It has been fifteen years since the death of Idi Amin, the former dictator of Uganda. His last decade or so was spent living in exile in… [quickly burying the lead, see below for details]

“For much of the 1970’s, the beefy, sadistic and telegenic despot had reveled in the spotlight of world attention as he flaunted his tyrannical power, hurled outlandish insults at world leaders and staged pompous displays of majesty.”

While I don’t recall ever reading about the size of his hands, I remember a different “joke” from his reign of terror.

When the political, religious, and civil opponents disappeared and were later reported to have been found dead – their corpses so brutally beaten and/or dismembered that they were barely recognizable – Idi Amin announced that the alleged murders were Fake News. Somehow there were a lot of coincidences: each had “died in a car accident.” The ’70s were such humorous times. Remember Pol Pot?

After about 300,000 similarly grisly “car accidents”, the Last King of Scotland finally left Uganda. He’d managed to enrich himself – at the expense of his country – and left with his wives, children, and money. After a stop in Libya where he tutored its leader in Crazy, he finally found a home in…

Saudi Arabia.

“Where’s Waldo?” was temporarily renamed “Where’s Khashoggi?” for a couple weeks as folks began to come up with a story to explain his absence.

“Khashoggi entered the Saudi Arabian consulate in Istanbul on 2 October 2018 in order to obtain documents related to his planned marriage. As no CCTV recorded him exiting the consulate, he was declared a missing person amid news reports claiming that he had been killed and dismembered inside the consulate. An inspection of the consulate, by both Saudi Arabian and Turkish officials, took place on 15 October. Turkish officials found evidence of “tampering” during the inspection and evidence that supported the belief that Khashoggi had been killed. Initially, the Saudi Arabian government denied the death and claimed that Khashoggi had left the consulate alive but 18 days later admitted he had died inside, claiming a fistfight had led to Khashoggi being strangled. Eighteen Saudis were arrested, including the team of 15 who had been sent to “confront him”. Immediately after the release of the Saudi statement, Khashoggi’s editor at the Washington Post Karen Attiah called it “utter bullshit.” ~ Wikipedia

Somewhere in a palace in Riyadh someone is saying “Hey, remember that guy who got away with all that shit in Africa and then moved here?”

Any moment I expect Sarah Huckabee Sanders (or her boss) to report the Alternative Facts:

Khashoggi died in car accident.

Another coincidence?

“And you can fly
High as a kite if you want to
Faster than light if you want to
Speeding through the universe
Thinking is the best way to travel.” 

For those of us ancient enough to qualify for Medicare, it’s Open Enrollment Time. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”, a holiday period when all the good FOPs (I.e. not yet dead) get to decide if they want to make any changes in their Medicare Part C and/or Part D coverage.

For many people, Medicare can be confusing. Is Medicare a result of Intelligent Design, created by HayZeus to “encourage” folks to care for the medical needs of older people? Or is it a plot by evil George Soros to bankrupt … oh, wait.

That’s not the confusing part. It has to do with how the Insurance Industry entices seniors to designate a particular company as their (the seniors’) choice for medical and/or prescription coverage for the coming year. In the rapidly changing and competitive landscape of insurance, the various companies might add perks (8 free meals, delivered to your home when you are discharged from the hospital!) or change payment allowances. HMO? PPO? Out of Network? As they say in Chinatown, “Ho Lee Cwap!”

Fortunately, the Open Enrollment period isn’t like Thanksgiving or Easter. Is Turkey Day the last Thursday, or the third? Why was Easter in late March some years and late April in other years? Nope, the Open Enrollment period is 15 October – 7 December. No confusion there! But the other stuff can be as clear as mud.

That’s why god gave us a wonderful Medicare Insurance Broker. She’s never further away than the telephone, sends us regular email communications and has educational seminars with colorful and informative literature. Oooh, shiny.

A few weeks ago she invited us to join her (and her husband, who is also a broker) for a seminar to explain the newest changes by several Medicare Part C and/or Part D managed care providers. Since it can be a bit confusing (unless presented side-by-side by someone who has combed through it all) we marked our calendars.

But wait! The seminar was going to be at Marie Callender’s – and Denise (our broker) was going to give us each a free pie! Naturally we RSVPd with our choices and arrived on time (ten minutes early, right?).

