Just when you think you’re about to finish your dissertation, an epidemic of good times breaks out. Here are a few photos of late. (more…)

When Christopher C. was a wee lad, his daddy would bounce him on his knee and tell him of an island in the Indian Ocean named Socotra where the streets were paved with gold.

Lately, after reading the current price of gold on the Paris market in the Yemen Financial Observer, Chris decided to launch an amphibious assault on the island and seize it for himself.

Above, C. is seen leading what Chris Moreland called “the most unimpressive invasion force the world has ever seen”.

Once the expeditionary force made landfall, transportation by big ole Arab rowboat was considered logistically unsound, so the crack squad headed inland towards the capital of Socotra by means of a handy Japanese pick-up truck. Socotra! Where the streets are paved with gold!

Unfortunately, like everything else his father ever told him, it was a lie.

Unless ‘gold’ is Arabic for ‘dirt’ and ‘paved’ is Arabic for ‘unpaved’, which would make Arabic a dashed silly language.

Disappointed with his anticlimactic conquest, Chris returned to the mainland where his rented room awaited.

There, he picked up a bottle of non-alchoholic beer, cursed the Gods, and questioned whether life really had any meaning after all.

G.R.V.H.I.

W. Calderhead and C. C..

Here we observe the wastrel in his natural habitat: passed out on a sofa in a student flat at the University of St Andrews — the institution with the highest per capita number of wastrels in the British Commonwealth of Nations. In actual fact, Rob & Maria made an official visit up to Andreanopolis this weekend, and Abigail, Adrian, and Pamela graciously through a dinner party in their honour at Step Rock Cottage; Rob and Maria are exiled monarchs of the Catholic dinner party circuit.

The sad thing is this photo was taken before the party even started. I was exhausted from having woken up at 7:00am and spent the entire day rowing at Strathclyde Park that I just dragged myself over to the cottage on Gillespie Wynd at the appointed time in the evening and collapsed on the sofa in front of the crackling fire. It was sublime.

Below you can see Father Freddy, the resident chaplain at Step Rock Cottage, garbed in the appropriate chasuble for the liturgical season. He stands on the window sill blessing the herb garden all day long, or at least he usually does. At the moment he’s on his way to Downside for a retreat.

by Rev. George W. Rutler (via CERC)

Of wealth and war, Chauncey Devereux Stillman (1907-1989) knew much and said little.

In his country home in Dutchess County, now a museum he endowed, is a youthful portrait that makes it easy to imagine Chauncey in Paris in the Roaring Twenties. In 1942, the future commodore of the New York Yacht Club donated his gorgeous flagship Westerly as a patrol boat on the lookout for German submarines.

Schools and charities flourished by his philanthropy, especially after his embrace of Catholicism. The Gentleman of His Holiness was an efficient cause of many of the Church’s most vigorous new academic and cultural institutions.

The last Mass he heard was in his Madison Avenue apartment, and his whispered request of me was that the sign of peace be omitted “because the butler finds it awkward.” … Continue in full

Has our former Gifford Research Fellow spent too much time considering jus in bello? Nay, rather John Lamont, aka Big John, sends these photos as proof of his efforts to combat the avian flu business that’s going round.

There’s the culprit! Duly nabbed by JL.

Looks tasty. Rather envious!

George, Cockburn the Younger, and yours truly were sitting in the pub this evening when George got a text message on his phone from none other than 2Lt. W. Calderhead, currently serving in Iraq. It read something like

Very non-chalant. Very Calderhead. Anyhow, a package of goodies shall be heading Bill’s way quite soon.

Tonight a very intelligent friend of mine informed me that she believes I am a wastrel and that I have squandered my university years. I found this very interesting (and a tad funny), considering that it is my firm belief that I have gotten more out of my years at St Andrews than I had ever expected I would. Are there regrets, should’ves, and why-didn’t-I’s? Of course. Hindsight, after all, is 20/20, but I do not regret my relative inattention to grades.

It all comes down to standards. By whose standards does one judge a quartet of university years? I believe that there are a number of ways to measure success, or the lack thereof, during one’s time at university. I myself have never found the pursuit of academic achievement particularly fulfilling. This is not to say I think it is a bad thing; by no means. I have the utmost respect for my friends who excel academically. I always found, for example, David Taylor’s record of achievement particularly worthy of respect and admiration, especially considering he was neither a recluse nor socially awkward. But I think excellence in academics should not be the only way to judge a university career. Whether this is self-serving because I have not excelled academically I leave up to the reader to decide.

