotiate the newly constructed little curving drive that snakes past the west-side Borders in Madison. This stretch of road seems to defy even the best of the best. No one drivers correctly here. Drivers pull out of  parking lots (which, unfortunately, surround you on all sides) and side lanes without heed to convention or rules of the road, in the way that you would when you have no idea who has the right of way and you don’t care.

If I stuck to my guns and did what the good book told me (I mean the driving manual), I would be the proud owner of a pulverized heap of metal. So, in case you are reading this blog, let me send forth this little note:

Dear city planners and road engineers, 
 
You suck.

Sincerely,
nc
 

Distractions

I could not resist the London Review of Books at Borders. I was taken in not so much by the piece on Stephen Spender, but by this lovely sketch on the cover:


pleasant imagery 

Well of course, once I picked it up, I had to read it (good-bye productive afternoon at Borders). I spent far too much time on it, including on the last page with the listings of “personals.” I actually don’t much read personals, but recently I’d looked at those in the New York Review of Books and I was curious how these might be different.

For instance, in the NYRB someone had posted this:

IF LOVE TAKES, we’ll keep one NYC co-op and sell the other to establish a B & B upstate. You’ll garden, I’ll cook, we’ll write more books, play backgammon, embrace each other’s grown children. I’m a woman (62); you’re not.

That is some ad. It seems more of a quest for a lifestyle than for a partner. I wonder if there’s room for his input. Wouldn’t another game do, for instance?

So then there’s the LRB. More sedate perhaps? Well, consider this posting:

Not everyone appearing in this column is a deranged, cross-dressing sociopath. Let me know if you find one and I’ll strangle him with my bra. Man, 56.

Or this:

An inspired calligrapher can create pages of beauty using stick ink, quill, brush, pick-axe, buzz-saw or even strawberry jam. Pangrams of delight, but the worst sex you’ve ever had with a dumpy kibitzer (M, 41)…

Good grief. Suddenly the NYRB “wants to open a B & B” ad is looking like the winner of the lot. I suppose if there’s a guy who’ll go so far as to agree to sell a New York co-op and to dig trenches in some run-down B & B, he wont much mind a game of backgammon now and then, if it’s absolutely essential to her happiness.

About rabbits...

I rarely do Net quizzes. But something about Ann's post (here) tempted me. So what state am I? Never mind -- too many true insults lay burried in the result! Slightly less insulting and perhaps, therefore, less truthful is the result from "What book are you?" quiz, on the same website (here).

What am I? Blue Pyramid tells me:

You're Watership Down!by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits. (have they been reading my blog  here??)

Taliesin

I remember the first time I saw the houses of Taliesin (Frank Lloyd Wright’s Wisconsin residence, some 30 miles west of Madison) some years back. It was humbling, it really was. The scope of the project, the vision behind it – all a revelation to me. What did I know about architecture after all?

Organic architecture. It’s a term I heard quite a bit today as I once again walked the grounds of Taliesin (it’s a great place to take out-of-town visitors and this is indeed was the reason for a return trip there).

Of course, when you visit Frank Lloyd Wright places, you often find yourself asking the awkward questions – like, why is to damp and dank at Falligwater? Or hot in Taliesin West? Or, presumably, cold in the winters at Taliesin in Spring Green?

I do not really follow the discussions that would lead one to firmly articulate a position on the success (or lack thereof) of F.LWright in the arena of architectural innovation. But I can say this much: on a day such as this, nothing can beat a walk through Taliesin. The paths that work their way through fields of flowers bordering the corn rows, with undulating hills and patches of forest framing the scene, are a place of such breathtaking loveliness that it almost hurts. The FLWright houses are never a disturbance to the natural beauty here. That in itself is no small accomplishment.

Organic architecture: house meets tree 

Serious political commentary, continued: Democrats don't have as much fun as Republicans

 
A survey conducted by the Washington Post (read about it here) confirms earlier findings suggesting that Republicans spend their leisure time in ways that are more satisfying, while Democrats fret and worry more and, in general, do less on the week-end that would lead to  personal happiness. (The paper notes: “a majority of Democrats said they wished they had more fun on weekends, a complaint expressed by fewer than half of all GOP partisans.”)

