Morada at The Inn at Rancho Santa Fe
Rather than spending time on useful and occasionally enjoyable research, I spent several hours yesterday writing a six-page (six page!) letter to the editor about a recent poor dining experience I'd had just about a month ago. I happened across this review of a fine dining establishment
in the morning's newspaper, which rubbed salt in old wounds, and I felt I had to respond in some way. Which I did. But I wonder about myself sometimes. I'd had steak and "Bourbon".
(What I'm reading this morning: The New Inquiry, Rob Horning, "Experiments in Inertia")
What he says: "Self-quantification, then, may be an attempt to make personal nostalgia
somehow more “legitimate” and less a vertiginous private hole one’s mind
can fall into."
The Nazi Beast
seems to have outlived my friend, Gene Fisher by about a month or so. He died just a few days ago.
(This is a music blog. So if you read down the article on the Nazi Beast and Hitler's last days, and his bodyguard's last days, you would have run across this paragraph describing how he fled from the bunker and encountered music:
grabbed the rucksack he had packed and fled with a few others into the
rubble of Berlin. Working his way through cellars and subways, Misch
bumped into a large group of civilians seeking shelter in one tunnel.
were playing music," he said, remembering how incongruous the scene
seemed to him. "I came out of the death bunker of concrete, and here
were two people playing music on guitar." ')