Greetings from Palm Spring, Land of old 1ueens. It also seems to be Land of high humidity and bugs. I am not used to moisture in the air and I am sensitive as a shark to blood for such. It probably isn’t too humid, but it feels like a swamp* One would think I am back in Michigan, Land of Perpetual Ice and Snow. In its defense, we are accustomed coming to town either February or in November, not in June. Thems who live here scram for the summer if they can help it. However the pool is not cold and one can stay in it as long as wanted. My hummingbird brains thwart me standing still in any place for too long, so I flit between the pool and the AC in Room #45. When we visit, we generally stay in Room #44, which is next door. I need to stop trying to open that room as my key doesn’t work and I probably frighten the fellow who actually stays there.

Not much is planned for today so it is make it up as we go along, which suits me fine. As I age I am far less interested in a structured itinerary causing me to run around all day. I am taking my late Mother’s approach to sit by the pool with my book and puzzles and try not to move much, flies permitting.

Later on I may go the local charity goodwill store and find some bargains. Palm Springs is known of its elderly well-off habitants and when they die their clothes are dumped en masse into such places. One can get very nice shirts and such, things hardly worn and at a fraction of original cost. I hope to find some trousers but it is a challenge to go through the racks and look into each for size. This ain’t no department store where the sizes are sorted by waist size. It’s a pleasant way to pass the morning especially when it’s too hot to walk about town.

I think that’s all for now. I have a new book to read so I will see if any of the outside lounge chair sare available. Let’s see how long I last given the humidity, the flies, and my attention span.

Sordid details (if any) to follow.

*According to the Weather Channel the dew point is 11% and the humidity is 24%. It might as well be Florida.

I wrote this one last night after packing for Thorsday’s drive to Palm Springs, Land of old Queens. It’s an expanded essay from 2008 (can you imagine!) I figured few if any Spo-fans have read it, so it was good for a repeat. Section CXII(c) of The Contract of Obligation specifically forbids repeats, so it isn’t just a cut and paste job. I coiffed it up a bit to get through the censors. Spo

For thems who listen to the “Grammar Girl” podcast, she often concludes her episodes with something called a familex. These are words or expressions families invent and use among the members. My familex word is ‘ghost bag’ and whenever I go on a vacation or a road trip, I pack one. The suitcase is sitting ready to go, and by it stands the ghost bag.  

As a boy I had a ferocious appetite for ghost stories. One of my favorites was ‘The Ghost Bag’. I wish I could remember who wrote it; I would love to read it again. What I remember about it is the protagonist is a young barber, who goes about with his bag of barber tools. He comes to a town where the residents are scared of a haunted house. He’s offered an reward if he can stay overnight in it. He tricks the resident ghost into believing the bag he carries imprisons ghosts. The lad has the ghost peer into his sack to see the most recent ghost he has captured. The ghost sees himself in the shaving mirror in the bag and becomes frightened. He pleads ‘Do not put me into the ghost bag! ’ the ghost forfeits the house and the poor barber is a hero, inheriting the house and its treasures. I think he hangs up the bag to keep the ghosts away.

I loved this story and I would ask Mother to read it over and over. My favorite part was when she acted out ‘Now, I am going to put you into the ghost bag!”

My carry-along case for a plane or car trip has been ‘the ghost bag’ ever since. In it goes whatever I desire for the trip, to keep me busy so I don’t talk Someone’s ear off. The Ghost Bag is a glorified duffel sack or briefcase.  The contents vary, as does the bag. I have heaps of canvas bags, normally used for groceries. But on a trip they are ghost bags. They aren’t very chic and they certainly can’t compete with last season’s Pradas, but they are jolly good fun.

The contents of the ghost bag for Palm Springs:

Cook’s Illustrated Magazines.

My writing journals

The book

Some Sudoku puzzles along with GAMES magazine.

Sunglasses – the ‘taxi’ ones.

Some nibbles

Alas, no ghosts. I’ve waited all my life to meet one. I am well prepared to handle it.

What’s top of my mind: Palm Springs. Finally! We leave tomorrow for a weekend in Palm Springs, Land of old Queens. There we will visit with chums, seven in total and all well over four feet. There are no set plans but laughing and talking and make it up as we go along. Perhaps I will get some more Shag stuff although Someone will be present to put the kibosh on any foolish purchases. I am certain to write all about it as it unfolds.

