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On hearing that Obama’s reaction to this Ukraine thing will be measured and firm, someone opined somewhere that what this really means is he (Obama) is seriously considering de-friending Putin on facebook. That would probably work about as well as sanctions would in delivering a butt slap to Russia, possibly more effective. And yes, the president’s posture on international matters of certain gravity like the present one has left him open to the criticism: pantywaist. But surely the white house has to say something, right? Putin is violating international law and Ukrainian sovereignty, no? Well maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But being told this by supposedly straight-faced American diplomats must have caused unprecedented belly laughter over vodkas at the Kremlin.

However…

If you ask me, and I realize you didn’t, one of the features of this President I quite like, contra McCain, is that he’s not recklessly shooting at anything that moves, as might an overeager child demonstrating the power of her first rifle [1], merely because he views himself as the world’s Great and Powerful Oz who must wield American force whenever and wherever he feels compelled to.

…

We’re back in Alaska!

The snow is all but gone again owing to sunny days and above freezing temperatures. Sorry Midwest, it was just your turn this winter is all.

So many pictures on the phone to prompt a sharing of experience I don’t know where to begin. I did hear a few ooh lah lahs on Happy Wife’s photo of defiance, so thank you for those, and I’ll add that I quite like that photo too, although surprisingly she (HW) cares a little less for it than I do, complaining that her hair at that moment didn’t look quite as nice as she would’ve liked it to look. “Seriously?” This is like saying the Great China Wall isn’t that awesome because look, over there, see that, a couple bricks are missing. Then again I accept I’m deeply biased in matters of devotion to my wife, possibly even to the point of pathology, of being uxorious.

Btw, she did eventually get over to the court house and receive her permit (#1208) for The Wearing Of Shoes With Heels In Excess Of Certain Limitations. Signed and dated by the city clerk! It never expires but so far as I can tell it is not transferable.

More later. Much to tend to this morning…

1. My brother in-law’s two girls, 9 & 7, received for Christmas last year a CZ .22 caliber rifle and a .410 shotgun, respectively. Although owing to their Father’s guidance neither is irresponsible around guns.

Presently visiting Carmel by the sea. More like in the sea today. The five hundred year drought decided to end last night. The dogs here wear raincoats, custom made. The median house price is $819,000, which may buy you a habitable space, or not. It may merely buy you something you’d need to tear down to the sill plate and start over again. In which case add another one point five million. There are no street addresses here and high heel wearers must obtain a permit from city hall and have it in their possession when clicking down a Carmel sidewalk (see unusual laws). Happy Wife, my little rebel with a cause, seen here wantonly flaunting the city ordinance:

Further south earlier this week we stopped to visit the elaphant seals, which, if you ask me, appear to be the result of crossing a shar pei with a sea cucumber:

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Wine tasting in the central valley was sensational! We tasted at the Justin Winery and stayed overnight at the Inn on the property in a positively extravagant room overlooking a south-facing slope of Cabernet grapes. We wanted to reprise the stay we both enjoyed here nine years ago when we came to celebrate (re) meeting each other for the second time. Longish story.

Other tastings occurred at Tablas Creek, Opolo, Sanford, Au bon Climat, and Turley, where the Zinfandels have tannins like cashmere. As I indicated today is gray and dreary so I’m chilling in our room doing my best to update you (using WordPress on a Kindle must be like reading braille with the tip of your nose) whilst Her Happiness is out shopping with our friend Sheila who came down from San Jose yesterday to spend the night/day with us. I texted her Happiness to remind her to stop by city hall for a high heel permit, to avoid getting busted tonight when we go out for dinner.

Later.

Boarding area at ANC. My dress goal was to appear modern, a more couture companion for Happy Wife compared to my usual mufti. How did I do?

Vacation. Posting will be light. Talk among yourselves. Back 3/3.

Picked up Happy Wife’s dry cleaning today. Dry and Cleaning have always seemed to me to be opposed concepts. Using solvents other than water supposedly dates back to the time of the Romans, who used ammonia derived from animal urine to launder their wool togas. And to think I could have saved us $29.17 just by having Harry pee all over her pants and jacket.

Speaking of whom:

BIGGER.

A menacing beast, isn’t he?

Seconds later, “You did bring the treats today, right? Whaaa… No. Tell me you didn’t forget the treats.”

BIGGER.

We (Happy Wife & I) are latecomers to Breaking Bad. I’d been suspicious of all the hullabaloo the series generated when it was current, there being nothing like widespread popularity around something “trending” to raise my cynical radar. (I have, for example, never tweeted. Not once.) But I’ll be dammed if we weren’t like nearly everyone else, totally enthralled watching Walter et al. take the long descent into ruthless criminality. With the possible exception of Six Feet Under I don’t think I’ve seen a better made-for-TV series. Plus we watched the episodes on Netflix at our preferred pace, some nights two or even three in a row, other nights when the episodic intensity overwhelmed Happy Wife, just one. When it comes to TV shows she abjures watching human torture or even its pretension. That, and any scene in any TV show involving animal cruelty or its portent has her up off the couch with hands over ears loudly singing la la la while scampering to the kitchen to busy herself with something, anything to prevent the onscreen image from searing into her imagination. “Dear,” I’ll offer when this happens, “I can fast forward through this part if you want.”