We listened to the presentations, filled out the necessary forms for Denise to file on our behalf, collected our pies, tipped our server, and left feeling like the universe was as harmonious as ever.

Little did we realize that there might be a test waiting for us when it was time to cut into our first pie. How does one, in good conscience, stab a holy image? Take a look at the photo above. Do it again. Squint your eyes. Move it closer, then further away. Once you “see” the image, take a deep cleansing breath, and take this test:

1) is it a virgin (nameless, for reasons you’ll understand in a moment)?

2) is it a prophet (nameless, and you now know why)?

3) is it the face from Edward Munch’s “The Scream”?

If you answered ‘yes’ to any of those selections you might be suffering from Fake News Syndrome. Turn off your TV, disconnect from social media, and go for a walk.

4) is it a lemon meringue pie?

Congratulations! Feel free to cut a slice and enjoy.

Then go for a walk.

It’s only the first draft. 
But since I don’t do revisions, this is as good as its gonna get.
I just couldn’t figure out how to work in talking snakes, virgin births, and other miracles. 
I blame mental health and a liberal education.

————-

Sally wanted to have a baby. She and Abe tried and tried but… nothing.
Abe switched from jockey briefs to boxers, Sally stood on her head… nothing.
They tried Essential oils, cannibis, positive affirmations… nothing.

Sally was in the nursery one day, thinking about what she might have missed.
The walls were Prussian Blue (anticipating a man-child to join the family business “Abe and Son”), the dresser was stocked with Onesies and lots of cloth diapers (disposables hadn’t been invented yet – and neither had Prussian Blue, but this is a religious story so just shut up and swallow), and arrangements had been made for their housekeeper, Maria, to become their Babysitter. Maria’s boyfriend, José, was still trying to get across the border so he could start a landscaping business – and a family. She and Sally chatted about life, the universe, and everything.

Poor Maria was so lonely.  Like Sally, Maria wanted a baby – a boy to join the family business “José y Hijos”.  
She missed José so much. She had blossomed into a beautiful young woman in the five years since she’d left her homeland in search of a better life. It seemed like half a lifetime (oh, alright, a third of a lifetime, but let’s not allow some stupid fractions to spoil the flow of the story) since grade school and the day that the men from The Agency had come to their village in search of just one special girl who would work in the home of a wealthy family who lived in Del Norte. The Village Elders, who’d worked with the families to arrange the future marriage of Maria and José, saw a great opportunity. They recommended Maria for the job – and collected a hefty commission.
Everyone knew that it might be years – if ever – before they saw each other again, but Maria and José knew that their love could find a way. 
As a ten year old Maria had to learn a new language, adapt to new customs, cook different food, and learn how to do a job that didn’t even exist in her homeland. Her new employer was the woman of the House, Sally. She was an old woman who seemed to be wound a little tight and was obsessed with getting pregnant – and keeping her husband interested.
For his part, Abe was also old and seemed a bit off. But, for all Maria knew, this might be considered “normal” in Del Norte. 

As Maria scrubbed and cooked and cleaned, the years slowly passed. Her days of toil always ended in nights of missing José and dreams of their life together. She matured into … well, an attractive fifteen year old. 
And Abe had noticed.

[Since this is a story that might, someday, find its way into a Holy Book, we won’t go into any details about this part. The dear reader’s imagination should be sufficient, especially if it is informed by reruns of Law & Order SVU, Criminal Minds, etc. ]

Meanwhile, back in the nursery.
As they were chatting, Sally realized that Maria’s sveldt young body seemed to be carrying some extra weight. Wait. What?! She’s pregnant!
Overcome with jealousy, Sally wanted to know the name of the virile young man who was responsible for Maria’s condition.
A little confused but realizing that her continued employment required complete honesty, Maria named Abe.
Sally nearly had a stroke, a heart attack, and a kitten with a plaid tail. She called Maria every name in the book. When she was done, she grabbed another book and called her every name in that one, too.
When Sally was finally too exhausted to continue, a tearful Maria explained that 1) she hadn’t read either book and therefore had no idea what all those names meant and 2) she was just a servant who understood that her job was to do whatever job she was told.
And that, after months of “those” jobs, Abe had told her that it was Sally’s idea for Maria to do other things, too. [The dear reader might want to take a break and watch some more reruns, if necessary.]

