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Tag: Marcia Sloane
Dream of You
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Hello dear readers, I'm pleased to announce the birth of my new album Dream of You, featuring nine of my original songs for guitar, piano, and voice. One of these tunes was written forty-eight years ago, and two were written in the last year. The primary guitar tracks and vocals were recorded simultaneously to give the songs a live feeling, with Marcia's gorgeous cello and Gwyneth Moreland's splendid vocal harmonies adding magic to the mix.
You can buy copies of Dream of You from my web site for 5 dollars each, plus a flat rate shipping fee of 6 dollars no matter how much stuff you buy from my web site, or you can download the whole album for 6 dollars from CD Baby, or download individual songs from CD Baby for just 69 cents per song. Such a deal!
The album is also available for downloading and streaming from iTunes and Amazon and Spotify and Apple Music. Or you can listen to the songs on YouTube. If you do take a listen and enjoy what you hear, I hope you'll share this article and links with your music-loving friends.
I'm now at work on a new batch of songs inspired by the satisfying creative experience of working with Marcia and Gwyneth and Peter Temple in his Albion studio.
Here are some brief notes about the songs on Dream of You.
Wake Up Thinking About You
Written thirty years ago as a slow smoky blues, I never got around to recording this tune until now. When I was learning the song again for this album, I sped up the tempo, added some swing, some piano, some Gwyneth harmony, and I love the joyous feel.
Strange Confusion
This song is twenty years old. I've long imagined harmony parts and was thrilled when we got them all in place. I sang two additional vocal tracks, Gwyneth sang two, too, and I love how groovy the song feels now.
This is the newest tune on the album, composed a few months before we recorded the initial guitar and vocal track. After a ten-year break from playing the guitar to focus on my piano playing, this recounting of a lucid dream was the first new song to come to me as I was regaining my guitar chops.
Alone and Lonely
I wrote this song almost fifty years ago. A vagabond in those days, I spent hundreds of hours standing by the sides of roads hitchhiking. This tune was born in those long hours of playing guitar while waiting for a ride and hoping for happier times.
Nothing Anybody Says
This is my newest piano tune, written within the last year. I imagined singing this love song with a fine female vocalist, and Gwyneth surpassed my imaginings.
Whole Lotta Kissing
I wrote this tune in Berkeley, circa 2000, following a painful dismissal by a woman who clearly (erroneously) thought she was too good for the likes of me.
I was broke and lonely and pining for an old love when I wrote this song in Seattle in 1977. I imagined Bonnie Raitt singing this song, and over the ensuing twenty years I tried to get it to her without success. This song also forms the basis for my novel Night Train.
Agnes June
I wrote the words for this song in 1970 in New York City. A young German composer asked me to write lyrics for operatic lieder, and this was my favorite of the several poems I created for him, none of which he used. I found the lyrics in my guitar case some years later and put them to music. Gwyneth's beautiful harmonies thrill me every time I listen to this song.
I wrote this song in Sacramento in 1989 and first performed it in an art gallery as part of a two-man show with the fine poet and artist D.R. Wagner. A song of resurrection and the healing power of love.
Tags Agnes June, Alone and Lonely, cello, Dream of You, guitar, Gwyneth Moreland, Hey Baby, Marcia Sloane, music, new album of songs, Nothing Anybody Says, One Last Time, songs, Strange Confusion, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books, vocals, Wake Up Thinking About You, Whole Lotta Kissing
No Comments on Haircuts
Before the Cut photo by Marcia Sloane
"You are responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose." Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Today, the first of April, Easter, 2018, no kidding, Marcia is giving me a haircut. The weather has turned warmish, finally, the Japanese maples are leafing out, the huckleberries have set prodigious quantities of blossoms for the second year in a row and the bumblebees are loudly pollinating those blossoms, the hummingbirds are zooming around looking for flowers and love, the mouth of Big River is teaming with harbor seals, and life she is on the upswing.
I only brush my hair when I happen to look in a mirror, which is not often. Thus my hair is frequently in a state of disarray, and when my hair is long I resemble a gray-haired Bozo the Clown. In the 1960s and 70s I wanted to grow my hair long enough to have a ponytail, but even when I went without a cut for four years, my hair only got about five-inches-long all around and thereafter the tips grew brittle and broke off. Nowadays I enjoy a little extra fur during the winter, and when spring has sprung, Marcia tames the tangle.
When I was a boy, my mother would take me to a barbershop every six months and a not-very-friendly man would cut off most of my hair. They called this a crew cut, though it might have been called a shaved head. I hated getting haircuts, but after a day or so of my ears feeling cold, I forgot about my hair, not being one who looked in mirrors.
While in a Bozo-the-Clown phase, as I have been for some months now, my hair elicits comments from people I know and from people I don't know. Interestingly, nearly all these comments are complimentary, in a roundabout way. For instance, a woman coming out of the grocery store a few days ago startled at the sight of me and said, "Whoa. Great hair." Subtext: You actually scared me a little, but I appreciate the wildness.
In the post office, a woman with hair even more topsy-turvy than mine, grinned at my coiffure and said, "Way to go."
Marcia recently underwent a radical change in her hair style, her first major style shift since several years before we got together eleven years ago. The Marcia I married had long blonde hair that fell nearly to her waist. Indeed, she was renowned in Mendocino as the principal cellist of Symphony of the Redwoods with gorgeous long blonde hair, and as the cellist in the Mendocino Music Festival orchestra with gorgeous long blonde hair. Thus when she got most of her hair cut off last year, dozens of people came up to me at the first orchestral concert of the music festival and said one of two things. "Marcia cut her hair!" or "Where is Marcia?"
My answers were, "Yes, she did," and "She is there with short hair."
My haircuts, by contrast, do not prompt widespread alarm in the community. In fact, only a few people will notice that I've gotten the haircut I am about to get because I am not locally renowned for my hair or anything else. If I were to start wearing a suit and tie every day, some people in town would notice my wardrobe change and wonder why I no longer wore Giants sweatshirts. However, to elicit multiple comments about my hair I would have to dye my mop pink, and I think pink hair would make me look weird. Weirder.
When I lived in Berkeley, I got a haircut every six months. I would walk to Solano Avenue where, guided by chance and intuition, I would choose one of the several hair cut joints staffed by Chinese women who spoke little or no English. I would enter the joint, wait for someone to gesture at an empty barber's chair, and say politely, "May I please have my hair cut short on the sides and leave some on top." And then I would surrender to the gods of haircuts.
On one occasion, a young woman began cutting my hair and after a few minutes stopped to confer with another young woman who then took over cutting my hair. After a moment, this second woman stopped cutting my hair and called over an older woman who studied my hair for a moment, smiled at me and said, "You hair no lie down. Only go up when cut short. No can brush down."
"Yes," I said. "Is okay. Cut short on sides, leave some on top."
And then to put them at ease, I told my favorite haircutting joke. "You know the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?"
The three women looked at me with obvious concern and said many things to each other in Chinese.
"Two weeks," I said, and when it was clear they didn't understand the joke, I tried to explain why it was funny, which is never a good idea, and then I told the joke again, which caused the older woman to nod emphatically and say, "Yes, okay. You come back two weeks. Sure. We cut some man hair every week."
Now the deed is done. Marcia worked uncharacteristically fast today, snipping and fluffing and snipping, and she seemed to enjoy the process this time, which has not always been the case.
I certainly feel lighter and more intelligent. I don't know why getting a haircut sharpens the mind, but it does for me. Perhaps we receive vital information from the collective consciousness through our hair, and by removing the old brittle hair tips, my reception of useful data has improved. Let's hope so.
I saved the hair that was previously attached to my head, and once I get the fire going in the woodstove this evening I will burn those detached locks in a ritualistic pagan Easter Passover rebirth ceremony, no kidding, to bid farewell to old fears and erroneous assumptions that have been holding me back from optimal appreciation of this moment.
After the Cut photo by Marcia Sloane
Tags After the Cut, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Bozo the Clown, difference between bad and good haircut, haircuts, haircutting joke, Marcia Sloane, Mendocino, ritualistic pagan Easter Passover rebirth ceremony, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books
No Comments on Sherlock Gnomes
Little Gnome photo by Marcia Sloane
"I can never bring you to realize [Watson] the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a bootlace." Conan Doyle
Marcia came into my office a few days ago and said, "Have you seen the little gnome in Flower Pot Village?"
I thought she might be pulling my leg, since we are not gnome collectors, but lo, clinging with both hands to the edge of a large terra cotta flower pot in the assemblage of flower pots we call Flower Pot Village was a small Caucasian gnome, five-inches-tall, a happy smiling ceramic fellow with a white beard, pointy gold hat, turquoise jacket, brown trousers and black shoes. Cute.
Having determined that neither Marcia nor I placed the little intruder in the village, we were confronted by a mystery: who did? And our suspicions immediately fell on our neighbor Marion.
I must digress slightly to say that every visitor to our house passes close by Flower Pot Village, a dozen large flower pots sitting on an elevated pad of bricks adjacent to the wooden deck one must traverse to reach our front door. Thus anyone with an interest in things growing in pots and gardens will note in passing the mint, cilantro, basil, aloe, and arugula citizenry of the village. Those not attuned to things in the garden will note nothing of interest there.
Which suggests that whoever introduced the little alien to the village is attuned to things in the garden, knew of the village, and is the sort of person who would enjoy giving us a gift without telling us so we might be confronted with a pleasant sort of mystery, assuming we don't have a gnome phobia, which we don't. Marcia and I are not gewgaw people, but we do like tasteful statues, large and small, if they harmonize well with the natural surround and are not too plentiful.
Marcia inquired of Marion if she knew anything about the little gnome and Marion said she knew nothing about him. This did not, however, immediately exonerate Marion. Denial is never proof, Watson, no matter how convincing. But denial in this instance did cause us to consider who else might have been responsible for the implantation of the gnome into Flower Pot Village.
"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you." Conan Doyle
So we composed a list of visitors or possible visitors to our house over the preceding three days: Marion, Bob, Deb, Kate, Defer, Matt. We eliminated Defer, our across-the-street neighbor, because he only ever brings us piles of newspapers for fire starters and is concerned with large trees not little plants in pots. And we eliminated Matt, because he is not a gewgaw person and hasn't been around much lately.
That left Marion, Bob, Kate, and Deb.
Marion. Avid gardener, presides over her own flower pot villages, appreciates our garden, visits frequently, has a wry sense of humor, is in the process of moving out of her large house into a smaller abode and is actively getting rid of things. Thus her denial of a connection to the gnome remains questionable.
Bob. I met Bob when he and I were nineteen, I in my second and last year of college, he in his first, and we have been fast friends ever since. Bob is one of the most reflexively generous people I know. He comes to visit us once a year from Sacramento and always brings gifts, insists on treating us to supper, and always wants me to put him to work hauling firewood or pulling weeds. What a guy. However, he is definitely not a gewgaw person, and his gifts are usually edible or drinkable. This time he brought an array of delicious microbrewery beers to share with Marcia, took us out to supper at the Mendocino Café, and bought us superb sandwiches from the Mendocino Market across the street from the post office—a gnome guy he is not.
Kate. Poet, professional caregiver, loving and generous, appreciative of the garden. She came for supper. Upon her arrival, I watched her cross the deck and take no notice of the flower pots. I accompanied her to her car after supper and she made no sudden move toward the pots. Thus we do not suspect her, though we think she would appreciate the gnome.
Deb. Serious gardener. Gifted us with a Daphne last year, which is taking root and slowly getting larger and had her first flowers this spring. Deb likes looking at our garden. Comes every two weeks for a cello lesson with Marcia. Always makes a circuit of the deck, checking things out. Makes quilts. Might be a gewgaw person. I have seen her on multiple occasions lingering in the vicinity of Flower Pot Village. If we believe Marion is not the culprit, Deb becomes the leading suspect.
Marcia emailed Deb, attached three photos of He Who Clings To The Flower Pots, and asked, "Any idea how this feisty little gnome got in our garden?"
To which Deb replied, "I've heard they sometimes travel in packs under the cover of darkness at night, and occasionally one will take off on an adventure searching for a friendly garden of his own. Danny [Deb's husband] says they've been really bad this year (meaning lots of them) because of all the rain; we have a few here. But they are rather cute and don't seem to eat the plants or bother them. I'd just ask him his name and stay on his friendly side. Don't be surprised if he moves around from plant to plant, looking for just the right place."
So to be on the safe side, we inquired of the gnome what his name was. He blushed, smiled brightly, but remained mute until we were walking away, and then we distinctly heard him say, "Noam. My name is Noam Gnomsky."
Tags Arthur Conan Doyle, denial, Flower Pot Village, gnome, Little Gnome, Marcia Sloane, mystery, Noam Gnomsky, proof, Sherlock Gnomes, suspects, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books
Not Stupid
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Todd and Hubbard photo by Marcia Sloane
"The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience." Harper Lee
What most frightens me about the millions of people who want Donald Trump or someone equally fascistic and misogynist and woefully ignorant of international affairs to be President of the United States, and also what frightens me about those who feel Hillary Clinton would be a better choice for President than Bernie Sanders, is that many of these people are not stupid.
When I was in my twenties and roaming around the Midwest working as a farm laborer, I spent several days working for a farmer in eastern Kansas who was unquestionably a genius. He had quit high school at fifteen to take over the family farm when his father died, and had managed through hard work and intelligent planning to become a very successful wheat, corn, and alfalfa grower.
He was in his early fifties when I met him, his three children grown, graduated from college, and disinterested in being farmers. Thus he, as most of the Midwestern farmers I worked for in the early 1970s before it became common practice there to hire immigrants from Mexico and Central America, was glad to hire me at three dollars an hour plus meals and a barn to sleep in, to do the heavy lifting and drudge work his sons and grandsons might have done prior to the corporatization of agriculture and the demise of family farms.
