October Books

Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Someone Who?s Been There

Cheryl Strayed

Life can be hard: your lover cheats on you, you lose a family member, you can't pay the bills. But it can be pretty great, too: you've had the hottest sex of your life, you get that plum job, you muster the courage to write your novel. Everyday across the world, people go through the full and glorious gamut of life - but sometimes, a little advice is needed.

For several years, thousands turned to Cheryl Strayed, a then-anonymous internet Agony Aunt. But unlike most Agony Aunts, this one's advice was spun from genuine compassion and informed by a wealth of personal experience - experience that was sometimes tragic and sometimes tender, often hilarious and often heartbreaking. Having successfully battled her own demons while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, Cheryl Strayed sat down to answer the letters of the frightened, the anxious, the confused; and with each gem-like correspondence - of which the best are collected in this volume - she proved to be the perfect guide for those who had got a little lost in life.

Note

Fresh voice shows us how bad some people have it, and how much people tend to overstate their problems and delude themselves into making bad decisions. A little twee at times, but the writing is precise and beautiful, and the author knows the suffering of her readers firsthand.

Is Paris Burning

Dominique Lapierre, Larry Collins

From the bestselling author of The City of Joy comes the dramatic story of the Allied liberation of Paris. Is Paris Burning? reconstructs the network of fateful events--the drama, the fervor, and the triumph--that heralded one of the most dramatic episodes of our time. This bestseller about 1944 Paris is timed to meet the demand for Dominique Lapierre books that will be generated by the March release of his compelling new Warner hardcover, Beyond Love.

Note

Exhaustively researched blend of history and anecdotes shows the fog of war as the Germans try to hold Paris while a shaky alliance of Americans, Gaullists and Communists work their own angles. Incredibly lucky that the German in charge did not blow up all the bridges and palaces as he was ordered.

Pulphead: Essays

John Jeremiah Sullivan

In Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan takes us on an exhilarating tour of our popular, unpopular, and at times completely forgotten culture. Simultaneously channeling the gonzo energy of Hunter S. Thompson and the wit and insight of Joan Didion, Sullivan shows us—with a laidback, erudite Southern charm that’s all his own—how we really (no, really) live now. 

In his native Kentucky, Sullivan introduces us to Constantine Rafinesque, a nineteenth-century polymath genius who concocted a dense, fantastical prehistory of the New World. Back in modern times, Sullivan takes us to the Ozarks for a Christian rock festival; to Florida to meet the alumni and straggling refugees of MTV’s Real World, who’ve generated their own self-perpetuating economy of minor celebrity; and all across the South on the trail of the blues. He takes us to Indiana to investigate the formative years of Michael Jackson and Axl Rose and then to the Gulf Coast in the wake of Katrina—and back again as its residents confront the BP oil spill. 

Gradually, a unifying narrative emerges, a story about this country that we’ve never heard told this way. It’s like a fun-house hall-of-mirrors tour: Sullivan shows us who we are in ways we’ve never imagined to be true. Of course we don’t know whether to laugh or cry when faced with this reflection—it’s our inevitable sob-guffaws that attest to the power of Sullivan’s work.

Note

Beautifully written collection of essays on modern culture and Americana. The stories of Michael Jackson and Axl Rose stand out; Insightful and fascinating, with freakish touches

This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life

David Foster Wallace

Only once did David Foster Wallace give a public talk on his views on life, during a commencement address given in 2005 at Kenyon College. The speech is reprinted for the first time in book form in THIS IS WATER. How does one keep from going through their comfortable, prosperous adult life unconsciously? How do we get ourselves out of the foreground of our thoughts and achieve compassion? The speech captures Wallace's electric intellect as well as his grace in attention to others. After his death, it became a treasured piece of writing reprinted in The Wall Street Journal and the London Times, commented on endlessly in blogs, and emailed from friend to friend.

and the London Times, commented on endlessly in blogs, and emailed from friend to friend.Writing with his one-of-a-kind blend of causal humor, exacting intellect, and practical philosophy, David Foster Wallace probes the challenges of daily living and offers advice that renews us with every reading.

Note

Beautiful, heartfelt commencement speech about the need to see things for what they are, or might be, rather than through the lens of solipsism. Not really a book, but it’s my list.

