Clay Pots Everywhere Quenched Myanmar’s Thirst, Until They Vanished. (NYT) @hkbeech

I was once in love with a woman who wanted me to transplant a flowering thorn bush into a large clay water pot. She lay in her hammock under the areca palms watching me struggle with the project, laughing. I never cared to find out if she was laughing at me or just amused at the general tenor of the world. 
The brown clay pot held about twenty gallons of water. I pulled out the volunteer water lily and tipped the pot over. Wriggling mosquito larvae and little black snails washed over the courtyard. 
I used a hammer to drive a zinc nail into the bottom of the pot for aeration. Or rather, that's what I intended to do. The bottom of the pot was pretty thick. If I hit the hammer too hard the force of the blow would probably shatter the brittle pot entirely, so I tapped on the nail gently -- like a cobbler making expensive leather shoes for royalty. That got me nowhere. Plus the reverberation of the hammer off the nail head set my teeth on edge. An electric drill would have been the smarter idea, but I had no power tools. I had no money to buy power tools, because I spent too much on orchids and gold wire to string sea shells together. Orchids were actually pretty cheap, but we had hundreds of them scattered around on every fruit tree and palm. And I suspect the gold wire got 'recycled' by cousins who came to visit when the rice fields were dormant and burning -- so I had to keep buying more of it to string the beautiful sea shells I was convinced would sell as jewelry for an enormous profit. But the shells slowly turned a speckled brown, because I hadn't rinsed them in bleach prior to stringing them together -- so all sorts of mold and fungus mottled my jewelry until I couldn't give it away.
The brown clay water jar eventually developed a hairline crack along the bottom, of its own accord. So that took care of that.
Next I filled the bottom third with sand and broken bits of coral. Then I dug dirt up from the garden to fill up the rest, and put in the flowering thorn bush. I packed the dirt down and gave the whole shebang a good watering. 
It did well in the hot sun of the courtyard, and soon showed its true colors by shedding its disguise as an innocent little bush and turning into a vicious strangler vine -- with long sharp thorns. It wound its way around a faux marble pillar on the veranda and began its assault on the roof -- smothering air ducts and toppling the lightning rods. Fierce red ants raced up and down the main trunk, ready to inflict throbbing agony on anyone foolish enough to bend close to smell the small red flowers. At night their odor seemed to combine patchouli with Pine Sol. During the full moon Atlas moths blundered into the vine and were impaled by the thorns. Geckos swiveled up around the thorns to devour the helpless fluttering creatures.
Deep at night I heard vague rustling sounds around my bedroom window. In the morning when I went outside to investigate I found the thorn vine had crossed the entire roof and dropped down to encircle my bedroom window casements. It was getting ready to pounce. The cheap mosquito netting I hung over the open windows would never keep it in check.
"It does not like the color yellow" said the woman I loved mysteriously, when I showed her what was happening.
That was a big help.
Fortunately I escaped certain doom when my passport was revoked for beach combing and I had to head back to the colder reaches of the world. I told the woman I loved that I couldn't love her anymore, as I had a large family back home that needed me to nag them into something more than the slack jawed life of eBay sales.   
She laughed at me then, but in the corner of her eye I saw a red ant stinging her. Which made me want to forgive her. We parted the best of automatons.   

Mind Not High Things.

Be of the same mind one toward another. Mind not high things, but condescend to men of low estate. Be not wise in your own conceits.
Romans 12:16.

Wisdom leaks right out of me,

and high things leave me bored.

I'd rather have consensus 

than a pile of golden hoard.

I'd prefer a low estate

instead of rude conceit

(but I admit tis very nice

when I dine sans dutch treat.)

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- A hotel called police on a black guest for ‘loitering.’ He’s suing for $10 million. -- Chinese Government Bans Interviews With NBA Players, Won't Televise Their Games in China -- How do pancakes and maple syrup get more exciting? Turn them into a cake..

Hospitality ain't what it was/Stand still and someone calls the fuzz/to put you in stir/as some bad poseur/Their reasoning is: "Just because."

@thedeannapaul  @TheArtist_MBS

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If I were in the NBA/from China I'd stay far away/No matter how much they might pay/they shut your mouth before you play/and afterwards you cannot say/if it is night or it is day/In China censorship holds sway/not like the good old USA.

@MattBonesteel

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A waffle cake with maple syrup

might cause me to really bur-rup.

Such a price I'd gladly pay

for a piece to eat each day.

And if I am not mistaken,

'twould be much better with some bacon!

