Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I like it because the rules are simple: get together with those you love and eat a big, happy meal.

I can live with that.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

The war to end all wars

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, an armistice was signed to end the war. It wasn't called World War One then, of course. It was simply The War or even The Great War. The slaughter and futility of that dark time in human history did not quite make the impression on men and nations that it should have. Humanity had to go and do it all again, bigger and better this time, and call it World War Two. Some day, perhaps, we'll learn. I'd love to live long enough to see the last of all wars. I dream of a time when no one will ever have to bear arms against another. Unfortunately, that is not the world I live in. Politics, ideology, racism, fear, ignorance, and greed may fuel wars, but human beings fight them. People who put on a uniform usually do so to protect those they love. Nations will wrap their wars in the usual nonsense that nations wrap things in, making the killing of others more palatable to their citizens. But that doesn't take away from the fact that people serve their country and risk their lives for their families, their friends, and their fellow citizens. Armistice Day--the original 11/11--is no more. Now we call it Veterans Day. All of us have veterans in our lives. Think about them. Thank them. Wish them a good day. And wish for the day when we can all live in peace. After all, that is what they fought for.

Bloomsday: after midnight

The two protagonists of Ulysses come together in the final act. Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus seek refuge from the cold, dark Dublin streets in the "cabmen's shelter" and engage in rambling and unsatisfactory conversations with each other and with an ancient mariner they meet. Bloom struggles to express his paternal affection for the drunk and ill-tempered Stephen, who seems unwilling to talk directly about anything, preferring to be obtuse and philosophical. Bloom persists in looking out for Stephen, and finally convinces him to come to his house and sleep off his binge. This part of the story is analogous to the "homecoming" portion of the Odyssey. A disguised Odysseus returns to Ithaca and hides out in his aged but loyal swineherd's hut. He meets his grown son, Telemachus, and ultimately they plot the rescue of Penelope and the destruction of the suitors. The two modern men do nothing so bold. Bloom delays his homecoming for fear of encountering his wife's lover, and Stephen is oblivious to the older man's ingratiating efforts. The episode is told in a labored, almost overbearing tone, what you might call high-falutin', once again showcasing Joyce's remarkable mastery of the language and love of good parody. Two things seem to be at work here. One is Joyce forcing you to examine your bias when you approach a work. We all come loaded with preconceptions when we examine art, and Joyce gathers them all up and tosses them back in your face as if to say (like Kool Mode Dee) "how ya like me now?" It makes for difficult and frustrating reading, but when it's all over it empowers you to strip away artifice and technique and look for the essence of things. The second is the elevation of the banal. The Odyssey is warriors and gods--Ulysses is everyday men and women. Joyce reveals the profundity of everyday encounters and throwaway thoughts, he elevates his "everymen" by making them the subject of his great artistic endeavor. The ordinary, quotidian travails of our fellow humans ought to be a source of the wisdom and inspiration we seek from myths and legends.

My long journey through Ulysses is nearing it's end. Only two more episodes--a little over a hundred pages--remain. Stay tuned.

Estate Homegrown Ale

I've been drinking beer from the Sierra Nevada Brewery in Chico for nearly thirty years. The stuff is damn close to mother's milk for me, and I'm always happy to try a new batch. The latest to cross my lips is the Estate Homegrown Ale that features "wet" hops grown at the brewery site. The hops used in beer are the unpollinated flower clusters--called cones--of the female plant. They are typically dried in kilns before packaging or further processing. "Wet-hopping" is using the freshly picked cones directly from the vines and substituting them for dried hops both in the kettle and after fermentation. The result is a rich and spicy "green" beer with a massive aroma and fresh, garden-like flavors. In the hands of skilled brewers the effect is marvelous, and the Estate Ale is no exception. Despite the high alcohol content (6.7%), the beer was very smooth and had a refreshing, light malt flavor. The huge hop profile was not at all overwhelming and the ale was dangerously quaffable. Go out and get some, I say, and drink it up while you can.

