Mike,

On our way down from our highest camp in Glacier NP last August, our youngest fogy-hiker, Reed, asked me to take a bunch of overlapping pictures from a spectacular viewpoint. Far to the left we could see the canyon we came up from Canada, in the middle we could see the distant, smoke-shrouded Lake Bowman where Beth was to meet us, and far to the right we saw the wonderful “hanging valley” alpine meadow where we camped the night before. My pictures overlapped horizontally about 30-40%, but there was one point where I had to side-step to get around some obscuring trees for the last 4 shots.

I was dubious about stitching all 11 of these pictures together, particularly because of the sidestep. But then I found a program (Doubletake) for the Mac that does the stitching automatically, and it did a wonderful job of joining the pictures that overlapped in the distance but not in the foreground. I only had to tweak the picture in one area using The Gimp to get rid of a floating tree branch.

Reed’s last name is, appropriately enough, Panos. And he really does love panos. He wants to print this picture as a 1-foot by 9 foot mural.

So here it is for your viewing pleasure.

–rakkity

Blogmeister’s note.  And here it is for Adam who always wants the largest version.

Mike,

Here (over Boulder) is an iridescent cloud that looks like a triple rainbow.

I’ve seen single versions of these in the mountains, but this triple one is amazing!

–rakkity

This from Jen.

I don’t drink much, I haven’t for years, but that hasn’t stopped liquor in my cabinet from disappearing. In fact, it seems to evaporate even faster now that I’m not wearing a path to that part of the living room. I thought I’d solved the problem by using a magic marker to draw lines around current levels.

On Thanksgiving I decided to join the fun and have a vodka tonic. I slipped into the living room, poured my tonic water, and, jiggerless, like the old days, added Sky Vodka. I worried I’d added too much. but shrugged my shoulders and walked back to the kitchen, sipping from my tumbler. Hmmm, I thought, this is weak.

I backtracked to the bottle and added more and walked away again, content that my drink would taste as it had lo those many years ago. But, no, my next sip tasted much like the last which is to say nearly no taste at all. I made another u-turn and this time held the bottle up to my lips and let go. Hmmm, I thought again, I never could, even in my most alcohol-drenched George Thoroughgood “I Drink Alone” days, guzzle eighty proof.

I put the bottle back and pulled its twin from the back of the cabinet and took a swig. Again, no burn.

I know, you all caught on long before I did. I don’t have to write that the next thing I did was bring my brother-in-law in for a taste. I don’t have to say that his immediate reaction was to guffaw.

Here’s why this is offensive.

Number 1. What kind of idiot do you take me for?
Number 2. Alcohol, even vodka, has flavor. If I replaced your beer with Tabasco Sauce would you notice?
Number 3. Do I look like Rodney Dangerfield?

Adam will smile when he reads this. He knows it all starts with one of us but he doesn’t yet know with whom. Now he can rule out himself.

Dan and John agreed to meet Peter, Bonnie and me at Julie’s Place in Acton for breakfast at 9 this morning. I’m an obsessively punctual guy and when Peter says, “It’s ten minutes to nine,” we hop into my truck and speed to the plaza. Get there in like three minutes, sit down, steal a fifth chair from a nearby table, watch our waitress pour our steaming coffee, and then tell her our friends will be by shortly.

Julie’s serves good food fast. I call it insta-breakfast, and though there aren’t that many seats, she does a swift and observably profitable business. As the clock ticked nine oh five and our waitress brings our second refill, I think about how Dan and John have a more than casual relationship with time. Dan is always late because, I think, he calculates exactly how long it takes to travel from home to point B, then halves it.

And, John, he flat out refuses to let the clock rule his life. If you agree to meet at nine that can mean anywhere from nine to nine fifty-nine. although I must admit of late he’s been quite punctual. I’m ruminating about all this as the big hand ticks its way down the face of the clock and we’re sipping our third cup of coffee.

Finally, at 9:25, and after we’d surrendered and ordered our breakfast, my pocket vibrates.

It’s a message from Dan. “Wherethefuckareyou? We’re waiting outside. Did you forget us?”