Over our long dinners—dinner the name of the mid-day meal on the farms in the Midwest—and suppers and breakfasts, this farmer shared with me his many ideas about society, capitalism, psychology, and many other subjects, and when I would say, "Well, you're reiterating what Marx said about…" or "Freud said a similar thing regarding…" he would invariably and honestly say, "Who?"
He read the local newspaper but did not read magazines or books, and he was chagrined to admit he found The Bible largely incomprehensible. Yet his ideas about culture and society and economics, born of his phenomenal intelligence and curiosity, were as sophisticated and plausible as anything I had read before, during, and after college.
He was also a devout Christian, a staunch Republican, and a racist, though he had abandoned his belief that men were inherently superior to women—his two exceedingly bright daughters and highly intelligent wife having cured him of that. On my last day with him, I told him I was baffled that someone of his vast intelligence and possessed of what I considered formidable wisdom, could be a racist Republican, and he said humbly, "Intelligence has a hard fight against deeply ingrained beliefs."
"Learning learns but one lesson: doubt!" George Bernard Shaw
My father was a vitriolic atheist and a psychoanalyst. In his old age, he was certain he had stumbled on the reason why so many people, even seemingly intelligent people, believed in God. He posited that the tendency to believe in God, what he called magical thinking, was genetic: that most people were genetically hardwired to be magical thinkers.
Any argument to the contrary infuriated him, so I would remain silent when he began his lecture about Type A People and Type B People, and how all of human history could be explained by understanding that Type A People, those who were not predisposed to believe in God, cleverly manipulated and controlled the much greater number of Type B People who had no choice but to believe in God. In other words, all the religious leaders in the world since the dawn of civilization were atheists who pretended to believe in God in order to control the genetically inferior masses.
My father believed it was the genetic mutation for atheism that began civilization, which was a direct consequence of one sector of humanity gaining power over another through this genetic intellectual superiority.
Science and history have shown my father's theory to be nonsense, and modern history, current history, is replete with examples of masses of fanatically religious people being quite uncontrollable by people not predisposed to believe in God. And that, as I said at the outset, is what scares me most about the governors and legislatures of the majority of American states, and the current majority of representatives in the United States Congress, and the millions of people who favor Trump and Bush and Clinton over Bernie Sanders: these people are not stupid, they are insane.
Of course, they would say I am insane for thinking egalitarian socialism is a good way to go. They would say I am insane for thinking we ought to take half the military budget every year and spend it on solarizing every viable house in America and building fast electric trains to give hundreds of millions of people exciting and comfortable alternatives to automobiles, and making education free from kindergarten through graduate school. And they would say I am insane for thinking we should have Single Payer Healthcare.
"From fanaticism to barbarism is only one step." Denis Diderot
Walking to town today, I crossed the coast highway at the only stoplight in Mendocino, and exchanged smiles with a large man hitchhiking south, his backpack lying on its back on the ground. I continued into town, did my errands, and on my way home found the big man still there, waiting for someone to give him a ride.
As I waited for the light to change in my favor, I said to him, "In my hitchhiking days, albeit a long time ago, I found having a sign naming my destination was helpful."
He nodded affably and said, "I find that's still true."
"Where are you headed?" I asked, curious why he didn't have a sign.
He shrugged. "Don't really have a destination. Just looking for a place to camp for a few days and stay dry."
The light changed, and as I started across the highway I said, "Good luck to you."
"Not luck," he replied, shaking his head. "Everything is predestined."
Tags Anderson Valley Advertiser, atheism, barbarism, Bernie Sanders, civilization, Denis Diderot, Donald Trump, egalitarian socialism, fanaticism, George Bernard Shaw, God, Harper Lee, Hillary Clinton, hitchhiking, learning, magical thinking, majority rule, Marcia Sloane, Not Stupid, Single Payer Healthcare, Todd and Hubbard, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books
Four Chairs
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Four Chairs photograph by Marcia Sloane
"All I ask is the chance to prove that money can't make me happy." Spike Milligan
Marcia and I recently bought four new chairs for our dining nook, and I think the way we got these chairs and the feelings they inspired will be of interest to people of my generation, those of us born in America between 1945 and 1955 or thereabouts. We were teenagers and young adults during the world-changing era known as the Sixties, which I believe lasted roughly from 1963 to 1975. By no coincidence those are also the years of the American chapter of the Vietnam War.
Exhaustive economic studies have found that my generation, despite the mythos of the Sixties, is the most materialistic generation to ever live on this earth. Whether that is true or not, when I and many of my age peers were in our twenties, we rejected the materialism of our parents and the larger society and chose lives of intentional simplicity, a choice that profoundly shaped my life ever after.
For one thing, choosing to live lightly on Mother Earth separated me from the vast majority of other people in America and made me keenly aware of the hierarchic nature of our social system, a hierarchy based on how much money and possessions a person has. Thus by choosing to have little, I found myself at the bottom of the heap, but because many of us made this choice in the Sixties, I did not feel lost and alone. On the contrary, I felt encouraged and excited about the potential for societal change that material minimalism and egalitarian socialism promised.
Anyway, the Sixties fizzled out, the so-called hippies became ravenous materialists, and those of us who remained true to the ethos of the Sixties found little support for our ideas and proclivities. Had I been even slightly prescient in 1972, I would have bought a few houses in Santa Cruz when a nice two-bedroom home a block from the beach could be had for seven thousand dollars. But I was not prescient and I didn't buy, so today I do not sit on a mountain of gold.
"I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society." Henry David Thoreau
Which brings me to how we got our four new chairs. Marcia and I went to Santa Rosa to spend three days before Christmas with Opal, Marcia's mother, a sneaky good pool player who always says, "Pure luck" after sinking another in a series of formidable shots en route to victory.
For lunch one day the three of us went to the Nepalese Indian restaurant Yeti, and when we were seated in our elegant wood-framed, broad-bottomed, high-backed, royally reddish upholstered chairs at the handsome dark wood table, Marcia declared, "I love these chairs. They are so comfortable. I would love to have chairs like these."
We inquired of our friendly Nepalese waiter if he knew where one might purchase these enviable chairs, and a moment later the owner of Yeti, a charming man named Narayan Somname, came to our table and said, "Yes, I have more of these chairs in my warehouse in Glen Ellen. How many would you like?"
"Well, er, four," I said, looking at Marcia to see if she wanted to jump at the chance. "How much do…"
"I will sell them to you for ninety dollars each," he said, nodding. "They require some assembling."
We pondered the situation for the rest of our scrumptious meal and concluded we would buy four. We arranged to meet Narayan at the restaurant the next day to give him a check and get the chairs, which he would bring from Glen Ellen, and that is what we did. The chairs came two to a box marked Made In China, the two boxes just fitting in the trunk of our trusty old Camry.
As Narayan closed the trunk, he said, "You may have noticed in the restaurant we affixed braces to the legs because after a year, some of the chairs began to wobble. I will take ten dollars off the price of each chair so you can purchase the necessary hardware."
We arrived home in Mendocino on Christmas Eve, and after we got the woodstove roaring and our frigid house was habitable once more, I unpacked the chairs and found in each box a piece of fabric wrapped around a couple dozen bolts of widely varying sizes, with no directions for assembling the chairs.
Four hours of cursing and futzing and puzzling and grunting later—did I mention cursing?—the four chairs were assembled and arrayed around our dining table where, for the last ten years, four small uncomfortable folding chairs had served us with the aid of additional cushions for butts and backs.
We sat in our new chairs, Marcia pronounced them marvelous, and I thought they were marvelous, too, but I also felt a little guilty about having such beautiful chairs to sit on.
The next day, writing to my friend Max, I said, "These new chairs make me feel very adult. I wondered if I ever would."
Max wrote back, "I laughed aloud at this. Maybe all along you merely needed the exactly right chair in order to experience a change of consciousness? Or I should ask: what is it about these chairs, do you think, that causes you to feel very adult?"
I replied, "The previous chairs I bought were small and inexpensive and not particularly comfortable, and there was a Spartan precarious feeling to them. I still feel slightly immoral buying new clothing, though I do buy new shoes and I bought a new piano in 1980. I don't know. Maybe in so completely rejecting materialism, I got stuck in the mindset of my penniless twenties, and spontaneously buying four groovy chairs feels antithetical to my lifetime practice of owning a few excellent things and making do with minimal everything else."
Tags adult, Anderson Valley Advertiser, egalitarian socialism, Four Chairs, Henry David Thoreau, Marcia Sloane, material minimalism, money, Nepalese Indian food, Spike Milligan, the Sixties, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books, Vietnam War, Yeti
No Comments on Seymour
The Piano Lesson photo by Marcia Sloane
"If you play an instrument or sing, you will no doubt agree that life's experiences influence the way you practice. But has it ever occurred to you that the opposite may also be true: that the skills gained from practicing—namely, the refinement and control of your emotions, your thoughts, and your physical responses—can influence your life?" Seymour Bernstein
Last night Marcia and I watched Seymour: An Introduction, a documentary about the pianist and piano teacher Seymour Bernstein, who was eighty-five at the time the film was made and is eighty-eight today. The film, directed by Ethan Hawke, the actor, is certainly about classical music and pianos and playing the piano, but the movie is also a fascinating and ever-surprising portrait of an extremely thoughtful person with an extraordinary talent for teaching.
The previews for the film made me worry that Ethan Hawke would be too much in the film, but his presence is minimal. Most of the film brings us into intimate closeness with Seymour, who is delightfully erudite and eccentric. I felt we were having a visit with a favorite uncle, and whether I agreed with everything he said or not, it was big fun hanging out with him.
A most unlikely veteran of the Korean War—and there is a great segment of the film devoted to his military experience in Korea—Seymour grew up in an entirely non-musical family, but began playing the piano when he was five, having begged his parents to buy a piano. His disapproving father used to say, "I have three daughters and a pianist," but Seymour was born indivisible from music and so was not deterred by his foolish father.
At one point in the movie, Seymour is in the piano rental room downstairs in the Steinway building in Manhattan, working with a brilliant young pianist on technique, and the young pianist says, and I paraphrase, "Everything in my life is about music." And we see Seymour responding to the young man's pronouncement with a look that says, "Yes. You are a younger version of me."
Several scenes in the film take place in this Steinway rental room—Seymour looking for a grand piano to use for the recital Ethan Hawke has scheduled for the denouement of the film. As a piano player, these scenes made my mouth water and re-ignited my lifelong desire to have a super duper grand piano—not that there's anything wrong with my trusty upright. But when one hears those bass notes played on a superlative grand piano, and one's entire body begins to hum along, well…
Seymour goes from grand piano to grand piano, looking for one that sounds good to him even when played softly. He plays a few chords on one piano and crows, "Horror of horrors!" and then dashes away to try one he declares "not bad", until at last he finds a piano he proclaims the finest he has ever played, and this from a man who has undoubtedly played hundreds of the finest pianos in the world.
My favorite scenes in the movie are when we get to watch Seymour giving private lessons and master classes, all of his students accomplished pianists. Again and again, we hear these pianists play parts of pieces that sound wonderful, and then we watch Seymour adroitly help them noticeably improve their playing of the part, either by explaining the music to them in a way they have not considered, by demonstrating what he wants them to do by playing for them, or by physically taking hold of them and altering their postures as they play. And everything he does and says is freighted with love for the music and for the musicians. Inspiring!
Hawke decided to film a number of conversations Seymour has with a variety of people: two pianists, a British guy claiming to be a mystic, and a man in his fifties who has been Seymour's student since he was five-years-old. The self-proclaimed mystic struck me as entirely superfluous to the film, and I had the feeling Seymour thought so, too. The two pianists are useful echoes to some of Seymour's ideas about practicing and self-discipline, and his middle-aged student poses a question that made me want to smack the guy, but Seymour handles the question with equanimity.
The guy, peeved that Seymour gave up performing when he was fifty, says (and I paraphrase), "Don't you think someone with your extraordinary talent has an obligation to overcome his aversion to performing in order to give your gift to the world?"
Seymour's answer is, "I poured my gift into you."
And really a large point of the movie, and apparently the main reason Ethan Hawke wanted to make this film, is that Seymour is indivisible from his art, and this indivisibility is what he models for his students. Seymour's bliss, if you will, springs from helping others become the best musicians they can be, regardless of their level of talent or whether they will ever perform for anyone other than themselves.
In his youth, Seymour did concert tours and wowed the critics, but none of that for him compares to the joy he feels in exploring music on his own terms, including composing, and helping others overcome their obstacles to playing better.
At one point, Hawke is shown trying to elucidate why he feels so conflicted about himself as an artist and a person. He says his best work as an actor is often not successful, and his largest successes, in terms of money, are his worst work. Seymour, who has lived in the same little one-room apartment for sixty years, suggests by everything he does and says that the solution to Hawke's problem is to stop making crappy movies and make good movies instead. In making Seymour: An Introduction, Hawke has certainly taken Seymour's advice.
It may also be, that like Seymour, Ethan will eventually discover his greatest gift when he ceases to take roles to make big money and gives his all to the art of acting, perhaps as a teacher.
Tags Anderson Valley Advertiser, art, classical music, Ethan Hawke, Marcia Sloane, master casses, music, pianos, Practice, Seymour, Seymour Bernsteain, Seymour: An Introduction, Steinway, teachers, The Piano Lesson, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books
No Comments on Thanksgiving
Marcia's Best Ever Blue Hubbard Squash Pie
(This story appeared in the Anderson Valley Advertiser December 2015)
Henry Abbot is not in the habit of picking up hitchhikers, though until eight years ago he very much enjoyed giving rides to strangers and dropping them at the best hitchhiking spots in Fort Orford.
Oh, he still stops for Miles Larsen when he comes upon Miles walking home burdened with groceries, and he still gives the Collison boys rides when he sees them trudging home in the twilight after football or basketball or baseball practice, but they aren't hitchhikers, they're his friends and neighbors.