The Sports Gene: Inside the Science of Extraordinary Athletic Performance

David Epstein

In high school, I wondered whether the Jamaican Americans who made our track team so successful might carry some special speed gene from their tiny island. In college, I ran against Kenyans, and wondered whether endurance genes might have traveled with them from East Africa. At the same time, I began to notice that a training group on my team could consist of five men who run next to one another, stride for stride, day after day, and nonetheless turn out five entirely different runners. How could this be?

We all knew a star athlete in high school. The one who made it look so easy. He was the starting quarterback and shortstop; she was the all-state point guard and high-jumper. Naturals. Or were they?

The debate is as old as physical competition. Are stars like Usain Bolt, Michael Phelps, and Serena Williams genetic freaks put on Earth to dominate their respective sports? Or are they simply normal people who overcame their biological limits through sheer force of will and obsessive training?
The truth is far messier than a simple dichotomy between nature and nurture. In the decade since the sequencing of the human genome, researchers have slowly begun to uncover how the relationship between biological endowments and a competitor's training environment affects athleticism. Sports scientists have gradually entered the era of modern genetic research.

In this controversial and engaging exploration of athletic success, Sports Illustrated senior writer David Epstein tackles the great nature vs. nurture debate and traces how far science has come in solving this great riddle. He investigates the so-called 10,000-hour rule to uncover whether rigorous and consistent practice from a young age is the only route to athletic excellence.

Along the way, Epstein dispels many of our perceptions about why top athletes excel. He shows why some skills that we assume are innate, like the bullet-fast reactions of a baseball or cricket batter, are not, and why other characteristics that we assume are entirely voluntary, like an athlete's will to train, might in fact have important genetic components.

This subject necessarily involves digging deep into sensitive topics like race and gender. Epstein explores controversial questions such as:

• Are black athletes genetically predetermined to dominate both sprinting and distance running, and are their abilities influenced by Africa's geography?
• Are there genetic reasons to separate male and female athletes in competition?
• Should we test the genes of young children to determine if they are destined for stardom?
• Can genetic testing determine who is at risk of injury, brain damage, or even death on the field?

Through on-the-ground reporting from below the equator and above the Arctic Circle, revealing conversations with leading scientists and Olympic champions, and interviews with athletes who have rare genetic mutations or physical traits, Epstein forces us to rethink the very nature of athleticism.

Note

Genetic advantages are huge in sports; basketball players have long arms; marathon runners are short; Finnish cross country skiing legend’s body did naturally what Lance Armstrong did with chemistry. 10,000 hours will not get you to the top.

An Intimate History of Humanity

Theodore Zeldin

"This internationally acclaimed investigation of emotions and personal relationships shows how people, past and present, escape from loneliness, fear and aimlessness, find new forms of affection and adventure, can avoid being prisoners of their memories or mistakes."

Note

Society has changed over the years; people, not so much.

Thought of the Year

We get to choose the reality we perceive.

It's only November, but I have a feeling that this one is going to win out.

When I learn about a book that interests me, I add it to my Amazon wish list. What I don't do is record who pointed me to it. I get a lot of my recommendations from Farnam Street, Five Books and the New York Times, but also from friends and the blogosphere.

I can't say who pointed me to David Foster Wallace's 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College, or that it qualifies as a book (though Amazon fooled me into thinking so), but it is definitely worth reading.

The thing is that, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. In this traffic, all these vehicles stopped and idling in my way, it's not impossible that some of these people in SUV's have been in horrible auto accidents in the past, and now find driving so terrifying that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive. Or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he's trying to get this kid to the hospital, and he's in a bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am: it is actually I who am in HIS way.

Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket's checkout line is just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people probably have harder, more tedious and painful lives than I do.

I wish the OG would take a look at it, but nothing is more likely to fail than a parental referral of something in print. I may leave a copy with "CHILDREN: DO NOT READ!" around the house when I'm home.

BG Birthday Alternative

The BG has a birthday which is usually adjacent to Thanksgiving, and that has meant that it is often overshadowed by family business, or that the celebration is shunted to the preceding or following week.

It occurred to me that a workaround might be to allow her to pick a day in the year for a special celebration of some kind. She could pick the time, and we'd have one more thing to do, like our gift exchange on February 29, 2012 for no good reason, other than leap year.