“Outside?” I thought. As in outside the restaurant? I stand up and look through the glass door and there they are standing behind a guy with a blue hat and a woman with white ear muffs, chatting away. Remember, too, it was damn cold this morning.

I push myself away from my porridge, amble over to the door, open it and smile at my two chilly friends.

Dan’s incredulous. “You’re here?” He pauses to make sure he’s not seeing an apparition. “Already inside? I got here ten minutes early, I didn’t see your car, I thought you hadn’t arrived.” By the end of his spiel he’s almost yelling.

Well, no duh. If you thought we were inside warm as can be, you’d a joined us, and I wouldn’t have worried about taking up valuable space without ordering. Now, tell me again why you wouldn’t peer through the door first.

“I didn’t see your car.” Dan shouts.

Well, guess what, you parked right next to it.

Adam will smile when he reads this. He knows it all starts with one of us but he doesn’t yet know with whom. Now he can rule out himself.

Dan and John agreed to meet Peter, Bonnie and me at Julie’s Place in Acton for breakfast at 9 this morning. I’m an obsessively punctual guy and when Peter says, “It’s ten minutes to nine,” we hop into my truck and speed to the plaza. Get there in like three minutes, sit down, steal a fifth chair from a nearby table, watch our waitress pour our steaming coffee, and then tell her our friends will be by shortly.

Julie’s serves good food fast. I call it insta-breakfast, and though there aren’t that many seats, she does a swift and observably profitable business. As the clock ticked nine oh five and our waitress brings our second refill, I think about how Dan and John have a more than casual relationship with time. Dan is always late because, I think, he calculates exactly how long it takes to travel from home to point B, then halves it.

And, John, he flat out refuses to let the clock rule his life. If you agree to meet at nine that can mean anywhere from nine to nine fifty-nine. although I must admit of late he’s been quite punctual. I’m ruminating about all this as the big hand ticks its way down the face of the clock and we’re sipping our third cup of coffee.

Finally, at 9:25, and after we’d surrendered and ordered our breakfast, my pocket vibrates.

It’s a message from Dan. “Wherethefuckareyou? We’re waiting outside. Did you forget us?”

“Outside?” I thought. As in outside the restaurant? I stand up and look through the glass door and there they are standing behind a guy with a blue hat and a woman with white ear muffs, chatting away. Remember, too, it was damn cold this morning.

I push myself away from my porridge, amble over to the door, open it and smile at my two chilly friends.

Dan’s incredulous. “You’re here?” He pauses to make sure he’s not seeing an apparition. “Already inside? I got here ten minutes early, I didn’t see your car, I thought you hadn’t arrived.” By the end of his spiel he’s almost yelling.

Well, no duh. If you thought we were inside warm as can be, you’d a joined us, and I wouldn’t have worried about taking up valuable space without ordering. Now, tell me again why you wouldn’t peer through the door first.

“I didn’t see your car.” Dan shouts.

Well, guess what, you parked right next to it.

Peter (Cortney called him the famous uncle) and I drove up to Ed’s place in New Hampshire and hung out for the afternoon. I think it was my brother’s first visit in ten years.  On the way home we caught the full moon over Mt. Monadnock.

Peter (Cortney called him the famous uncle) and I drove up to Ed’s place in New Hampshire and hung out for the afternoon. I think it was my brother’s first visit in ten years.  On the way home we caught the full moon over Mt. Monadnock.

Dear rakkity,

We had roomful of sixteen for dinner and then two more for dessert with assorted friends of Matthew’s tossed in at odd hours.

Wand over the photos and you’ll get some idea of who’s who. Not much, but some.

Mike

Note: We both like that empty table theme, although yours is a far better photo.

Hi Mike,

There were “only” 5 at our T’giving dinner, but it was the core schmahl five!
Here are a few pictures of our repast preparation and eating.

There will be some more pictures soon, as Patrick & Georgia will be here 3 more days, and we have lots to show them of beautiful snow-dusted Boulder.

rakkity

PS The 23rd is eminently possible! (but not the 26th or 29th).

Hi Mike,

There were “only” 5 at our T’giving dinner, but it was the core schmahl five!
Here are a few pictures of our repast preparation and eating.

