Sunday Afternoon Potpourri: Happy New (School) Year

Things get rolling again tomorrow morning. I have three sections of FroshComp on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and a Brit Lit survey (what I call “Caedmon to Last Tuesday”) on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The kids have been trickling in for the past few weeks, as Fall season athletes, marching band folks, and the like arrive to condition and train for the coming activities. This year’s freshpeeps arrived at the start of the weekend, and the remaining upperclass students are coming in as well. I even got my obligatory start-of-school haircut yesterday. So let’s survey the landscape.

***

I worked in Customer Service at Sears for the second half of my undergrad career, from late summer 1985 to the summer of 1987. When I talked to friends and family, I sometimes called it the “Blue-haired Old Lady” department, as that was what most of my co-worjers seemed to be. Our responsibilities included taking credit card payments, operating the Ticketmaster machine (which is how I scored front row seats for Miles Davis and Alice Cooper, among others), handling returns/refunds, and helping people who were picking up catalog orders. There was an array of shelves near the counter, and when the customer brought his or her receipt notice, we’d go in back, find the package, and bring it out.

Another aspect of the catalog section involved the catalogs themselves. Skids of the “Big Book” would appear back there, and it fell to us to affix a label to each copy, with the store address, phone number, and other similar info. We had big rolls of the stickers, and we’d peel those off, press them against the lower left corner of the front cover, and add them to a cart. Every so often, we’d take the cart around the store and replenish catalog racks in the various departments, so that folks who didn’t receive the catalog in the mail could bring copies home..

This may have been my favorite part of the job. I’d sit on one stack of catalogs and deal out decals until I had a full load or (more often) when someone would come back and tell me there was a crowd at the counter and they needed my help up there. Fine — it was customer service, after all, and I was a reasonably conscientious worker. Still, labeling and distributing catalogs was a respite from ringing credit card payments, checking balances on a microfiche viewer (they were updated each month), or attempting to appease irritated customers.

(Another of my “paid break” activities involved writing and recording announcements for the store’s PA system. Once the management realized I had a nice speaking voice and some writing ability, it fell to me to go to an office in the back with a copy of the week’s sales ads. I took each week’s points of emphasis and wrote 30-second spots, which I would then record on something like a radio station’s cart machine. Afterwards, every five minutes the Muzak was interrupted by Your Genial Host, extolling the virtues of our shoe department, sporting goods, or Craftsman tools. The strangest part of it all for me was hearing my own voice become part of the constant bibble bibble bibble of the store’s activities. But hey, $4.42 an hour was nearly half an LP, or several paperbacks.)

So yes, I took my regular scheduled breaks — 15 minutes in a back room with a Coke and the Kentucky edition of the Cincinnati Post — but I had other places to absent myself from the front line as well. The catalog stacks and the PA room were, to use a term that took a different meaning in later years, “safe spaces.”

All of which brings me to here, my office, some 40 years later. Mrs. M and I have been talking in recent years about our coming retirements and accompanying relocation to Terpland to join the other two Mrs. Moores. In fact, we made a run up there in late July to visit the girls and check out real estate in an area that seems interesting, but is far more affordable than the DC area where the Spawn and Spouse are.

In recent days, Mrs. M and I have taken a closer look at our finances, and are beginning to suspect that it may be possible to make that move in shorter order than we thought. (Did I put enough qualifiers and weasel words in there? It ain’t a done deal, is what I’m sayin’…) Obviously, the chance to live near the Spawn (and perhaps eventual grandSpawn) is a massive thumb on the scales, but there will be elements to which I’ll have to reconcile myself.

One of those elements is a sort of loss of identity that would accompany walking away from Mondoville and to a new place, from a career to. . . something else. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not a celebrity, even on a local level. But it isn’t uncommon for people to recognize me at the grocery or a coffee shop, or for them to ask me about goings-on here at the college. That sort of thing. (Mrs. M, on the other hand, has taught 20+ classes of first-gradera, and can’t go to Wal-Mart without running into students, their parents, or other Mondovillians who recognize her. She’s a celebrity.)

When we go to The Next Address, that’ll go away. I won’t stop being Dr. (or Prof.) Moore, but the folks around me won’t know it. As I told Mrs. M, it’ll be a change going from Recognizable (if somewhat eccentric) Community Figure to “that old guy holding up the line at the supermarket.” Professor will be a thing I used to be.

And another thing (and here is where all this comes together) is that I won’t have this office. Doubtless I can turn a room at The Next Address into a study or library, but it’ll be part of the house, not the separate-though-nearby space that bears evidence of my identity. I’ll lose one of those safe spaces I talked about earlier.

The thought isn’t unendurable, but it does make me uneasy, this thought of not having a role, or of having to find a new one.

***

Another of my roles, of course, is that of a writer, although (as the blog makes clear) I haven’t done enough of that recently. That one I’ll get to keep, I reckon, and as part of that, I’ll be abandoning my students for a couple of days this week as I make my way to the city of my birth for this year’s Killer Nashville. I’m scheduled to appear on a couple of panels. The first is Saturday afternoon, where we’ll discuss writing short stories; the second takes place on Sunday at 11:30, and we’ll be talking about morality in thrillers and mysteries. If you see me there, give me a holler.

Likewise, I’ll be in Calgary for Bouchercon in late October, where I’ll be on a panel discussing book collecting. While I see myself more as a reader than a collector, I imagine I’ll find some things to say. And again, I’d love to see you there.

***

I suppose I’ve offered sufficient proof of life at this point, so I’ll break things off here. But I’ll try to do it with some music. I was talking to a prospective English major this summer, and he was asking about things he could read to help him get more out of the experience. Being the devotee of Northrop Frye that I am, I told him to deepen his readings of mythologies — Greek, Roman, and Judeo-Christian, all of which are so intricately and inextricably woven through the Western Canon that the absence of that knowledge is like visiting an exhibit of paintings while blindfolded.

Which brings me to “Pride of Man”, one of my favorite songs of the hippie era. It actually predates that era slightly — it was written in 1964 by actor and folkie Hamilton Camp. Camp wrote the song shortly after his initiation into Subud, a set of spiritual practices developed in Indonesia in the 1920s. Practitioners (including the tradition’s founder) suggest that their approach can be used as a supplement, or even a guiding force, to a variety of faiths. In any case, the song appeals to some of the sterner, Calvinistic aspects of my worldview. And besides, it rocks.

