Odds and Sods

That title covers a couple of things. Since it reprises the title of a 1974 Who album, it serves as a reminder that I finally got through all of Pete Townshend's memoir.  The man is an international treasure, who has lived through so much, including the deaths of two of his longtime bandmates, a bizarrely unfair child porn investigation (a victim of child sexual abuse himself, he was researching the sites and banks making money off the practice), and enough words and music to last several lifetimes.  I have one of his older compilation albums on order in CD format; I know we had a cassette of it (and, for some strange reason, I distinctly remember buying it at a record shop in the Oakdale Mall in Binghamton), but it seems to be lost now.

As I clarified in editing a previous entry, my recollection about Pete's connection to the Cornell Sun Ballad of Tojo was itself in error. The memoir reported that Keith was in the company of Spyros Niarchos, son of Greek shipping magnate Stavros Niarchos- the father becoming a major donor, a year or so later, to the Cornell Medical School.   Had I read a page onward, I'd have realized that Keith did not die that night in the same flat that Mama Cass met her bacon maker in. No, rather, he merely opened a window of the third-floor flat (fourth, that would be in Americanese), jumped out into a dumpster into which he'd previously stashed several mattresses, brushed himself off, and lived to face another day. Or at least a few dozen more of them; his death occurred about a month later, of an overdose of pills unwittingly prescribed by a doctor who did not know of Keith's sedative abuse- but it was in that same flat which Spyros had witnessed his fake death earlier.

I later heard from the author of the Sun piece, who described in these words how Tojo came to be. Typos have been fixed and names have been abbreviated to protect the innocent:

 It was the last night of Fall semester ... I had the story since the Med School was my beat and this family was a primary support source for the med school. I also had an overdue paper that night. So I wrote up the story. I knew that M. was copy editing -- and he was my apartment-mate that semester. He was also a history major.

I couldn't remember how to spell the first name. And this was pre-internet ... and I was on North Campus a LONG way from a library. So I thought, well, I could just put in -TK- ... or XXXXXXX .... but this was the last night. I thought what is a name no rational human being could possibly think was right. Adolf? Moses? Nah ... those were borderline plausible. Here's one that couldn't be mistaken ... TOJO ... yes, as in Pearl Harbor. Tojo. No way that could be missed. M. and I would have a good laugh in the morning.

And so I returned to my paper. And it got late. And sometime well after midnight (more like 2 am I think) I hear steps on the linoleum stairs. I was on the third or fourth floor of a small set of dorm apartments in a building whose name I forget ( a recurring theme). the steps were slow. Deliberate. Strong. and loud. And they got louder as this person got to the first floor, second, third.

And then there was a smashing fist on my door.

TOJO? TOJO? Are you fucking kidding me? TOJO?

Needless to say there was no sleep to be had that night.

The knocker- what knocker?!?- was the then assistant managing editor.

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That's the oddity. On with the sods.

Our patio project continues, more slowly now that a @#$% heat wave has come along, bringing 90+F degree days since the weekend and accompanying high humidity since at least late Tuesday. Mostly through Eleanor's efforts with a combination of a chainsaw (to cut the edges of the sod pieces), a mattock from Lowes (think a railroad pickaxe) and a shovel and a rake (to remove and smooth the ground).  After four days of this, here's how it looks:



The wood pieces behind the wheelbarrow will eventually frame the patio area that gravel and pavers will fill in.  Meanwhile, that sod's gotta go someplace:



It starts off here in said barrow, and for the time being is being added to a berm adjacent to the new patio area that's been grown over for years:



We experimented with whether the town would pick this stuff up by the can if we put it out at the curb with the other Thursday morning lawn waste. That came back a resounding nope!- but we did confirm that we can bring it to the town composting facility, 60 pounds at a time, in however many trips that will take.

I'm guessing somewhere between 1 and 515.

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Other odds and.... ends:

* Eleanor's still waiting for her test results and is still off work pending them. My officemates have settled down from their previous hissies now that I haven't fallen over dead since last week. Meanwhile, I got confirmation of my platelet donation Saturday,  but it also clarified: I will be tested for COVID antibodies, not the virus itself, and the report won't come back for 7-10 days.

* Said heatwave has been a major annoyance.  I've been sweating just sitting at my desk in an air-conditioned office in a t-shirt and shorts.  I have more of an appreciation for why Florida Man is such a crazy mofo- although I have not been tempted to ride shirtless on the back of an alligator through a Wal-Mart while knocking displays of masks on the ground.

Yet.

* LJ crossposting appears to be back. It blinks on and off like a beer sign, so follow the real source, kthxbye?

* And I'll just end with this:



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