This rarely works and I end up watching the remainder of the show myself.

We only recently subscribed to Netflix, another trendy thing I was hitherto suspicious was nothing but another monthly hand in my wallet. I caved and signed up for a month free, after which it’d cost me $7.99/mo. Along with Amazon prime movies which stream for free to our TV, we’re now awash in entertainment options, so I called Dish network and told them to cancel showtime and hbo, a $26.99 “feature” on our monthly bill, saving us, in the end, $19 a month. The lady voice at Dish customer service asked me for my 4-digit pin number to prove I was me.

“Mam, I’ve just given you my name, address, customer id, last amount paid, my grandmother’s maiden name and the color of my first dog’s eyes. And now you want a pin number?”

“It’s for security reasons, Mr. Nibbe.”

“I don’t remember ever setting a pin, so no, I can’t give you my pin number. Ask the NSA, maybe they may know.” Not even a chuckle did this produce.

“Mr. Nibbe, I’d be happy to set a 4-digit pin number for you, so that the next time you call you’ll be able to provide a pin number.”

“Sure, okay.”

“Are you ready to provide me the number, Mr. Nibbe. I’d be happy to take that information from you now.”

“Okay, ready? How about something super secure, say, one two three four.”

“Let me repeat that back to you Mr. Nibbe. One two three four.” Is this number correct, Mr. Nibbe.”

“Yes mam.”

Promptly followed by: Is there anything else I can help you with today Mr. Nibbe, and if not thank you very much for calling Dish network, and you have a very pleasant day Mr. Nibbe. Which, while dubiously saccharine, I suppose is preferable to the coldly impersonal confirmation of doing it online: “Transaction Complete.”

Seen this morning when I came downstairs to make coffee.

Should be an interesting day.

More Amazon bashing at the New Yorker.

If you’re of the tl;dr crowd (~12K words!) let me summarize it for you: Amazon may be bad for books because of the tremendous success the company has had selling books, both traditional books on which Bezos founded the company and, since the introduction of the Kindle, e-versions as well. So successful has Amazon been in this area that the company is now moving into the business of book publishing, in addition to providing new authors an avenue for self-publishing, effectively removing the middlemen of traditional book publishing (e.g., agents, editors, designers, marketers, reviewers), people who, the author wants you to believe, are critical links in the chain of providing books because: “A shared sensibility for a certain kind of fiction or nonfiction writing unites everyone along the way.” In other words, we dare not leave such an important determination as to what fiction or nonfiction readers should read up to the readers themselves! Or worse, an algorithm at Amazon’s web site that suggests to readers what books they may be interested in based on books they’ve previously purchased and presumably enjoyed. Can you imagine! To say nothing of the casualties (“sickly gazelles”) left floating in the wake of Mr. Bezo’s carnivorous business plan (“The Cheetah”), for example your quaint corner store bookseller, but more importantly of course all the middlemen jobs at traditional publishing houses, people who, evidently, have historically viewed themselves as guardians of readers’ literary sensibilities.

Amusing then, isn’t it, that new would-be subscribers to the New Yorker, when clicking the “Subscribe” link at the web site, are cheerily offered to have the New Yorker delivered “Anytime, Anywhere!”, including your e-tablet. One of the supported versions of which is…. wait for it… The Kindle Fire.

No one has ever accused me of being a critic of culture. Certainly not a serious critic. Doesn’t mean I can’t spot a serious review of culture when I read it, or a pretentious one [1].

Claiming, as the “critic” did in the linked piece, that Dylan (Update: correction: s/b: Bing Crosby), Sinatra, Elton John and Neil Diamond are not important (his emphasis) in spite of possibly — just possibly! — being very good at their art, is like saying Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and Marquez, although very good writers, have been unimportant to our literary tradition, not a one of them deserving of their iconic status owing to their respective contribution, influence, encomiums, etc..

In other words, a real non-starter for a cultural critique, especially one I think was pretty clearly intended to be serious-minded. Not.

Most boomers have an opinion about Bob Dylan. A commenter at Lileks was right, some get downright evangelical over him. I like Dylan. Blood On the Tracks has to be my favorite, Hwy 61 Revisited has some real good stuff on it, and when I hear Hurricane the volume goes up, way up. As for John, Happy Wife says she knows all the lyrics to every song on Yellow Brick Road, impressive given it’s a double album set. I appreciate Diamond and Sinatra, not enough to commit either to my iPODs, but simply for their level of achievement and influence in their art. Same goes for Pete Seeger, btw (R.I.P.). Diamond is also interesting for the fact that he dropped out of medical school where he was doing quite well to become a musician.

1. Hat tip: Lileks

Beach detritus.

BIGGER.

Bluesky day at the beach. One right after another lately. I hope we don’t use up our annual allotment. I have twenty cyclists coming to Alaska this summer who’ll be looking to me, qua tour leader, to provide “appropriate” weather. Reason being I have on my left ankle a tattoo of Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player and deity of fertility who legend has it chases away winter and brings about spring. So they’ll be expecting me to perform.

No Kokopelli magic yet, though. It was twenty degrees today on our beach walk with an attention getting 20 mph north wind. Still, we love it here.

And we’re not alone:

BIGGER.