The song has been covered by a variety of performers, from Gordon Lightfoot to Gram Parsons, but I’ve always been partial to the version that leads off the eponymous debut from Quicksilver Messenger Service in 1968, so that’s the one with which I’m closing today. Apocalyptic, man.

See you soon!

Book (P)Review Corner: Petrified Dreams

In my world of crimefic, series characters abound. Even the inventor of the detective story, Edgar Allan Poe, got things rolling with a recurring character (C. Auguste Dupin), and audiences have demanded repeat performances from detectives ranging from Sherlock Holmes to Harry Bosch. Whether the milieu is classical/cozy, hardboiled, or somewhere in between, there’s a series character to suit the readership.

I’ve made it clear, for example, that some of my favorites over the years have included Robert B. Parker’s Spenser, John D, MacDonald’s Travis McGee, Jerry Healy’s Cuddy, and Mr. Block’s triumvirate of Matthew Scudder, Bernie Rhodenbarr, and Keller. In more recent years, I discovered Joseph Hansen’s Dave Brandstetter series from the 70s and 80s, and James D.F. Hannah’s Henry Malone.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered Joe R. Lansdale’s team of Hap and Leonard, and have made a habit of grabbing new (or new to me) installments whenever I ran across them. I’ve reviewed a few of these here at the blog, and I hope I’ve been able to explain my enthusiasm along the way. I’ve invariably found them violent, funny (often both at the same time) and thoroughly entertaining, with regional dysphemism and nods toward the South’s tradition of the tall tale to remind me of my own roots in Tennessee.

Because of all this, I was a little saddened last year when Lansdale announced that his next H&L novel would be the final one, at least for the foreseeable future. He noted that he felt he had put them through enough, and as the characters aged (not in real-time, but perceptibly, nonetheless), their adventures had reached a suitable endpoint. I understand, but as I said, I was a little sad.

The other day, I learned that this final Hap and Leonard novel, Petrified Dreams, was available on NetGalley in exchange for an honest advance review — the official release is 6 October. Not having to be told twice, I submitted a request, and got it on my Kindle yesterday at suppertime. My evening was set, and I read the book last night after dinner over the span of 90 minutes or so,

The book opens with our heroes taking a day off from the gym/martial arts studio they now run, instead hoping to enjoy a day’s fishing in a local lake, preferably while avoiding conflict with the local alligators. (It hadn’t really occurred to me that there are gators in East Texas, but it stood to reason — after all, Louisiana is just next door.) But just in case the alligators weren’t sufficiently distracting, a small plane plunges into the lake, narrowly missing the fishermen. Hap risks becoming gator bait to attempt a rescue of one of the passengers — the pilot is dead, and there are a couple of crates from the plane as well. The rescue appears unsuccessful — the young woman Hap pulls from the lake shows no signs of life. When the police arrive, they discover the crates contain the nude bodies of two more young women, but that the recued woman hasn’t quite succumbed yet.

She dies the next day, and when her sister comes to identify/claim the body, it’s revealed that the victim had been missing for some time. Although Hap and Leonard consider themselves to be out of the trouble business, there are too may questions, and the police don’t seem terribly interested, so the pair begin to look into things and discover a number of missing people connected to a series of parties and a mysterious photographer/artist. The ensuing investigation reveals a web of human trafficking, murder, and the depraved tastes of the most decadent members of our current degenerate age. The foulness exists both on the high and low ends of their world, and it falls to our pair to save what can be saved and do whatever justice may be available.

Some of the things that strike me about the novel: I’ve already alluded to Hap’s narrative voice, and it remains as strong as ever. It’s an intelligent, working-class vernacular, suitable for folks who have to get by the best they can in a hardscrabble world without sacrificing their dignity or integrity. To cop a phrase from Raymond Chandler, Hap and Leonard are proud men, and to treat them less than accordingly is a dire mistake. In fact, as I was reading last night, I found myself seeing a level of stylistic flamboyance in Hap’s narration that Chandler would have acknowledged.

Lansdale is known as a horror writer as much as, if not more than, he is known as a crime writer. I’ve always thought there was considerable overlap on that particular generic Venn Diagram — is SIlence of the Lambs a crime novel, or a horror novel? (Yes.) Petrified Dreams sits squarely within that intersection, dealing with common lowlifes, wealthy degenerates, and a villain-in-chief who himself combines aspects of the Mad Scientist with a grotesque aesthetic philosophy that I can almost imagine appealing in our current era.

Another strength of Lansdale’s is his handling of action, especially violent action. This is evident throughout the book, from the initial plane crash to the life-or-death battles throughout the rest of the story. The violence is graphic — brutal, swift, and satisfying, reminding the reader of the physicality of these bags of meat we inhabit. In particular, one character’s suicide will likely linger with me for some time.

Knowing that a book is the last in a series does raise certain questions for the reader. Most series simply seem to stop, leaving the characters at the end of an adventure, but with no other evident closure. Others end with the key character’s demise, or with some sort of evident point at which we can imagine a different kind of life for the characters than the one of which we’ve read. These varied resolutions (or non-resolutions) hit different readers in different ways.

So how does the Hap and Leonard series end? Is this the fabled “Black Border for McGee?” I’m not going to tell you. However, I think the world in which these adventures have taken place probably offers room for other stories. We’ve been introduced to possible successor characters (and meet some even in this book) who might be able to sustain their own stories, if Lansdale so desires.

To sum up, Petrified Dreams is an exciting, engaging book — an excellent evening’s entertainment. Thanks, Joe.

You can order Petrified Dreams here.

Independence Day, 2026

(Don’t worry — I’ll get back to the travelogue soon.)

