Sunday, April 14, 2019

404. Oceanscapes Like You've Never Seen: Michael McLaughlin

  •                                             GIVEAWAY
  •                             100       100       100       100       100   
  •                                                  e-books 
  •                                                       of

  •  The Eye That Never Sleeps eimage.jpg

  • This Goodreads giveaway is open for entries from April 12 to May 8, 2019.  If you want an e-book, here's your chance; the winners will be announced after May 8.  So far, 118 people have signed up, but plenty more will do so in the next 24 days.  But if you want a real print book, one you can touch and sniff and read voraciously, or put on a shelf to be looked at and gather dust, pre-order it now for delivery on the print book release date, May 2.

  •      Oceanscapes Like You've Never Seen:
  •                    Michael McLaughlin

  •          It had been a long time since I had attended gallery opening,  but what could be more New York?  It wouldn’t be a big gala affair studded with celebrities, for the Robin Rice Gallery at 325 West 11th Street – just two and a half blocks from my building – is a small gallery featuring photography and open only certain hours on certain days of the week.  I had already mentioned this gallery in my blog, briefly in post #365 and more substantially in post #401.  It was near me, and I had glimpsed the photographer’s work the previous Sunday and wanted to see it again, together with whatever kind of a crowd the opening might draw.  And I might even meet the photographer himself, whose name appeared in an e-mail that the gallery had sent me, along with the title of the show:

    Michael McLaughlin
    41 Degrees Latitude
    April 10-June 12, 2019

    The opening was scheduled for 6 to 8 p.m. on Wednesday, April 10, so on that day, having had a light snack at home, I went.

             My first discovery – really a rediscovery -- upon arriving at the gallery: openings aren’t for serious displays of art; they are gabfests.  The small gallery was crowded with people, including one scampering child and one infant in arms, who seemed to all know each other.  Standing with their backs to the walls and the photos, and holding a small plastic cup of wine, they were fiercely jabbering away.  The photos themselves, thirteen of them and large, hung on the walls, unobserved, except for me and a Chinese lady, who maneuvered as best we could, so as to get clear of the jabberers and see the photos themselves.

             Ah, the photos!  Large.  Portrait style, meaning vertical, and not horizontal like a landscape.  Devoid of people and objects, and almost devoid of color.  Oceanscapes, so the gallery had informed me, taken by the photographer while standing in water at a beach in Rhode Island moments before dusk or dawn, and using long exposures.  At first glance the previous Sunday I had taken them for abstractions, but now I knew better.  Expanses of dark and light gray, or sometimes a misty vague bluish white, with a trace of light at the horizon.  In two of them a curl of foam could be seen, but otherwise one could barely make out the sea.  And two of them were so uniformly dark blue as to blur the scene completely.  Challenging, notable for what they left out, unique.  At first glance the previous Sunday, when I was the only viewer, I had thought at once: Whistler.  For he had done landscapes that were a study in color and little else.

             At the far end of the gallery was a heavyset man in his fifties, wearing a scarf and glasses like me, surrounded by friends and acquaintances who kept him busy with hugs and chatter: Michael McLaughlin, the photographer.  Since he had a broad, toothy smile that seemed cordial and welcoming, I inched closer, and when he said good-bye to young couple with their infant in arms, I addressed him.

             “They’re painterly,” I said.  “When I first saw them last Sunday, without the gabfest, I thought: Whistler.”
             This sparked his interest at once: a stranger who had actually looked at his photographs!  I went on.
             “I’ve never seen anything like them.  They’re unique.”
             “I’m glad to hear you say that,” he replied.  “That’s what I was aiming at.”
             I then told him about my blog and said I would do a post on the opening and his photographs; he was delighted.
             “I’m Mike,” he said.
             “I’m Cliff.”
             We exchanged cards, and I identified myself as a transplanted Midwesterner who was now a committed New Yorker, incapable of living anywhere else.

             “I’ve just been out there” he said.  “In Nebraska and Indiana.”

             I told him I had relatives in Indiana, and we agreed that Midwesterners are good people, friendly, laid back, genuine, quite the opposite of intense, fast-paced New Yorkers.  But he too, Brooklyn-born, identified himself as a New Yorker, even though he travels a lot and did these photographs in Rhode Island.  And we agreed that New York was not for everyone; you lived here because you couldn’t live anywhere else.