Perhaps it was the fatigue from all of her name-calling. Or maybe it was that, knowing Abe as she did, she actually believed Maria’s explanation. Sally’s anger at Maria changed into understanding.
But, like chemical reactions and mathematical equations, equilibrium and balance must happen. (This is the principle behind those wise words “shit happens”.) As Sally’s anger toward Maria decreased, her rage toward Abe grew.

That night she did her best to seduce him. He was confused at her enthusiasm (she’d overdosed on Essential Oils and slipped him some of the cannibis) but did his best to… rise to the occasion.
As he slept, exhausted, Sally fixed his wagon. Whack! Off with his head! 
No, the other head. Almost.
Fortunately for Abe, Sally’s eyesight was as poor as her aim and Abe only lost about 10%. 
He awoke in pain. A lot of screaming and yelling followed (including the first utterance of “You fucked the babysitter?!?”), and… now we fast forward about a year.

About six months after The First Circumcision, Maria gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
She named him HayZeus. (Yes, Abe was proud. And tried to make a joke: “I made fire!”)
Sally had, somehow, managed to become pregnant on the evening of Abe’s circumcision. [We leave it to the dear reader to decide if it was the correct combination of oils, Sally’s body chemistry change as a result of her rage, or Somethings else.]
Months later her maternal hormones were doing their job and she invited Maria and HayZeus to stay. Abe was okay with this. He’d begun to hear voices and to talk to himself shortly after his bologna had been sliced. He seemed okay with a lot of things.
Sally gave birth to a healthy boy. You know his name by now.

A few months later, José showed up, looking for Maria. He was hoping to earn enough to buy her from the rich folks. 
Then he read the plot summary.
“Holy fucking sheep shit! You people are disgusting. I’m going to the tabloids with this story.”

Sally and Abe (and the voices in his head) had a long talk with Maria and José.
Between them they came up with a great face-saving story and signed Non Disclosure Agreements:

Maria and José were given 40 acres and a mule (well, no acres and a donkey) put in a time machine and sent forward a few hundred years where they would explain that José was the step-father (seriously – HayZeus looked nothing like José) and Maria was an obedient and virtuous young woman who was fulfilling her childhood dream of marrying José.
Abe would explain that Sally’d had to fire Maria and sent her away; Abe’s voices had told him to mutilate his genitalia all by himself; the voices also told him to barbecue the baby – and then changed their minds.

And THAT, boys and girls, is how Abe became the father of three religions.
And why you should support Planned Parenthood.

Yesterday we went back to the La-z-boy store.

We’ve been talking about it for months and finally did it on Monday. Before that trek, we’d made a plan to make the first trip as a ‘recon’, hopefully eliminating most of the uncomfortable models and making a note of the few best so that we could go back for an extended inspection & trial.

Monday’s recon went predictably: it began with hope and ended in pain. I probably ought to mention that it’s Barb’s body that needs the chair and, although we both began with hope, it was her pain at the end.

And therein lies the reason for the trips to La-z-boy. Pain. The chronic pain that Barb lives with as a result of her disabling shoulder injury is one thing. She walks a tightrope between “what you don’t use, you lose” and “Doc, it hurts when I do ‘this'”. But simply sitting in chair while watching TV or reading results, after about ten minutes, in muscle spasms and [insert negative adjective here] headaches.

On Monday we had winnowed the chair selection down to two or three before the process had, predictably, ushered in the aforementioned [insert negative adjective here] headache. Our kind and patient salesperson, Pam, made a note of the chairs that Goldilocks might find “just right” on the next visit. She verified that they could be selected with either manual or electric mechanisms, showed us a few of the colors that we might consider, and told us when she would next be working. We made a mental note to bring books and a blankie along in order to truly test the chairs.

Thursday morning dawned and after breakfast, dog walks, a kayak session (mine) and physical therapy (Barb’s) we drove back to La-z-boy with our books. I suppose it’s a good sign that about thirty minutes passed before Barb began to sense the onset of spasms. Clearly, we’d need another test session. But Barb did switch chairs before we left and immediately ruled out choice #2. Saturday will be our next attempt.

——–

The photo (above) was taken from the comfort of my chair (crash test dummy) as I sat next to Barb (Official Tester). Uncle Paul had sent us a book (Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene) which I intended to read on an upcoming trip, but I grabbed it for our chair adventure. I’d opened it and begun reading the introduction when Barb asked me a question. After we’d chatted for a couple minutes I looked back and noticed the shadows on the page. I snapped the photo, suspecting that the shadows were some sort of cosmic message about light, perspectives, or something.