It’s a lousy time to be a patriotic American. Part of this is that the word patriot has been co-opted by an odious bunch of people on one end of the political spectrum, and I have never believed that love of country was the same thing as blind love of government, much less love of a given occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s the sort of thing that Dr. Johnson called the “last refuge of the scoundrel.” However, part of it is also tainted by the folks on the other end who frame patriotism as allegiance to a set of ideals and using that to denigrate the nation that actually, you know, exists. There are plenty who mask scoundrelism that way, too. In some instances, this takes the form of the old saw, “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.” That’s fine as far as it goes, but on the other hand, treason is a particularly powerful form of dissent, so does that mean that treason is the highest form of patriotism? Anyway…

But I do love my country. Yes, there are things that can be better here. There always are — we live in an imperfect (and imperfectible) world. But it’s also a country where we try to acknowledge our wrong turnings, and to correct them, even at great expense of blood and treasure. And my family and I have seen — have lived — that it is a nation where we can build better lives for ourselves, for each other, and for the people we love. Mrs. M and I jokingly compete occasionally about which of us was better for the other. But even that goofing around reflects that we have been a team that followed the rules and earned good lives for ourselves. We have our own vine and fig tree, and are no more made afraid than anyone else subject to the vagaries of life. In that regard, we’ve followed the example of my parents, and in turn, the Spawn and Spouse are in the process of making their lives better still, and doing it by following the rules, making good choices, and taking advantage of the opportunities this nation offers.

When I got the boot from Transylvania U in 1985, one of the faculty told me something that I’ve had occasion to say to students in my turn: “The administration is not the university.” Likewise, the government is not the country. I thank God for that, and contend that this remains true regardless of the political faction in power. I’ve often found myself disappointed, even disgusted, by the actions those factions have taken. But again, my country is bigger than those people in power. And so I love my country.

Last year, the Spawn was telling me how much she loves her life in Terpville (a good thing, as that’s likely where we’ll wind up after Mrs. M and I retire.) This is what she said:

Earlier I struggled to name the things about Maryland that I find so wonderfully American. I think it’s because it’s often the little, silly things. I love the overcomplicated state flag we whip out in every situation. I love the horrendously narrow Bethesda streets lined with astonishingly beautiful mid century mod houses. I love the regional livestock fairs where I get to walk around a poorly ventilated barn and pet sheep on their soft little noses. I love DC being just down the road in all its white marble grandeur. I even love Baltimore for its bizarrely Appalachia-adjacent accent. I love all the aging hippies in Greenbelt for putting their money where their mouth is, buying into a community they believe in. I love fifteen minutes or so before landing in BWI when I can see the rivers feeding into the Chesapeake and the fact that its water no longer smells like garbage, in part because of the clean water initiative started by DC Water. I love Ocean City being a tourist trap I still haven’t gotten around to visiting.

In that spirit:

I’m not especially widely traveled, but I’ve dipped my feet in the water of the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Great Lakes. To that extent, I think I can lay claim to having seen at least a chunk of the “Real America.” And I’ve found things to love, things that inspire and excite me, in each and all of those places. I’ve found joy, energy, and even moments of awe in New York’s Financial District, in the City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, in the Art Institute of Chicago and talking to restaurant staff in Myrtle Beach. I love the nation that has built schools of every level both in urban areas and in the Newberrys of our country. I love the nation of street fairs, marching bands, and school sports rivalries. I love the nation where Mrs. M can find an evening’s meal at a roadside tent, and I can find dinner at any of several food trucks. I love the nation that reached to the moon and left a reminder that we were here, but also that we were here “for all mankind.” I love the nation that has made space for me to see art and hear (and play!) music from all over the world — from Tielman Susato to Miles Davis, from Bartok to Bill Monroe to the Beatles to Blue Oyster Cult. I love the nation that became home to the man who said “The present day composer refuses to die” and to the man who took that as a mission statement. I love the nation where kids from places like Pottstown, PA; Hannibal, MO; Alma, ME; Glencoe, IL, Buffalo, NY; and maybe even a working-class neighborhood in Nashville can learn to assemble words in ways that can touch other people down the line. I love the nation where bike mechanics build airplanes and where geeks build personal computers in wood cases. I love the nation where I volunteered at a public library 50 summers ago, where I sold tires and batteries on my way to becoming a journalist and then an academic. And I love the nation where generations of my ancestors have lived, died, succeeded, failed, and dreamed of better things, where my wife came from, and where my daughter is building her future. I believe she’ll do that — Americans are just that way.

Happy Independence Day.

In Which Clan Mondo Takes Off, Eh? Part IV

(Parts I – III may be found here, here, and here respectively.)

The next day was Wednesday, and the Spawn and Spouse went to Yonge Street to see a Yiddish-language production (with English subtitles) of Fiddler on the Roof, put on by the Harold Green Jewish Theatre Company. Remarkably, the production was directed by Joel Grey — yes, that Joel Grey, who apparently is going stronger than one might expect a 94-year-old to be. (While Mr. Grey is of course famed for his performance in Cabaret, to me he’ll always be Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, in Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins. I’m not kidding — I grew up reading the Destroyer series of novels, and saw the movie during its theatrical run, probably for 25 cents, courtesy of the Mad Dog, who worked at the theater.) Afterward, they hung out with a longtime friend of the Spouse.

Mrs. M and I decided to ramble around the neighborhood a bit. Specifically, we made our way to the area slightly to the north of our condo. That area hosts Toronto’s best known landmarks — the CN Tower and the Skydome Rogers Centre… the heck with it. Naming rights aside, I’ll always think of it as Skydome, which it was on our earliest visits there.

Mrs. M and I have done the CN Tower thing a few times over the decades, even having lunch in the rotating restaurant at the tower’s top. Consequently, we figured we could give that a pass, but because it’s a major tourist attraction, it’s a fine place to have a soda and do some people watching. While we were at it, we found a place we hadn’t visited before, the Toronto Railway Museum. While we didn’t go into the museum proper, we spent some time wandering around the grounds, scoping out some of the rolling stock.

I always wanted to have a nice caboose. All photos by Mrs. M unless otherwise indicated.

Eventually, we made our way up to Nathan Phillips Square, where we split an order of fries from a food truck. Specifically, we patronized Mr. Tasty Fries, which has served visitors to the square for more than 30 years. It’s where we discovered that Canadians prefer a sweeter ketchup than we have on this side of the border, and it’s still providing quick snacks. As we ate the fries, we watched kids playing on small-scale soccer pitches that were set up in the square, part of the hype for the World Cup. The occasional out-of-bounds ball came our way, but there was always someone else to grab it and toss it back to the players.