There will be some more pictures soon, as Patrick & Georgia will be here 3 more days, and we have lots to show them of beautiful snow-dusted Boulder.

rakkity

PS The 23rd is eminently possible! (but not the 26th or 29th).

Asking for more in my final act.

By Ed Siegel

November 23, 2007

I RECENTLY celebrated turning 60 by having a boys’ day out at the movies. (No doubt early-bird specials will be next.) Since one of my friends is eligible for a senior citizen discount and another is slightly older than I am, the cinematic choice seemed appropriate – “No Country for Old Men.”

The reviews had just come out and they were almost unanimous in praise of the Coen brothers’ adaptation of the novel by Cormac McCarthy, he who has been lionized by everyone from Oprah Winfrey to Harold Bloom. I have to admit that I had never been crazy about McCarthy – “All the Pretty Horses” being too purple and “Blood Meridian” too portentous for my taste. What was I missing? Maybe “No Country for Old Men” would make a convert out of me the way that “Atonement” and the film “Enduring Love” made a McEwanite out of me.

I’m afraid I’m still missing the McCarthy boat as the story about a contemporary cowboy chased by a psychopathic killer turned out to be no movie for at least this old man. Obviously a book shouldn’t be condemned because of the adaptation, but the film seemed faithful and featured great acting by Javier Bardem, Tommy Lee Jones, and others, as well as the always-arresting (if never first-tier) direction by Joel and Ethan Coen.

“No Country for Old Men” belongs to a genre that cuts across almost every artistic idiom, one that could be bundled under “The world is going to hell in a handbasket.” Many of Don DeLillo’s novels fit the category, as do Stephen King’s. The best of DeLillo’s are sublime, the worst of King’s ridiculous.

Which brings me back to turning 60. It’s now evident that I’m not going to read every great book or see every great movie before I die. Unless those wonder drugs get even more wonderful, middle age is gone, baby, gone. You know the joke – how many people do you know who are 120?

It’s not that everything has to be great – an episode of “The Office” is rarely memorable the next day, but it’s a fine way to spend a half-hour. But whatever piece of art or entertainment I look to has to get me past the “Am I wasting my increasingly precious time?” factor, and “No Country for Old Men” didn’t do that.

It reminds me more of King than DeLillo in that the degree of difficulty is about a two on a 10-point scale. The metaphor of the psychopathic killer as emblematic of the world’s increasing amorality is undeveloped and shallow. The draining of humanity from both killer and victims is numbing. Give the ending a different twist, and not much separates “No Country for Old Men” from “Die Hard.”

Here, too, we have heroes and villains performing almost superhuman acts with blood spurting out of what I used to think were vital parts of one’s body. Me, I’m likely to take to bed with a paper cut. That probably hasn’t changed much in my life, but the disconnect with blood-drenched films gets greater with age.

Paper cuts aside, it’s not enough for an artist to impose a barren vista on America or the world. David Rabe’s play “Streamers” is currently being revived by the Huntington Theatre Company. When it first came out in 1975, it was seen as a searing statement on men at war in contemporary times. Indeed, it seems like a combination of Edward Albee’s seminal play “The Zoo Story” and the first half of Stanley Kubrick’s great film “Full Metal Jacket.”

So why is “Streamers” so dull today, where those other works are still fresh? If you randomly take any passage from “The Zoo Story” – currently being revived in New York with a new first act – and one from “Streamers,” the former crackles while the latter seems flat or forced. Albee earns his “We’re all animals under the skin” points; Rabe doesn’t.

Similarly, “No Country for Old Men” is, on the surface, Samuel Beckett crossed with John Ford, with a dash of Hemingway or Faulkner thrown in, and that should be a good thing. But McCarthy’s cornpone philosophizing – “Any time you quit hearin’ Sir and Mam, the end is pretty much in sight” – is weightless compared with those other artists.

And the older I get, the more I want weight (except around the waist). The “Hell in a handbasket” dish seems like undercooked stew if it isn’t mixed by a master chef.

Ed Siegel, former theater critic for the the Globe, is a freelance writer.