@BeckyKrystal

Verses from Stories in Today's New York Times -- Turkey Launches Offensive Against U.S.-Backed Syrian Militia -- PG&E Outage Darkens Northern California Amid Wildfire Threat -- Scandalized by Ali Wong’s Stand-Up? Brace Yourself for Her Book.

The Turks are a warrior race

who think of mere peace as disgrace.

They're always on hand

to grab someone's land

and bayonet them in the face.

@NYTBen  @carlottagall

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When PG&E says "lights out!"

they happen to have enough clout

to turn off the juice

amidst the tall spruce --

by candlelight we can all pout.

@thomasfullerNYT

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The public will always be putty

for books it considers quite smutty.

But too much raw stuff

can lead to rebuff --

her book may light Ms Wong's own suttee.

@xanalter

The King of Thailand

When I lived in Thailand you weren't allowed to own a thermometer. I guess they figured that if people could see how hot it really was each day they'd never go out and nothing would get done. Only the King of Thailand was allowed to have a thermometer, but he never told the people what the temperature was. And that's why he was so beloved. I don't think even the Queen knew what the real temperature was. She probably used to complain to the King "It's hotter than blazes today" and he'd probably respond "If you only knew!"

I don't have any thermometers in my apartment. I have two clocks; one on my microwave and a radio/clock in my bedroom. But no thermometers. Wait, I take that back. I've got a sort of thermometer in my bathroom. I got it at the thrift store for a dollar. It's actually a small framed photo called "Winter Idyll." It's a photo of a farmstead in the winter, probably up in New England. All the buildings are painted red and there's a split rail zigzag fence covered in snow in the foreground. On the side of the frame is a small glass thermometer. But since the thermometer has come unglued, it's slid down in its metal bands so the printed markings on each side of it don't make any sense. For instance, right now it reads 40 degrees Fahrenheit. But I'm in shorts and a t-shirt. Not cold at all. If I push the glass thermometer up to where the tip is even with the top of the markings, then it reads 70 degrees. Which is about right. I guess I could glue the thermometer in place, but really who cares what the temp is in the bathroom? I bought it just for the photo, but now it really doesn't fit the decor anymore. I'm moving into a tropical seaside motif, so I'll probably toss it. For historical purposes, and to set the record straight, if it ever needs straightening, the small framed winter photo has "Broadmoor Cleaners. We own our own plant" printed on the bottom of the light brown frame. It gives an address, too: "4116 E. Madison Street. Seattle 2, Wash."    And a phone number, of sorts: EAst 4-1313. I googled the company name with the address, but the place apparently is long gone. Cum ludus Tiberes, as the ancient Romans would say.

In high school real thermometers held a deadly fascination for me. That's because in the science lab we had several expensive thermometers with real silver-colored mercury in them, not that cheap red alcohol that most thermometers use. One of the thermometers cracked one day, and the mercury leaked out onto a metal tray. When no one was looking I tipped the tray to one side and poured the mercury into a glass test tube, which I stoppered and put in my pocket. At home I uncorked it on the cheap oilcloth of our kitchen table and pushed the silver beads around with my fingers, fascinated by how they would break apart and then recombine in a seemingly random sequence. After a while the mercury picked up the dirt and crumbs on the oilcloth, so I herded most of it back into the test tube. Some of it fell on the floor. I left it there. I figured my mom would clean it up. A few days later, when my mercury stash was really getting filthy from me rolling it around all the time, I decided to break another one of the science lab thermometers to get some fresh mercury. I took better care of that second batch -- did you know that mercury is not water soluble? It adheres together and you can make it act like a blob monster by jiggling the container a bit. It rises up, then settles back down again, glittering in a sinister manner. I tried doing the same thing in some rubbing alcohol I took out of our medicine chest, but the mercury dissolved. It gave off stinging fumes, too. That's when I learned from one of our science teachers at high school, who, I think, suspected me of stealing the mercury in the first place, that mercury poisoning is a real bad thing. It's what drove the Mad Hatter mad in Alice in Wonderland. After I found that out I dumped all the mercury I had into the garbage at home, and prayed that I wasn't going to start sounding like Ed Wynn. 