After that, we took transit back to our place, but I didn’t stay long — I had seen a bookstore along the way to Kensington Market on Monday, and I certainly wouldn’t let that pass unshopped. So back to the transit — a few blocks west to Spadina, and a few blocks north from there. The store is one of the larger locations of the Indigo chain, and I had fun wandering around and looking for something to draw my attention. The afternoon’s winner was Rogues, a collection of long-form articles by investigative journalist Patrick Radden Keefe. I discovered his work through his Say Nothing, a book reviewing a murder during the Troubles in Northern Ireland. It was a good choice. By the time I got back, the junior Mrs. Moores had returned, and the Spawn said the show (at the last Edwardian double-decker theater in the world) had been delightful

Dinner that night took the form of carry-out lamb vindaloo from an Indian restaurant at the base of our condo complex, next door to the shawarma place I had been hitting. After that, it was another evening of sitting on the balcony, watching the traffic on the streets and the lake below. Because we had made our way to Pride month, we got to see both the Tower and Skydome decked out in the seasonal colors.

A picture I took from our balcony.

***

I’ll break things off for the moment, but I’ll pick the travelogue back up soon. In the meantime, here’s another bit of musical Cancon for you. I’ve featured this video on the blog before, but I’m sharing it this time because the setting reminds me of the neighborhood where Mrs. M and I stayed in our cheap hotel/early parenthood days. This is Hawksley Workman, with “Jealous of Yoru Cigarette.”

See you soon!

In Which Clan Mondo Takes Off, Eh? Part III

(Parts I and II may be found here and here, respectively.)

After Sunday night’s comedy show, we got, not lost, but slightly misplaced when we forgot to hit the “stop request” when we reached our subway stop. By we here, I basically mean I, because over the years, I’ve become something of the family transit sherpa, alerting other family members when to disembark, which subway or streetcar platforms to use and how to get there, and that sort of thing. But in this instance, I had expected the streetcar to open its doors at the Osgoode station stop, and that didn’t happen. Instead, we went a bit farther down Queen West, and then made a southward turn. So we had to walk another block or two until we found another station and make our way back to the condo from there. Fortunately we all survived, but I can’t say it was one of my greater achievements.

***

The next day, after morning shopping and such, Mrs. M and I decided to head over to Kensington Market, a part of town we hadn’t visited in a few years. During our streetcar ride, we encountered an older couple (by which I mean they were likely our age), along with their daughter and a couple of grandtots — a babe in arms and one that had graduated to a stroller. Striking up a conversation with them (“How old are the little ones?” is a pretty surefire opener), we learned that they were visiting from Wales, and were wrapping up a weeklong stay of their own. We chatted about the different parts of town, about the Welsh heritage of music (“Which of you is the musician?”, I asked, only to be told they had left that one back home.), and a bit about soccer, what with the World Cup coming to town in the coming days. When the trolley reached the Nassau and Spadina stop that divides Kensington Market from one of the city’s Chinatowns, we wished the Welsh folks well, and disembarked. A rare bit, that. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

After alighting, Mrs. M and I strolled a block or two, checking out Augusta Avenue, which is something of a Latin American section of the neighborhood (not to be confused with the Jewish or Caribbean sections), with some overflow from the aforementioned Chinatown as well. We ran across a gelato shop, and each of us tried a bowl of assorted flavors, suitable for sharing and comparing. However, every choice was a win.

This turned into a classic example of having dessert first, as shortly thereafter, we found a sort of international food court at 214 Augusta. While most of the choices were Latin American (Mrs. M had an empanada), there was also a Jamaican patty stand, and I found a stall within that specializes in momos — Tibetan-style dumplings. In fact, Asian dumplings are among my favorite snacks, but I had never tried this variety before. The server hooked me up, offering me both a mild sauce and a hot sauce with which he warned me to exercise extreme caution. As a result, I was a bit timid at first, but by the last couple, I was slathering the hi-test on there pretty thoroughly.

The dumplings and sauces in question. The small jar had the good stuff. (Photos by Mrs. M, unless otherwise specified.)

From there, we wandered through an assortment of odds-and-ends/tchotchke shops in search of small souvenirs for ourselves and a few friends. This sort of thing is absolutely within Mrs. M’s wheelhouse — while my shopping style is pretty purely that of the hunter, she’s much more the gatherer type, examining all the assorted wares in detail with the hope of finding the very best examples to bring home. My attention span being shorter, I typically gave things a cursory glance before checking out the street scene while she continued to scrutinize the stuff on offer. I’d alternate between leaning against utility posts and ducking into the shade of storefront awnings in an effort to avoid excessive sun (always a risk for us gingers, even of the retired variety.) I was called in a few times to consult, but eventually we hit paydirt at a souvenir shop I had looked up earlier:

We scored the appropriate variety of fridge magnets, postcards, and keychain fobs, along with some T-shirts for the younger Moores, and then made our way back to the streetcar line, and thence to home base. My dinner that evening was carry out from a shawarma joint on York St., around the corner from the condo. I went for the beef over seasoned rice with assorted sauces, with an emphasis on garlic and heat. (Spoiler: It was good enough that I did the same thing for supper the following night.) This was followed by more balcony time, and eventually to bed.

***

The next day, Mrs. M suggested that she and I make our way out to the Toronto Islands, which proved to be a terrific idea. The Islands (and the small, old school amusement park on Centre Island) have been a frequent stop for us, but most of them had been when the Spawn was smaller and during the hotter part of the summer. As I noted in an earlier post, the weather was far more cooperative this trip.

A moment of interest: As we waited to board the ferry that took us to the Islands, a sizable tour group of Chinese people, mostly women wearing culottes and sun hats, showed up. Many of the ladies were carrying small Canadian flags, which they would wave excitedly from time to time. Seeing them enjoying themselves would have cheered me up even if I hadn’t already been in a good mood, and I watched them taking group photos against the skyline as we cruised across the harbor.

As I mentioned, most of our previous visits had been in the company of the Spawn — in addition to the amusement park, we saw a couple of children’s theater performances at a nearby amphitheater. But another staple of those trips involved bringing bits of bread and such for the geese and occasional seagulls that hang around the shore. (Elsewhere on the islands, they’ve apparently had some issues with cormorants — I’m pretty sure I saw one flying past.) Although neither Mrs. M nor I were carrying bread, we made our way toward that familiar patch of shoreline and stood for a bit, looking at the skyline and the assorted traffic on the lake.

