So this happened a few days ago — many thankyous to Zimbabwe, Hwange National Park, Vusa Ncube (our head guide), Mthandazo Ncube (another great guide), Imvelo Safari Lodges and all the other people we enjoyed hanging out with, along with Chris Moraway/Moraway Adventures, who put it together).
For a good two-fer (exercise and accomplishment), I recommend that you use a large bow saw to cut up dense mesquite tree trunks to fit in the fireplace — no power tools, all by hand.
In my view, A.I. has two very different purposes — data processing (good idea) and making judgments about what to do (bad idea).
“And it’s one, two, three …
What are we fighting for? …
Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn …
Next stop is Iran …”
(Slightly updated refrain, from the 1965 song, “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-To-Die Rag,” by Country Joe and the Fish — Country Joe McDonald died recently but I think he’d be OK with this update crossing out Vietnam and adding Iran.)
You know you’re doing yardwork in Tucson when you need three sizes of pickaxes … and if you’re an old man like me, swinging the pickaxes, you might wonder, is this how you planned to spend your “golden years”?
I interviewed an Alaska woman recently, on the phone, and she talked about her career — real estate and running airports around Alaska — then she said, “And I’m a bush pilot.”
I smiled, thinking silently, “Of course, isn’t everyone in Alaska a bush pilot?”
As we talked more, she mentioned, “My first husband was also a bush pilot.” My smile grew. Toward the end, she added, “My current husband is a bush pilot too.” (Photo by Patrick J Endres)
Barack Obama wowed a crowd in Tucson a few days ago. He’s a natural. Here’s how he works any crowd — my observations and photo in a Montana rally a while ago:
Putting aside the dialog — because political dialog is never all that truthful — I watch Obama work the room. He’s a fundamentally charismatic person, handsome and slim and graceful, with a repertoire of measured gestures. He’s always in motion as he talks — shifting the microphone from one hand to the other, back and forth, and using the other hand like a dancer would, to connect himself to everyone and to draw everyone to him.
The Obama arm extends, with the hand in a relaxed fling, then the hand abruptly points — as if he’s pointing to a fact he knows. Thumb up, he’s counting a first point in a series. Then forefinger extended, he counts the second point. Then sweeping his arm around he includes all the facts. When a guy in the audience poses a skeptical question, Obama extends the arm toward the guy open-handed like a welcome. Then he retracts the arm and uses it to touch his own gut as he refers to himself, a physical demonstration of gut-level honesty. Then the arm extends upward with the palm patting a point in the air. All very smooth. He’s a natural, no doubt enhanced by training from professionals and plenty of rehearsals over the years.
Every year in September, as Tucson’s summer heat eases a bit, I hike into a canyon at the edge of the city for sunset, and if there’s any water in the canyon bottom, I take off my shoes and get my feet wet, a wonderful feeling in the desert. I used to do this with my schizophrenic brother, John, until he committed suicide. Now I do it alone with memories of John, as I did a few days ago on his birthday, when I shot these photos. If you’d like to read my prize-winning essay about John, here you go …
One aspect of Tucson I like: Desert critters infiltrate our metro area of 1 million people, and it’s often front-page news because lots of us like it.