Where I’ve been:  The new gym. The LA Fitness where I go to practice falling down and getting up again has locations close to the PHX and MESA offices – or had. Alas, Babylon! The one near at MESA recently closed for no reason, which leaves me bereft of post-work-out Tuesdays and Thorsdays. I figured on those days I would go directly home and partake in a post-prandial walk – which isn’t happening. It’s 90F at 6PM and that’s no good for a walk. I went online the other day, to locate a new gym. There are two somewhat in the MESA area. It’s a bit of a hike through traffic to both of them and online reviews say they are a tad not-too-clean but next week and make a decision which one is the better.

Where I’m going:  Sherman’s Deli. Patience above! There are many lovely places to eat in Palm Springs and we have three nights only! There is one must-go-to spot: Sherman’s Deli. It is the place of breakfast; do not question this. It’s one disappointment: a few years ago they took kippers off the menu. I still ask for them, just in case. No harm trying anyway.

What I’m watching:  The Storyteller. Jim Henson put together a marvelous collection of (mostly) Slavic and Russian folk tales, told by The Storyteller played by John Hurt. The tales are not wish-washed nor sugar-coated. They are worth a look-see again. The tale of “The luck child’ contains the largest muppet there ever was: a ten-foot Griffen. 5-star marvels, all of them.

What I’m reading: Boys come first. There is no joy like a new book opened on holiday, and I have heaps to choose from. Some of them have been sitting on the ‘to read’ shelf for years. I chose “Boys come first’ by Aaron Foley. I bought the book in The Unabridged Bookstore in Chicago (I know this because their bookmark is in it). It looks to be about some young lads looking for love and fortune in Detroit. Hey! That’s where I come from! I will be curious if I recognize some of the settings.

Has anyone read this book?

What I’m listening to: The Grimoire Diaries. In the same day two people suggested I listen to a podcast called The Grimoire Diaries, so I looked it up. The description says:

“William Moore is a sceptic. He works at a quiet bookshop in North London, shelves odd little fairytales, and rolls his eyes at anything resembling the supernatural. But when something awful happens to someone he loves, William is forced to reckon with the idea that nursery rhymes, old gods, and forgotten superstitions might not be stories after all.”

Hot puppies! This seems something I would like indeed! I downloaded the first couple of episodes of season #1 (season #2 is just starting) for the car ride to Palm Springs.

Has anyone heard this podcast?

What I’m eating: Imperial tidbits. Food is expensive and that is even more in California. As we are driving not flying, we tend to bring our own nibbles and boozes rather than buying local. We are packing tins of little fishes and pates and a bottle of rum, gin, and bourbon (no rubbish types). There are a few bags of Goldfish crackers for game/cards night, which may not make it to the California border.

Who needs a good slap: The Felon. I refer to the recent interview in which he stormed off when confronted to produce evidence for his sweeping statements. How he handled himself was ugly; it was not a sign of a grown man, let alone the dignity that ought to be The President of the United States. I see similar ‘go on the attack and shout down others when confronted by their actions and statement ‘ in psychiatric patients, especially thems with personality disorders like narcissism and sociopathy.

On my 1-5 scale, I give The Felon a stern finger wag; one doesn’t slap a child throwing a tantrum.

Who gets a fist bump: Thems who do good small deeds. In “The fellowship of the ring” Gandalf the Gray says it is not great power that keeps evil in check, but the small things, the deeds of ordinary folk, small acts of kindness and love that make life bearable. We laud the folks who make headlines with their beneficent and courageous acts, but they are just the tip of an iceberg of daily acts of kindness barely acknowledged. In the past week I’ve encountered several: an employee brought to my table a packet of hot sauce without me asking for one, as she knows I like one. A cashier at Uncle Albertsons remembered I was making chili the other day and asked how did it come out. A patient moving east said thank you for helping her all these years ‘you were the best”. Friends send me texts to make me smile.

Tell me about a small act of kindness you recently experienced.

What I’m planning: A gossip’s feast. Do you know this expression? I heard it in “The comedy of errors’ by Shakespeare. At the end of the play when shenanigans are sorted and all are reunited, the mother says:

The Duke, my husband, and my children both, and you, the calendars of their nativity, go to a gossips’ feast, and go with me.
after so long grief, such nativity!