It occurs to me that I should go around and say to complete strangers: "Pardon me, but do you know what the temperature is?" Chances are they will glance at their wristwatch out of habit, then do a double take, and finally tell me to get lost. I'll probably never actually do it, although I certainly would do it if I was with the right set of friends, but nowadays I'm never with the right set of friends, the old friends I had when I worked for the circus. Back then we had some great times playing goofballs wherever we happened to be. One of my pals fell all the way down the grand staircase at Radio City Music Hall in New York on purpose, just for laughs. All those kind of friends are gone, gone, gone. Now I'm stuck with college professors and middle management types and guys getting laid off from their long time jobs. I live in a seniors housing complex full of old ladies who sit in the lobby and suck on their dentures. They're all nice enough, I guess, but they'd never stick french fries up their nose like my old friends would. Just for a laugh. Maybe I'll buy a scientific thermometer on Amazon and crack it open for the mercury, just so I can go a little Mad Hatter crazy. Or I could team up with George Clooney and Brad Pitt to plan a caper to heist the King of Thailand's thermometer . . .  
  

Thine ear, O Lord, bow down to me

"Bow down thine ear, O Lord, hear me; for I am poor and needy."
Psalms 86:1

Thine ear, O Lord, bow down to me,

and hear my plaints most earnestly.

I rise betimes to earn my bread

but poverty has been my stead.

My brow is dripping with salt sweat

yet all my days I am in debt.

Come swiftly to my aid, I plead,

thou only knowest all my need.

In thee I'll trust and lay my hand

in thine to reach the promised land!

Verses from Stories in Today's Washington Post -- A Mexico mayor failed to fix roads as promised, so angry townspeople dragged him through the streets -- ‘At a certain point, you just lose it:’ Passengers revolt and riot aboard Norwegian Spirit cruise ship -- The famously secluded Amish are the target of a Republican campaign to drum up Pennsylvania votes for Trump.

When public officials refuse

to listen to citizen's views,

ignoring their will

will serve them but ill --

they're dragged off right out of their shoes.

@lateshiabeachum

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When passengers mutiny use

to protest a captain's abuse,

the crew shouldn't spank

or say 'Walk the plank!' --

Instead they should just serve more booze.

@hannahbsampson

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The Amish conservative be.

They don't even watch the TV.

The bribe of a goat

may get one to vote --

but he would be shunned by decree.

@JulieZauzmer

The Chinese are so Polite.

I went to China for a bottle of powdered pangolin horn, because I had been feeling lopsided of late and it was affecting my business. I refurbish fountain pens. 
So I landed in Shanghai and took a green bus way out into the country, per directions, and found an old man in a hovel surrounded by a pig sty. He was grinding away with a mortar and pestle, and whatever he was smooshing up did not have a reassuring aroma; it reeked of nettles fried in rancid tallow. I gave him the slip of paper with Chinese characters on it that my contact in Shanghai had given me, and five thousand American dollars. He smiled and bowed, then went into the back of his hovel and returned with a small blue bottle. He indicated, using pantomime, that I should mix a spoonful of the powder in a glass of water each day and drink it down in one gulp. Then he bowed again and ushered me out past the rooting pigs to the road, where I only had to wait ten minutes for a bus to pick me up and take me back into Shanghai, right to the door of my hotel. It was very convenient. I took a dose of the powder and went to bed, feeling more level already.
The next morning I went down to the business office they have reserved for tourists and went online. Out of some perverse curiosity I looked up pangolins and discovered they do not have horns -- only scales. I was livid at such deceit practiced on me, and at the loss of five thousand yankee dollars, too! I went to the hotel manager to ask where to go to complain about this scam.
He seemed genuinely concerned about my predicament and directed me to go across the street to a building that had some English on it reading Ministry of Conflict Resolution. 
I didn't have to cool my heels at all -- the minute I walked into the place a polite young woman led me into a nicely furnished office where a distinguished gentleman behind a mahogany desk arose at my entrance, came around the desk to shake my hand enthusiastically, and invited me to sit in a red leather chair that somehow fit the contours of my back perfectly. He offered me a Tic Tac wrapped in gold leaf, which I politely declined, and then told him my story.
He became very indignant as I talked, and by the end of my tale he was weeping with rage and embarrassment. 
"To think that such an outrage should be committed upon one of our dear comrades from the United States!" he wailed, pulling out thatches of his thick black hair. "I will have it attended to at once!"
Saying which, he catapulted out of the room and was back in a minute with a bundle of American greenbacks.
"Please accept this small token of our sincere regret at your tragedy" he said, handing me the money. It was over ten thousand dollars, but when I protested that it was way too much he held up his hand to silence me and said I must take it to redeem the honor of the People's Republic of China. I wasn't going to argue with ten thousand dollars, so I pocketed it, shook his hand with enthusiasm, and went back to my hotel. I ordered two dozen different kinds of dumplings from room service and made a pig of myself. 
The next day I went down to the hotel gift shop to find something for my receptionist back at the fountain pen refurbishing shop. I was feeling much better, walking as straight as a razor. I looked at jade-ribbed fans, a box of chocolate-covered locusts, and a mechanical box with a key in it -- when you wound up the key and set the box down it did absolutely nothing. I thought that was pretty funny, so I bought it for Margie back home. She'd get a kick out of it. 
I decided to have a broiled steak wrapped in tea leaves for lunch, but before I could order the man from the Conflict Resolution Ministry shimmered up to my table, gave a deep bow, and asked if I would like to meet Xi Jinping, who was landing by helicopter on top of the hotel right then and there. I said sure, so we took the elevator up to the roof just in time to watch the copter set down. Mr. Jinping bounced out of it, jabbered with my Ministry friend in Chinese for a moment, and then enthusiastically shook my hand.
"Please tell the American people, when you get home, that we think very highly of their Bingo religion and Ms. Betty Crocker" he said with a big smile. I thanked him for his kind sentiments and said that the American people would like to see China take glorious flight like a big red dragon. Hey, what was I supposed to say? I'm no diplomat.
He bowed low to me, so I bowed low to him. He got back in the copter and took off.
"Where's he going now?" I asked my Ministry friend.
"Oh, he just flies all over the country like that all the time, just to shake hands and say good things to good people" he replied. Then he bowed low to me, so I bowed low to him, and he escorted me back to my room. I was now too excited to eat a broiled steak wrapped in tea leaves. So I ordered dumplings again from room service. 
The next day I boarded my flight back home without incident, but when I got to the shop I was in for a terrific shock. Margie had quit in my absence and gone to work as a Bic ball point pen distributor. 
I just couldn't understand her treachery. It made me wish I could go back to live in China, where everybody is so nice and kind. 

