The season remains remarkably warm — only one frost so far, by my reckoning — but it’s nearly Thanksgiving and, hence, time for the Bringing In of The Rosemary, our fall ritual, when we try to preserve our favorite aromatic herb for the winter cooking season. Only one problem, or not-problem, this year: The rosemary did rather well over the summer. We’ll have to move it for Thanksgiving dinner, or else Alan won’t be able to sit down.
It’s oddly shaped, I know; this one nearly died when we were in Ann Arbor, and I cut away half of it in my rehabilitation efforts, but it pulled through and now it’s quite the bush. When the sun hits it, the way it is in the picture, the whole room smells like rosemary. Which has your Glade Plug-Ins beat, if you ask me.
Anyway, if you need some rosemary and you’re in the neighborhood, you know where to come.
Another windstorm in progress as I write this, the third in a week. A gale is blowing up out of the south, and another truckload of leaves is assembling itsef in the various leeward spots of our property. It’s the gales of November! But it gives me an excuse to stay inside and get caught up on some work. Which is starting to pile up, again.
Alan came home for lunch a while ago — he’s doing some caulking project on the boat, now on a cradle down at the marina, which only goes to show you don’t need water to be a boat widow. Anyway, he came in and said, “All the way home I drove behind a pickup with Truck Nutz.” Nothing like a pair of oversized artificial testicles affixed to a motor vehicle’s rear undercarriage to say, “I’m a fun-lovin’ guy.” It made me wonder if people just naturally anthropomorphize their cars, or if this is something implanted by advertising.
I’ve known women who refuse to buy a minivan to shuttle their three or four kids around, but have no problem with an oversize, lumbering, Suburban-type SUV, on the grounds that driving one is evidence of spiritual death, while the other indicates one still has a little rock’n’roll in one’s soul. People of all genders give their cars names and nicknames, credit them with “taking care of me” in this or that tight spot, give them little dashboard pats.
I suppose cowboys did this with horses, but horses are at least animate. A car is just a tool. You don’t give your cordless drill a funny name, do you?
OK, so we’ve exhausted that idea. (I need coffee.) Let’s go right to the links:
Unsafe driving on the streets of Paris. Unrelated to current events there, just a little piece of famous cinema verite. It’s pretty good, but I remember seeing the same idea, only with a bicycle, that I found about ten times more thrilling. Maybe it was the Guns ‘n’ Roses soundtrack, or maybe it was that there were so many people to either run down or get killed by.
More commentary on the Detroit mayoral race, from a writer whose book I’m on the reserve list for. Why not buy it? Because I can no longer afford books.
Back to work!