"A true friend is one soul in two bodies." (Aristotle)

Let me just say that a fractured rib is not the best thing you could have. Perhaps the shingles, or acne, or maybe a migraine headache--but a fractured rib? No. Each time I move it feels like a cannibal is sticking me with his arrow on a pole or maybe hanging me over a pot of boiling water. So, I do my best not to move. However, this is not the easiest thing you can do. Perhaps it's easier stick your hand in an alligator's jaws or put your head into a lion's mouth than it is to not move. Once in a while you have to go to the bathroom if nothing else. Oh, yes, I almost forgot! You have to get off the couch to get to the kitchen in order to have your dinner, and then after dinner you have to move back to the couch. Then at these times you curse the day and the way that you broke your rib. Actually, and strangely, I haven't a clue as to how this happened. I don't remember falling--no that didn't happen; and I don't remember banging into any wall or engaging in fisticuffs with some old codger. No. The rib just broke on its own volition. Monday, however, I have to go for a bone density test to see if I have osteoporosis. Why not? I have everything else.

Even in pain, I'm following through on teaching "Hamlet" to my Shakespeare class. I'm finding, though, that the energy I once had doing this is sadly lacking because after 90 minutes, I'm thoroughly pooped out. I can't even imagine teaching five classes in a row as I once did. I feel like Petrucchio in "Kiss Me Kate" when he sings "Where is the life that late I led? Where is it now? Totally dead!" I love that show and I'm sorry that we never offered it here in Huntington Lakes. It would be lots of fun, and the leading man gets to spank the leading lady. And how would that go over here? We had enough problems with Prof. Higgins speaking harshly to Eliza Doolittle.

Got a lovely comment from Phil Bergovoy on the blog about son Bobby making the centerfold of the Harley-Davidson magazine. Phil always has such nice things to say about my kids and the Ross family in general.

(Incidentally, PB, I'm the first to have mentioned Bobby kicking the first field goal in North Shore H.S.'s history. I don't know where I mentioned it, but it was mentioned for sure.) I can't wait to publish "Pater Noster in Condoland Vol. IV" which I plan to dedicate to Coach B. And before that happens, I am adopting him into the Ross family as an honorary uncle. So from now on, he's to be known as Uncle Phil (and Aunt Hindy). Maybe with him in the family, now, we'll all get Christmas presents. I am not making him Jewish...or a Democrat...or a liberal. He is free to wear his own livery. But with the Inauguration of Obama coming shortly, he may decide to go into hibernation. But that's OK. He's a Bear of a man...or should I say a Lion? He will forever be a beloved icon to me and let me "...write it down in my tables."

"A wise son maketh a glad father." (Proverbs)

Just got the news today that son #2 made the centerfold of Harley-Davidson's magazine. Though he doesn't wear a thong, he can be seen in leather. And also, he has not been shaved.

Patriot's Monthly Centerfold
Mr. January, Bobby Ross

Here at Patriot Harley-Davidson, we have many customers that come in to buy their second or third or fifth Harley, which leaves us with some very nice previously-owned bikes on our floor. Making sure that these bikes meet our high standards is Pre-Owned Motorcycle Manager Bobby Ross, who brings a lifetime of experience to the position.

Bobby was born and raised on Long Island, New York. Those halcyon days were spent riding bicycles and mini-bikes, and helping his neighbor build and repair anything with two wheels and an engine. As a young adult, Bobby moved to New York City, studying with and working for top fashion photographers Klaus Lucka and Rebecca Blake. Bobby professionally shot magazine ads and product photography, including the Leica catalog, using a Hasselblad camera. Hasselblad cameras were used by Apollo astronauts on the moon, and Leica cameras set the standards for 35mm photography. Impressive stuff for those in the know!

Bobby spent the 70's partying at the legendary Studio 54 and CBGB’s. The party was so hard, in fact, that he felt a move to Los Angeles would get him far enough away to stay out of trouble. Professional photography kept food on the table in LA, and Bobby decided that he needed to build a California chopper. Bobby acquired a basket case '49 FL, and found the parts and help he needed to get it roadworthy by hanging out in the bad-ass West Coast biker underworld. Aptly named "8 Ball," Bobby is still riding the custom FL today, some thirty years later.

Bobby married in California, and when his daughter reached high school age, he felt a move "Straight Outta Compton" was necessary, landing here in Northern Virginia. Bobby's daughter has since graduated from Motorcycle Mechanics Institute and is now a jet engine mechanic in the United States Navy serving in Pearl Harbor.

Bobby has been with Patriot Harley-Davidson for eight years. When he isn't attending to his many loyal customers and duties here at Patriot (including shooting many of the images on this web site), you can find him tending to his garden of exotics, playing soccer on a 30-and-over league, giving pool leasons in 8 or 9 ball, keeping up his photography skills, and of course, riding. As Bobby likes to say, "Enjoy the ride, soon and often." If you see Bobby on his chopper or Road Glide, be sure to give him the Harley "nod" or wave.