Many years ago I heard a comedian (Gallagher?) ask “What would a chair look like if our knees bent the other way?” My friends of the Zen persuasion often recommend, when confronting a difficult question, decision, or problem, that one “sit with it” – though I believe that the sitting involves a Zafu.

It seems to me that the problem with chairs goes beyond light, shadows, and knees.

If Barb sits in the forest and there is no chair, does her head ache?

No, this won’t be an homage to an album by The Rolling Stones. If that was the case, I might have chosen “Let It Bleed”.

Last fall we spent about ten days in Spain, riding the train from Madrid to Seville, Cordoba, Segovia, and Toledo, returning to Madrid before flying to Copenhagen. While in Madrid we returned to the Prado for another infusion of art and history.

“In fourteen hundred ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” That’s how we “learned” history when we were kids: memorize names, dates and places. While mnemonic devices were helpful when preparing for a test, I failed to learn anything close to real history. Yeah, I remember that it was Ferdinand and Isabella who financed that nice Italian boy’s adventure in 1492. But it took me nearly fifty years to fit together some other important pieces of the puzzle of history, such as the Reconquista and the Inquisition, and what effect the marriage of Columbus’s benefactors would have on other events. For those of us who mostly learned about European history as a footnote in American history (did anything else really matter), the Habsburgs and Bourbons failed to capture our attention.

Francisco Goya had a different experience. He lived through times that few of us have imagined. His art reflects three periods in his life which, coincidentally, remind of King Solomon: first, youth, love and beauty (Song of Solomon); second, development and skill (Proverbs); then, old age and clear vision – and futility (Ecclesiastes).

By the time your Prado tour guide has finished explaining the subjects and methods of Goya’s first two periods, you might be thinking “I think I might just be catching on!” Congratulations, you’re about to have your mind blown.

Goya’s Black Paintings reflect a reality devoid of pretense or artificiality. Poverty. Disease. Despair. No one is wasting energy trying to look “pretty”. No makeup, hair care products, or dental implants. This is Reality, Greg.

If the Soup Eaters, Old Men, and Laughing Ladies make you feel uneasy – prepare yourself for Goya’s depiction of Saturn Devouring His Son.

The story behind the painting is a familiar theme: Saturn (who, as a younger man, had conspired with his mother against his father) believed that his children would overthrow him and take his kingdom. So he consumed them when they were born.

(BTW, it didn’t work. You can Google it.)

Perhaps it was due to having had to apologize to several people in foreign lands who questioned the election of a certain person? Maybe it was the context of Goya’s life and history as explained by our guide – and the brief audio from this (please listen to it):

https://youtu.be/3Lawz8TcPig

My tenuous grasp of the theme is something like “destroying what you should love in order to feed your need for power – which is transitory at best”. We’d seen these paintings on a previous visit but they took on deeper significance this time and left me wanting to DO something tangible in response.

———

We left the Prado and talked about Goya’s art and life as we tried to absorb more from each place we visited. It might have been in Toledo when I decided to attempt contacting an artist we’d met in Copenhagen several years before. “Pali” has true talent in several disciplines from music to tattooing. It turned out that he was available during the short time window we’d be in his neighborhood. And he liked my idea of ink based upon Goya’s “Saturn”. We made arrangements to meet.

A few days later we flew to Copenhagen. The next morning after breakfast I navigated to Pali’s (a long walk, a metro ride, another long walk) while Barb did some sightseeing and checked out of the hotel, taking a taxi to the port… but that’s another story.

Pali and I chatted a bit and he explained that, though he’d done a couple sketches, he’d like to freehand the piece on my arm. “You’re the artist. Do whatever you wish.”

About 3 1/2 hours later I jumped in a taxi. Thanks, Pali – and thanks, Goya!

——–

The sterile setup and virgin forearm:

The development of my artistic ability seems to have reached it peak at the same time I learned not to eat the crayons, so I tend to regard artists as wizards: I’ll never figure out HOW they do it, but my eyes say they do it so I believe. Just before he shaved and cleansed my arm, Pali picked up a couple felt markers and, using an internet photo of “Saturn” as a reference, drew a quick sketch on my arm:

Using sets containing 3, 9, and 27 needles, Pali went to work. After about an hour and forty five minutes he took a short break and then began “polishing” (blending/shading) for another hour and a quarter.