Youthful at fifty-nine, strangers guess Henry is in his late forties. A big sturdy man with sandy brown hair and pale blue eyes, Henry is a former lumberjack, now the manager of Dorfman's Hardware, the only hardware store in Fort Orford, a town of three thousand hearty souls on the north coast of California. Henry was born and raised here, and except for five years away when he was in his twenties—two years of military service and three years peddling his songs in Nashville—Henry has never gone away except for the very occasional vacation.
A bachelor until he was forty-two, neither he nor anyone who knew him expected he would ever marry. Friendly, intelligent, and handsome, Henry liked women and women liked him, yet he seemed incapable of more than fleeting intimacy. And then he met Katy, the new veterinarian in town, fifteen years his junior, and they married three months after her arrival. They had two beautiful daughters, Cecily and Diana, and when the girls were seven and five—eight years ago—Katy fell off a ladder, struck her head, and died instantly.
Now Henry's primary goal in life is to live until his daughters are able to fend for themselves, which is why he doesn't pick up hitchhikers anymore—to lessen his chances of encountering a crazy killer.
But on this cold November morning—driving to town in his old white pickup—when he comes to where the country road he lives on meets the coast highway into Fort Orford, he sees a woman standing by the road with a backpack, violin case, and a small brown dog, and this woman is so much like Katy, Henry cannot help but stop for her.
Everything about her reminds Henry of his wife—her dark brown hair in a three-strand braid, her white Guatemalan blouse embroidered with red and blue and green thread, her loose-fitting blue jeans, her pointy chin, her light brown eyes, and her radiant smile. That she also has a violin and her dog is the twin of Leo, Katy's constant companion, makes the similarity uncanny.
She opens the passenger door, looks in at Henry gaping at her, and asks, "Are you okay? You look stunned."
"Haven't had my coffee yet," he says, his voice catching in his throat. "Still a little dreamy."
"How far you going?" she asks, scanning him with a practiced eye and judging him safe, her accent Midwestern, as was Katy's.
"Just into town. Fort Orford. Four miles."
"Mind a dog?" she asks politely. "We can ride in back if you do."
"Love dogs," he says, smiling as she makes the same clicking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth that Katy made—the little pooch jumping up onto the seat and gazing intently at Henry.
The woman lifts her big pack into the bed of the truck with remarkable ease, gets into the cab with her violin case, puts on her seatbelt and says, "Thanks for stopping. I'm Jolene. The mutt is Crawford."
Henry caresses Crawford's head, and the little dog hops onto Henry's lap.
"Now that is truly amazing," says Jolene, frowning at Crawford. "He's never done that before." She turns her gaze on Henry. "What are you? Some sort of dog whisperer?"
"We have a couple dogs," says Henry, scratching behind Crawford's ears. "Probably smells them on me."
"No," says Jolene, shaking her head. "He doesn't even do that with people he knows. Only ever does it with me."
"Maybe I remind him of someone," says Henry, pulling onto the highway—Crawford leaving him to sit on Jolene's lap. "I'm Henry. Where you headed?"
"Portland," she says, embracing her violin case. "Unless something better manifests along the way."
"Are you a classical musician or a fiddler? My wife…she's no longer alive…she played the violin, too."
"This is not a violin," says Jolene, smiling sweetly at Henry. "Mandolin. I play folk songs and my own tunes, too. Some jazzy Brazilian things."
"I used to play guitar," says Henry, remembering his days in Nashville, how so very close he came to selling a song. "A million years ago."
"So beautiful here," says Jolene, sighing with pleasure as the dark blue waters of Prescott Bay come into view. "You know a good place to have breakfast in Fort Orford?"
"I know the best place," says Henry, looking at Jolene and realizing she is quite a bit older than he first took her to be, her eyes pale blue not light brown, her skin dark olive, not white and freckled as was Katy's, her hair not brown but black with strands of gray, not braided but in a pony tail, her blouse pale yellow and not embroidered, her jeans brown not blue. "Stuyvesant's. Excellent omelets, strong coffee, brilliant waitresses."
"Then that's where I'm going," says Jolene, tickling Crawford's chin. "And aren't you a lucky dog it's not raining, so you won't be getting wet while you wait."
"I just realized," says Henry, laughing, "you're not American. You're…"
"Irish," says Jolene, nodding. "What a remarkable ear for accents you have."
"If you'd like, you can leave Crawford with me," says Henry, feeling perfectly at ease saying so. "I'm two doors down from Stuyvesant's. The hardware store. I'm the manager. Dogs allowed."
Jolene considers this offer and says, "Only I was hoping you'd have breakfast with me. My treat. I made a bundle busking in San Francisco."
"Then we'll bring Crawford with us," says Henry, slowing way down as they enter the town, his eyes full of tears. "They won't mind him if he sits on your lap."
"Or yours," says Jolene, gazing at Henry. "He loved you the minute he saw you."
Tags Anderson Valley Advertiser, Crawford, Henry, hitchhikers, Jolene, Marcia Sloane, Marcia's Best ever Blue Hubbard Squash Pie, short story, Thanksgiving, Todd Walton, Under the Table Books
Roads Not Taken
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Trail To Garfield Peak (Crater Lake 2015) photo by Marcia Sloane
(This article appeared in the Anderson Valley Advertiser November 2015)
"Your life is the fruit of your own doing." Joseph Campbell
Do you sometimes look back on your life and recall those turning points that made you the chiropractor you are today instead of a tax attorney, a real estate agent instead of a dance instructor, a massage therapist instead of a taxidermist, a school teacher instead of a stockbroker, a hedge fund billionaire instead of a white water tour guide—or vice-versa?
Or your daughter calls you from her dorm at Pepperdine and says something that makes you think of the dance your sophomore year in college when you snubbed Andy Philips who was crazy about you because you thought he was dorky, though you liked him and laughed easily with him and you both loved Dickens and bird watching and Joni Mitchell and Emily Dickinson, and you adored Andy's voice and sense of humor, but you were smitten with Brad Hamilton who was a total hunk, so you did everything in your power to seduce him, and you succeeded and got pregnant and married Brad, though you and he had nothing in common, and you ended up with three kids in Modesto where Brad is a clerk at Home Depot and you are a legal secretary.
So you Google Andy Philips and here he is, a professor of Poetics at the Institute For Transcendent Happiness on the island of Majorca, and the picture of him with his adorable cockapoodle Artemis on the shores of the Mediterranean is so lovely, and Andy, Andrew, is so handsome and lean and romantic looking you want to scream, but before you can scream Brad waddles into the room, bald and enormously fat, and says he can't find the remote for the television and the game is just about to start—where is it?
But sometimes you look back over your life and see a key moment when you took a certain road that changed your destiny, not because you wanted to take that road, but because forces seemingly beyond your control forced you to go in a direction you might otherwise not have gone. I say seemingly in deference to those who believe we create our own karma, and even forces seemingly beyond our control are set in motion by our unconscious expectations of how things are supposed to be.
"We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death and afraid of each other." Ralph Waldo Emerson
When I was in my early twenties and roaming around the country, my supreme wish was to break into the movie business and eventually write and direct movies. But how could I do that as a vagabond in Vermont, hitchhiking to Canada, my destination Montreal? Three weeks earlier, I had been refused entrance into Canada because I lacked sufficient funds—two hundred dollars—and therefore qualified as a potential vagrant and drain on the Canadian economy.
This was when thousands of American youth were taking advantage of Canada's marvelous system of hostels providing free meals and beds to transients—yay for socialism—and the Canadian border guards were under orders to do what they could to restrict the influx of undesirables from America.
So I had gone back down into New England, worked on farms, hauled crab traps, and washed dishes in restaurants until I amassed two hundred smackers, and now I was on my way to try those border guards again.
I was standing by the road, my cardboard sign reading MONTREAL, lost in yet another fantasy of my meteoric rise as a filmmaker, when a car driven by two friendly men stopped for me. I loaded my guitar and backpack and myself into their back seat, and off we went. They asked where I was going and who I was, and after my brief autobiography, they informed me they were filmmakers, had just completed a documentary about Tiny Tim (the longhaired fellow who played ukulele and sang 'Tip Toe Through the Tulips') and were on their way to Quebec City to make a movie about a famous bike race.
We got along splendidly and they offered me a job assisting them on their film. I could hardly believe my good fortune. At the border, they showed their passports to a young border guard, he welcomed them to Canada, and then he asked me to get out of their car and show him two hundred dollars, which I did, much to his surprise and chagrin.
"Can we go now?" asked one of the filmmakers. "We're due in Quebec City tonight."
"You can go," said the guard, "but I have to search this guy's stuff. Lots of drugs being smuggled into Canada these days."
So the filmmakers left me at the border and said if I could get to Quebec City the next morning, the job was mine.
Overhearing their offer to me, the guard made sure I would never make it to Quebec City the next morning. He tore my pack apart. He crushed my aspirin pills to see if they were cocaine. He measured the largest blade on my Swiss Army knife to determine if I was carrying a concealed weapon. He jumbled my food and clothing together and unrolled my sleeping bag and tent on top of the jumble. I knew he wanted me to protest his absurd search so he could use my belligerence to deny me entry, but I gave him no such satisfaction, and finally, with darkness and a hard rain falling, he let me walk into Canada.
I camped in the woods that night, a mile past the border, and the next day, after waiting for several hours, I caught a ride with a longhaired guy smuggling several pounds of marijuana into Montreal. I suppose I could have hitchhiked to Quebec City the next day and begged those filmmakers to take me on, but I chose instead to spend the next week busking on the streets of Montreal and gawking at the gorgeous French Canadians.
Tags Anderson Valley Advertiser, border guards, Canada, Crater Lake, fortune, Joseph Campbell, Marcia Sloane, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Roads Not Taken, Todd Walton, Trail To Garfield Peak, truth, turning points, Under the Table Books
Fin Again—Wake!
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Todd At Crater Lake photo by Marcia Sloane
"…that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes…" James Joyce, Finnegan's Wake
We just returned, Marcia and I, from a nine-day journey to Oregon, our motive operandi a visit to my brother and his wife in their new digs in Portland, they among the wave of humanity crashing onto Portland, which is now the fastest growing urban area in these United States. We stayed in Gold Beach and Yachats on the Oregon coast on the way up, two nights in the Portland manse with mein brudder und his wife, a night in Eugene with friends on the banks of the Willamette, two nights at the lodge at Crater Lake, a night with friends in Arcata and…
This morning I woke in our familiar king-sized bed here in the kingdom of Mendocino, and before clarity conquered the last wisps of dream imagery, I wondered: did I dream the entire journey? And then I remembered Norman O. Brown from whom I took a course at UC Santa Cruz in 1969, Myth and History, and saw him standing perfectly still on the stage of the lecture hall, this the umpteenth pregnant pause of his lecture. He was about to speak the last words of the day's thought ramble, and he liked to give plenty of air to his final pronouncements.
"Fin. Again," he said softly. And then louder, with an urgency bordering on ecstasy, "Wake!" Then soft again, almost under his breath, "Finnegan's Wake." And once more, "Fin. Again. Wake!"
"In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!" James Joyce, Finnegan's Wake
I have not traveled away from Mendocino in seven years, save for the occasional visit to Santa Rosa to visit Marcia's mom and a few trips to San Mateo for Thanksgiving with the brother now in Portland. Thus for a stay-at-home, this Oregon jaunt was what my long-ago friend Leo used to call a Large Pattern Change.
I met Leo when I lived in a commune in Santa Cruz in 1972. My room was on the second floor of the big house I shared with eight other people, a long narrow room with a view of Monterey Bay. Leo would come to visit me twice a week and sprawl on my bed while I sat at my desk. He would speak of his difficulties with his mother, with his depression, and with women. As he spoke, I would jot down things he said that seemed pertinent or interesting to me.
How did I meet Leo? I was having coffee with a friend at the Catalyst—I am speaking of the original Catalyst housed on the ground floor of the St. Charles Hotel destroyed in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. Leo approached our table to speak to our mutual friend, joined us, and asked me politely if I would buy him a cup of coffee and baklava.
Having barely enough money to pay for my own coffee, and not knowing Leo from Adam, I hesitated and Leo said, "You, too, currently short of funds? Then a small coffee and I'll get yours next time."
When I think of Leo, I think of Winnie-the-Pooh. I cannot imagine Leo running, only trudging. He was large, overweight, and had a beautifully sad old man's face, though he was only in his late twenties when I knew him. He had long light brown hair and wore a beaten brown derby, a long scarf, and enormous shoes with holes in the toes. He was unemployed, lived in a boarding house, survived on a stipend from his mother, thought he might like to write something, but couldn't get down to business.
I was little enamored of Leo after our initial meeting, so when he showed up at my house one afternoon a few days later, I hesitated to invite him in, but he seemed not to notice my hesitation. Shortly thereafter, he was sprawled on my bed recounting his latest disaster with a woman who waited tables at the Catalyst, "She obviously liked me until that Fulcrum Moment when we sat down in the Acapulco and I explained I only had sufficient funds for guacamole and one beer we could share, and it was Leo Becomes A Demon Time. Now when I come into the Catalyst she won't even look at me and I want to shout, 'What does money have to do with love?' And now she asks He Of the Large Mustache to wait on me. I've seen her asking him and nodding furtively in my direction without looking at me."
Thus I became Leo's psychotherapist, and that was the extent of our relationship. He visited me twice weekly, unburdened himself for an hour or so, and then wandered away. He was fond of saying things like, "I'm on yet another plateau without a view," and "My mother has entered another Stretch of Minimal Funding," and "Yes, I lack purpose, but not for lack of desire."
Leo believed all his troubles would be over if he could only convince one of the many beautiful young women he was madly in love with to become his lover. "I suffer from a lack of Reciprocal Passion. When I'm with Carla (the woman Leo spent most of his money on paying for sex) she won't even open her eyes when…you know."
"The Gracehoper was always jigging ajog, hoppy on akkant of his joyicity." James Joyce, Finnegan's Wake
Today Mendocino is sunny and cool. Marcia is about to give a cello lesson and I am girding my loins to move two cords of summer-seasoned firewood into the woodshed in anticipation of what we hope will be a very wet winter—my batteries recharged by the splendors of our Oregon odyssey.
Tags Anderson Valley Advertiser, catalyst, Fin Again—Wake!, Finnegan's Wake, James Joyce, Marcia Sloane, Myth and History, Norman O. Brown, Oregon, Santa Cruz 1972, St. Charles Hotel, Todd At Crater Lake, Todd Walton, UC Santa Cruz, Under the Table Books