No cormorants here, thanks!

As a bonus, we noticed that the city has added a few Adirondack chairs in the area, and who am I to pass up a chance to sit comfortably?

Mondo, Enthroned, Contemplates his Kingdom

What with the shade, the breeze, and the view, I could have happily whiled away the remainder of the afternoon, or even napped a bit, but life being as it is, we eventually got up, returned to the ferry dock, and got back to our neighborhood.

***

I’ll break things off here, but I’ll toss a little music in, as is my wont.

I’m quite fond of the Canadian band Junkhouse. While they aren’t from Toronto, hailing from the nearby city of Hamilton, ON, I discovered the group in 1993 when Mrs. M and I went to Toronto on our honeymoon. It’s my understanding that the band reforms on occasion, but lead singer/songwriter/guitarist Tom Wilson has gained further notice with his work in Blackie and the Rodeo Kings, Lee Harvey Osmond, and his solo work.

(Side Note: I met the band at a show in Cincinnati around 1994, and got them to autograph a copy of their first CD. They were somewhat startled that I had the Canadian version of the release — “Where’d you get this?”

“Sam the Record Man on Yonge Street. I saw one of your videos and bought the CD that afternoon.” End Side Note.)

Anyway, this is one of the more reflective tracks from the first Junkhouse album, Strays. And the title seems appropriate for this entry. This is “Big Lake.”

See you soon!

In Which Clan Mondo Takes Off, Eh? Part II

(Part I may be found here.)

A couple of days after Mrs. M and I arrived in Toronto for our vacation, we knew that Mrs. Moores 2 and 3 (the Spawn and her Spouse) were coming to join us for a week. But they wouldn’t be showing up until later that evening, so we decided to continue our peregrinations through the afternoon. This time we decided simply to meander a bit along the lakefront, and then hopped the transit back to Eaton Centre.

When we got to the shopping center (centre?), we wandered around for a bit, eventually settling by a fountain where we used to stop with the Spawn. The fountain has lost some grandeur — it used to run on a 10-minute cycle that culminated in a series of geyser-like blasts reaching about 30 feet in the air. (Your witness, Dr. Freud.) Now, however, it simply operates steadily. Still, it provides something for parents and small children (and American tourists of a certain age) a place to sit and enjoy a drink and some conversation.

While we sat there, we played a game rather like the middle section of Paul Simon’s “America,” where the couple speculate about the people around them: “She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy./ I said ‘Be careful; his bowtie is really a camera.'” The game had actually started by trying to spot which of the passersby were older than we are. The number diminishes year by year, of course, but we spotted our share.

From there, we began to imagine backstories for the individuals and families we saw: educations, ambitions, hobbies. “Oh, they’re meeting friends in a little while for dinner, and then they’ll go catch a jazz show at the Rex.”

“Her mom wants her to major in accounting, but she wants to design jewelry. Neither of them talk about it very much, but there’s quiet tension in the evenings.”

“He’s a lacrosse player and he’s hoping to get a scholarship, maybe in the U.S. His girlfriend hopes he’ll stay around, but promises that if he goes away, they’ll stay together. They won’t, but they’ll smile when they think of each other in thirty years.”

***

As the afternoon wore on, we made our way back to the condo to wait for the girls. They messaged us that they were on their way from the airport, and we headed down to the lobby. On the way, we encountered a pair of elderly gentlemen, one using a walker. Both were elegantly dressed. The man with the walker wore a traditional blue blazer, but the other gentleman’s jacket was parakeet green, with a bright yellow pocket square.

We spoke for a couple of minutes. The fellow with the walker didn’t say anything, but Green Jacket spoke for them both. He told us that they had lived at the complex for several years, having moved there to escape the winters in Ottawa. He added that Royce (the one with the walker) also benefited from the easier access to medical care that Toronto offered.

We explained that we were up from South Carolina on vacation, and Green Jacket seemed surprised. “You don’t seem to have any accent.”

“It comes and goes,” I said. He then peered at my T-shirt (the one from the picture above.)

“Who is Zappa?”

“Frank Zappa. He was a musician and a composer. Mostly rock and roll, but some orchestral things as well.”

“Hm. I don’t think I know any of his work.”

“Well, he passed away in the early 90s.”

By then, we had reached the lobby, and the gentlemen made their way out the door, to destinations unknown.

***

A few minutes later, we stepped out ourselves, waiting for the girls. They did in fact arrive, and after rounds of hugs, Mrs. M and I grabbed their luggage and led them up to the condominium. They were as impressed as we were, and we spent the evening catching up and having dinner. Mine came from a burger place just a few steps from the lobby. The Spawn is a fan of good burgers, and upon viewing mine, decided that she’d be having a few meals from there as well.

The four of us spent the evening in conversation, and as the ladies called it a night, I spent a bit of time on the balcony, watching the changing lights on the Tower, then turning to see the lights of the boats out on the lake. I mentioned it was cool and breezy for most of our stay, but the winds are particularly sharp 18 stories above street level. I actually put on a light jacket — the only time I needed it, as far as I can recall. Eventually, I came inside and went to sleep.

***

The next day, the girls wandered around downtown a bit, as Mrs. M scouted some local stores. I spent much of the day sitting at the lakeside, enjoying the sun and the people watching. One of the things I love about Toronto (and New York) is the fact that I can go anywhere, sit down, and hear five different languages in the span of as many minutes. While I don’t want to go full Whorf Hypothesis here, I do think there’s a real difference between “Our father, Who art in Heaven” and “Pater noster, Qui es in caelum.” Consequently, I like to imagine the ways in which these different speakers interpret the world we’re experiencing at the same time.

That evening, the four of us headed back to Queen West, to one of my favorite spots, the Rivoli. I’ve seen a few rock shows there over the years, and some comedy as well. We were there for the latter this time, a sketch comedy showcase. We had dinner first, and then made our way to the back room for the show.

The Rivoli is known as among other things, the venue where one of my favorite troupes (The Kids in the Hall) developed their chops. There were about a dozen acts while we were there, each with a five-minute limit. As you might expect, it was a bit of a mixed bag, with some acts being stronger than others, but there were a few that I enjoyed quite a bit.