Gutter Books

Matt Louis, publisher of Gutter Books, asked me some time ago if I'd like to contribute to the "News and Events" blog on his website. Who could refuse? He connected me with author Joe McKinney--a homicide cop in San Antonio--who had submitted his novel Dodging Bullets to Matt for publication. I was able to read (and comment on) an advance proof of the book, and I sent Joe an inquiry and a list of questions. He was not only gracious and friendly, he sent me lengthy and detailed responses. I think you'll enjoy his thoughtful and interesting take on things. Go read the interview! And support your independent, small-press publishers!

Todos somos Chilenos

Your morning alarm is electrical, the pulses carried on copper wires. The coffee you make and the hot shower you take require copper wires and copper pipes. There is copper in the bronze hinges and drawer pulls in your closets and cabinets. There's copper in the brass buttons of your suit coat. You've got copper-clad pots to boil your eggs. Your computer and cell phone can't be made without copper. The electricity you pay two bits for two kilowatt-hours for is generated by huge, spinning bundles of copper wire. They work much like the windings in your car's alternator--more copper. You drive to work past homes and buildings whose veinous systems of copper wires and copper pipes keep them lit and habitable. The quarters you pump in the parking meter are disks of pure copper sandwiched between layers of a cupro-nickel alloy.

The United States consumes about two million metric tons of new copper in a year. A metric ton (aka tonne) is one thousand kilograms, or 2205 pounds. Two million of those is over 4.4 billion pounds. If there are 310 million Americans, that is 14 pounds of copper per person annually. If you live 80 years, that is 1120 pounds, or over half a ton (either kind!). The copper folks tell me a child born today will need 1500 pounds of copper to maintain our accustomed standard of living.

Chile is the world's largest copper producer, supplying about a third of the world's needs. The U.S. imports about a third of the copper it needs, and thus depends on Chilean output to augment domestic production and recycling. Copper is Chile's most important export, accounting for about 35% of the country's total. Copper mining and refining creates enormous environmental challenges for even the wealthiest countries, and the crisis in Chile has made the world aware of the hazards inherent in underground copper extraction. The dramatic news from Camp Hope that a rescue shaft has reached the thirty-three men trapped underground in the San Jose Mine has everyone optimistic that they will ultimately be rescued.

Everything we need for life is either grown or mined. Copper has been mined by human beings for millenia, it was one of the earliest metals our ancient forbearers utilized. Metalworking is one of the foundations of civilization, and its origins are somewhere in the mists of prehistory. Our modern way of life is even more dependent on the steady supply of copper and other metals. So we are all Chileans. Those men down there, they are our lifeline. They are literally our connection to the earth. Let us hope they all make it out safely, and that the next time they go down there, things will be better.

"Pander to their Gomorrahan vices."

This latest section of Ulysses was written like the script of a play, in dialog with acting instructions and scenery descriptions. It ran from page 422 to page 593 of my ancient Random House hardcover, by far the longest episode, but also the easiest to read. It certainly wasn't any easier to understand than the rest of the book, but it was once again engaging and intriguing. A drunk Stephen Dedalus takes off for the red-light district of the city and winds up in a brothel. Leopold Bloom, protectively, hurries off to keep an eye on him. The episode ends with Stephen getting punched out by a soldier and Bloom intervening with the local cops to avoid an arrest for a public disturbance. In the middle of it all, Bloom goes on trial and faces his entire lifetime of fears, neuroses, and hang-ups in a series of interrogations in front of various hostile audiences. He even sees a vision of his dead son Rudy immediately after rescuing Stephen. The whole crazy, hallucinatory adventure is something of a critique of society's sexual mores. The immoral behavior Bloom is chastised for is nothing more than the natural impulses of the body and the free-running fantasy of the mind. He's helpless to defend himself, as any of us would be against arbitrary and hypocritical standards imposed by narrow-minded, fearful people. Bloom becomes something of a mirror for all of us to examine how we would be seen by others if they knew our innermost thoughts and feelings. No one wants that, of course, the very idea makes us squeamish, and Bloom's ordeal is indeed unsettling. He survives and carries on, not triumphantly, but doggedly, enduring his humiliations without rage or despair. Joyce assembles a little of everything into these narratives--history, language, politics, social satire, music, theology, evolution, melodrama, and the base instincts of everyday people. It's like you are riding on a sea of the collective unconscious and picking up and examining the flotsam. I hope my barely-adequate grasp of this extraordinary book does it some justice.