In my St Andrews years, so far, I’ve founded, edited, and managed a successful newspaper which has earned high accolades, I’ve co-founded a literary review, I’ve donated my time to committees for multiple terms despite finding it particularly distasteful and unenjoyable, I’ve been president of a private club (which involves not only working with a committee but coördinating and directing it while also having to maintain continuity with the traditions of the group and not peeve the members), I’ve had some pretty good nights on the town, I’ve made friendships that I know will last a lifetime, I’ve (lately) taken up a sporting activity conscienciously, most importantly I’ve done my utmost to be a good Christian as well as to note when, where, and how I have fallen short of that ideal in order to prevent future failings, and on top of all these non-academic things, I have learnt a great deal of knowledge. I don’t have the grades to show for it because I never felt the need to justify what I have learnt and how I have learnt it to an external examiner, besides which much (if not most) of my learning of history, philosophy, and culture during my university years to date has been outside the framework of my courses.

In my view, what I have managed to do in my years is worthwhile and should not be discounted. In comparison to getting 17s, 18s, and 19s in every course, while being social and doing just a few extracurriculur things on the side, I prefer my track record instead. I nonetheless think that both are admirable and worthwhile approaches to university. Contrarily, the young lady in question believes that the academic must be the only important yardstick used to judge these years, and consequently she thinks I a wastrel and strongly disapproves.

(I hope, dear reader, that you will not regard this entry as an exercise in ‘navel-gazing’, as they say. I am not a very self-reflecting, overanalytical person. I am not highly critical of myself, nor do I let myself off easily. It did not particularly irritate, offend, or wound me that I am thought by at least one intelligent person to be a wastrel, but I found it a good opportunity for debate and discussion and so have put forth my view accordingly.)

I THINK IT WAS Cousin Jasper in Brideshead Revisited who told Charles Ryder to switch his ground-floor rooms for a more suitable arrangement. Charles, of course, failed to heed his elder cousin’s advice, and last night I couldn’t help but wonder if the inhabitants of a ground floor flat on Greyfriars Gardens wished they had been given a similar recommendation. An assemblage of young gentlemen, having moved from one pub to another and then making their way down Greyfriars stumbled upon an open window and, discovering that merriment was ongoing within, took it upon themselves to use that very portal as a mode of entrance. Quite succesfully, I might add, for it was a very wide window and not terribly high up. Upon gaining entrance, they proceeded to join in the merriment, which chiefly revolved around a triumvirate of good conversation, bad wine, and pretty young ladies. (I managed to inculcate one in the history of the Order of Malta). I ran into fellow oarsman Rory Mcdonald (who, despite his Scottish name, is from Norfolk) with his academic mother who dropped a coin in my beverage and told me I had to save the Queen from drowning by downing my glass right then and there. I took my time (God bless Her Majesty, but she’s only a Saxe-Coburg).

The evening had begun a few hours previous in the Chariots bar with yours truly, George, J.E.B., Ben, Tom Marshall, Rorie, Cockburn the Younger (worse for wear having been dealt a dirty pint in the Mess the night previous to celebrate his birthday), a rather confused ‘Dougal’ in black tie, Jon Burke (legend), Manuel, Cameron (President of Fin Fur & Feather), a chap named Will, and someone else I’m quite sure. Apparently J.E.B.’s going to reconquer India and I’ll be made Viceroy. This was decided as some sort of recompense for India going republican before Enoch Powell could be appointed to the viceregal throne. A brilliant linguist, it was his life’s ambition until ’47, and he was heartbroken when it became impossible. Ego sum linguiste très mal, but I don’t think I’d mind the job. Surely it just involves officially opening schools and hospitals and such, spending the rest of the time napping through cricket matches and sitting in a club sipping G&T’s and saying in a firm, authoritative voice “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Comes with nice digs as well, designed by Lutyens. There are worse jobs, no doubt. Anyhow there was some bloody good chat, excellent banter.

Intelligence reports indicating that 1 Golf Place was overcrowded we decided not to make our way there to enjoy their two-pint steins, and so headed to the Tudor Inn (a rather townie pub) instead. There we ran into some Germans (Hamburgers, even) in town for the golf and spoke with them. Ed tried to speak to them in his broken German; somehow the term ‘Britischer Wehrmacht’ doesn’t seem quite the right translation. We tried to give them a bit of British culture by singing “I Vow To Thee, My Country” but it literally drove half the punters out of the pub, and the barman asked us to desist. It was then we sought out proposals for further enjoyment in alternative locations, and decided to move the forces southward accordingly. Twas then, of course, we discovered the open window in Greyfriars Gardens and good times ensued.

LAST NIGHT WAS, shall we say, a doozy. It began about half past eight when I sauntered over to the flat of George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin in Southgait Hall. (Astute followers of the Cossack will recall that I lived in the same building last year). George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin wasn’t in, as he was busy instructing young’uns how to kill, but C. was in since he’s been up visiting for the past few days. We cracked open some beers and watched the second half of an episode of Law and Order before heading over to Wyvern (HQ A Sqd, TUOTC) for some Wednesday evening revelry in the Mess.