I'm very involved in fitness. It's my lifestyle, it's many of my part-time jobs, it's part of my passion in life. When people think of me, they often think of the fitness-related posts they see on social media. However, when people ask about what I'm doing with my career, they always assume I mean fitness in the physical sense. "So you want to be a trainer?" Yes, I already am a trainer. I have been coaching for four years. I am an Assistant Manager at one of Chicago's top fitness studios. I'm already there, and that has only been as side jobs to get me through school.
For most people, it's difficult to understand that there is room to go up from there. I don't have a degree in Exercise Science, and I'm glad I don't. I have a degree in Marketing, and I'm pursuing a Masters degree in Marketing & International Business. But…why not do fitness? That's what you're good at?
Actually, you only see the fitness side of me because that is more exciting on Instagram than studying for finance exams and writing up digital marketing strategies. I only highlight the "glamorous" sides of my life because well, that's social media for ya.
My goal is to do digital marketing for a fitness or sports company, but if I'm not, it's not the end of the world. I have many other passions in life, which include exploration, empowerment, and education, as highlighted on my blog. As an entry-level marketing professional, I won't always get to choose my clients. And when I do have clients, because of confidentiality, it's not always something I can post about, even if it is somewhat glamorous. Regardless, fitness is my passion and hobby, and it can be forever even if I'm not professionally working in fitness.
I personally know what I want my careers to be in life, but I'm unsure of the order in which they will occur and what unexpected adventures will come my way. That's the beauty of life. Still, I don't feel an obligation to explain my career goals to anyone else, because I am aware that I'm not living a "cookie-cutter" life and it is difficult for others to grasp my intentions.


