ASHES IN THE WIND

One of the greatest and most memorable speeches in all of moviedom was Walter's eulogy for Donny Karabatsos in The Big Lebowski.
It is positively the mother of all farewells.
Don't invite me to your funeral, because I'll deliver something very much like it. Because I think it's what your dying wishes might well be.

Or should have been.


"Donny was a good bowler, and a good man.  He was, he was one of us.  He was a man who loved the outdoors, and bowling.  And as a surfer he explored the beaches of Southern California, from La Jolla to Leo Carillo, and up to Pismo.  He died, he died as so many young men of his generation before his time, and in your wisdom, Lord, you took him.  As you took so many bright flowering young men at Khe San, and Lon Doc, and Hill 364.  Those young men gave their lives, and so did Donny.  Donny who loved bowling.  And so, Theodore Donald Karabatsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your final mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well.
 Goodnight, sweet prince!"


"Oh sh*t dude, I'm sorry. G*ddamned wind."


I likewise do not like the wind. Unless I'm careful, it blows embers out of my pipe. And in summer it gets very cold near sundown, because of that evil wind.

Last night was quite chilly.

I walked through streets where from distant corners the occasional chant of "USA, USA" resounded, as deliriously happy soccer fans celebrated our memorable victory over that country with an unpronounceable name.
Apparently it warmed the cockles of their drunken hearts.

All I cared about was that it was fairly beastly weather.
Bright and sunny during the afternoon, yes.
But turning cold around tea time.
And vile by dark.

After two or three o'clock I smoke outdoors, as my apartment mate, who returns home at around seven o'clock, doesn't like the smell of indulgence. She laid down the law years ago, when she informed me that all would be well as long as her Teddy Bear (her oldest friend in the whole wide world) did not end up smelling like tobacco smoke.
Because if she did, the gates of hell would open up.

I rather like the old girl (the ferocious bear), as well as her young lady (the apartment mate). Nah, nothing romantic. But in San Francisco, if you have a sane apartment mate who tolerates your peculiarities and whom you can trust around your crap, you try not to upset them.
Or their psycho teddy bear.

No, I didn't watch the game. I am not a sports-fan, and I have no fish in this fight. I am rather chuffed about what the Netherlands did to Spain, as the Iberians are rotten scoundrels who wiped out the population of Naarden over four centuries ago, aside from having an infamous record of committing ghastly atrocities a mile long, which should be sufficient to keep every Spaniard who ever was, and who ever will be, from being redeemed, in a just and merciful world -- even if the deity is a Roman Catholic, which is extremely doubtful -- but in the main what happens in Brazil over the next few weeks with balls does not interest me in the slightest.
Some bunch of Europussies will get a trophy.
Drunken louts will run amuck.
Hurrah.


Should've worn a sweater. Dang, it's cold.
Enfold me please and warm me up.
Summer in the city.
Miserable.


It would have been good to return home much sooner. But that was a splendid bowl of Samuel Gawith's Full Virginia Flake, over four years old, and it smoked like a slice of heaven. Gotta stay outside and enjoy the tobacco to the fullest extent. Even if snow weasels and polar bears are roaming the streets, eating homeless orphans and house pets.
Question of priorities.


At the end of every journey, a man might find a warm and cozy place with hot milk-tea and good company. As well as, perhaps, a couch and a comfortable throw rug.

Maybe even buttered toast!


Instead, we live in a world filled with rabid anti-smokers, sports fiends, and irritable teddy bears. And a bitter wind that drives men insane.

Pismo, dude. Pismo.



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