My first though was St. Evelyn's day, but there doesn't seem to be one. Then I turned to the French root of Evelyn, Aveline. No luck again, but, apparently, Aveline means hazelnut, and Google suggests that National Hazelnut Day is June 1.

That seems like a good enough reason for a celebration, don't you think?

Grandma Anna

When we were getting ready for my Grandmother's 100th birthday party in 2012, I wrote down a few memories, thinking that there might be an opportunity to share them. As it turned out, I ended up giving a toast, which worked out ok, I guess.

She died last night, and that's sad, but 101 years is still a wonderful life, and I thought I'd memorialize the good times. Death is sad, but life is to be celebrated nonetheless.

Life with Grandma Anna

A few memories from the last fifty years (Glory be to Peter Ann! Has it been that long?)

Boat rides to 45C with Uncle Jim, and my dad making the swim to Astounder Island.

Going to Odessa in the big green Pontiac Lemans to visit Uncle Larry, and maybe getting to ride Wildy.

Swimming at Sand Lake, with Uncle James diving off the dock and swimming back underwater while Ace looked frantically for him in the waves.

Going to the dump with Uncle Eddie in his truck.

Bunco, always happy to see us, when we visited Aunt Margaret and Dick.

The beautiful cedar strip boat that Grandpa Hugh kept in the boathouse, and how he liked his newspaper folded just so.

Using fish eyes for bait.

Playing bingo at the Knights of Columbus and always being one number away from a win.

Going “up street” in the morning, and invariably running into a few people, and maybe bringing back some apple tarts from Round’s bakery.

A trip to Ste Anne de Beaupre with Uncle Larry and Father Brady.

Those steep stairs up to the 2nd floor of the house on Stone street, and the horn blast of the Boat Line’s new triple decker, which played la cucaracha as it got ready for another day of thousand island tours.

The skeleton key under the mat and the big red chesterfield in the living room. “Don’t climb on that, lover.”

Riding the scrambler at the Lansdowne fair.

The washing machine in the kitchen with the terrifying wringer that I think someone got his arm caught in one time.

The boathouses, which always seemed like they were going to fall in the water and never did.

That salmon you caught on your trip to British Columbia, and your picture in the Reporter.

Looking through photograph albums at the apartment and talking about Floods, Kelleys, Mcglades, Dempsters and Shortalls.

Going to London with Anna and my parents in 1975 and trying to make the grenadiers at Buckingham Palace smile.

Taking the water taxi from the old cottage to the Inn with you and my new wife on our wedding day in 1997.

Naming my beautiful daughter Anastasia and watching her admire you in a horse and buggy at the Provincial for your 90th birthday party.

And bringing her back, almost a teenager, with her sister, Evie for your one hundredth.

Thanks be to god for that.

19th Century Slang

Fun Slate piece about the colorful vernacular of 19th Century criminals. If you're feeling a little out and out this week, give the red rag a holiday and take the squeakers to Daisyville.

Point Blank Range

There was a story on the news this morning about a shooting in a Mexican resort town. I forget the details, but the reporter described how the assassin, dressed as a clown at a birthday party, entered the premises and shot his target at "point blank range."

Everybody knows what that means. But as I was walking to the office this morning I realized that the words themselves don't make any sense. Is point blank the same as "at gunpoint?" And what about blank?

Well it turns out that the bullseye on a french target is a white dot, un point blanc, and point blank range, according to Wikipedia,

 is the distance a marksman can reasonably expect to fire a specific weapon hitting a specific target without further adjustment of the fixed sights. A marksman should be able to hit the target every time at point-blank range, providing there are no deficiencies in the weapon, ammunition or marksman. 

The reporter didn't say whether the assassin was a marksman or not, nor did he identify the point blank range of the weapon used. Nevertheless, I think it's safe to assume that he was pretty close.

The Sports Gene

I have read a couple of reviews of David Epstein's new book, The Sports Gene: Inside the Science of Extraordinary Athletic Performance, and I've also been following the author's debate with Malcolm Gladwell about the book's disproving of the 10,000-hour rule, which seems a little superfluous. I think they essentially agree that the more cognitively complex the task, the more applicable the rule. 10,000 hours is not going to get me above the rim. No amount of practice could.