             On this note we parted, and after a last lingering glance at some of the photos – those that weren’t blocked by the gabbers – I departed. 

             Why the title: 41 Degrees Latitude?  Because that is the latitude of the beaches in Rhode Island where the photos were taken.  And the prices?  Either $2500 or $3000.  For everyone to look at, but not for everyone to buy.  But I wish Mr. McLaughlin well.  His opening – his sixth at that gallery -- had been a good experience, a real New York affair, a discovery, an adventure. 

  • Coming soon:  Monster among Monsters: The Shed
  • ©   2019   Clifford Browder
  • Sunday, April 7, 2019

    403. Breaking the Law


    Countdown:  As of 7 a.m. today, 3 weeks, 4 days, 2 hours, 3 minutes until the release of The Eye That Never Sleeps, at which point all pre-ordered books will be shipped. (Assuming the publisher starts shipping at 9 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.)

     The Eye That Never Sleeps eimage.jpg

    A story of the strangest friendship that ever was: a dapper young bank thief and the detective hired by the banks to apprehend him For more about this and my other books, go here.  

    Fascinating New Yorkers has been reviewed by The US Review of Books.  Reviewer Gabriella Tutino says, "There's something for everyone here in this collection of profiles, and it serves as a source of inspiration for readers who love NYC."  For the whole review, click on US Review.

                                            Breaking the Law

             This post is all about lawbreaking and those who do it, and why.  But first, I should explain that I’m taking “law” to mean, not just statute law, but any rule or regulation put forth by authority.   As for lawbreakers, I’ll start with myself.

             Years ago, when I was still hiking in city parks and beyond, I went to Pelham Bay Park to hike and pick raspberries that grew there in brambles all over the park.  As I was picking them, a park vehicle stopped nearby, and three park employees came rushing over, two young Latinos and an older woman.”
             “Picking berries is forbidden,” announced the woman.
             “Oh, I didn’t know that,” I said in all honesty.
             “Yes, it is.  Just leave them for the birds.”
             “I will,” I said.  “I honestly didn’t know.”
             It was agreed that I could keep what I had already picked, but no more.  That settled, the trio returned to their vehicle and drove off.  Why all  three of them had to come running over, when a quiet reprimand from one would have sufficed, escaped me.  Nor had I ever seen birds eating wild raspberries; mulberries, yes, but never raspberries.

    File:Rubus pedatus.JPG
    What got me in trouble.

             Later that day, having traipsed about the park, I was leaving, when I saw a motor vehicle of the Parks Department mowing a growth of grass and weeds.  Near the edge of the park was a stand of chicories, a common summer roadside wildflower, a lovely sky-blue in color.  Though the chicories were not blocking any path or other feature of the park, the vehicle, driven by another park employee, quickly mowed them down. 

             This angered me.  Since the park people were so insensitive to the beauty of wildflowers, I vowed then and there that I would pick raspberries to my heart’s content.  But not in plain sight, and not near a path that could accommodate park vehicles.  Since the park is large, and there are many narrow paths where vehicles can never go, this was easy, for the stalwart guardians of the park were wholly motorized and never left their vehicles to patrol on foot.  So I became one of a multitude of park visitors who harvested wild raspberries in the month of July.  And since my fellow law breakers came on weekends and harvested every ripe berry in sight, I learned to come on Thursday or Friday, by which time another crop of berries would have ripened.  My diet was enriched for several weeks with fresh wild berries, nor was I robbing the birds of a feast, since I never saw one in the brambles.

    Here am I, breaking the laws of a vegan diet.
    Gooey goodies are verboten.

             This was not the only time that park employees proved overzealous.  In 1986 the Parks Commissioner took exception to Steve “Wildman” Brill leading groups on foraging expeditions in the city’s parks.  Brill, a bespectacled, bearded ecologist who on these tours usually wore a pith helmet, was teaching people how to forage, that is, to find free food growing in the parks.  So on Saturday, March 29, two undercover park rangers signed up for a trek, paid Brill in marked bills, and tagged along as he invaded Central Park, taking photos of him as he foraged.  At the end of the tour the two minions of order radioed for help, and two uniformed park police arrived, arrested Brill for criminal mischief, handcuffed him, and whisked the desperado off to the Central Park station house, where he was fingerprinted and given a summons to appear in court April 18. 