The Mess, as we all know, is an oasis of old-school fun in our ever-changing world. Eventually a poker game broke out in the anteroom; an entertaining little melée involving yours truly, the Infamous C., George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin, Phil Evans, Cockburn the Younger, Alex Findlay, and a chap named Will. Now, I am a rubbish poker player and so accordingly am I a rare poker player, even more so if money is involved. Nonetheless, the buy-in was cheap so I gave it a go, failed miserably but bought in again and twas then that Fortuna began to smile upon my adventures. C. is quite proud of his poker-playing abilities, but I managed to bluff him into betting everything he had then hit him with the nasty surprise of my triumvirate of aces. Kicked out of the game by Cusack – that’s got to be embarassing. The man looked as if he’d just been told his prize-winning horse had just been eaten by an erstwhile Chechen terrorist who mistook it for one of the King’s Troop. He went back into the Mess in hopes of elevating the chat there (a handfull of souls had wandered into the anteroom informing us of the poor state of chat next door). A little while afterwards I managed to goad George into a large stake and deprived him of it quite readily. There was nothing on the table but I had ace-9, he had ace-2. Bummer for him!

There I was, drunk as a lord and rich as a Russian oligarch (or would’ve been if the chips were oil company shares). The others slowly ran out of capital and it was finally down to George, Alex (or was it Phil?), and yours truly. I was in the lead and decided to play it safe, but Phil (I think it was Phil, Alex was out earlier) went all in against George and lost, putting Georgie boy in the lead. (No, actually it was Alex, not Phil). We agreed to end at a quarter to 12:00, and so did, splitting the meagre winnings proportionally betwixt the two of us. Cockburn the Younger was quite upset with my victory and kept grunting “bloody colonial!” much in the same vein as Cockburn the Elder would were he present. Fine game, fine game.

We crossed the hall to return to the last few minutes of Mess time and witnessed some forfeits in process and joined in some bawdy singing. Now at midnight the bell’s rung, the glasses are put down, the Sergeant Major yells and the fun’s over. And had that been the end of the evening it still would’ve been a splendid one… were it not for those two words: after party. Now, that after parties can be splendid things I will certainly concede. But in my old age I prefer to be in bed reading E. Digby Baltzell by 11:00 and here it was, past midnight, and I was still out. Nonetheless, being taken by the festive spirit and with C. being up I thought to myself “After party? What the hey! Why not…” And thus a procession of students varyingly attired in camoflouge uniforms, blue blazers, or tweed jackets snaked its way towards the flat in Wallace Street shared by OCDT Charlie Hazlerigg and WOCDT Jen Stewart.

We were greeted by a little white terrier named Helen I think, though I referred to it constantly as Mackintosh for reasons no longer contained within my knowledge. It was a good after-party with some good chat and I’m not quite sure what time it was when I left, but I think it may have been nearly two in the morning. Somewhere in this equation I ran into a gaggle of gowned debaters, Miss Jennings among them in her gown of office as Education Officer of the Students Association. I confiscated the gown, donned it myself, and apparently, flailing my arms about and running around, announced to all of South Street that I was the Education Officer until Henry Evans (sometime head of the Conservative and Unionist Association) re-requisitioned it and returned it to its rightful bearer. We also ran into some Australians who agreed with me that Boston is a very silly place. I’m told that was around 2:00am.

Curiously as I finally made my way back to Sallies, I ran into Dr. Jens Timmerman. He had only just left Edgecliffe (the home of the School of Philosophy) and was on his way home. Dr. Timmerman is absolutely brilliant. One half wonders what he was up to in his office, with his 1925 Triumph typewriter, Keble College straw boater, and deep crimson doctoral cap and gown from the University of Göttingen. Musing on Kant, no doubt. (Dr. Timmerman is an expert on and devotée of Kant). I’m sure I’ll see him at the Kens club dinner on Saturday.

And then, finally, home, sleep, and the comfort of one’s own bed. There are few things as priceless as that.

Today is the first Sunday and term and so after breakfasting in hall (a modest meal of bacon, hash-brown, and apple juice) I donned the old three-piece and gown and hopped over to Chapel for the first service of term. Chapel was packed to the brim almost, a very good showing, and as the Principal entered the Chapel following the mace-bearing Bedellus he had a very self-satisfied chagrin on, and nodded to himself no doubt reflecting upon the ancient glories of our university.

We were sadly informed that a student had died over the summer, killed in a car crash in France. Strangely enough, the same thing happened the summer before last when a very popular student died in a crash in Provence.

Other than that sad news, the service was of the usual feel-good traditional mainline psuedo-Protestant ilk that they are at St Andrews, the most interesting interesting part of which was when the University Chaplain, the Rev. Dr. James Walker, announced that our new hymnals had yet to arrive owing to a strike at the plant in Finland where they’re printed. I ran into J.E.B. tweeded and gowned, as we were exiting the service and he inquired as to whether I was “seeking religious inspiration when I had my eyes closed during the sermon or whether I was just nodding off.” I will leave our readers to guess.