The WashPost commentator notes this about previous research on the politics of leisure and happiness:

Political scientist and wit Lee Sigelman of George Washington University, in a study he did a decade ago of national trend data collected over the previous 20 years, discovered that Democrats, on average, didn't live as long as Republicans, were less likely to marry, more likely to divorce if they did get married and more likely to commit suicide.
He also found that Democrats were less likely to say in national public opinion polls that they were "very happy." "Compared to respectable Americans, i.e. Republicans," Sigelman concluded impishly , "Democrats can be expected to inhabit a Hobbesian state of nature, a world in which life is poor, short, solitary, brutish and nasty."

Some things that I am mulling over after this morning’s Market foraging for L’Etoile

Q: What’s round and comes in colors of yellow, orange and deep red and goes well with an outdoor picnic or summer meal?
A: The food items in the first two Market photos (below).

Q: Is that a burst of stars over the word L’Etoile appearing in all items bearing the restaurant’s logo?
A: It’s actually a sketch of a flowering dill umbel, which, indeed, does resemble a starburst. (See fourth photo below – they were on my list for today’s Market.)

Q: How come the blue and yellow flowers look almost impressionistic in their fuzzy contours?
A: Because I was tired and didn’t bother taking a second picture – even though everyone knows that blue and yellow are my favorite color combination  and so I should have been extra careful with my photography when I came across this particular batch of flowers at the Market. Ah well, just think “Renoir” when you scroll down to the fifth picture below.

sweet cherries from Door County 

hierloom tomatoes 

A burst of stars? no, a flowering dill. Really. 

dill umbel or a burst of stars? 

a "painting" I'd like to have in my study 

Dancing revisited

(A comment on an evening with friends doing something I haven’t done in years)

Okay, so we left before the club closed, but we’re talking minutes before. My two-word assessment of dancing (from the perspective of one who has lived through many trends and styles) – it’s great fun in its current incarnation. Tonight, the hip-hop deejay was running the show  and the place was electric! Also packed. So that when they played “lean back… lean back…” and you swayed back a bit (with an arm out for emphasis), you could actually lean comfortably into the person behind you, no problem.

I can’t write more – I have to be up in 4 hours to go to the market and I’m all danced out. I’ll end with a photo of the deejay. If you change the nose a bit, doesn’t he remind you of someone?

Stuck in my head now – “I like the way you move…thump thump thump… I like the way you move…” Fantastic beat. Really, amazing movement opportunities.

from reggae to hip-hop 

One afternoon, two reader comments

 
A professor-type writes: “ [bla bla bla …amounting too ‘your blog is too critical’ bla bla bla] [It's] up to you, but ...”
 
A student writes: “…I will be a 1L at UW this fall. I am emailing you because I have been reading your blog for the last couple of months. I have thoroughly enjoyed the pictures of Madison and your commentary since I have only been to Madison once for two days…”
 
You can tell who your real friends are.

Sadness is…

 
…watching your dog willingly hop in the car, confident, unaware that he is on his way to Stevens Point for a 5-month stay because his owner, who has walked, fed, cleaned, scolded, loved him for 5 years cannot keep him during the rather hectic month and then Fall Semester.

If a dog bears the imprint of the owner’s personality, then, extrapolating from Ollie, I have to conclude that I am smart, persistent, loyal and peace-loving, though I make rude noises at strangers until they make the effort to pat me on the head. After that I am all over them, “climbing into their lap” (let’s hope this is metaphorical) whenever and wherever they “get down to my level.” I don’t realize that this is inappropriate behavior for a person my age/size. I do it because I trust them and like the comfy bonding that ensues. I don’t slobber and I like my own space, but I watch the comings and goings of people closest to me with an astonishing precision. I always know what everyone is up to and what mood they’re in. I tolerate the vicissitudes of their temper swings, though I sure would prefer a calm day. And I love food. I eat basically anything. 

punky funky Ollie, with that concerned look that he and I share (note his furrowed brow) 

Ollie, this morning 

A light posting

The house is near capacity – filled with out-of-towners, some experiencing the “Midwest” for the first time. Where to take them? What to do?

