DOWN TIME

Without warning
I'll admit that we live in a rather
scary world. Suddenly everything
can change. And if one is doomed
destiny is going to nail you when
you least expect it. Uncomfortably
seated in coach you have no idea
that your co-pilot will soon lock
his captain out of the cockpit and
crash your plane into a mountain.
As you innocently sip your grande
mocha late' at Starbucks you're
unaware that soon a gas leak will
explode. Shit happens.

It could happen to you
Yet sadly, most of us rarely exit this
earth that easily. The fact is that the
end will come someday, some how.
So why aren't most of us quivering
under the bedcovers? That's probably
because humans - particularly young
ones have an innate ability to ignore
the inevitable. Optimism is a natural
antidote to pessimism. Given we all
have a limited time here on earth,
one shouldn't be worried about what
might happen. Instead we should be
making something, anything happen.

Waste disposal
The fact is we all to move on. The
worst enemy of happiness is inertia.
How many of you are actually a bit
unhappy? And if you are... then why
aren't you doing something about it?
Many friends suddenly dumped their
spouses once they finally realized
they were miserable. My question is -
why did it take thirty years to finally
embrace reality? And why share a
bed with someone and NOT have
sex for a decade? What caused them
to finally pull the trigger?!

The odds are...
Sometimes bad things happen to good
people. Someone we love deeply was
just diagnosed with breast cancer. Did
you know that one of every two of us
will eventually get a form of cancer?
Fortunately, the odds are a bit better
for survival in that only one in every
four stricken will ultimately succumb.
Let's face it kids, something is going
to kill us at some time. So that fact
alone is a reason to stop bitching,
worrying, and focusing on all things
silly. Life is for the living so... LIVE!

Why wait?
Youth is wasted on the young.
The majority of tots responsibly
build careers and families. Yet
with that comes the stress of debt
and maintenance. Maybe we got
it backwards? Why reserve the
best of times for our worst of
times? Shouldn't we be enjoying
life at it's fullest when we're at our
physical and mental apex? Why
delay our time in the sun for the
day when we have to be covered
in sun screen under an umbrella?

Should of... could of
Could it be that deferred satisfaction
simply guarantees that by the time
we have an orgasm we're too tired
to enjoy it? Our generation has spent
most of our existence gathering lots
 of stuff. Now suddenly they're no
longer pleasures but simply burdens.
While down sizing isn't the answer
for all, most of our time seems to be
spent cleaning out storage lockers
and selling what's left on eBay. If
only we had known that memories
are made of people... not things.

Child labor
I started working part time at the ripe
age of fifteen - full time at nineteen.
No wonder I'm burnt out. The only
gratification I got from dedicating all
of those years to companies that are
now mostly defunct was the people
who I worked with. Most of us are
still friends. And thankfully, my time
in many of their lives seemed to have
a predominantly positive impact. If
only I could say the same thing about
my family. Given I was rarely home,
was all of that work was for naught?

Give it up
Giving back may be the best way
to get back the years we lost. How
can we leverage all that we have
learned? Many lament about the
lack of volunteers from the ranks
of those much younger. However
isn't that rather delusional? Did
any of us have time to give when
we were their age? Given we now
have the time and knowledge to
step up and hit the ball out of the
park... isn't it time we just did it
before it's too late? Batter up!

OFF THE MARK

It takes two
Overall I'm more than happy living
in the middle of no where. The days
fly by and I can't seem to get all that's
on my list off my list. Most of each
week we run from here to there and
then suddenly the weekend is upon
us. Oddly even though I no longer
punch the clock, weekends are still
weekends. Thus our attitude subtly
shifts and for those two days we both
crave something different. Last Sunday
Frank asked me where I wanted to
brunch. My response? "The Carlyle!"

Walk this way
It was only a year ago that we spent
each Sunday morning attending mass
at St Ignatius Loyola on the corner of
Park and 84th Street. Post services we
usually strolled down Madison Avenue
to one of our favorites for brunch. You
see, both Frank and I are old school.
Hence our preferences tend to be the
type of establishment that is... well...
established. In a city like Manhattan
often the best places to brunch are in
hotels. Not tourist joints but venerable
hostelries in the right part of uptown.