    Steve Brill, eating something wild.
    Photo courtesy of Steve Brill.

             Interviewed by the press, Brill confessed to picking and eating dandelions and other weeds in the park.  That a man had been arrested for eating a dandelion in Central Park was widely reported, but the public, instead of sharing the Parks Commissioner’s indignation, gasped in disbelief and then erupted in laughter.  Of all the crimes to be arrested for – eating a dandelion in Central Park!  Both radio and press went wild.

    Parks Muzzle Weed Maven
    The Man Who Ate Manhattan

    Planted Decoys Nab Foraging Botanist
    The Man Who Ate Manhattan was nabbed in mid-bite.

              The charges were soon dropped, and since he knew the parks’ edible plants better than anyone, the miscreant was hired by the Parks and Recreation Department to lead foraging tours in the parks, but to limit his attention to plentiful species.  Sometime after that I went with Brill twice, once in Central Park and once in Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and can testify that he had always harvested only plentiful species that grew abundantly in certain locations year after year.  
    Downloadall sizesUse this fileon the webUse this fileon a wikiEmail a linkto this fileInformationabout reusing

    File:Dandelions in grass close up photo (42392901081).jpg
    What got Steve Brill in trouble.
    Tony Webster
    And on those tours he recounted gleefully how he had once been arrested for the heinous crime of picking and eating a dandelion in Central Park.  That was years ago, but to my knowledge he is still leading groups on foraging tours in the city and elsewhere.  And I on occasion, while hiking alone in Pelham Bay Park, have at times picked, not only raspberries, but also in late summer a bunch of mugwort, an aromatic plant that grows there abundantly to the point of choking out other species; I use it to give a tang to my salads.

    File:Artemisia vulgaris SCA-6367.jpg
    R. A. Nonenmacher

             I have broken other laws as well.  In years of drought, the state has often closed its trails to  hikers, for fear of fires.  But hikers’ associations have protested, arguing that seasoned hikers build no fires in drought-stricken areas, and would be useful scouts for reporting problems along the trails.  Once, not knowing of the closure, I went to hike along the Palisades and found the trail shut off.  I hesitate, undecided, and along came a runner who had been running along the trail.  If he can, I can, I decided, and I’m not about to start any fires.  So off I went.

             This reminds how, when the solons of Washington managed to shut down the government a few years ago, friends of mine who loved to hike in Acadia National Park in Maine found the park closed.  Insisting that they, as tax-paying citizens, owned the parks, they found a way in and hiked the trails like always.  And they weren’t the only ones; there were dozens of other patriotic intruders doing the same.

             So far, these lawbreakers, myself included, can justify their actions, which were a reaction to arbitrary and unreasonable authority.  Now let’s take it a step further.  Back in the 1970s, when you entered the subway system by inserting a token in the turnstile, a friend of mine admits to having used slugs instead.  The slugs were flat metal disks about the size of a token and thus let you ride the subway free.  Did she feel guilt?  Not at all.  This was back when a rebellious young generation embraced the motto “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”  Being under thirty, she considered herself a member of the counter culture, and the MTA – the Metropolitan Transportation authority, which ran the subways – was clearly the establishment.  The trains were old, without air-conditioning, and filthy, and muggings on the platforms were only too common.  She got the idea of substituting slugs for tokens from a Vietnam vet who came back from there very angry.  She finally stopped using slugs when the girlfriend of someone she knew, who wore a fur coat and had an executive position at Exxon, got arrested by the subway cops.  My friend still has one of the slugs and is proud of her act of subversion.

             For me, her story is problematic.  I’m not a born rebel, got along well in school without breaking rules as my older brother did, thus often getting himself in trouble.  Not that I’m a blind conformist, just one who can usually fulfill himself without breaking rules or wanting to.  When, occasionally, I’ve seen someone jump over a subway turnstile without paying, it annoys me, since I’ve always paid my way.  So it becomes a question of when can you justify breaking the law, and how do you avoid the implication of self-interest.  My friend knew why she did it.  What justification did the executive in the fur coat have?  Nothing convincing, I suspect.

