First Looks category archive
A Tune for the Times 0
Via my brother in Virginia’s Northern Neck.
Remain Calm. There Is Nothing To See Here. 0
However, our nearby Waffle House is among the closed.
The Day the Music Died Went on Hiatus
0
For several years, we have enjoyed series tickets to concerts by the Virginia Symphony Orchestra (a damned fine orchestra which will be celebrating its centennial next year; their performance a couple of years ago of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, my favorite piece–narrowly beating out White Rabbit–was breathtaking).
Regardless of the genre, there’s something about a live performance . . . .
This evening, I received an email from the VSO stating that all performances until mid-April are being postponed because of the coronavirus. Rescheduling details are still being worked out . . . .
Break Time 0
Off to Drink Liberally.
Drinking Liberally Virginia Beach Thursday 0
Join us for fellowship and camaraderie and to discuss living in an age of actual viral viruses.
When: Thursday, March 12, 6 p. m.
Where:
Croc’s 19 Street Bistro
620 19th Street (Map)
Read the chapter blog and sign up to have your inbox flooded with one or two emails a month here.
A Question of Identity 0
Does the individual described in this article remind you of anyone?
The Artfulness of the Con 0
Barry M. Mitnick explores why even persons who don’t consider themselves gullible get gulled.
The World New York Was His Oyster
0
My local rag tells the story of Thomas Downing, a child of slaves who became the “Oyster King” of mid-1800s New York City.
It’s a fascinating read.
Break Time 0
Off to drink liberally.
Virginia Beach Drinking Liberally Tomorrow 0
Join us for fellowship and camaraderie and to discuss living in an age of catch-22.
When: Thursday, February 13, 6 p. m.
Where:
Croc’s 19 Street Bistro
620 19th Street (Map)
Read the chapter blog and sign up to have your inbox flooded with one or two emails a month here.
A Poem for Our Hollow Times 0
(The first two lines refer to a passage in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.)
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy.I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
Down at the Farm 0
Upgraded my server.
Normal nonsense resumes tomorrow after I have had a chance to check the backend thoroughly.
Afterthought:
The last time my website experienced significant downtime, my friend Shaun Mullen said via email something like “I’ve been blogging for umpty-ump years and never had problems like the ones you seem to have.”
I replied, “Yeah, but you’re on blogspot. They manage your backend. I have my own server. I have to manage my own backend.”
I got into this game because I wanted to play with computers and host a website; the whole blogging thing just sort of happened.
Every time I consider packing the whole thing up to spend my time solving chess puzzles and reading books from Project Gutenberg, something new comes along to reignite my disgust.