Of those, I think my favorite act was a solo musical performer (and cruciverbalist — go figure) named Ada Nicolle. Her work? Well, I’ll give you an example to close this installment.

See you soon!

In Which Clan Mondo Takes Off, Eh? Part I

Mrs. M and I both reached significant birthdays in recent months, and we wanted to mark the occasions in a significant way. After some discussion, we decided that a return to our beloved Toronto was just what the doctor ordered. We’ve been going there since the early 1990s, at various times of year, and at various levels of accommodation, from tent camping to SROs, hotels and apartments. We decided to swing for the fences this time, and found a beautiful condominium at Harbourfront, one of our favorite neighborhoods. Since there was an extra bedroom, we invited the Spawn and Spouse to come along as well. And they did, and here’s how it went.

***

Mrs. M and I got up at 6 a.m. the Thursday after Memorial Day, and began our two-hour drive to Charlotte a minute or two past 8. We had booked our flights through an online service that we’ll call LicePrine, and as a result of some sort of miscommunication between the online service and the airline, the seats with extra legroom we had chosen were not the seats in the plane’s final row that we were assigned. Polite remonstrations with the airline agent were of no avail, but as we noted, we would have been happy to be strapped to the wing if it would get us safely to our destination, so we dealt with it. Doubtless we’ll have words with LicePrine in the coming days, but that’s for some future blog entry.

The TSA business was a little more complicated than usual — I forgot to mention my Roboknee (now two years old!), which attracted the attention of the scanner folks. I’ve mentioned before that I always feel awkward going through security, possibly because I’m awkward in general, but also possibly because I’ve read too much Kafka. Still, we made it through, and after that, the flight went without incident.

Upon our arrival, we discovered the entry/customs system was largely computerized, with touchscreens, passport scanners, and cameras. Mrs. M went through without incident, but for some reason, the cameras wouldn’t take my picture — I don’t think the reasons were aesthetic, but one never knows, In any case, we received an entry card that had Mrs. M’s name and picture, along with my name… and a rectangular box with an X in it. Still, I was granted admission.

A brief cab ride later, we arrived at the condo complex that would be our base of operations for the next week-and-change. Our rental was terrific, a corner unit with views both of the lake and the CN Tower and skyline. There was also a balcony, where I wound up spending a considerable portion of my downtime.

A view from the living room

We were also thrilled to discover a range of restaurants and grocery stores within a few steps of the lobby, along with a Frappuccino supplier and one of my favorite things about Toronto: a hot dog stand.

I discovered the city’s hot dog stands on our first trip there in 1991, and they have become a go-to when I’m in search of a quick bite. I’m not the only fan of the “street meat”, however — indeed, the city even has a hot dog critic, a sommelier of sausages. I reached out to him on social media before the trip, and was happy to learn that he rates the one across the street from our condo quite highly. I certainly won’t argue; I bought a lot of lunches there this trip, and the vendors began to recognize me as I approached; admittedly, I’m pretty easy to spot.

While a variety of condiments are on offer at most stands, I’m something of a purist. If mustard alone is insufficient, then everything else is frippery.

So Mrs. M and I spent the first evening getting supplied and settled in. The weather was amazingly cooperative for our entire stay — sunny and breezy, with highs ranging from the mid-60s (my definition of perfect) to one day in the mid-80s (Mrs M’s speed, but offset by the breezes I mentioned earlier.) While spending much of the day in transit can be tiring, we still held off a bit before bedtime — that balcony was just too enticing.

The younger Mrs. Moores weren’t going to show up until Saturday, so the senior Mrs. M and I spent Friday visiting some of our traditional haunts, such as Nathan Phillips Square and the Queen West neighborhood where we stayed once we graduated from the tent, but when budgets were still serious issues. The funkiness-vs.-grit meter tilts just slightly in the proper direction there, but I can always count on finding bookstores and odd shops that cater to odd clienteles. In one of the bookstores, I even ran into a friend.

Eventually, we made it to the SRO where we used to stay.

No, I’m not Photoshopped in — I guess some days I’m just sharply outlined.

We strolled from there to a parkette/playground where we used to take the Spawn in her little kid era, and then went to find my dinner. Specifically, I went to Roti Mahal, where the eponymous food (a sort of Subcontinental burrito made with chickpea flour, rather than wheat or corn) comes with a variety of fillings — I chose the lamb — and heat levels. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I asked the gentleman at the counter to put it somewhere between medium and lethal. It was a good choice, and nicely packaged; it was still warm by the time we took transit back to the condo. It was delicious, combining tangy flavor with sinus-clearing heat.

Saturday, the girls were arriving late that afternoon, so Mrs. M and I wandered to the north end of the megamall that is still called Eaton Centre, although the eponymous department store is now one with Nineveh and Tyre, or at least with Gimbels and Service Merchandise. The entry we chose is at the intersection of Yonge and Dundas streets, an area now called Sankofa Square that bustles with shoppers, street preachers, vendors, and folks espousing causes of varying degrees of obscurity. Would you like a pamphlet?

One of the things that comes with visiting a city repeatedly over the years is the impermanence of much of the streetscape. Shops and kiosks come and go; things you imagined as fixtures become furtive. There’s nothing bad about that — it’s just the way things are, emphasized by the stop-motion changes held in memory. The departure of Eatons (the store, not the mall) is representative of that. Doubtless the loss of Eatons (and its counterpart at the mall’s other end, the Hudson’s Bay Co.) are larger disruptions to locals than they are to me, just as similar changes on this side of the border resonate with me in a way they might not for a visitor. Still, even as I miss places like the record stores that once abutted the square, I still feel connected to the city’s crossroads and its energy.

At this point I realize that I’m going to have to tell this story in installments, of which this will be the first. I hope you stick around for the next one. In the meantime, here’s a little music from the trip. The Surfrajettes are the current faces of Toronto’s surf scene. Since their 2015 formation, the all-female group has developed quite a following at home and abroad. Here’s a sample of what they do, a cover of the Britney Spears hit, “Toxic.”

See you soon!