             Once, to avoid jury duty, I lied.  Jury duty is always a chore, but I had done it many times, sometimes at a cost to myself, since I was a freelance editor working on my own, with no employer to continue paying me while I served.  But one day, when I was in a second-hand bookstore on Fourth Avenue, some people came in who had just been to the jury duty office downtown.  They were livid with rage, having been treated nastily, and had to tell their story to others so as to recover a bit of sanity.  Their story so angered me in turn that I decided to dodge jury duty.  When next summoned, I wrote a short note saying I had left the city and moved to Illinois.  I forwarded the pre-addressed, sealed note to my mother in Evanston, Illinois, and asked her to mail it.  She did, so it arrived with an Illinois postmark and I was not summoned for jury duty.  Then, in time, when jury duty conditions had been improved, I decided to move back to the city and be a dutiful citizen; when summoned next, I served.  And served and served, until age finally made me exempt.  Did I feel guilty about my deceit?  Remembering the story of those people, I did not.  But having absented myself for a while, honesty finally won out, and I resumed serving until legally exempt.

             Now here’s another story about lawbreaking that raises a key issue.  While corresponding with a gay inmate in North Carolina, I encouraged him to write his memoir, which, sometimes with great pain, he did.  In the course of it he told me of working as a camp counselor in a boys’ camp in North Carolina, where a boy of about sixteen told him in confidence a story.  The boy – let’s call him Don – lived in a small town with his parents and younger brother.  One day he heard from the other boys his age that a man had moved into town and was having sex with the boys.  The sex was consensual, and the kids liked it.  So Don connected with the man, liked him, and had great sex.  Then his younger brother likewise connected with the man and had sex.  Then one day the police turned up at Don’s house.  Having heard rumors about the man having sex with underage boys, they had arrested him and needed a witness to testify in court.  The man was a threat to the community, they insisted, and had to be locked up in prison.  Under great pressure, Don agreed, though he said nothing of his younger brother’s involvement.

             So on the day of the trial Don and his father went to court.  When Don was called to testify, he saw the man in detention and reflected.  He liked the man and the sex, and he didn’t think the man had harmed him or anyone.  So he admitted that he knew the man, but denied that they had had sex.  This threw the whole courtroom into an uproar, with prosecution and defense shouting at each other, and the judge pounding his gavel for order.  The judge ordered a brief recess so the prosecution could confer with the witness, and Don and his father met with a social worker in a side room.  The social worker, a formidable older woman, told Don that he had to testify, so they could lock the man up and put an end to his criminal behavior.  But Don didn’t think the man had ever harmed anyone or posed a threat to society.
             “Lady,” he said, “right now I’m more scared of you than I am of him.”
             The woman’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
             “If you don’t mind,” said Don’s father, “I’m taking my son home.”
             So Don and his father went home, and for want of a witness, the charges had to be dropped.  Don’s father kept Don at home for the next few days, until the man moved away.  So ended Don’s story.

             Hearing this story gave me cause for reflection.  Being under oath, Don had committed perjury, but I felt he was justified, for he was being forced to do something that he thought was wrong.  I then reached a conclusion that has stayed with me to this day:  It’s not enough to tell the truth.  You must tell the truth for the right reason.

             Do I then advocate perjury?  Only in very special circumstances, as was the case with Don.  But there are times when the standard rules don’t hold, and we have to recognize this and act accordingly.  But these exceptions are rare; usually the rules hold up.

             None of the people mentioned so far were lawbreakers in the usual sense of the term; they were not habitual offenders posing a serious threat to society.  Have I ever encountered a true lawbreaker?  Once, in a case involving a drug addict, but not even then, for he was to be pitied. 

             One other incident comes to mind.  Once, in the subway, I did encounter a man who struck me as dangerous.  He was sitting across from me, talking with a strange fervor to the woman with him.  Something about his intensity alarmed me.  He and the woman got off at the same stop where I did, and I could see them hurrying ahead of me.  As they passed a newsstand on the platform, the man reached out and grabbed a newspaper without slowing his pace for a moment, and the two of them then disappeared in the crowd.  He seized the paper so quickly that I knew he had done it before and thought nothing of it.  I was sure he was some sort of habitual criminal, and dangerous.  No hard evidence, just a gut feeling of my own, but I have a hunch I was right.

    Billy the Kid (1859-1881).  Born in New York City!

             Americans have always had a tendency to admire outlaws: Jesse James, Billy the Kid, John Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde.  There is something romantic about these people, and their image is only enhanced by their violent deaths.  We don’t want to be them, but we envy their living dangerously, their rejection of conventionality and routine.  This lax attitude is balanced out in our psyche by our judgmental streak, our relish at the downfall of the great, our need to find and prosecute villains – spies, Communists, child molesters, terrorists, Muslims – in short, our need of witch hunts.  Woven into our lives are lawbreakers, whether we fear them or admire them, or both.  Either way, we can’t get free of them; they’re a part of us.

    File:Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) Wanted Poster of John Dillinger - NARA - 306713 (page 1).gif
    An FBI poster, 1934.  He sure got attention.

    Coming soon:  ???

    Sunday, March 31, 2019

    402. Explorers Club: A Stuffed Cheetah, the Penis of a Sperm Whale, and for Dinner, Ostrich and Madagascar Cockroaches


    My latest:

     The Eye That Never Sleeps eimage.jpg

    A story of the strangest friendship that ever was: a dapper young bank thief and the detective hired by the banks to apprehend him For more about this and my other books, go here.  

    Fascinating New Yorkers has been reviewed by The US Review of Books.  Reviewer Gabriella Tutino says, "There's something for everyone here in this collection of profiles, and it serves as a source of inspiration for readers who love NYC."  For the whole review, click on US Review.

    Small Talk

    It's an old joke, appropriate for Valentine's Day, but I can't resist repeating it.

    He:  Darling, I don't know what to do.  My heart tells me one thing, and my head, another.

    She:  What do you hear from your liver?

          Explorers Club: A Stuffed Cheetah, the Penis of a 
                   Sperm Whale, and for Dinner, Ostrich 
                        with Madagascar Cockroaches

             I first heard of the Explorers Club when I read Thor Heyerdahl’s book The Kon-Tiki Expedition: By Raft across the South Seas, telling how he and five others, all Norwegian except for one Swede, left Peru on a raft in 1947 and sailed across the Pacific to Polynesia.  Heyerdahl believed that people from South America had once crossed the Pacific to settle in Polynesia, and his expedition, using only materials available in South America in pre-Columbian times, was designed to show that this was possible.  Before they left, Heyerdahl visited the Explorers Club in New York and discussed the expedition with members there, one of whom was so excited by the expedition that he wished that he too could go.  And Heyerdahl’s account was fascinating, telling how they lived on fish that were tossed up on the raft, how on the 97th day out they made contact with the inhabitants of one atoll, but were unable to land safely; how three days later the raft struck a reef and was eventually beached on an uninhabited island, where a few days later they were found by men from a village on a nearby island, and in time were taken to Tahiti by a French schooner with the salvaged raft in tow.  He had traveled 4,340 miles and spent 101 days at sea.  Heyerdahl believed that he had made his point, though not all anthropologists agree; the matter is still being debated.

    File:Expedition Kon-Tiki 1947. Across the Pacific. (8765728430).jpg
    Heyerdahl's raft, 1947.
    Nasjonalbiblioteket, Norway

             Such was my first awareness of the Explorers Club and its members.  I could well imagine them sailing thousands of miles across the ocean, at the mercy of wind and waves, or penetrating the jungles of New Guinea to be welcomed by natives with poisoned darts or bows and arrows, or trekking Arctic ice caps in the most incredibly frigid of climates, maybe stalked by a hungry polar bear.  Adventures that I myself would never dare to undertake, but exciting to read about if one is snug and comfy at home, and inclined to applaud the doughty doings of others. 
             As regards New Guinea, I have heard that it harbors some of the last wilderness to be explored.  I also recall seeing, long ago, a photograph taken from an airplane, showing a bunch of New Guinea aboriginals shooting arrows at the low-flying plane.  Similarly, I recall the attempt by five American evangelicals to Christianize the Huaorani, an isolated tribe in the rain forest of Ecuador who are known and feared for their violence.  In 1956 the undertaking ended in the massacre of all five missionaries, following which the widow of one victim and the sister of another went to live among the Huaorani.  They succeeded in converting many, including some involved in the massacre, but at the cost of promoting contact between the tribe and the outside world.  Not an Explorers Club undertaking, but one showing that there are still remote primal peoples on this earth, to contact whom is an adventure fraught with danger for both them and their presumably “civilized” discoverers.