There is no great genius without a mixture of madness." (Aristotle)

There are times when I am alone and in a contemplative mood that I think about the concept of genius...who has it, how does it manifest itself, and how does it evaporate...if at all. For example, among the world's foremost philosophers Socrates was by all accounts a genius--but he had a very unhappy home life what with Xantippe managing his household. He was accused by the very people he was trying to help of corrupting the youth of Athens and was sentenced to drink hemlock...which is not as healthy as Gator Ade. Then there is Spinoza, a Sephardic Jew who grew up in the Netherlands and in order to appease the local Dutch politicians who did not care for the blasphemy of his non-Christian beliefs, Spinoza's Congregation had him excommunicated. Spinoza's philosophy was an attempt to love even a world in which he was outcast and alone; again like Job, he typified his people, and asked how it could be that even the just man should suffer persecution and exile and every desolation as he did.

Voltaire--who lived until almost 84--despite exile, imprisonment, and the suppression of almost every one of his books by the minions of church and state had in his lifetime such influence, despite his heresies, that he forged fiercely a wide path for his truth. He was without doubt the greatest writer and philosoper of his time. He was refused a Christian burial in Paris; but his friends grimly set him up in a carriage and got him out of the city by pretending he was alive. They finally found a priest who understood that rules were not made for geniuses and he was buried in holy ground.

And then there is Immanuel Kant, hardly five feet tall, modest, shrinking, and yet containing in his head the most far reaching revolution in modern philosophy. He was so frail that he had to take severe measures to maintain himself; he thought to do this without a doctor; so he lived to the age of eighty. Twice he offered his hand to a lady, but each time she left for a man who more quickly could make up his mind. And so he persevered, through poverty and obscurity, sketching and writing his magnum opus, "The Critique of Pure Reason." He worked on this book for fifteen years, and never did a book so startle and upset the philosophic world. And then there was Arthur Schopenhauer, born in Danzig on February 22, 1788. His father, a merchant, commited suicide and his paternal grandmother died insane. Schopenhauer wrote the great anthology of woe, "The World as Will and Idea". He had no mother, no wife, no child, no family, no country. He was absolutely alone, with not a single friend. I could go on and indicate many other "geniuses" besides philosophers who lived a life of abuse and disengagement from society. The question is, does a pitiful life cause genius to flourish or does genius coexists with a pitiful life?

I once wanted to be a genius, but I couldn't get my life to be pitiful enough. I had a great mother and grandmother; my marriages were years of happiness; my career was a delight; my children grew up and into success, and the war made me a man with useful wisdom. So there went my quest for the Holy Grail of genius. From my unknown books, I can hardly afford an early bird. I recall a friend of mine who went to college and majored in philosophy, unknown to his father who expected to take his son into his lucrative business. When my friend graduated and told his father that he was a philosophy major, his father said sarcastically, "O.K. son, I'll buy you a philosophy store in the mall, and making a living from it is up to you."

"And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away."

Well, here it is--blue Monday. Blue because that's the color of the font I'm using, and blue because I have pain which is not likely to subside for several weeks. Last week my primary care doc told me that the pain in my left side was likely to be a kidney stone, but yesterday, I couldn't handle it anymore, so Rho and I went to the ER at the hospital here. I was amazed that it only took about 20 minutes before I was called in for an analysis. The DO had x-rays taken and shortly thereafter came in with the grand announcement, "You have a broken rib." I was in some kind of mini-shock at that, since I never before had any broken bones that I know of, and I've bumped in to all kinds of hard and unyielding surfaces. This time, I had no idea whatsoever about what could have caused my rib to fracture, with the notable exception of the fact that just a couple of nights ago, Rho & I made passionate and rough sex for 12 seconds. It was exhausting, but I felt no immediate pain afterward. In fact, I felt nothing afterward. Maybe a craving for a Mallomar, but that's it. That kind of exercise at 85 does stimulate the appetite and give rise to hunger--so I've been told. Since I'd like to lose a little weight, perhaps next time I'll cut it down to 10 seconds, and hope the time goes by slowly.

Just returned from the cardiologist's office where I had to go for a "PT" test. Rhoda drove me because I had recently taken a vicodan (sp?) pain killer and my head was spinning like a top. I kept reminding myself that when I went to school, PT was the name of our gym class--physical training. However, this PT was called "Protine" and it has to do with the level of Coumadin in your body. If the PT is too high, you have to cut back on the Coumadin because if you scratch yourself, you could bleed to death. If the blood got on our couch Rho would be very upset, but if you were to die there, you wouldn't be able to understand her anyway. Then she'd have a hissy fit that I wasn't wearing my hearing aids.

It's kind of tough reaching into your 80s. At some point you have to admit that the aging process is grabbing you around the neck (and elsewhere) and squeezing you, and whatever ailments pop up you have to deal with them--and believe me, something pops up every day! And be careful about how you turn over in bed every night, because that's when you could fracture a rib. Or when you go to the bathroom, you suddenly find yourself peeing like you stutter. The thing that really bothers me is getting Rhoda involved in doing things for me that becomes a problem when I try to do them. She's too young to be playing nursemaid to a codger; my brain is as dry as a biscuit after a voyage; I am as a candle, better burn't out.