Anyway, though the book sounded interesting, the reviews weren't enough to get me to add the book to my list. But after listening to him talk with my boy Russ Roberts on Econtalk, I have changed my mind. Interesting throughout. Who knew that top flight marathoners are almost always short, because smaller bodies diffuse heat better. And that the NFL combine should be timing linebackers in the ten yard dash instead of the forty.

Dress For the Occasion

One of the things that used to drive me crazy in Cairo was that the legal community had adopted the suit and tie as the proper dress for everyday business. There is nothing wrong with using your clothes to convey the seriousness and dignity of your office (ok, maybe there are a few problems with that statement) but there is definitely something wrong with choosing to complement your attire with a jacket in the middle of the doggone desert in August. It's as if tradition required lawyers in Toronto to wear shorts to work year round, and to trudge through the February slush in flip flops.

But here in the WC, the summer is over and a chill is in the air. Getting ready for work this morning, I checked the weather and saw that is was just south of 50 degrees at eight o'clock this morning. I put on a thin sweater, and then, at the last second, grabbed by camel hair jacket (sport coat if you must, and i don't think any cameline creatures contributed to its production) and headed out the door.

I've never been happier or more comfortable. That may be a bit of an overstatement, but I think I've made my point.

Sometimes a Coffee is Something Else.

Yesterday, two of my co-workers took me for a walk at Ada Ciganlija. Jovana (left) met me in Slavija square, and we took the bus out there. I paid; she didn't. We met Stela and her eight-year old daughter at the park, and the four of us circumnavigated it, spurred by the promise of coffee (for some) and ice cream (for others) at a cafe about three-quarters of the way around.

There were many to choose from, but this establishment is Jovana's favorite because it offers a specialty of the house that is really a sundae masquerading as a beverage. The photo doesn't do it justice; it had a bouffant of whipped cream, and was studded with various cornets, chocolates and sprinkles. I cropped this version out of the picture above, and the resolution is poor. My more sensible fresh squeezed orange juice is pictured above, but my chocolate caramel ice cream bar is not.

Long Weekend

It's Columbus Day weekend, a holiday much loved by federal government employees and, I believe, Italians. I forget why, but I remember something about it on the Sopranos.

Saturday is market day, and I decided I wanted to roast a chicken, or some chicken parts. I bought potatoes, carrots and garlic at the green market, and then, on what was an unseasonably warm day in the WC, I headed up to the Greek supermarket, where I got some chicken legs and thighs.

I looked around for an interesting recipe, and found this one. I haven't roasted garlic in a long time, but I hadn't forgotten how much I love it. I used smoked paprika instead of the herbs called for, and I made pan gravy with flour, butter, white wine and chicken stock after removing the chicken, garlic  and vegetables. The results were very satisfying. It took about 20 minutes longer than the recipe suggests (it calls for boneless breasts) but I brought my meat thermometer with me, so I pulled it out of the oven as soon as it hit 165 degrees.

Yesterday, I wondered if you could make risotto with brown rice. I was on a bit of a whole grain kick before leaving, and had grown fond of a grain I rejected long ago when my parents brought some home from the food co-op. Mark Bittman told me everything I needed to know, and I made a version with pancetta and spinach. I crisped up the pancetta and set it aside; sauteed an onion and a cup of parboiled rice in the fat and some olive oil, and then added the crumbled bacon, some parmesan and chopped spinach after the rice had absorbed enough chicken stock to be ready for consumption.

Happy Birthday From Belgrade

Cake was delivered to the office. The wife of a friend of a guy who used to work here runs a bakery out of her house.

Balloons were Jovana's idea.

The caption on the cake says "Srechan Roden Den Ana." I don't have to tell you what that means.