text:
Apprenticeship in Education
Essays on Life in Haiti by Steven Werlin
The Purpose of the Site
The Women of Kolonbyè
Go to Fonkoze.
StevenWerlin.com
The Second Chance
Perrona in front of the shack they're in until their house is ready.
Perrona lives with her husband Soiye and their two small boys in Nan Joumou, a sparsely populated area behind the Mannwa ridge that overlooks Boukankare from the north. The hills that cut through Nan Joumou and areas around it — the whole valley between Mannwa and Bay Tourib, in Tomonn — aren't high, but they are steep, and the valleys between them are narrow. The area is thus pretty remote.
She was selected to be part of the large group of women who joined the program at the end of 2010, and she was in the program briefly. But she could never make a firm decision to stick to it. One week she would tell her case manager, Martinière, that she wanted to be a member. The next week, she would tell him that she had decided not to after all. I eventually went to speak to her and her husband, looking for a final decision, but I found only her, and she said that they had decided to "take a little break" from the program. When I told her that we couldn't offer her "a little break," she let me know that she had decided simply to leave it. She returned her membership card and her "pink notebook," the register that Martinière used as a weekly record of his work with her.
Within a couple of months, however, Soiye sought me out as I was hiking around Mannwa. He let us know that they had decided to join the program after all. His older sister and Perrona's mother were both starting to flourish as members, and he and his wife were ready to take their chances, too.
I had to tell him that I was sorry, but that we had completed selection in the area, that we had offered them as many chances as we could, but that Martinière's members in Mannwa were already well into the program, and we couldn't offer them a chance to join at that time.
What's worse: CLM selection works neighborhood by neighborhood. We go through each area only once. That's why we work so hard to avoid missing anyone. Generally, if we miss them once we probably have missed them forever. Normally, Perona and Soiye would have lost their one chance, and lost it permanently.
But they got lucky. Nan Joumou is on the very northern edge of the region we had covered in late 2010, and by the next summer, we were selecting new members in a neighborhood just a little farther north. Nan Joumou had never really fit conveniently into Martinière's territory in Mannwa. It had been a difficult hike for him to get down to Perrona's house and back up to Mannwa each week at the end of his long trek from Zaboka across Mannwa, through Gapi, to Viyèt. It wouldn't be any easier for the new case manager, Titon. He would have to hike southwest, across a couple of ridges and valleys, from Gwo Monte, in the alley between Mannwa and Balandri. The house is almost 45 minutes from the nearest members Titon serves. But I hiked to Nan Joumou myself to invite Perrona to rejoin the program, and she and Soiye didn't hide their excitement. They've now been in the program for just over six months. They're facing challenges, but making good progress as well.
The two enterprises that Perrona chose to start were goat rearing and pig rearing. Each has had its problems. They received two good-looking female goats, but one died of anthrax shortly after they got it. Thanks to their prompt attention, they were able to prevent the disease from spreading to the surviving goat. But it wouldn't get pregnant. Eventually, Soiye had to sell it, and buy another. This new goat is now almost ready to give birth for the first time. We haven't yet gotten them their pig at all. The epidemic of Teschen disease tearing through Central Haiti is discouraging. Pigs are dying in such numbers that we're hesitant to take the risk.
But these problems, which could be blocking their progress, have failed to really set them back because it has turned out that they have a real talent for poultry rearing. They did not choose to receive poultry from CLM, but have used all the possibilities that the program has offered them to buy birds on their own: chickens, ducks, and turkeys. They saved part of their weekly food stipend during the six months we offered it, and used it to buy birds. They used the transportation stipend that Perrona has received at each of our training sessions, and used it to buy birds. They even bought some birds that had nothing directly to do with CLM. Soiye explained: "The program didn't give us everything that's here. But everything you see is ours. The program just asks us to do our part."
Now that they're comfortable with their place in CLM, they're also candid about both the things that convinced them to leave the program and the one factor that convinced them to come back. "People who weren't chosen for the program don't want you to make any progress," Perrona said. "They told me that I could die. They told me that I'd have to dance without panties. They said all kinds of things."
Soiye then added, "But when we saw that people were dying of cholera left and right, we realized that we could die too. We decided that if we died in the program, at least we'd leave something behind."
So now they're definitively part of CLM, and they're planning how they can continue to progress. They are still nervous about taking the pig. It seems so risky. But they and their case manager have another idea. The population near them in Nan Joumou is too small for Perrona to make much money by setting up a small commerce there, and each of the local markets is a long, hard hike away. For her to really start anything worthwhile, she'll need a horse. If she had one, she could buy merchandise in the mountains and bring it down to the town, and then buy other stuff again in town and bring it back up the hill. She'd have a reasonable chance of earning enough to help her and Soiye really get ahead, especially since he's demonstrated that he's willing to work hard to pull his weight as well.
A horse will cost much more than the small pig we would buy for her, but if we take the money we would use for the pig and add to it the savings she's accumulated in the first seven months of the program, she might have just enough to buy a small horse and a first load of merchandise. It seems worth trying.
With Soiye and their boys.
This entry was posted in Chemen Lavi Miyo on March 8, 2012 by Steven Werlin.
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Apprenticeship In Education:
A program of Shimer College
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After Graduation (25)
Annual Summaries (4)
Chemen Lavi Miyo (248)
CLML (1)
Fonkoze Marigo (32)
Graduates Who Migrate (4)
Gwomòn — Lawa (1)
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Tyera Miskadi – Families Just Months from Graduation.
Choosing New Enterprises
Salmadè – Families Just Months from Graduation.
Eliène and Odak – Six Years after Graduation
Guerline Gracia – Six Months into the Program
Jeanna, Clothilde, and Itana – In the Beginning
Boukankare – Ten Years After Graduation
Boukankare: Eight Years After Graduation
Lawa, a Neighborhood of Gros-Morne: The Troubled Cry of a Community in Distress.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Q: How to display associated categories with get_adjacent_post in Wordpress I have a Next Post link at the bottom of my Wordpress article.
I am using get_adjacent_post to display the post title. I would also like to show the attached categories with my this post.
I can't find how I should write this.
My attempt is:
<?php
                $prev_post = get_adjacent_post(false, '', true);
                if(!empty($prev_post)) {
                echo '
ID) . '" title="' . $prev_post->post_title . '">Next article  →
' . $prev_post->post_title . '
Filed under: ' . $prev_post->post_category . '
'; }?>