Meaning: come on in and let’s have a good time talking. And that is what I am most looking forward to most this weekend: a gossip’s feast with friends. Lovely talk!

What’s making me smile: A shout out on The Tube of Yous. I regularly watch “Game Night Picks’ with host Chaz (who is well over four feet). Some time ago he asked for requests. I asked about games that lead to ructions and forgot about it – until I was walking to the post box the other day, half-listening to his presentation of some new games when lo! I heard my name mentioned! Patience above! He addressed my question for a derisive game that ends (if all goes well) in murders and suicides. Alas, Babylon! It is too late to get ‘Diplomacy’ in time for the weekend, so will settle for Mexican Dominoes ,which in its defense often leads to savagery.

The Board of Directors etc. etc. recently reminded me what I write is supposed to be funny. At least some of the time. One of them (Herbert probably) actually keeps tabs on which entries are deemed funny or not. The Contract of Obligation has buried it an article stating the suzerain shall dictate a certain percentage that ought to be that way. This gets back to the question as old as they are viz what is funny? I am not feeling at all funny these days, although I am wearing my new stick-pin of Sisyphus rolling the rock up hill and with rock actually twirls about. That seems funny, especially on a Monday morning when I wrote this. When it comes to humor, there is not accounting for taste.* The Board’s definition of funny isn’t mentioned in the article, worse luck. Their sense of humor is more along the line of The Three Stooges with more blood shed.

As I pack for Palm Springs I have the option of sunglasses. There are three from which to choose, a judgment of Paris for spectacles as it were.

The first pair is sleek and dark to make me look butch, something like “Men in Black’ minus their charms. Do I look ready for Fearsome Beard?

The second pair has bright yellow frames with tessellated black lines what I call my ‘taxi glasses”. Alas, Babylon! No one flags me down anymore despite low fares. Everyone takes Uber, nowadays, worse luck.

The third set has precious gems pressed into the border. When I bought these I thought they were quite funny – maybe not so now. Perhaps it was the circumstance of the purchase.**

The Clown archetype quickly goes into its schtick whenever I am in a crowd. He teams up with The Persona in a sort of Jungian Smothers Brothers routine. This comedy duo comes to me as naturally as breathing; I enter any room with a little smile as if everyone therein had been waiting for me. After a lifetime of this. I know no one is waiting for me and most are not in the mood to be entertained either. I am better off wearing The Butch frames and keeping my mouth shut to create an allure of coolness. Alas, Babylon! Sooner or later I open my mouth and out pops some Attic wit that brings down the whole stratagem. Oh the embarrassment.

This entry isn’t very funny and The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections will be disappointed and there is nothing as irksome (or hazardous) as disappointed Dane-types. I better get out of town for a while. I think I will bring the taxi glasses as that is what I want to wear, audience reception be damned.

If someone finds them funny that will be extra.

*So far as I can tell, the only things deemed universally funny throughout time and space and culture are:

Dropping ones trousers in public

Fart jokes

Pies in the puss.

** I recall margaritas were involved.

Being the ersatz house manager at work, when bored I spend time tidying up the left-behinds of previous employees. I’ve gathered up all the loose keys and put them on rings or in a box. We have heaps and at home there is similar. They vary in size and shape but they fall into the common category of useless. I suspect you have something similar viz. keys you hold onto despite no knowledge what they go to. The basis of hoarding these ancient objects is fear of coming across a lock and realizing you need the key and viola! one of the saved ones fits.

I cannot recall a time when this actually happens. The locks at work are not many and all the old keys don’t fit any of them, so why hold onto them? “Just in case” which never occurs.

Some of the keys at the offices are probably the result of various office moves or necessities to change locks after an employee leaves in a huff or on bad terms. Due to a possible security breach at the PHX office, the keys to the building and to the office were replaced. This was done quickly that many showed up to work on Monday only to discover they couldn’t get in. Thems in charge said they dropped off the new keys on the receptionist’s desk, which was cold comfort for thems trying to get in. Once we did get in, the three rings of identical-looking keys had to be distributed to staff who then had to figure out which key does what.*

Most of the lost-boy keys are of the tiny type, used to lock cupboards and desk drawers, not office doors.