Prehistoric Parents Used Baby Bottles Made of Pottery. (NYT) @jimgorman

I was at home, reading chicken entrails, when the Ceramic Revolution finally arrived in our town. One minute I was quietly piecing together the future from the liver and lights of a stewing hen, and the next minute people were running down the street yelling at the top of their lungs. I went out to see what all the racket was about, but no one would stop until a young woman actually ran up to me to plant a big kiss on my lips.
"Isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed. "The tyranny of metal is over! We're all going back to ceramics!" Then she continued running on down the street, freely giving out kisses to complete strangers in a very promiscuous fashion.
I had heard rumors about the growing revulsion to metal by certain groups and creeds. Several state governors and a handful of senators had been elected on an anti-metal/pro-ceramic platform -- but I thought it was just another Luddite fad that would fade with time. 
That shows how little I knew of the modern world and its discontents. Apparently open pit mines, the ore itself, and the smelting process were the real culprits in global warming, leaving behind a gigantic and poisonous footprint that led to the extinction of many species of animal and plant life -- such as kangaroos and edelweiss. 
Such, at least, was the information I was forced to memorize from a pamphlet brought to my door later that week by a policeman.
"Read this thoroughly and get it memorized" he told me sternly. "There will be pop quizzes throughout the next two months to make sure you understand the blessings of the Ceramic Revolution."
I and my neighbors were forced to turn in our metal utensils, our metal toasters and microwaves, and even our metal belt buckles, to a reclamation center -- where we were issued ceramic knives and forks and spoons and such like things to take back home. You ever try to carve a roast with a ceramic knife? Not a pretty sight. 
Next they came for our metal cars. Now that wasn't so bad, really. The young people who knocked on my door were singing and laughing. I thought I recognized the young lady who had planted such a big smack on my lips, and was hoping she'd give me another one. She didn't -- but she held my hand for a long moment, squeezing it with emotion as she gave me a beatific smile. And in return for our metal cars we got small ceramic cars that looked like Cinderella's carriage on the night of the ball. I have no idea what they ran on, and you could only do twenty miles an hour top speed, but since everyone else had the same limitations there was hardly any confusion or hard feelings. Of course, fender benders could be quite grisly. I saw one where the parties involved were sliced to ribbons by the shattered ceramic shards of their own vehicles. 
Mothers were issued ceramic baby bottles. Terracotta guns and rifles were everywhere, firing clay bullets. Kilns popped overnight like mushrooms after a rain shower.
Up in Canada they didn't have a Ceramic Revolution. They had a Wood Revolution. Everything had to be made out of wood, not metal nor glass nor plastic nor ceramics. 
And just as I feared (and as the chicken intestines had foretold)  a few years later Canada declared war on the United States, invading with wooden rifles and pitchforks. We fought back gallantly with our ceramic bazookas and china missiles, but in the end Wood  proved mightier than Pottery, and all the enthusiastic young people who had given the Ceramic Revolution such pizazz  were rounded up and sent to concentration camps in the Yukon. Most were never heard from again. Us older folks, considered harmless and pretty useless, were issued wooden bowls and spoons and told to go forage for our own food and drink wherever we wanted. Our homes were commandeered for lumberjacks and whittlers. 
I myself managed to weather the chaos better than most of my contemporaries. That's because I know how to turn out hardwood toothpicks by the hundreds to sell on the black market. So I didn't starve, and the authorities looked the other way as long as I greased their palms with a few exotic bamboo samples. In times like these it's every man for himself, and devil take the splinters . . .    