$prev_post->post_category doesn't work. Does anyone know the correct syntax?
Thanks!

A: get_the_category_list should do the trick:
get_the_category_list( ', ', '', $prev_post->ID )

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


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text:
Het kunstrijden is een van de sporten die beoefend werden tijdens de Olympische Winterspelen 1968 in Grenoble. Het was de twaalfde keer dat het kunstrijden op het olympische programma stond. In 1908 en 1920 stond het op het programma van de Olympische Zomerspelen. De wedstrijden vonden plaats van 7 tot en met 16 februari op het kunstijs in het Palais de Glace.

In totaal namen 96 deelnemers (46 mannen en 50 vrouwen) uit zeventien landen deel aan deze editie.

Het paar Ljoedmila Beljoesova / Oleg Protopopov waren de enige deelnemers die voor de derde keer deelnamen. Zij prolongeerden tevens hun Olympischetitel van 1964. Zes mannen, zeven vrouwen, twee paren en paarrijder Heinz-Ulrich Walther (in 1964 met Brigitte Wokoeck, dit jaar met Heidemarie Steiner) namen voor de tweede keer deel.

IJsdansen, toen 'ritmisch schaatsen' genoemd, was een demonstratieonderdeel en werd gewonnen door het Britse paar Diane Towler en Bernard Ford.

Uitslagen

Mannen
Op 13 en 14 (verplichte kür) en 16 februari (vrije kür) streden 28 mannen uit veertien landen om de medailles.
 r/m = rangschikking bij meerderheid, pc/rm = som van de meerderheidsplaatsingen, pc/9 = som plaatsingcijfers van alle negen juryleden (vet = beslissingsfactor)

Vrouwen
Op 7 en 8 (verplichte kür) en 10 februari (vrije kür) streden 32 vrouwen uit vijftien landen om de medailles.
 r/m = rangschikking bij meerderheid, pc/rm = som van de meerderheidsplaatsingen, pc/9 = som plaatsingcijfers van alle negen juryleden (vet = beslissingsfactor)
{| class="wikitable"
!width="30"|rang
!width="270"|sporter(s)
!width="60"|land
!width="230"|r/m
!width="25"|pc/rm
!width="25"|pc/9
!width="50"|punten
|- bgcolor="F7F6A8"
| align="center"| || Peggy Fleming ||  || 9x1 (1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1) ||align=right| 9 ||align=right| 9 ||align=right| 1970,5
|- bgcolor="DCE5E5"
| align="center"| || Gabriele Seyfert ||  || 9x2 (2-2-2-2-2-2-2-2-2) ||align=right| 18 ||align=right| 18 ||align=right| 1882,3
|- bgcolor="FFDAB9"
| align="center"||| Hana Mašková ||  || 5x3 (4-3-3-3-4-3-4-4-3) ||align=right| 15 ||align=right| 31 ||align=right| 1828,8
|-
| align="center"| 4|| Albertina Noyes ||  || 7x5 (3-6-6-5-3-4-5-3-5) ||align=right| 28 ||align=right| 40 ||align=right| 1797,3
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| align="center"| 7|| Karen Magnussen ||  || 6x7 (7-8-7-7-7-8-8-5-6) ||align=right| 39 ||align=right| 63 ||align=right| 1759,4
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| align="center"| 13|| Linda Carbonetto ||  || 7x13 (9-13-13-11-14-14-13-11-13) ||align=right| 83 ||align=right| 111 ||align=right| 1662,9
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| align="center"| 17|| Petra Ruhrmann ||  || 5x17 (22-20-17-17-16-23-18-12-16) ||align=right| 78 ||align=right| 161 ||align=right| 1611,2
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| align="center"| 18|| Elisabeth Mikula ||  || 5x18 (14-18-15-21-22-18-22-19-15) ||align=right| 80 ||align=right| 164 ||align=right| 1612,5
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| align="center"| 19|| Eileen Zillmer ||  || 7x20 (20-15-20-12-18-20-16-24-26) ||align=right| 121 ||align=right| 171 ||align=right| 1609,3
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| align="center"| 20|| Micheline Joubert ||  || 5x20 (19-22-18-20-21-17-24-16-25) ||align=right| 90 ||align=right| 182 ||align=right| 1594,8
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| align="center"| 21|| Marie Víchová ||  || 6x21 (23-16-21-18-19-21-25-27-17) ||align=right| 112 ||align=right| 187 ||align=right| 1580,4
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| align="center"| 22|| Charlotte Walter ||  || 6x23 (18-23-24-22-25-26-20-22-22,5) ||align=right| 127,5 ||align=right| 205,5 ||align=right| 1571,5
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| align="center"| 25|| Rita Trapanese ||  || 6x25 (25-25-27-25-26-19-19-28-22,5) ||align=right| 135,5 ||align=right| 216,5 ||align=right| 1549,2
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| align="center"| 29|| Beatrice Huştiu ||  || 8x29 (29-29-29-29-29-30-29-25-28) ||align=right| 227 ||align=right| 257 ||align=right| 1457,2
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| align="center"| 30|| Lee Hyun-joo ||  || 7x30 (30-31-30-30-30-29-31-30-30) ||align=right| 209 ||align=right| 271 ||align=right| 1359,9
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| align="center"| 31|| Kim Hae-kyung ||  || - (31-30-31-31-31-31-30-31-31) ||align=right| 277 ||align=right| 277 ||align=right| 1336,2
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| align="center"| -|| Lyndsai Cowan ||  || <small>opgave || || ||
|}

 Paren
Op 11 (korte kür) en 14 februari (vrije kür) streden achttien paren uit negen landen om de medailles.
 r/m = rangschikking bij meerderheid, pc/rm = som van de meerderheidsplaatsingen, pc/9 = som plaatsingcijfers van alle negen juryleden (vet''' = beslissingsfactor)

Medaillespiegel

Kunstrijden
Kunstrijden op de Olympische Spelen
Kunstrijden in 1968
Kunstrijden in Frankrijk

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Iranian Foreign Minister Mohammad-Javad Zarif reiterated that there is no military solution to Syrian crisis.
"There is no military solution to Syrian crisis, but we should reach a solution by which Syrian nation can talk to each other," he said as he was delivering speech in World Economic Forum in Davos on Wednesday.
He also said that Astana meeting does not run counter to efforts of other international organizations for settlement of Syrian crisis.
Zarif called on all sides to pave the way for a successful future for Syria, adding terrorism, extremism and violence are threatening all and they should be confronted collectively.
Over 3,000 delegates from all over the world are expected to engage in a series of meetings and discussions about "entrepreneurship in the global public interest" in Davos.


Went public at 2005, Zumiez, a specialty clothing store, has been providing customers, the heart of the company, with cutting-edge clothing, pointing at the skater, snowboarder, and surfer, accessories, footwear, hard goods and snow for action sports. Zumiez believes that, by empowering its associates' sense of involvement and awareness of what they can do to help, it will definitely help people in need because of its ability to leverage the industry relationships to get the right items. In spite of striving to do a better job enlarging the whole company's scale, Zumiez, meantime, has all the time been obliged to assuming social responsibilities. If you are searching for a responsible and potential company to start your career, you should never miss out on Zumiez who is still growing with a promising future.
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On a journey to find the cure for a Tatarigamis curse, Ashitaka finds himself in the middle of a war between the forest gods and Tatara, a mining colony. In this quest he also meets San, the Mononoke Hime.
© 2018 Scratchu.com Princess Mononoke | Billy Crudup, Billy Bob Thornton, Minnie Driver, John DiMaggio, Claire Danes, John DeMita, Jada Pinkett Smith, Gillian Anderson, Keith David, Corey Burton, Tara Strong, Julia Fletcher, Debi Derryberry, Alex Fernandez, Jack Fletcher - Princess Mononoke (1997) | Japanese Movie | 8.4/10 | Synopsis : On a journey to find the cure for a Tatarigamis curse, Ashitaka finds himself in the middle of a war between the forest gods and Tatara, a mining colony. In this quest he also meets San, the Mononoke Hime.... Watch Online!!!


text:
Stanisław Maria Komornicki z Komornik blason Nałęcz, né le  à Cracovie, mort le  à Cracovie, est un universitaire polonais (professeur de chimie à l'École des mines et de la métallurgie de Cracovie et recteur du Centre universitaire de Tarnów).