Pali at work:

The work in progress:

Practicing appropriate after care aboard the ship, the masterpiece was healed by the time we got home.

There’s an old suggestion for travelers that says “Before packing, place all the clothes you intend to take on your bed. Next, place all the money you intend to take on the pillow. Now pack half of the clothes – and twice the money.”

Our method is a bit different. We manage to take about the same amount of clothes for a two week trip or a six week trip: one suitcase apiece. We plan and pay ahead most of our expenses (flights, cruises, tours, hotels) before we leave home and estimate/budget other expenditures so that the “money on the pillow” is pretty accurate. For anything else there’s VISA.

In our experience, once we leave home it is our intent to have planned a framework for whatever adventures we find. The key seems to be: pack your clothes, pack your passport, pack your money – but leave your expectations at home! What will be, will be.

The photo above is from a trip in February, 2015. It was our third or fourth time in Athens, so we’d seen many of the “must see” places before. This time we wanted to do things differently and just “go with the flow”. We left the ship intending to ride the subway from the port. On the walk from the dock to the metro we met a taxi driver, Theo, and decided to let him be our companion for the day. He was wonderful! “First time in Athens?” Nope. “Have you been to the Acropolis?” Yep. We chatted as we made our way from Piraeus to Athens, discussing a couple places we might enjoy and allowing Theo to put together an itinerary for us. “I have an idea for a surprise for you and if we go there first, I think the second and third places will be timed just right.” He drove us across town and up a hill (see photo on first page of this blog); through some back alleys, getting us to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier just in time for the changing of the guard (very moving); around to the New Acropolis Museum just at opening time, where he dropped us off for 90 minutes (our choice for time); picked us up for a couple more sites and dropped us back at the Plaka so we could wander for a while and grab a bite to eat**. We met again later for some sightseeing and the drive back to the port. We started the day with a blank canvas and ended with a masterpiece. Thanks, Theo.

**A few years ago we were talking with a neighbor about traveling. He’s not a big fan.

“I went to Italy years ago. I’d heard how great their food is and I wasn’t impressed” he said with a straight face.

The photo at the top of this blog entry is from the above-mentioned visit to Athens.

Sitting there on the Plaka, warm winter sunshine glowing, there could not have been a better meal than that delicious Greek Salad and glass of water. Or did you expect something else?

The last time I was inside Casa Romantica was nearly fifty years ago. My recollection from those “Friday night prayer meetings” are of a large, old home. I knew that it had been built about forty years previously as the residence of San Clemente’s founder, Ole Hanson, but I’m sure that the Spanish Colonial Revival architecture was lost on me. I’m sure that I’d seen plenty of buildings in that and similar styles as I grew up, but lacked any frame of reference. Besides, staying awake in those prayer meetings was enough of a challenge for my adolescent brain. Who knew that I might have entertained myself by identifying some of the elements of that synthetic style – painted tiles, wrought iron accents, white stucco walls, graceful arches….

Last Sunday, Barb suggested that we walk the local farmers market on Avenida Del Mar. Great Idea! We spent time chatting with some candidates for the city council, tasting fresh fruit (no, the strawberries aren’t as flavorful as they were in June), and resisting the tamales from the vendor who offered more options in the vegan and vegetarian categories than in the meat-filled one. Strolling among the throng of our fellow citizens is a nice change of pace for us. Naturally, we thought of the many times we’ve done it in far away lands.

When we were ready to leave I decided to take the long way home and drive through the pier bowl area. As we coasted down the hill I asked Barb if she’d like to see if Casa Romantic was open. Sure!

As we approached, we noted several cars in the parking area. Turning in, we saw the door was open. Yippee!

Without going into the dates and details (that’s why god created Google, right?), I’ll point out that Casa Romantica is now an historical landmark and cultural center. It had undergone extensive repairs and renovations and is simply beautiful!

If you’re in the area, I guarantee you won’t regret spending an hour or so exploring the buildings and grounds. The $5 donation is a bargain and if you’ve spent any time in Spain, you might find yourself mumbling “oh, this reminds me of…”

San Clemente, the Spanish Village by the sea. Indeed.

Thanks for joining us!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton