A well-deserved retreat for both MH and I, if I do say so moiself. And I just did.
‘Tis also a well-anticipated vacation (we’ve been trying to get where we’re at ever since we moved to the Pacific North West  ) that never quite came about due to the usual suspects ($$, time, schedules), and that almost got cancelled the last minute, what with Sandwich Generation concerns. 
So, yes, I’m on vacation. Not blogging about what’s right and wrong with the world. Not blogging about this week. Because…vacation.
The story comes from our first day on The Island (oooooh, big hint!). 
We stopped on our way to our rental house to have lunch at a café which shares space with an art studio. It was a nice day; we opted to sit outside on the café’s cozy (yep, small) deck. The other table on the deck was already occupied, by four Fashionably Dressed Young Men ® . All of the FDYM were talking loudly and animatedly, their stories tumbling over one another, until one FDYM took the lead with a meandering tale that included him mentioning in rapturous tones “Regis” and “Cathy Lee and Hoda” more times than I could shake a rainbow-colored stick at. 
I couldn’t help but think to myself (and then say to MH, with a grin that threatened to split my face):
This is too cute – this is the gayest conversation…do they have any idea?
The FDYM finished their lunch and trooped down the deck’s stairway, which was right by our table. As they were leaving I said,“Excuse me, but you’re far too young to be familiar with the name, ‘Regis.’ “
They all burst out laughing, and one of them (the oldest of the young, was my guess) assured me that, au contraire, “…knowledge of Regis is the key to eternal youth.”
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Department of More Hints
The following sight was  one of our island trip highlights. Can you guess where the picture was taken (hint: no):
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May all of your vacation highlights be blog-worthy,
may your overheard conversations contain the key to eternal youth, and may the hijinks ensue.
Join us for a celebration of the written word! Local authors of every flavor will gather for Bards & Brews to share their works in a series of talks and readings, while you enjoy a meal or a beverage from the world’s largest collection of Oregon wines and beers.
“By every flavor” refers to fiction and nonfiction, literary and genre, young and old. “Share their works in a series of talks and readings” means, at least as pertains to moiself, that I’ll do read a brief excerpt from my selected book and be available to talk afterward.  Here’s the slate (author and book title) for this month’s event:
* Robyn Parnell (The Mighty Quinn)
* Caitlin Claire Diehl (First Daughter)
* Tammy Owen (House of Goats)
* Paula Stokes (The Art of Lainy)
* Paul Gerald (60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of Portland)
As I’ve mentioned before, I’d rather be home trimming my nostril hairs with a weed whacker than do author appearances, but since the nose hair situation is under control and my name is on the list – how did that happen? – I’ve no excuse but to show up.
If I can do this, so can you. I hope to see your friendly faces (perhaps made even friendlier by the beverages?) next Friday.
Bards & Brews, Friday July 25, 7 – 9p
Primrose & Tumbleweeds
248 E Main St.
in old town Hillsboro, one block north of the Hillsboro Transit Center
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And Now Without Further Interruption We Return to the Ass-Kicking Portion of Our Show
A Silent lacunar infarction (SLI) is one type of silent stroke which usually shows no identifiable outward symptoms, thus the term “silent”. Individuals who suffer a SLI are often completely unaware they have suffered a stroke…. While dubbed “silent” due to the immediate lack of classic stroke symptoms, SLIs can cause damage to the surrounding brain tissue (lesions) and can affect various aspects of a person’s mood, personality, and cognitive functioning. A SLI or any type of silent stroke places an individual at greater risk for future major stroke….
While Belle and I were on our Paris trip my mother took a much less enjoyable trip of her own: another  fall requiring hospitalization/observation. My sister NLM passed along the results of our mother’s head CT, which indicated that Mom has had several of the above-described “mini-strokes.”
One more loss; one more thing my mother is dealing with. One more thing her grown children – we of the so-called Sandwich Generation – have to deal with.
In the past hundred years or so we, as in We, The American Culture Personified – have had this thing for coining generation labels. There was the post-WWI Lost Generation, the (so-called) Greatest Generation, the Boomer Generation, Generation X, and the Millennials (aka Gen Y). Those currently being born, whom sociologists and demographers have yet to stereotype categorize, are broadly referred to as Generation Z.
As per both my date of birth and life circumstances, I suppose I’m a member of the Boomer Sandwich generation. On whole wheat, hold the mayo, extra mustard, please.
Once again, I digress.
Silent lacunar infarction. One part of my brain reads that as silent lunar infraction – you know, what you’d call some Ruskie secretly landing on the moon and making off with Alan Shepard’s golf balls.
And there is that other part of my brain (FSM forbid it should ever be subject to a CT) that really, really wants to make Silent But Deadly jokes. That might be a tacky thing for me to do, what with recently finding out that I’ve a SLF-inflicted mother. But y’all? Feel free to share your favorite SBD jokes  with moiself.
What with MH’s father’s health concerns  and those of my mother and of my peers’ aging parents, I keep imagining this barely audible but increasingly creepy, “Circle of Life” chorus that is threatening to become the musak of my generation. And it makes me want to KICK ELTON JOHN’S ASS from here to the nearest assisted living center.
Okay. As a writer I should know better than to (entirely) blame Elton John. EJ is the composer and Tim Rice the lyricist for that song. Nevertheless, having seen EJ in concert I can safely guestimate that his ass would be the bigger target.
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Can We Agree to Stop This, Now?
I refer to the ongoing obsession with playing with photographing yourself. Yeah, I know there’s another word for it.
In the past few weeks I’ve noticed a growing number of self-described selfies posted on various social media and regular media sites, but instead of the usual mug shot variation, the pictures feature the smiling visages of more than one person. There are two, three, four or more – even a crowd shot, and it is not always discernible as to who’s long arm is holding the cell phone or camera.
So, can we do away with that most narcissistic of neologisms? Selfie, schmelfie. It’s called taking a picture, folks.
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* When I paint a person, his enemies always find the portrait a good likeness. (Edvard Munch)
* Sending your selfies to NASA doesn’t make you a star.
* A photographic portrait is a picture of someone who knows he is being photographed, and what he does with this knowledge is as much a part of the photograph as what he’s wearing or how he looks. Richard Avedon)
* I bet Medusa used to take selfies and send ’em to people she disliked like: “Surprise, you little b*tch!” (Anonymous)
Do these snakes make my head look fat?
* * *
May your infractions be silent, your self-portraits slimming, and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Each author is limited to 10-15 minutes, during which they may read selections from their book and/or talk about their “writing process.” I can’t speak for the other authors, but I promise to engage in none of the latter unless requested.
 There have been at least five the past dozen or so years. At least no broken hips or vertebrae, this time.
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.