Ancien athlète de haut niveau en aviron (premières régates en junior en 1966), il est membre de la commission internationale d'arbitrage de la Fédération internationale des sociétés d'aviron (FISA) de 2001 à 2014.

Biographie
Stanisław Komornicki est diplômé en chimie physique de l'université Jagellonne de Cracovie en 1972. Il a effectué ses études de troisième cycle à l'École des mines et de la métallurgie de Cracovie et à l'université Bordeaux I (double doctorat en 1981). Il a obtenu son habilitation à diriger des recherches en 1994.

Il a travaillé dans le laboratoire d'analyses physico-chimiques de l'environnement et de recherches structurales de l'université Jagellonne (1972-1974). À partir de 1974, il rejoint AGH, à la Faculté de sciences des matériaux et de la céramique où il est successivement ingénieur de recherche (1974-1975), assistant, maître-assistant (1975-1982), maître de conférences (1982-1986), professeur (1996), vice-doyen (1993-1996) puis doyen de la faculté (1996-2002).

Il s'engage parallèlement dans le développement du Centre universitaire de Tarnów (École nationale supérieure professionnelle), dont il est élu recteur en 2007 et réélu en 2011. Il quitte ses fonctions en 2015.

Il est spécialiste de la chimie du solide et l'ingénierie des matériaux électroniques. Il a travaillé notamment sur la céramique et ses processus physico-chimiques, invité ou organisateur de nombreux colloques scientifiques dans ce domaine, en Pologne et à l'étranger (France, États-Unis, etc.). Il est membre de la commission de la céramique de l'Académie polonaise des sciences

Bibliographie
 S. Komornicki, J.-C. Grenier, M. Pouchard, P. Hagenmuller - Distribution des lacunes anioniques dans quelques perovskites nonstoéchiometriques AMO3-y, Nouv. J. Chim., 5, 161, 1981.
 S. Komornicki et al., Investigation of Mixed Valency Ferrites La1-xCaxFeO3-y (0 ≤ x ≤ 0.5) with the perovskite structure, Mat. Res. Bull., 16, 967, (1981)
 S. Komornicki, Z. Szklarski - Single crystal and sintered semiconducting gas sensors, Bull. Acad. Pol. Sci., ser. sci. chim, 37, 222, (1989).
 S. Komornicki, Z. Szklarski - Thin layers and structural gas sensors, Bull. Acad. Pol. Sci., ser. sci. chim, 37, 231, (1989).
 S. Komornicki, S. Koziński, M. Rękas, The influence of cationic ratio on dielectric properties of yttrium doped SrTiO3 based ceramics, Solid State Ionics, 39, 159, (1990)
 S. Komornicki, J.-C. Grenier, J. Ravez, P. Hagenmuller, Influence of stoichiometry on dielectric properties of boundary layer ceramics based on yttrium-doped strontium titanate, Mat.Sci.Eng. B10, (1991), 95.
 R. Streiff, S. Komornicki, The Coatings & High Temperature Corrosion Data Bank, Surface & Coating Technol. 50, 263, (1992).
 P. Pasierb, St. Komornicki et M. Radecka, "Structural and optical properties of Sr1-xBaxTiO3 thin films prepared by rf sputtering", Thin Solid Films - 324, 134, (1998).
 P. Pasierb, S. Komornicki, M. Rękas, Comparison of the chemical diffusion of undoped and Nb-doped SrTiO3, J. Phys. Chem. Solids, 60 (1999), 1835-1844.
 S. Komornicki, M. Radecka, M. Rękas, Frequency Dependent Electrical Properties in the System SnO2-TiO2, J. Mat. Science, El. Mat., 17, (2001), 11.
 P. Pasierb, R. Gajerski, S. Komornicki, M. Rękas, Structural properties and thermal behavior of Li2CO3-BaCO3 system by DTA, TG and XRD measurements, J. Thermal Anal. & Calorim., 65, (2001), 457- 466.
 P. Pasierb, S. Komornicki, R. Gajerski, S. Koziński, P. Tomczyk et M. Rękas, Electrochemical Gas Sensor Materials Studied by Impedance Spectroscopy Part I - Nasicon as Solid Electrolyte, J. Electroceramics, 8, 49-55, (2002).
 P. Pasierb, S. Komornicki, R. Gajerski, S. Koziński, P. Tomczyk et M. Rękas, Electrochemical Gas Sensor Materials Studied by Impedance Spectroscopy Part II - Reference Electrode and Solid Electrolyte/Electrode System, J. Electroceramics 8, 57-64, (2002).
 M. Radecka, K. Zakrzewska, M. Wierzbicka, A. Gorzkowska, S. Komornicki, Study of the TiO2-Cr2O3 system for photoelectrolytic decomposition of water, Sol State Ionics 137, 379-386, (2003).
 P. Pasierb, S. Komornicki, R. Gajerski, S. Koziński et M. Rękas, The Performance and Long-Time Stability of Potentiometric CO2 Gas Sensors Based on the (Li-Ba)CO3|Nasicon|(Na-Ti-O) Electrochemical Cells, Solid State Ionics 137, 357-363, (2003).

Livres
 Polska Ceramika, Cracovie, 2002

Notes et références

Liens externes

 http://home.agh.edu.pl/~komornik/
 http://historia.agh.edu.pl/wiki/Stanis%C5%82aw_Komornicki

Chimiste polonais du XXe siècle
Chimiste polonais du XXIe siècle
Universitaire polonais du XXe siècle
Universitaire polonais du XXIe siècle
Recteur d'université en Pologne
Rameur polonais (aviron)
Arbitre polonais d'aviron
Tarnów
Noblesse polonaise du XXe siècle
Noblesse polonaise du XXIe siècle
Étudiant de l'université jagellonne de Cracovie
Docteur de l'université Bordeaux-I
Membre de l'Académie polonaise des sciences
Chevalier de l'ordre Polonia Restituta
Chevalier des Palmes académiques
Naissance en février 1949
Naissance à Cracovie
Décès en octobre 2016
Décès à Cracovie
Décès à 67 ans


I am selling my collection of games here I have 1 Nintendo 64 console, 4 controllers 2 are still in perfect working condition. I have 29 games 5 are doubles.. Selling as a set.
Brand new , never used , never opened . In box still !! I bought thinking it was a remote but it is only a charging dock .
Just dance 2019 and Fortnite Nintendo Switch Games/ NEW SEALED!!
Like new, would be willing to trade for Mario party or mario kart.
Adjustable shelves. Pickup in Evergreen.


You are equal parts artist and work of art. Do you believe it? Do you express it? Or have you reached your edge? You know that edge... the line we won't cross. That place inside from which we all shy away. For fear of, what? Being seen? This is Burning Man. Bring it. With movement as your medium and music your muse, join Skye and RhythmWave, and dance your edge. No preconceptions. No expectations. Just you. You are the poet. And poetry in motion. Dance your edge. And share your art.


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Pellicer off to a winning start as Malaga squeeze past Ponferradina
FRANK GAVURIN
...as is always the case these days, were those directed against the club president, Sheikh Al-Thani. This decibel rise did not, however, give much of a boost to Malaga's play; the home side spurned countless chances on the counter, with heavy touches
Former footballer from Malaga among those arrested in Spanish match-fixing investigation
M. SÁIZ-PARDO / A. GÓMEZ
...placed in Ukrainian and Chinese currencies. The police say that those involved in fixing received about 100,000 euros for every match. Carlos ArandaEFE However, the police also investigated the Valladolid-Valencia match on the final day of the La Liga
Owners welcome measures but say they still fall short of what's needed
A. PELÁEZ / H. BARBOTTA
...in Mijas say that this is a major step forward, they agree that it still falls short in many regards. "We are very happy for those who will now be able to access basic services," said SOHA president Phillip Smalley, "but we still have a fight on our
Peter Edgerton
...they worked with make-up and costume and set design and stuff like that. They weren't building camera rigs, that's for sure - not in those jodhpurs, anyway. I did talk to the pint-drinkers though and asked one of them what he did. "Grip," he growled ... one of those job titles that you see at the end of Starsky and Hutch when you're a child and you ask your dad for enlightenment and then realise that nobody in the world can actually know as he looks at your two uncles for support and all three shrug
Police halt 400kg hashish boat on San Pedro beach
...hashish, weighing about 400 kilos were seized, as well as the seven-metre vessel itself. In addition, a four-wheel-drive vehicle waiting to receive the goods was found. Those responsible for the shipment fled into the darkness, and investigations
Madrid toughens up rules for kids travelling out of Spain without parents
P. MARTÍNEZ / N HESKETH
It's an increasingly common situation; children leaving Spain to go away without parents, on a school trip or with friends of the family. With the rise in the risk to child safety, Spanish authorities have announced that from 1 September, the rules f
Volunteers remove half a tonne of waste from Nerja beaches
Eugenio Cabezas
Around 50 volunteers participated in a clean-up of Nerja's beaches last Saturday. Those taking part used motorboats and kayaks to remove half a tonne of waste from the cliffs and beaches of Nerja during the event. Plastics from local greenhouses,
Consulates offer advice for those who can't get "green card"
...because of high demand for the so-called "green card" proof-of-residency document with Spanish authorities. Residency Up-to-date official Brexit information For up-to-date official Brexit information on residency for those in Spain, consult the ... for a Tarjeta de Identificación de Extranjeros, a TIE, over a grace period of several months. Otherwise, those with no green certificate would need to apply for a TIE.
Famous faces at Marbella's International Film Festival
ASH BOLTON
Hundreds of film fans are expected to descend on Marbella for the town's international film festival from 2 to 6 October. · For more information visit www.marbellafilmfestival.com A red carpet will be rolled out during the five-day movie extra
Free Christmas Eve meals given out to those in need
FERNANDO TORRES
It has become a normal sight in the city on Christmas Eve: people queuing to receive food from Ángeles Malagueños de la Noche volunteers, so that no family need go without on this important occasion. Antonio Meléndez, the president of the association