Fun facts from Wikipedia

• Wexford was sacked on this day in 1649 by Oliver Cromwell and Saturday Night Live debuted exactly 326 years later.
• You share a birthday with Eleanor Roosevelt, Luke Perry and MC Lyte.
• Today is the United Nations" "International Day of the Girl Child" and "Revolution Day" in Macedonia

Apples and Oranges

I've always had a problem with the phrase "comparing apples and oranges." Why couldn't we have used two more disparate things (grapes and bricks) or something that rolls more nicely off the tongue (peaches and leeches). In many ways the two are remarkably similar; both spherical fruits that are good to eat. Easy to compare. Look at the data for 100g:

Apples

Calories	47.5kcal
Carbohydrate	11.3g
Protein	0.4g
Fat	0.1g
Fibre	1.8g

Oranges

Calories	62.1kcal
Carbohydrate	15.6g
Protein	1.0g
Fat	0.3g
Fibre	3.2g

I understand what the phrase is supposed to mean; I'm just a little disappointed by the choice of avatars for different objects.

Serbians replace apples and oranges with "babe" and "zhabe". Not only do the two rhyme, but they mean grandmothers and frogs. Which are clearly very different.

Lloyd in Belgrade

I was a little nervous walking down to Lloyd's show at the Kultural Centar last night. He'd nver played in Belgrade before, and I was afraid that it would be a disappointing turnout, despite the good buzz on the new album. When I'd found information about the concert on the internet, it had said that tickets were available Thursdays and Saturdays at the box office from 5-7; but when I'd walked down there two Saturdays ago, there was no-one there; and when I tried again on Thursday, there was a congenial Serb in a british embassy polo with a stack of tickets and the lineup for purchase, was, um, me.

But it was assigned seating for the first four rows at a slightly higher price (about $15) and the best available seat was in the fourth row, slightly left of center; that sounded like a few tickets had been sold, anyway.

I arrived at the hall shortly after eight for the 8:30 start. Lloyd has always been very punctual in the past, so I figured the show would start on time. There were a couple of dozen people milling about in the lobby, but the doors had not opened yet. As I waited, people trickled in, and I was soon reassured that the crowd was going to be, if not huge, adequate--at least as big as the audience at the ArtsCenter last Spring in Chapel Hill.

The doors opened aroung 8:30, and, when Lloyd walked out at 9, the theatre was nearly full. It was about twenty rows of 25 seats and a balcony with half a dozen rows, so this was going to be the largest crowd for a Lloyd show that I'd ever been a part of. What was the demographic? That's a tough one. Usually it's people like me (boyish 47, sorely uninspired, to rework one of the man's lyrics), but this was that, and more--some Brits, some patrons of the arts, and a few hipsters, although I might not even be able to properly identify someone in that class anymore.

He started out with a countrified sort of version of Past Imperfect that really didn't work for me. Maybe I was missing the Negatives. He then played Rattlesnakes and Like Lovers do; both were good and the crowd was politely appreciative. He inquired about their English comprehension abilities, and it was abundantly clear that people could understand him. He made a joke about having had a Serbian meal today, consisting of lots of meat and some quince brandy; it wasn't entirely laudatory, but it went over pretty well, and the ice cracked a little.

He then played Kids Today (he didn't say "Dig it" when he namechecked Chic, much to my disappointment. That was the one I had enjoyed most at the earlier live show, but I was a little disappointed with the album version, though I couldn't say why. It worked for me here, though, even though he mangled the lyric about "nihilism." That got a nice response, and he followed it up with lovely versions of Why I Love Country Music and No Truck, followed by one of the many plugs for the new album, which he said was "better than Rattlesnakes." Everyone thought he was joking, and I think he was too, though not entirely. He also made the joke about having to go to dinner with the roadie as the reason he didn't have one, and about being his own opening act. Not quite as funny the seventh time around.

But then, something happened. When he sang the first line of Broken Record ("Not that I had that much dignity, anyway." the crowd burst into applause--much louder than they had for a couple of the earleir hits--and he seemed a little taken aback, saying something about how that is not one of his songs that generally receives such a response.

He followed that up with Baby and Perfect Blue, another favorite, which I don't think I've ever heard him perform live before. Again, the crowd was polite, but a raucous version of Period Piece and a joke about Partizan fans cemented the rapport, and, for the remainder of the show, the crowd was loud, and a few were even raucous. I clapped as usual.

During the break, I noticed that Standards was selling pretty well--much better than I've seen albums selling at other shows, where I expect that, like me, the attendees have already bought the record.

You could see that Lloyd was relaxed during the second set, even having a good time (for him). The audience tried to clap along to a few songs, and, although he was appreciative of their enthusiasm, he admonished them on a couple of occasions that it wouldn't work.

