Farewell, sweet child

Oh, man—the world lost a beautiful melody this week. Songwriter-guitarist and all-around musical magician John Renbourn has died of an apparent heart attack. He was 70.

I knew him as a principal in Pentangle, a group that wove traditional folk songs through modern world rhythms and produced a unique, haunting sound. I’ll admit that his voice was not his strong suit, but lordy, could that man play the guitar.

Renbourn had a puckish sense of humor, which emerged in interviews over the years. He claimed that he came to music as a means of avoiding obligatory boxing and cross-country running at his school. If so, hurrah for us, because we won. I can’t think of anything by him that’s not a delight.

Renbourn never stopped—his body was discovered on Thursday, because he failed to show up for a gig. There’s a man who lived his passion.

And here’s an example for you to remember him by:

Schock and awesome

Well, Aaron Schock (R-Ill.) left his Congressional office yesterday. His bordello-red Congressional office.

To the very end he has been consistent in one regard: being utterly clueless and delusional. As he was passing through the threshold, hoping the door wouldn’t hit him in the butt, he said this of his much-shorter-than-he’d-hoped-for term in office: “I’ve done my best to contribute constructively to the process and to serve the people of my district and my country.”

(You remember Schock, right? Clipped for fiddling his expense reports and spending $40,000 of taxpayer funds to decorate that bordello-red office in the manner of Downton Abbey.)

What I loved most about the report of this event by NPR was their closing sentence:

“In an unrelated coincidence, PBS announced today that the show’s upcoming sixth season will be its last.”

First of all, what would a related coincidence be? Isn’t the whole point of a coincidence that it’s two or more events or circumstances without apparent causal connection?

But why bury the most significant news in the last graf? Because I am over-the-moon happy that the Abbey is hitting the road. I’m really hoping that we can get something actually entertaining to fill the hours and hours that PBS devotes to that dog-in-period-kit, and that people will attempt—to the best of their abilities—to get a life.

As for Schock—I’m hoping that the door actually did hit him on the butt. And I’m wondering who’s going to have to pay to have that God-awful office neutralized.

Alarming matters

Here’s a philosophical poser for you:

Why is it that the batteries in your smoke detectors always start going bad during the hours when (if you’re lucky) you’re in your deepest, most restorative sleep?

Over the past year or so, every time one of my five alarms started that shrill insistent beeping (and let me just say that cathedral ceilings and fake hardwood floors provide the perfect environment for that sound to echo throughout the house and drill into your brain) somewhere between 0100 and 0400.

Never once during daylight hours. How do they do that?

Yesterday it was at 0230. By this time I had only three working smoke alarms (because I hadn’t got around to buying 9V batteries), but I still had to go around the entire place listening for which one of the three was actually beeping. By the time I found it and got it off the ceiling, I was thoroughly awake, and it took me a good hour to get back to sleep again.

This did force me to finally go out and get a supply of 9V batteries, and I got all three tested and mounted again, so I should be street legal in case the fire marshals show up for a surprise inspection.

Until some night between midnight and 0400 when one of the five goes off again.

Silicon signage

On one of my neighborhood walks a while ago I came across this sign referring to a garage sale. Pretty ordinary, except:

Yes, apparently you get up your neighbors’ noses when you put up a generic “Garage Sale” sign, and then don’t take it down.

I can’t imagine that there’ve been droves of would-be bargain hunters streaming around the streets of Sunnyvale, but of course I could be wrong.

I also find it interesting that the neighbor(s) took the passive-aggressive approach: instead of just taking down the sign, they appended snark to it.

Forget it, Jake. It’s the Valley.

About that word...

This came to me from a friend. If you don’t know Tim Minchin, you really should become acquainted with him. He’s a brilliant actor, comedian and musician/composer, mostly Australian, with that antipodean ability to find exactly the right part of the balloon to prick.

Here he takes on prejudice, focusing on that word—you know, the one with two Gs, an ER and an I and an N…

Oh, yeah? You what?

Nope—I can legitimately use it, since I am one. And, as Minchin points out, that entitles me.

And remember—“It’s a homophone!”

Gratitude Monday: Fight Love Live

This close to the Spring equinox, I’m grateful for the places here in the Valley They Call Silicon that bring gardens—beautiful, stunning flower gardens—to those of us who live in environments that are dirt-free.

Well, as dirt-free as you can get being in eye-shot of El Camino Real.

If you’re in the South Bay and you don’t want to drive up to Golden Gate Park (which indeed has spectacular flower gardens), Filoli fits the bill.

Filoli is “one of the finest remaining country estates of the early 20^th Century.” The family that built it made its money in originally in mining, then it was bought by a couple whose wealth came from shipping. So, there was plenty of the readies to construct and maintain several distinct garden areas.

(There’s a big old mansion, too, which apparently was used for exterior shots of…Dynasty, maybe. I never watched that and I find the house a little on the pedestrian side; although the kitchen is pretty interesting.)

Shortly after I moved to this area, my friend Amy insisted that I had to go there, that it’s one of her favorite places around here, but I never got round to it.

Then we met there one year for their Christmas craft sale, which is held in the house. (Gardens not open during that period.) And I was interested enough to go back a few months later to see the exterior.

Dear readers—Amy was right. When I was there, roses were in full force, along with irises (one of my favorites; I love bulbs). It was lovely to wander around amidst the scents and colors and forget all about tech matters. It does not possess the in-your-face extravagance of the Huntington Gardens, near where I grew up. But I actually prefer it because it’s more inviting.

Well, last week, the Table Topics at Toastmasters were all about Spring, which got me thinking about needing a flower fix. So I drove up there and was well rewarded for the effort.

This being early in the season, there were various narcissi, and enough tulips to soothe the soul of any Dutchman.

Don’t believe me? Take a look.

  

The estate’s name comes from the words Fight, Love, Live. Story is that the Bourns, who built it, believed in this credo: To fight for a just cause; to love your fellow man; to live a good life.”

I’m grateful for them, for the foundation that continues their work and for my friend Amy who insisted that I go see this place. It is forever entwined with our friendship.