Memorial Day, 2026

Once again, we remember. For Sgt. James Michial Moore, USA, KIA, Vietnam, and those before and after.

Sgt. (posthumously promoted from Cpl.) James Michial Moore, USA (1949-1969).

Archibald MacLeish was an ambulance driver and artilleryman in World War I, and his brother, a naval aviator, was killed on 14 October 1918. Kenneth MacLeish’s death strikes me as somehow representative of the ghastliness of war in general, and that war in particular.

Lt. Kenneth MacLeish, USN (1894-1918)

After being shot down, MacLeish successfully landed his Sopwith Camel. At which point, having landed in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was gassed. His body was found the day after Christmas, and identified some time later, based on clothing details and the airplane. Rats had eaten his face.

This poem appeared in Archibald MacLeish’s collection Streets in the Moon, published 1926. The version that appears in his Collected Poems omits the final eight lines.

Memorial Rain

Ambassador Puser the ambassador
Reminds himself in French, felicitous tongue,
What these (young men no longer) lie here for
In rows that once, and somewhere else, were young. . .

All night in Brussels the wind had tugged at my door:
I had heard the wind at my door and the trees strung
Taut, and to me who had never been before
In that country it was a strange wind, blowing
Steadily, stiffening the walls, the floor,
The roof of my room. I had not slept for knowing
He too, dead, was a stranger in that land
And felt beneath the earth in the wind’s flowing
A tightening of roots and would not understand,
Remembering lake winds in Illinois,
That Strange wind. I had felt his bones in the sand
Listening.

Reflects that these enjoy
Their country’s gratitude, that deep repose,
That peace no pain can break, no hurt destroy,
That rest, that sleep. . .

At Ghent the wind rose.
There was a smell of rain and a heavy drag
Of wind in the hedges but not as the wind blows
Over fresh water when the waves lag
Foaming and the willows huddle and it will rain;
I felt him waiting.

. . Indicates the flag
Which (may he say) nestles in Flanders plain
This little field these happy, happy dead
Have made America. . .

In the ripe grain
The wind coiled glistening, darted, fled,
Dragging its heavy body: at Waereghem
The wind coiled in the grass above his head:
Waiting–listening. . .

. . .Dedicates to them
This earth their bones have hallowed, this last gift
A grateful country. . .

Under the dry grass stem
The words are blurred, are thickened, the words sift
Confused by the rasp of the wind, by the thin grating
Of ants under the grass, the minute shift
And tumble of dusty sand separating
From dusty sand. The roots of the grass strain,
Tighten, the earth is rigid, waits — he is waiting –
And suddenly, and all at once, the rain!
The living scatter, they run into houses, the wind
Is trampled under the rain, shakes free, is again
Trampled. The rain gathers, running in thinned
Spurts of water that ravel in the dry sand,
Seeping in the sand under the grass roots, seeping
Between cracked boards of the bones of a clenched hand:
The earth relaxes, loosens; he is sleeping,
He rests, he is quiet, he sleeps in a strange land.

Alan Sokal Wept

So I was minding my own business on the Book of Faces last night when I ran across an advert for an open-source academic book.

I can’t top the book’s own synopsis/”hype text”:

What does it mean to know something? What does it mean to prove something? And how are the two connected? Cara-Julie Kather explores Mathematics as a way of thinking and being in the world. She investigates Mathematics in its conceptual relation to Western understandings of the Rational and the Human, and proposes possibilities of subverting Western Mathematics and of forming different mathematical practices. To engage in decolonial-feminist re-writings of the Rational and the Human requires to re-write mathematical practice too. This study seeks to inspire such practices of re-writing thinking and being – in the realm of the mathematical and beyond.

Kather’s work claims (couched in the typical pomo bibble bibble bibble) that “Mathematics-as-concept” is the usual cisheteronormative weapon that the usual suspects use to dominate the designated victims through such heinous concepts as rationality and logic. Her arguments seem to run along the lines of: “There is a stereotype that mathematicians are male, and so mathematics (and any derived therefrom) is accordingly male-coded.” (Cue a recalled Barbie doll saying that math class is tough.) She therefore regards the work of (for example) actor/mathematician/math popularizer Danica McKellar as “queer[ing] the masculinity moving through Mathematical Subjectivity and all forms of subjectivity implicitly referring to Mathematical Subjectivity” (119, italics in original, apparently as a way of designating the italicized terms as concepts, rather than the referents of the terms as commonly used). Kather goes on to describe such activity as McKellar’s as “Mathematical Disobedience,” which can perhaps lead us to “Wild Mathematics”, which she explains thus:

I propose wildness as a guiding term for this endeavor in order to a) re-do the order-wildness binary that is so heavily and violently employed by colonial-patriarchal worlds and b) to name the vibrant messiness that is always already there and exceeds the Mathematics-Rationality-Human continuum. (155)

Presumably because what we want when we’re trying to launch rockets, build bridges, or test vaccines is vibrant messiness. All hail entropy; all hail “My own research” and “Speaking your truth.”

As I said, while I have (as Dr. Johnson might have said) read in this book, I have not read it through. Taken on its own terms, there may be value here which I’m too mathematical-rational-human to find. However, I have further suspicions. As it happens, one of my nieces (technically a cousin-once-removed, but enjoy the vibrant messiness) is doing her Ph.D. in astrophysics. You will not be startled to learn that there is math involved. She is doing this for her own reasons, including the fact that she enjoys the challenges and struggles associated with her work. Part of the challenge, part of the struggle, is that she wants her work to be accurate, exact, rational, mathematical (Cue Supertramp.) That is what she, a particular young woman with a particular set of talents and gifts in a particular time and place, wants to do. She’s being herself, an individual.

Oh, but I forgot Kather’s footnote on page 126: “I do not believe people are individuals.” (In that case, why even put these ideas into circulation? If there are no individuals, who will accept or reject all this?)

So I spent a little time flipping through Kather’s book, and now a bit of time writing about it. I guess at the end of the day, it just doesn’t seem to add up to much.

Thursday Evening Potpourri: 16th Bloggiversary Edition

So I’ve been doing this off and on (well, mostly off lately) for more than a decade and a half now. I see the reasons why I don’t post as often as I once did. Part of it is that I try to pay less attention to the the various folks leaping between the Ship of State and the Ship of Fools — indeed, I’m not even sure they’re different ships; they may be more like twin pontoons on a single party barge of idiocy. Neither of the two dominant sides in our current discourse represent where I am, nor do they have any interest in doing so.