             Now back to the Explorers Club.  My attention was drawn to it by a recent article in the New York Times: “What’s Left for the Explorers Club to Explore?” by Alyson Krueger, in the Metropolitan section of the Sunday Times of March 24, 2019.  The article discusses the difference between the older members, for whom exploration meant going to faraway places and bringing back significant artifacts, and the younger members, some of them still in college, who thanks to technology can do their exploring from their couch.  One young explorer uses high-resolution satellite imagery and artificial intelligence to to track whales, and another builds robots able to explore  caves, so humans don’t have to.  The difference between traditional exploring and the means used by the young newcomers is vast and could well create tension among the membership.
             That membership totals about 3,500 today, with chapters all over the world.  To understand the stance of the old-timers among them, it’s useful to glance at the history of the club, which was founded in 1904 in New York City to promote the scientific exploration of the world by supporting research and education in the sciences.  The seven founding members included two polar explorers, a museum curator, an archaeologist, a war correspondent and author, a professor of physics, and an ethnologist.  Dedicated from the start to science, it wasn’t just place for veteran explorers to get together to swap adventure stories and share tips on clothing and equipment, perhaps over a drink or two, though that probably happened also.  And the members were doers, responsible for a lot of firsts that the club’s website proudly lists:

    ·      North Pole, 1909.
    ·      South Pole, 1911.
    ·      Summit of Mount Everest, 1953.
    ·      Greatest Ocean Depth, 1960.
    ·      Surface of the Moon, 1969. 

             The club’s flag has gone with these explorers and has flown at both poles, in the ocean’s nether depths, on the bleak and sterile surface of the moon, and even in outer space.  To be a member and carry the flag, one must be actively involved in scientific exploration.  But there have been honorary members too, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Charles A. Lindbergh, Prince Philip, and Albert I, Prince of Monaco.

    File:Explorers Club Headquarters.jpg
    The Explorers Club headquarters on 70th Street.
    Jonathan S. Knowles

             Today the club’s headquarters is located in a six-story Jacobean revival mansion at 46 East 70th Street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, with heavy entrance doors and ornate turn-of-the-century stained glass windows inside  There, mementoes from earlier endeavors are on display.  A virtual tour online shows the elongated tusks of a rare species of elephant flanking a fireplace, and the preserved head, mouth agape and showing daggerlike teeth, of a lion donated by Theodore Roosevelt.  Also displayed are tusks galore, a formal gilt-framed portrait of an explorer, a huge polar bear rearing on its hind legs, a stuffed cheetah, stones from Mount Everest, a stag’s head with branching antlers, and a globe used by Heyerdahl to plan his expedition.  Topping them all, perhaps, is the penis of a sperm whale.

    File:Explorers Club fireplace (82325).jpg

             Plaques on the walls commemorate  members’ firsts.  Also on display are flags that flew on the moon.  In all, to date there have been 202 numbered flags, each one displayed on an expedition and returned to the club with a written report of the expedition.  Also in the building are a library, and on the top floor, research archives comprising 13,000 books, 1,000 museum objects, 5,000 maps, and 500 films.

             Once a year hundreds of members gather for the legendary dinner, famous for its unusual cuisine.  Once the pièce de résistance was a 235-pound ostrich that took six and a half hours to cook, along with Madagascar cockroaches raised on a farm in New Jersey.  Another dinner featured martinis with goats’ eyes, a steamed goat penis with honey, and for dessert, strawberries dipped in white chocolates garnished with maggot sprinkles.  But these delicacies are available only to members.

             Today a clubhouse full of phallic jutting tusks, mounted severed heads, and whole stuffed wild animals displayed as hunters’ trophies raises an eyebrow or two … or three or four or five.  Wild animals once so plentiful are being killed off the world over, and hunters’ trophies are seen by many as both antiquated and barbaric.  This view is often shared by the club’s young members, tech-oriented and not veterans of treks in distant places.  Recently, in the club’s annual weekend, it broke with tradition to let its young members present their initiatives.  The young members are using new tools to take a closer look at environments that have already been discovered, forcing the older ones to rethink and expand the notion of exploration.  For the young, tech is in, trophies are out.  The whole atmosphere of the clubhouse can strike them as outdated, Victorian, quaint.  Some oldsters resist this invasion of the young, clinging to trophies and the traditional view of exploration, while others welcome the initiatives of the young and declare that satellites and lasers are cool.

    Coming soon:  Breaking the Law

    ©   2019   Clifford Browder