It’s the perennial problem: Madison is a great place to live in, a harder city to show off to an outsider.
                                                                                                    
Today’s plan was simple: a tour of the campus + home. Simple? Maybe not so much. The last of the visitors, arriving today, was to occupy a room that is rarely used. In freshening things up, I noticed that the light switch was temperamental: sometimes it produced light, sometimes it stubbornly remained oblivious to my prodding. I called the electrician and this morning she arrived. Yes, she. Aside from the 1960s TV ad featuring Josephine the lady plumber, I have not seen a single female in any of the service rounds I’ve had to schedule with plumbers, electricians and the like. Not even in Poland. Actually there were no service rounds in Poland, but the Ukrainian whom you hired on the side and paid under the table to resolve your electrical issues was never a female either.

“Josephine” came and took three hours (really) to assess the problem. Ultimately she deemed it unfixable, short of rewiring the entire lower portion of the house. Our last guest was scheduled to arrive this evening. I said “go for it!”Many hours and hundreds and hundreds of dollars later the problem was (sort of)  fixed (even though it was only 'sort of' a problem to begin with): the light is now 75 % un-temperamental, so that on the rare, once in a decade occasion that someone actually uses the subterranean room (for lack of space elsewhere), they now have fairly reliable light.

Many things are spinning through my mind. Such as – did the house really need to be rewired (given that the light success rate has risen from 35% to only 75%)? And am I doubting this because she was a woman and therefore, in my conditioned eyes, somehow less electrically savvy? Was it worth almost taking out a second mortgage for this project, given that our very easy-going guest could well have adapted to the couch upstairs? And finally, now that this project is over and done with, how else may we amuse all these  people that are passing through?

Just so you know, I don’t pamper guests. Today I forced all three to go out and gather fruits and berries for their supper. As a result they got me to bake the cake that was a household favorite for many many years. It’s called the F.B.I. cake (in honor of J.Edgar, who loved it) and it comes from Maida Heatter – all chocolate, freshly whipped cream (skip the sugar! Good quality cream rarely needs sweetening), and backyard berries. A tiny photo for the blog to commemorate a remembrance of things past.

chocolate, berries and cream 

What should be moving – the earth under my feet or the feet on the dance floor?

 
I am to join friends tomorrow for a night of clubbing and dancing. I have a concern. I have always thought myself to be a bit of a wild dancer. We’re talking about the height of my dancing activity – late 60s through 70s. Perhaps the label was given because I arrived back in Poland at a time when couples were still twirling each other in traditional rock ‘n roll movements. I didn’t even KNOW the traditional spins and twirls and so I broke loose. Eventually things evened out because Poles, too, started waving, jumping, swaying and generally making spectacles of themselves on the dance floor, just like their American counterparts. Still, my energy level being on the high side, I think I was rather excessive.
 
These days I never dance anywhere except in the privacy of my own quarters. But others who have observed me have noted that I dance in the “70s” way. What does that even mean, I want to know? I have been told that jumping from foot to foot in little steps is just not DONE and hasn’t been done for maybe two decades. Well, fine, I can contain myself, but then, do you mean you lose all that leg motion? Dancing with feet glued to the floor? What sense does that make?
 
So this, then, is the dilemma – dance like I once did and have people smile benevolently, or adapt to the new, feet-glued-to-the-floor mode (so far as I can tell) and get the hips to take over? It’s all very nerve racking.
 
Oh, for the easy days of the Polish dance floor… [Below is a shot from my Warsaw high school senior prom in the spring of ’69 so I am a fresh and eager 16 year-old; frankly my partner and I look whacked out – like we’ve tangoed our way through the gates of hell; I think I forgot that this was supposed to be a sedate and more formal event.)]

yes, yes, they had senior proms back in the Old Country (spring, 1969)