A bigger portion, however, may be that I’m in a less desperate place than I was when I started this blog. Sixteen years ago, my parents had been dead for less than a year, and it would be almost three and a half years before my brother’s trial and conviction for their murders. I began the blog (at the Mad Dog’s suggestion) as an avenue toward reinvigorating whatever talent for writing I had let fall fallow while I walked the tenure track at a college focused far more on teaching and service than scholarship. But it was also a means of distracting myself from the Big Noise and the sense that the world had disintegrated beneath my feet. While I believed that a New Normal would eventually manifest, it was a long way off. But now, I guess it’s basically here, and the uncertainties in my life are, I suppose, more in line with those of most people’s in my time and place. There’s not as much need for me to say things right now.

But that’s not to say that this blog hasn’t had other benefits. I’ve made friends of the online variety, and have even had the opportunity to meet a few of them in the brick-and-mortar world. In fact, I’m looking forward to encountering more of them in the time to come (Looking at you, Sypeck!) And of course, the very action of doing all that writing in the earlier years of the blog reminded me that there are things I enjoy about it. In turn, that spurred me to re-enter the world of writing fiction, and while no one will mistake me for a Writer of Stature (to steal Harlan Ellison’s term), I seem to have written some good things, both in my own view and that of others, and there’s satisfaction in that.

So that’s 16 years of this behind me, and I don’t see myself hanging up my keyboard in the foreseeable future, even if it gets a bit dusty from time to time these days. Thanks for sticking around.

***

Another school year is in the books (well, for me, anyway — Mrs. M still has a few weeks remaining). Finals were last weekend, and careful scheduling meant that I was able to get my grades submitted in short order. Commencement is this Saturday, and because we have both a large graduating class and a forecast of inclement weather, the ceremony has been split into two sections. “My” session, the one with the English majors, is the afternoon event.

The semester I just completed has been one of the more satisfying ones in years. In particular, my Shakespeare class and creative writing workshop were a lot of fun. The fact that the Shakespeare class was also designated as an Honors section helped, I’m sure. But the kids in both classes seemed lively and genuinely interested. We also seem to be benefiting from an uptick in kids interested in creative writing — a club (“The Unwritten”) is forming, and we’re hoping to resurrect the student literary mag that got knocked in the head during the pandemic. So things look promising in that regard.

I also may have enjoyed this term a little more because I realize how much closer my career is to its end. There are only half a dozen members of the faculty who are senior to me, and Mrs. M and I are operating under the assumption that we’ll be wrapping up our full-time classroom activities in five more years, at which point we’ll head to wherever the Spawn and Spouse are — probably Terpville or its environs. And as Archibald MacLeish noted, “Love, like light, grows dearer near the dark.” Apparently the same may be true of teaching.

***

A few of us from the department formed a book group this term, We led off with John Williams’s Stoner, which I discussed earlier this year, and next up is Good Omens, a collaboration between Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I’ll probably get rolling on that in the next day or two, but it had to wait this week, because A Violent Masterpiece, the new novel from Jordan Harper, showed up Tuesday night. I started it yesterday, but spent the afternoon and evening cheering Mondoville’s lacrosse squads, so I had to wait until today to finish it.

So I was raving about it on social media in general, and to the Mad Dog in particular, who asked me if the book was a standalone or one in a series. The answer, I suppose is a bit of both. The book could, I think, be entirely satisfying as a standalone, but can (and likely should) be read as part of what is now a tetralogy, along with She Rides Shotgun (2017), The Last King of California (2022), and Everybody Knows (2023). The books take place in a Southern California that seems like a combination of James Ellroy and Dante. While Shotgun and Last King take place in the criminal underbelly of the culture, the world of gangs and families both within and outside prison walls, the other two novels explore the decadence of celebrities and the hyper-rich. Characters and plotlines from Everybody Knows pop up in the new book, but this book features a new set of protagonists. The corruption of this world features DNA from Ellroy’s work, but updated for the 21st century. Tabloid reporters are supplanted by Twitch streamers; the Hollywood “fixers” of Ellroy’s novels are updated as concierges for the region’s most depraved zillion dollar babies and their parents.

While Harper acknowledges Ellroy’s influence, the voice is distinctively his own, replacing his predecessor’s hipster jive with the continuous multimedia bombardment of our present day, and in fact, the numbness of overstimulation is a recurring theme in Masterpiece. It’s a portrait of our vertiginous age, an even more amped-up version of our world of 500 channels, nearly all of which are freakshows of one sort or other.

When I was doing my first run through grad school, one of the books I read was John Dos Passos’s Manhattan Transfer. When it was published in 1925, the novel was praised for its portrayal of the fragmentation and restless energy of early 20th-C. urban life. I would suggest that in sixty years, A Violent Masterpiece may serve a similar purpose in its depiction of the world in which we live. I think that along with Everybody Knows, it’s to crime fiction what cyberpunk was to SF in the 80s. So go read it, huh?

***

I think I’ll go ahead and wrap this installment, so it’s time for some garage rock.

The Tucson-based Dearly Beloved are one of the “what might have been” stories of the mid- to late 60s. They had cut a few singles and established themselves on their home turf, even getting a couple of their songs released by Columbia. A big break was imminent. But tragedy intervened. Per St. Wiki:

In 1967 the band traveled back to Los Angeles to open for the Leaves and on the trip, were approached by representatives from White Whale Records, resulting in a contract offer.^[3] Lead Singer Larry Cox’s wedding was scheduled to take place the next morning in Tucson.^[3] At 3:00 a.m. immediately following the show, the band departed for the drive home, taking turns behind the wheel.^[1][2][3] During the trip, the designated driver fell asleep and the car crashed in Yuma Arizona, killing Cox instantly on July 3, 1967.^[1][2][3][6] His death voided the White Whale contract, as terms dictated that the lineup remain exactly as stipulated.

The band dissolved shortly thereafter. One last single, with a B-side featuring the replacement vocalist, came out later that year. This was the A-side. From the Dearly Beloved, this is “Flight 13”

See you soon!