Older and wiser
The restaurant at the Carlyle is about
as old school as they come. Hence a
Sunday sojourn can verge on the edge
of slightly stuffy. Yet somehow, the
charm of the courteous staff plus their
old world service makes this boy feel
as comfortable as a breastfeeding babe.
Post a round of foie gras and at least a
bottle of French Chablis, who wouldn't
be happy? Add a silver chafing dish of
roast beef hash topped by a perfectly
poached egg and suddenly... what's old
is new again. Is it time for a nap?

The raw deal
Across the avenue sits the Mark.
An updated spin on tradition, the
crowd is younger, louder, and a
tad nouveau. Before we departed
Manhattan we tried to eat every
oyster available. Knowing that
soon the only fresh local oysters
available would be of the "Rocky
Mountain" variety, we slurped to
our hearts content! Now that said
briney gems are only a memory,
why wouldn't one get a hunch
to brunch back in civilization?!

Inn or out?
Sadly while all roads once led to
the east seventies - all that glitters
is now two thousand miles away.
Don't get me wrong, I love almost
everything about living in rural
central Montana. However our
options are more than limited -
especially when it comes to brunch.
Our local hotel dining room does
offer a Sunday buffet. Yet the idea
of dry scrambled eggs mixed with
dry roasted beef smothered with
brown canned gravy has no allure.

Island of desire
And so, one or the other of us ends
up making breakfast each Sunday.
Fortunately we're both more than
accomplished cooks. Plus we never
lack for farm fresh local eggs, hand
cut "side pork", thick slab bacon,
locally roasted coffee beans, whole
grain organic bread, and Irish butter.
While said repast requires that one
of us is willing to clean up, it's more
than lovely. Especially in our lovely
new and fully equipped kitchen.
East or west, home is best!

Daddy's little girl

Full circle
Whether one likes it or not - we will
always be our parent's children. It's a
fact of life that someone must begat
someone else. Therefore all of their
genetic baggage combines to create
something new from old. As years
pass, the end result proves that we're
all really not as different from each
other as we think. In other words -
slowly we become our parents. As
someone who is adopted, I'm fully
aware that genetics aside, how we're
raised impacts who we become.

Who's to blame?
I personally attribute little credence to
psychotherapy. In theory the concept
of having someone facilitate an easy
flow of one's stream of consciousness
makes sense - sadly in reality much of
it seems to end in deferring all of one's
responsibility onto others. My parents
were not perfect. However I've never
played the blame game. Hence I am
who I am due to a mix of genetics and
a broad range of influences including
theirs. Most of my makeup is innately
natural and therefore nobody's to blame.

It's all about me
Generation after generation, eons upon
eons, bits and pieces of all who have
passed prior combine to create a genetic
cocktail. So the concept that my Mother
or Father's influence was able to alter
said hand of fate is questionable at best.
Now trust me - Ethel tried everything
possible to make me the person that she
wanted me to be. And while I attribute
my good manners to my mater - the fact
that I prefer boys to girls obviously had
nothing whatsoever to do with her or
my patient pater. It just happened...

Next, please...
Today is my eldest daughter's birthday.
Her journey through life has been
circuitous at best. Like all of us "E"
has some innate challenges that she
must daily overcome. And similarly
her natural instinct is to gain wisdom
the hard way. Often whatever seems
in my opinion common sense is to
her unfathomable. Well, until AFTER
she finally works it through by herself.
We both struggle through this process
and ultimately we're BOTH RIGHT!
We just get there via different routes.

Yours, mine, ours
As one's children age it's hard for most
parents to shift roles from disciplinarian
to sage friend. Even harder is a child's
realization that the people who raised
them were just that... people. Most of
life (especially when we're young) is
simply about survival. And sadly that
process leaves little time for familial
bonding. What surprises me most is
my children's recollections of times
past versus mine. Our memories come
from dramatically different perspectives.
And often... never the twain shall meet.

That was then, this is now
Which bodes the question - what really
happened?! After adulthood, several
childhood episodes still troubled me
greatly. Said memories were from a
moment frozen in time. Hence I still
recalled whatever I saw (and felt) as
a child. Once I sat down with both of
my parents and talked about times past,
I quickly connected the dots. Armed
with the full story I finally grew up
and moved on. As important I came
to the realization that if nothing else,
Mom and Dad simply did their best.

It takes two
Such a conclusion requires an open
mind plus the willingness to listen,
forgive, and forget. "E" and I have
done so often during her time here
on earth. And while we don't always
agree - we usually end an encounter
understanding the other's perspective.
We are who we are - both of us. And
much of who she is relates to who I
am. The fact is we're physically and
emotionally connected in ways that
only a parent and child can be. And
in my opinion that's a gift from God.

