Remembering Warren Zevon

Ever since my last post, I haven't been able to get this song out of my mind. So I thought I'd afflict you, dear readers, in the same fashion. Herewith, the late Warren Zevon.

Oh, Hunter

He is Dr. (the doctor was as mythical as he was) Hunter S. Thompson. An American writer of magnificent proportion.

I have just watched a documentary film about him, titled "Gonzo: the Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson".

I highly recommend it.

It tells the story, not only of a self-created man but of the times in America during the '60's and 70's.

Thompson, to those who do not know, was an abuser of alcohol, drugs and life. But he was an excellent writer, much of the time. His best book (in my opinion, though not of others) was "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72", a chronicle of the American presidential campaign in 1972, during which Thompson almost single-handedly ruined the presidential hopes of Edward Muskie, spent an hour and a half in the back seat of a limousine with Richard Nixon, and lost his hope at the presidential defeat of George McGovern.

I believe in today's society, he would be known as a bi-polar individual. He could be funny and lovable and he could be mean and vicious. But all in all, ever and ever, he was "Hunter".

Get the movie. Watch it. Let me know of your opinion.

To those of you who don't know, Thompson ended his life in 2005 with a gunshot to the head in his kitchen.

Dying

I have just finished reading (in one day - it's a short book and an easy read) Christopher Buckley's book about the death of his parents in the space of less than a year. They were the famous conservative William F. Buckley and his stunning wife Patricia Taylor Buckley. Christo (as his family called him) was at his mother's bedside when she breathed her last. He was at home in Washington when his father died in his study in Connecticut. He talks about becoming an orphan in his 50's. It caused me to think about my own parents' deaths.

I became an orphan when I was 40.

But my mother died, of a brain tumor, when I was only 13. She had suffered through a year of increasingly severe headaches. My aunt had visited us in a small North Dakota town from California and my grandfather was driving her to visit other relatives in Minnesota before her return home. Seemingly to me at the last moment Dad sent me with them. While we were visiting in Minnesota, my mother worsened. She was sent to the nearest hospital 60 miles away. Then it was determined that her condition was serious enough to send her to Minneapolis. But she died in the night before that trip could begin.

I was in another aunt's house in Minnesota when the telephone rang. I had no idea of the seriousness of my mother's condition but I could tell from the graveness of the telephone call what had happened. At 13, I just wanted to be alone. I went for a long walk by myself. I'm not sure I understood until I got home what had happened.

Now we flash forward 27 years. I am living in Phoenix. My father has spent several winters in Arizona, found a trailer court where he had purchased a trailer home and was happy. But, while SWMBO and I were on a trip to New Mexico, we heard from him that he was in a hospital and was going to have his gall bladder removed. We cut short our trip and hurried home. He had already had the surgery and soon we brought him to our home to recover.

Dad was a big man but he had lost a lot of weight in the hospital. Additionally, for perhaps the first time in his life, he had lost his appetite. He worried about both of them. After a few weeks he said he wanted to go back to his trailer home, where his friends were.

I was working in the news media and had to go to to Detroit to the Republican National Convention. Only a day or two after I arrived there, I received a telephone call from SWMBO, telling me that she had gone to pick up Dad to bring him to our home for the week to watch the convention together. Instead she found him dead in his bed.

That's how I became an orphan, not being anywhere near when either of my parents died. Reading Christopher Buckley's book today I couldn't help wondering - is it easier if the surviving one is at the bedside or far away and only gets the news by a long distance telephone call?

I'm not sure I'll ever know.

I'm still here!

I have been very remiss in my blogging recently. I didn't feel I had anything to say.

But then! My buddy Mike , who has been absent for even longer than I have, finally blogged today.

So, I thought, "...well, if he can blog . . . so can I!"

So here's my life recently.

Yesterday, I came home from running some errands. When I put the car in the garage, Smoke (that grey bastard at the top of this page) was waiting at the door to be let into the house. So, like a good guy (that I am) I stepped up to the door to let him in. Almost immediately, he whirled and grabbed my ankle with both paws, claws extended, and also locked on with his teeth. I, innocent that I am, screamed some sort of profane words at him and tried to swat him off with a few papers I had in one hand. I, naturally, was wondering why this dear cat of mine had turned into a raging hell-demon intent on taking my life out through my ankle.

Suddenly it came to me! (As Mike would say, "I'm old and I'm tired.") As I would say, if I had enough sense to say ANYTHING, "Oh, shit, I'm...standing...on...his...tail!" I DID say something like that, at least in my head. I let up on my OTHER foot and Smoke (mercifully) let loose of me.

After I took the stuff I had in my hands into the house and told SWMBO that I was wounded to the bone I went out to look for (and apologize to) that (bastard) cat. He was out on the sidewalk in front of the house. When I called to him, he walked away, looking over his shoulder with a hateful glare in his eyes.

I asked SWMBO to try to call him into the house. He came in. I tried to stay out his way.

I don't know whether cats have short memories or if they forgive their people or what. But later he let me pet him and accepted my heartfelt apologies.

I love my Smoke.

My ankle, covered with spot bandages, . . . hurts.

I am NOT a stalker!

Well, I thought you oughta know.

Y'see, I have a blog list that is LARGELY occupied by ladies. And they ARE ladies. (Well, most of 'em.)

Heh-heh. Now you're all trying to figure out which one of you . . . AREN'T!

Well, for my money, you all are ladies.

But, with the exception of Mike and Colonel and Lynn and Steve and Tombo (not too sure about him .....KIDDING!) and Anaglyph . . .and Warren. They're all girls! And they're really HOT girls.

But..........I am NOT a stalker.

Sure, they're is Dawn (Whew! - Newfoundland is melting), Joanie (South Carolina is hotter than ever), Kitty (HAH! Don't tell me England is cold!), Sweet Lucy (Hey, France, what can I say!), Meggie (Down Under? Need I say more?), Malicious Intent (The title says it all!), Miss Cellania (Have you seen her pictue?), and finally, but not last, Willow (Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, wow!)

And finally, there's Granny J . . . or Julie. She's the only one of the group that I've actually met. And she's a beautiful young lady.

But . . . . . I am NOT a stalker!!!!

Spring blooms

Blooms from SWMBO's garden.

First, the common petunia.


Then the clematis.

And finally, the tropical-in-appearance honeysuckle.

More detail is observable if you click on each of the photos.

Chicken Piccata

Due to a vast (well, 2 or 3) number of requests, I present herewith SWMBO's recipe for Chicken Piccata.

Ingredients:

4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves
Salt & Pepper (optional)
1-1/2 Tablespoons olive oil
1-1/2 Tablespoons butter
3 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice
3 Tablespoons dry white wine
3 Tablespoons chopped parsley
2 Tablespoons small capers
8 thin slices fresh lemon

Preparation:

Sear chicken on both sides in mixture of olive oil and butter until golden brown. Set aside and keep warm.

Deglaze pan with mixture of lemon juice and wine. Reduce volume slightly.

Replace chicken in liquid in pan and turn to coat.

Top each piece of chicken with two lemon slices.

Sprinkle capers over all. Add chopped parsley.

Cover pan and let simmer for two minutes.


We love to add some freshly cooked fettucini mixed with heated Alfredo sauce. (The stuff in bottles in the store is fine.) A sliced baguette also helps the meal, along with a nice glass of white wine.

Bon appetit!

p.s. Recipe also works with veal or even turkey.