Even if one is bold enough to toss them, it seems a shame to put keys in the trash. Glass and aluminum are recycled, so why not metal keys? I bet if we all collected and melted them down everyone’s old keys we could create a rail track from here to the moon.

While rummaging about gathering old keys I found a small safe the size of a deck of cards with four dials serving as the lock. I hear a key moving about inside. Somebody thought this key important enough to put into such, but what would it be? The key to the mailbox is accounted for (I put a bright pink cap on that one for easy recognition). I am determined to get at it, although my intuition tells me it is another useless key to put with its fellows. As I don’t know the combination, I started at 0-0-0-0 and (in my spare time) am slowly go through towards 9-9-9-9 until I hit the jackpot.**

It does no harm to hold onto old keys. Someone likes to say, they aren’t taking up space, so why get rid of them? However, the Virgo in me (and my Swiss-German genetics) likes order and and improvement. I don’t care to hold onto useless objects, and the saved ones could be confused with the useful keys.

At the PHX office there is a small locked two-drawer black metal filing cabinet and none of the dozen keys in the photo fit it. That key is missing. Oh the pain.

Do you have a set of old keys lying about?

Are you bothered any at your house by The Car Key Gnomes?

*There is a ring of new keys no one can figure out their use. They are not office keys, nor front door keys. They sit near the collection of old keys – neither of use to anyone.

**I’m presently at 1-6-3-2. It will be a good road trip past time next week going to California.

Incorrigible satisfier (n.) a person who stubbornly insists on making choices that are “good enough” rather than searching for the absolute best possible option.

While we like some choice, we aren’t happier with too many. We think want as many options as possible when choosing something, but we really don’t. Just think about the last time you went to the drug store for a tube of toothpaste and you faced shelf after shelf of dozens and dozens of variations. Recall that time you went to a restaurant with a menu and wine list that resembled a novel. When faced with too many things to choose we get anxious.

Once upon a time we had little if any choice in things. What was available was what there was, and we longed for more choices. It was Kierkegaard (or one of that crowd) who pointed out when given too many choices it makes folks nervous. Our brains are comparison engines, but good only for a few items, not for dozens and dozens. Despite some desire to do so, we can’t wrap our minds around infinite choices. *

I’ve known patients and pals who won’t make decisions based on the angst once they make one they will immediately start feeling they didn’t pick the ‘right one’. When prodded to just pick one of the 31 flavors there’s a line, they do, but they don’t enjoy their ice cream much.**

There is a clever fellow (well over four feet) named Herbert Simon. I don’t know his work well but I grasp the gist of his philosophy (or economy) which rests upon the principle of choosing something not as ‘the best’ but ‘good-enough’ and being at peace with this.

Why am I bringing this up today? This week I was obliged to apply the approach towards buying a car. In the past, when I had time (and I was less wise) I would read all the reviews. I would consult Consumer Reports. I would ask as many people as I can about their vehicles – not so much to find a car I wanted but ‘the right one’ whatever that means. The process took a lot of work and effort. I need new wheels and needs them now. I took the incorrigible satisfier approach: we made an appointment with the Hyundai dealer, where the defunct red Elantra resides. We gave some basic desires of a hybrid and something not too big and something I can get easily in and out of – like my men. He showed us a few on the lot and I drove them about to get the feel therein. One of them had enough luxuries and bells and whistles to make it nice without resembling the interior of a jumbo jet cockpit. I chose that one – another Elantra. We pick it up tomorrow.

It is not red but white, not my first choice. The car is nice looking, and has a nice interior and gets 50+ mpg. And it is there; I didn’t spend days if not weeks researching ‘the best car’ and ‘the best deal’. I think the salesman (who was also well over four feet) was honest and forthcoming. We felt good in the purchase.

It is a good-enough car, and I am OK with it.

I don’t have buyers remorse nor angst I could have done better.

The new Elantra (or something like it)

*I’ve learned this with patients. They do not like being told what to do, nor ‘this is the answer’. On the other hand if I give them too many choices their angst becomes obvious. They freeze; they say they can’t make up their minds. The best number is three options, which is not too few but not too many to comprehend.

**When in doubt, pick Rocky Road.