Happy Birthday "E"lizabeth!

CAKE WALK

Home sweet home
One of the pleasures of living in Frank's
home town is our close proximity to his
family. Plus a constant influx of out of
towners returning to the fold. This week
brother "B" is visiting. Hence we've all
dined together often. Last night was my
turn to host. My day was booked solid
so I kept things simple. We started with
a salad then dined upon roast chicken,
baked potatoes, roasted squash, and
steamed green beans. And as always,
the simpler, the better! My quandary
was deciding how to finish them off!

Half baked
As previously stated, I am not a baker.
The fact that anything requires actual
measuring holds no appeal for a rather
entrepreneurial chef. Yet I've learned
that if you don't follow the directions,
one's outcome is disappointing at best.
At this point in life I have a collection
of dessert recipes that I competently
stumble through. My challenge was
that I had several big bowls of apples
sitting on the counter that needed to
be used. However the last thing that
I wanted to make was a pie...

Pie in the Big Sky
Don't get me wrong - I adore pies
and tarts. They're among the most
easy of sweets to craft. Yet sadly
the idea of peeling a barrel of ripe
apples held little allure for a hung
over gentleman. Years ago I used
to enjoy a simple apple cake at a
favorite French restaurant. So I hit
the web searching for a recipe and
found a chic concoction courtesy
of Marie-Helene Brunet-Lhotse
a Parisian food critic and author
of the Louis Vuitton City Guides.

French made easy
For most of my life I've been an avid
francophile especially when it comes
to cookery. In essence what is most
appealing is the subtle simplicity of
said cuisine. While one must have
confidence to initially conquer l'art
de toutes les choses francaises -
once the rules are learned one can
confidently stray. The science of la
cuisine française is a repertoire of
formulas and applications that apply
to all categories of edibles. Hence
in truth, nothing could be EASIER!

Core values
Apples are akin to French cookery.
Nothing could be more basic yet as
delightful. Frank daily embraces the
classic adage related to consumption.
Whereas I prefer to periodically stir
the pot and mix up some homemade
apple sauce. My Mother adored the
autumnal arrival of fresh apple cider.
And at times I've enlivened a formal
meal with a tart granny smith granite'.
However nothing cleanses my palate
post repast better sipping a crystal
snifter filled with an aged calvados.

Just desserts
While one may fear many of our French
friends, one cannot help but admire and
respect their skills related to all of life's
indulgences. When it comes to fashion,
they rule supreme. Few decorate or set
a table with such élan. But satisfying
one's appetite is where they truly excel.
One doesn't have to travel to Paris to
experience la vie francais. Simply set
your oven to 350, log onto this link to
epicurious, and mix up a batch of Marie-
Helene's magic. Oh... and don't forget
the whipped cream! BON APPETIT!

LET IT GO

More to love
Recently I read that Candice Bergen
has gained thirty pounds. To quote
the award winning actress "I'm fat
and I don't care because I'm happy!"
If only we all could be as carefree
about gaining girth. Fortunately as
we battle natural phenomena such
as gravity, God imbues most of us
senior citizens with supernatural
gravitas. Therefore it's easy for a
class act to carry off a few extra
pounds. Which bodes the question -
why continue to fight the inevitable?

Temporary solution
Most Baby Boomers are obsessed with
their personal appearance. Hence we
still admire stars who do their best to
resemble times past. I doubt much of
anything real is left on Goldie Hawn.
Yet what remains behind is in theory
better than ever. No matter what one
does, our bodies fight against attempts
at preservation. Knees give out. The
skin covering those abs becomes dry
and brittle. And unless one sleeps in
a vat of formaldehyde, nothing will
actually stop the march of time.

The last stretch
Given most of us have finally sorted
out what makes us tick, why try to
fight our body clocks? We old timers
must at least try to stay healthy. For
some that probably requires losing
a few pounds. For others that may
mean ending the purposeful abuse
of our mortal beings for vanity's
sake. The older one gets the more
I question whether any of us can
ever alter whatever comes naturally.
Given we're all winding down, why
waste the little time we have left?

Excuses, excuses

Many blame their aging issues on

someone or something else. Some

suggest we should limit our intake

to twenty healthy items. Others

theorize that processed foods are

slowly killing us. The extremists

worry that genetically altered

foodstuffs cause us to overstuff.