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Eradication of the Northern Palm Squirrel in Perth
The northern palm squirrel (Funambulus pennantii) is native to India, Iran, Nepal and Pakistan, but is now also found in Afghanistan. It was introduced into the grounds of the Perth Zoo in 1898 (Sedgewick 1968) and remained confined to the gardens for many years, but from about 1960 they had expanded into or been taken into a number of surrounding suburbs. A population also existed at Wesley College from about 1964, but did not increase much. Colonies also existed at Royal Perth Golf Club, South Perth Civic Centre, Comer Reserve, Como Primary School, Bentley Pine Plantation, McCallum Park and Raphael Park. In 1981 some were found a Midvale (Zekulich 1981) and at Kelmscott. At about the same time three were caught at Pingelly, having been transported in the roof of a transportable home. In 1984 single squirrel was trapped at Osborne Park (Long 1988).
The squirrel is the size of a very large rat (body mass about 135g, but up to 200g), it has light brown-to-grey fur on the head, ears and feet and deep red-brown or brown-grey fur on the back with five white longitudinal stripes on its back, three of which run for the head to the tail. It has a long fluffy tail, which it often holds erect. It eats seed, leaves and soft fruits, but unlike some other squirrels does not cache food. The northern palm squirrel can significantly damage fruit and vegetables, and would be a serious pest in orchards, nurseries and vineyards, if it were to become established in these areas in Western Australia.
It is gregarious and typically nests in trees, and was often seen running around the Perth Zoo and on the Royal Perth Golf Course. Its habitat preference is quite plastic and in its home land, is found in grasslands, scrublands, plantations and dry deciduous forests. It also inhabited the houses and parklands in the vicinity of the Perth Zoo, and because it was highly mobile and an excellent climber, backyard fences were never an obstacle as it moved from house-to-house.
Of interest, a Queensland Department of Employment, Economic Development and Innovation (2010) publication on the Indian Palm Squirrels indicated that they were being sold in NSW as pets. They were also established in an area within a 5km radius of Taronga Park Zoo (Watts and Aslin 1981), but died out some time later. The Department of Agriculture and Food (DAFWA) has the northern palm squirrel listed as number 4 on its Declared Animal Species priority list. Dr Peter Mawson (Director of Animal Health and Research) at the Perth Zoo indicated that the northern palm squirrel has almost been eradicated from the Perth Zoo by the zoo's Black Rat control program. He indicated that none had been seen in the Zoo grounds for about 12 months, which suggests they are extinct at the Perth Zoo or the population is below a detectable level.
DAFWA also undertook a northern palm squirrel eradication program on the Royal Perth Golf Course in 2014, which also appears to have been successful. Darrel Stewart, DAFWA Biosecurity Officer, indicated that there may still be a few left on the golf course and possibly one down at the Old Mill. DAFWA plan another trapping program early next year to clean up the remaining individuals.
This is a great result for the hard work by Perth Zoo and DAFWA staff. It is not often we can come out in public and say we are close to the eradication of a vertebrate feral pest that has been established in Perth for over 100 years.
Information on the location of individuals provided for this post by Dr Peter Mawson at the Perth Zoo is appreciated.
Department of Employment, Economic Development and Innovation (2010) Indian Palm squirrels (Funambulus spp.). Unpublished report available online
Long, J.L. (1988). Introduced Birds and Mammals of Western Australia. Technical Series No. 1, second edition. Agriculture Protection Board of Western Australia.
Sedgwick, L.E. (1968). The Squirrels of South Perth. West. Aust. Nat. 11(1): 1-4.
Watts, C.H.S. and Aslin, H.J. (1981). Rodents of Australia. Angus and Robertson, Sydney and Melbourne.
Zekulich, M. (1981). Stray squirrels pose threat. West Australian, July 20, 1981.
Image credits – (top) – Department of Agriculture and Food website; (bottom) – Wikipedia.org
8 Responses to "Eradication of the Northern Palm Squirrel in Perth"
Glen gaikhorst on January 13th, 2016 11:45 am
Scott, have to disagree mate. They were an icon for the zoo and a real shame there gone. To call them a threat is just crap the species had expanded about 10 km in over 100 years. Compare that to some of the species of real concern and is extremely minor. On saying that the populations outside of the zoo were extremely small and fluctuated greatly. I did a project on them in early 2000's for the zoo and other than the zoo, golf course and school populations everything else was one offs or low numbers. It was tackled because it was easy, those resources should go into Rainbow Lorries, Eastern Long Billed Corella and Indian Ring Necks. Which are all doing quite nicely in the Perth Region.
Scott Thompson on January 13th, 2016 1:02 pm
Thanks Glen for the comments. I totally agree that they were an easy target to eradicate and this is probably why it was done, but shouldn't we be acknowledging every success? Without the small wins the government will never allocate funding to some of the bigger issues (i.e. cane toads, rainbow lorikeets, starlings, pigs, cats etc). I hope that by publicly acknowledging these small wins some bigger issues will be tackled next.
Ry Beaver on January 18th, 2016 10:40 am
Thanks for the interesting article – I went to South Perth Primary and remember these little guys scurrying up and down the pine trees. I have been meaning to go to the zoo for a while to see them again – looks like I might have to focus on the golf course and not wait too long! Do you know if it is possible to get onto the gold course to spot the remaining few?
Scott Thompson on January 18th, 2016 10:44 am
Thanks for the comment Ry. I remember them well as a kid at the zoo and in previous years while playing sport on the ovals nearby watching them run up and down the trees. I am not sure about the golf course, but I am sure that if you asked at the golf club they wouldn't mind you walking around looking for them. If you did manage to find one it would be great if you could comment back here.
Scott Thompson on February 1st, 2016 10:15 am
We have just found out that there has been a recent sighting of the Northern Palm Squirrel in Victoria Park. I always find it interesting that when you promote a particular animal to the community you suddenly get additional sightings. Maybe we should be doing more of this to find the rare and threatened fauna across the country. The link to the DAFWA website is https://www.agric.wa.gov.au/news/media-releases/look-out-pest-squirrels-perth?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=DAFWAmedia
Ry Beaver on February 10th, 2016 1:01 pm
Sighting in Vic Park – that's really interesting! Any more specifics 🙂 I haven't managed to touch base with the golf course to see if they are happy with me to take a look.
Scott Thompson on February 10th, 2016 2:31 pm
Sorry Ryan, I only have what is in the link. Give the Department of Agriculture a call and they may have more details.
Scott Thompson on February 11th, 2016 5:13 am
It is now in the common media. http://www.watoday.com.au/wa-news/government-warns-perth-squirrel-circle-residents-to-keep-watch-on-backyards-20160210-gmqgb8.html


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Home > WWE > Live From the 205 (7/2/19): Chaos!
205 Live Live From The 205 Review WWE
Live From the 205 (7/2/19): Chaos!
If it looks like a go-home episode, sounds like a go-home episode, feels like a go-home episode, but isn't a go-home episode... what is it?
That's the question posed by this action-packed episode of 205 Live, which showcases almost all of the relevant storylines on the show by containing them in one big six-man tag main event. It's a great move by the brand—one we haven't really seen them do since the Enzo Amore days—to get everyone as involved as possible, instead of highlighting them a pair at a time.
205 Live should honestly be doing more multi-man matches like these, for reasons I've already mentioned before. Whoever they're pushing as the show's top stars should always be in front of the crowd, and I always found it weird that champions would take weeks off to let others steal the spotlight. While it made sense to rotate the roster and keep them from being oversaturated, the tradeoff is they had to hustle extra harder to make sure the crowd remembered who they were. Why do that when you could find different ways to keep the champ on the show every week?
If they can pair this approach up with big-match episodes they can build up to every month, 205 Live can have another renaissance on the horizon.
Now, the only weird move is that with the show's equivalent of a locker room-clearing brawl, the episode feels like Extreme Rules was supposed to be today. It kind of feels awkward to find out they've still got one more episode to build to the PPV, because I couldn't think of anything they could do after a brawl like that. The good thing is, 205 Live has shown us lately they've always got a plan.
205 Live 7/2/19 Final Grade: A decent tornado tag match and a big six-man tag billed as a double main event make this episode feel like a special one. A-
Am I the only one who feels like Lucha House Party didn't deserve that win at all? With very little interaction in the past weeks with the Singh Brothers, only appearing from out of nowhere, the Bollywood Boyz could've used the rub a lot more than luchadores who are always credible.
I'm also not sure what to make of the tornado tag being somewhat of a signature stipulation for the Lucha House Party. I think the least they could do is acknowledge how they've got good records in tornado tags.
Glad to see Mike Kanellis hasn't completely quit the show, but the added wrinkle of Maria now feuding with him pushes him closer to madness. I'm all here for the payoff, but they better wrap it up soon.
I'm a sucker for continuity, so I loved how everyone in the six-man went after their specific rivals, and then some. Daivari had unfinished business with Tony Nese, so he got those licks in too. It's all very basic, I know, but I have to applaud all attempts at retaining logic.
Romeo Moran (@roiswar) is the Editor in Chief of Smark Henry, one of the three hosts of the Smark Gilas-Pilipinas Podcast, and is associated with Philippine Wrestling Revolution. He gets by in this hard knock life through working in publishing. Smark Henry was his and Stan Sy's original vision of a watering hole for local wrestling fans. He roots for the undersized guys who hit hard, but really hates Davey Richards with his entire soul. He likes taking your wrestling questions over on his Curiouscat account.
By Romeo Moran at July 08, 2019
Item Reviewed: Live From the 205 (7/2/19): Chaos! Rating: 5 Reviewed By: Romeo Moran