The first two songs of the set were Are you ready to be Heartbroken and the woefully unappreciated Music in a Foreign Language. He also played a great version of Pay For It and Blue Like Mars and Myrtle and Rose from the new record, which, although they are objectively the best songs on the album, just don't hit me the way some of the others do. Call me a cad, but I like Women's Studies.

But I've changed in the last thirty years. Perhaps that's why Hey Rusty, which I used to love, although nicely rendered, seems a little jejune these days. "We were students" he joked when the protagonist was questioning his actions in Brand New Friend.

He ended with Perfect Skin, Unhappy Song and Lost Weekend, and when he walked off, the crowd was louder than I've heard at any show in the last twenty years. He looked happy when he came back, and he gave the crowd nice versions of Four Flights Up and Forest Fire.

I don't know if  he'll come back, and I doubt I'll be here when he does, but I'm happy that he got a good reception in Belgrade and that he gave a good performance in return. Nicely done, everyone.

Chasing Lyrics

Belgrade is a cafe society. The streets are filled with places to have a morning espresso, a mid-afternoon latte or a cold pivo. There are three on one block, just around the corner from my office, and I walk by them each morning around 7:45, as they are welcoming their first customers and setting up for the day.

Many mornings, the cafes--like many in Belgrade--are playing smoky jazz covers of popular hits. There is something about changing the style of music that seems to make identifying the source material even more difficult than it is from a lyric sheet.

This morning, as I was walking by I heard "I ain't the worst that you seen...." sung by a woman who sounded like a Saturday Night Live impression of Peggy Lee. I immediately knew that "don't you know what I mean" was the next line, but I couldn't identify the song.

I knew from Dragons of Eden and Incognito that the best approach to solving the problem was to think about something else, so I checked my RSS feeds and let my brain wander away from the song. I gave myself until 9 to solve it, and I failed. I couldn't get the song far enough out of focus to get around the mental block.

Which is all the more humbling, since a jazzy version of the song has been covered by one of my favorite bands from the 80s, and if you still have a mixtape I made for you, it's probably included.

Links to the original and the cover are here. Go ahead, how old are you, who said that, baby how have you been?

Animal Farm

I was just as delighted as the OG was blase about her reading Animal Farm in 9th Grade, as I believe I did in Fourth Form at Colchester Royal Grammar School in 1980, and again a few years ago. I've heard the story about T.S. Eliot rejecting it for publication, and it was interesting to see the 1946 review in the New Republic, which did anything but predict that it would make #31 on the Modern Library list of the 100 best novels.

There are times when a reviewer is happy to report that a book is bad because it fulfills his hope that the author will expose himself in a way that permits a long deserved castigation. This is not one of them, I was expecting that Orwell would again give pleasure and that his satire of the sort of thing which democrats deplore in the Soviet Union would be keen and cleansing. Instead, the book puzzled and saddened me. It seemed on the whole dull. The allegory turned out to be a creaking machine for saying in a clumsy way things that have been said better directly. And many of the things said are not instantly recognized as the essence of truth, but are of the sort which start endless and boring controversy.

I think they're both right in a way. I think the book provides a great deal of insight into communism and human nature, but the story seems a little strained at times, wedging plot points into the narrative that don't fit as well as they might.

I hesitate to criticize Orwell--he's one of my favorite writers--but I'd rank his essays and criticism well above his fiction. Read Down and Out in Paris and London or the Road to Wigan Pier; they tell great stories and provide profound insight into the time and the nature of man, and it's all real besides. Some are more equal than others.

Update

There are three works from Orwell on David Bowie's very interesting list of his top 100 books: 1984, and two works of non-fiction.

Shine Perishing Republic

Trying to figure out what this shutdown means for my U.S. Government-funded project. Slate muses on how this foolishness might be reported if it was happening elsewhere in the world:

—The typical signs of state failure aren’t evident on the streets of this sleepy capital city. Beret-wearing colonels have not yet taken to the airwaves to declare martial law. Money-changers are not yet buying stacks of useless greenbacks on the street.

Excuse me while I go back to spreading the values of our great nation abroad. I am reminded of the great Robinson Jeffers, and an America "settled in the mould of its vulgarity:"

be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.