The Promenade.

We love to look down on other people, and we love it even more when they look up at us. The architect Morris Lapidus understood this when he designed the grand staircase of the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami. He called it the “Stairs to Nowhere” because they led only to a coat closet, where the beautiful people could leave their jackets and then swan down the stairs, catching the eye of everyone below.

Sixty-five years later, the new stairs-to-nowhere are “stepped seating” — though it may look like the thing in high school you called “bleachers” — and it’s become one of the most Instagrammable and possibly the most overused architectural features of the decade.

(Maura Judkis, writing in the Washington Post)

"This Promenade doesn't go anywhere" the man next to me complained, as we walked past a field of young tea bushes on fire but never being consumed. The smell was very pleasant. 

"Why should it go anywhere at all?" I asked languidly. I enjoyed strolling on the Promenade; I had been doing it for many years.  "We're all here just to see and be seen. And you, my good man, are not quite the thing -- not with your mussed hair, rumpled yellow shirt, fanny pack, and brown shoes!"

He gazed at me in alarm, then dropped behind me -- muttering, no doubt, so I wouldn't hear him: "He looks like butter but tastes like margarine."

I continued to walk at a leisurely pace, unperturbed at the man's lack of dash and form. You meet many kinds on the Promenade, and not all of them are of a glamorous or interesting nature. 

Just ahead of me I spotted an old man, very distinguished looking. His hoary locks and furrowed brow told me of a great intellect long at work on some worthy project, so I nimbly came up to his right side and told him good day.

"Good day to you, as well" he replied, chewing on his lower lip.

"May I inquire what you are thinking about?" I asked him after a while.

"Not at all. I am a sculptor who has ransacked the worlds, looking for just the right substance in which to carve my first work" he replied pleasantly, readjusting his maroon beret.

"Ah, an artist! How I honor the creation of beauty" I told him sincerely. We stopped briefly to watch an iceberg sail majestically overhead.

"You do not wish to use marble or some other noble stone?" I quizzed him.

"No. I must have an unconditionally unique medium to carve -- one that has never been used before" he told me firmly. "I am waiting for scientists to create an absolutely brand new element, one that I can carve into a vision of esteemed elegance. Until then, I walk on the Promenade. Just walk and plan . . . "

I bowed to him slightly, then sped up to overtake a group of women blowing on cardboard tubes. They pursed their lips as they blew to simulate some kind of musical sound -- the result was not repulsive, especially since they dressed in blue culotte pants with loose white blouses tied at the waist. I stayed with them for a long time, learning their strange language and teaching them how to whistle. 

At the fifth crumbling of the moon we ran across a troupe of acrobats. My girls, as I thought of them by then, immediately abandoned their cardboard tubes and began learning to tumble and leap high in the air. I saw there was no longer any place for me in their lives, so whistling a gay tune I strolled away from them down the wide Promenade and then stopped to admire myself in a looking glass mounted on the backs of armadillos. That is when a young man on a skateboard crashed into me, causing my Malacca walking stick to snap in half.

"Help, police!" I cried desperately. "There's a madman on a skateboard over here!" No form of transportation other than shanks mare is allowed on the Promenade. Ever. 

The Promenade Police did their usual admirable job of nabbing the culprit immediately, and I had the pleasure of watching them escort the defiantly grinning malefactor off to the Manufactory -- where he would be turned into a wind chime.

Adjusting my cravat, I continued on my eternal round to nowhere with the comely and divine crowd . . .