The reality is prior generations

had the same problems. As we age

it's natural to expand and contract.

And slowly we morph into updated

versions of our mothers and fathers.

Easier said than done

In the old days one simply gave up

and bought a girdle. Long ago one's

waistline happily grew along with

one's assets. While I'm certain some

of our ancestors worried about said

expansion, group dynamics helped

soften the blow. Somewhere in the

sixties we all became obsessed with

being thin. For some it's fairly easy.

Frank is perfectly happy nibbling on

half of a sandwich on whole grain

bread. Whereas all I crave is a fully

loaded foot long hoagie and dessert!

Wake up call

Both of us are in essence doing what comes

naturally. I've come to the conclusion that

as long as one doesn't over indulge in either

direction - you're doing just fine. Therefore

I'm stopping with the head games. Ending

all the foolishness. And... emptying out my

closets of all the things that will never fit

again. Rather than try on that shirt one more

time only to realize it's still too small, I'm

throwing it into the "sell" bin. Instead of

beating my self up, I'm joining Candice

and gladly giving up my battle against the

ravages of time. Are you ready to join us?

WHERE FORTH ART THOU?

Going... going...
Friday we drove to Great Falls.
Home to the Charles M. Russell
Museum it's considered an artistic
center within our state. Specifically
during Western Art Week every
March. Across town galleries and
museums exhibit and sell artwork
inspired by the wild west. Sort of
a roundup of big money western
art collectors, nightly auctions
yield millions of dollars in sales.
Apparently if you like that sort
of thing, this is the place to be.

The real deal
Charles M. Russell was the ultimate
western artist. Raised in Missouri,
he wandered out to this country to
become a cowboy and then painter.
"Charlie's" majestic "pitchers" of
cowboys and indians are among the
most famous, coveted, and expensive
expressions of the wild west. Around
the turn of the last century he often
used his paintings to pay off his bar
tabs. Now a 24" x 36" can sell for
over five million dollars. Now that's
how the west was won - YEE HAW!

Rhinestone cowboys
I must admit that I'm not a fan of
traditional western art. There were
hundreds of exhibitors, yet finding
anything that appealed to Frank or
myself was rather challenging. We
find no allure in images of deer,
moose, cowboys, injuns, or barbed
wire. What's certain is that "modern
art" must not appeal to these pseudo
cowboy collectors. Or it doesn't fit
into the log beamed, rawhide, river
rock interiors of those Yellowstone
Club manses with blank walls.

From beginning to end
This event is spread across several
venues in town. The Out West Show
is held at the Best Western Inn. Over
fifty artists and galleries exhibit their
wares within converted motel rooms
adjacent to an indoor pool. While not
aesthetically inspiring, it was fun to
stroll the halls and sneak a peek into
other people's rooms. Sadly the work
was of a more commercial nature than
true "fine art," Given our home lacks
an empty space above an overstuffed
leather sofa, we exited empty handed.

Western exposure
We actually do collect "western"
art. Specifically those related to
Montana. Our pride is the work
of Bill Stockton a sheep rancher
and painter. His work is modern,
unique, and moving. James Bason
is a painter based in Great Falls.
We own several of his striking
representations of our amazing
local landscape (left). While on
display at Western Art Week -
we prefer to buy direct from the
artist (click here for his site).

Four for more
We loved a 1930's landscape
by an artist we did not know.
However at $238,000 - we
moved on. Equally amazing
were four canvases of Square
Butte by Tom Gilleon. One of
the stars within this category
his work is usually of teepees
and the like (right.) However
this new work was modern
and striking and could be
yours for only $40,000 each.
Is there a discount for all four?

How great thou art
This cowboy must emotionally
connect with anything on his
wall. Frank and I collect the
work of Robert Baranet. We
recently added this landscape
that hangs above our fireplace.
It moves us in mysterious ways.
Isn't that what art is all about?
It's an expression of emotion -
a moment captured forever.
True art is NOT about finding
the perfect decorative accessory
for your cowboy crib! Giddy up!

7th Day Surprise - Yin & Yang

POLAR OPPOSITES

Friday was the first day of spring.

Whereas Montana enjoyed a sunny day in the sixties - 

It was cold and snowy in Manhattan.

No matter the weather... have a lovely Sunday.

East or west - home is best!