Afterwards, instead of the usual post-chapel sherry in the Hebdomadar’s Chamber, the Principal hosted a little reception in Lower College Hall (from which, photographs above and below). (more…)

The Daily Telegraph‘s recent remembrance of Maurice Cowling relays the following tale:

There’s nothing so spiteful as an academic rivalry! I remember meeting the late Lord Dacre in Oxford about two years before his death. He was by then an ancient man, and the organiser of the assembly tried to make us feel impressed and privileged that we were able to meet such a man. I’m afraid, however, we took advantage of the Baron’s poor hearing and kept on whispering to eachother “Don’t mention the Hitler diaries!” (in the manner of Basil Fawlty’s “Don’t mention the War!” on Fawlty Towers). What can I say, we were young. At any rate, I hope the Authenticators still exist.

The summer pretty much began in Caroline Gill’s garden, and thus it appropriately played host to a little gathering last night as the season of leisure winds down. The Gills held a splendid little dinner al fresco including Mr. and Mrs. Gill, Caro, Michelle Carroll, yours truly, Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg and their son Doug, who I believe was Caro’s escort when she debuted. (I was unavailable since I was in Scotland at the time, which has been the cause of perennial complaints by Caro). Young Lizzie was absent for the meal but showed up later on in the evening.

Making fun of Caroline is an honored pasttime of mine, and one in which I revel. The Gill household is one in which friendly banter thrives. Last night I also got a chance to inform Mr. Gill that there are innumerable young men in Westchester who consider him something of an icon, and seek to imitate his leisurely lifestyle. Caro complains that I talk to her dad more than to her, which is only half true of course.

Speaking of dads, the aforementioned Michelle Carroll’s pop took her, Helen Clarke, and I out to dinner the night before ‘Hell’s Bells’ (as we sometimes call Helen) fled back to college in Ohio. He took us to a little gem of a place on the New York side of the Byram river in Portchester. Between dinner and dessert, Helen and I walked over the bridge to Connecticut just so I could say as we went back in “sorry we took so long, we went to Connecticut to have a cigarette.”

Doug eyes Lizzie’s match-fiddling with suspicion.

Smiling young Elizabeth about to set her hair alight.

Caroline Gill, brought to you by Poland Spring (“what it means to be from Maine”).

My fellow St Andrean Andrew Bisset reports in from auld Caledonia, recently incapacitated by a banana:

Deserved indeed!

WHA-PSH! WHA-PSH! Behold! The sound of the whip cracking as slavedriver James Panero, associate editor of the New Criterion corrals the newly-minted intern towards his desk. Not even a cubicle! Yes, dear reader, today we started our month-long internship at the venerable institution which the Times Literary Supplement says is “more consistently worth reading than any other magazine in English”.

“File these press clippings!” the seersuckered Mr. Panero commands. “Update the website! Polish the bust of Hilton Kramer! You will KNEEL when Roger Kimball speaks to you!” “Actually, he prefers grovelling,” Dawn Steeves chimes in, ever helpful.

No, no, dear reader, I jest. It is a good office with kindly folk. Roger Kimball even remembered that Russell Kirk went to St Andrews. The building was designed by Stanford White, no less, and is on the same block as the Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace Museum. The office features nice wooden floors, a Persian carpet, and a window specifically designated for Judge Bork to smoke out of when he visits, not to mention a dazzling array of books and periodicals to tempt the studious intern from his internical duties. James Panero and Stefan Beck are apparently working on an anthology of the Dartmouth Review‘s best (TDR is sort of the Neo-Hantonian version of the Mitre, or perhaps vice versa). But we mustn’t turn this into the “weblog” that squeels on the daily habits of todos los Nueva Criterionistas.

The only down side is that I had to pull out of the Leviathan Club trip to Maine. It would be rather nice to spend the days drinking champagne on a rowboat in the middle of a lake pretending to fish, but come on folks, we’ve got high culture to think about here. I hope the other Leviathanonians are enjoying themselves, and spreading the spirit of Gumpus to more northerly climes.

And to think, I used to believe that internships were for suckers. What? Work and not get paid? AH-HAhahaha! Go right ahead, while I take leisurely sips of my gin-and-tonic as I rest salubriously upon the hammock in my garden dabbling in F. Scott Fitzgerald and some Italian detective novels! Well, needless to say, I now realize that internships are not for just suckers. Nay, they are also for charitably-minded individuals who would like to devote some of their free time towards the advancement of Western civilization. Happily, the latter description aptly suits yours truly. I look forward to another day as the lowest rating aboard the S.S. New Criterion. Criterion Nova floreat!

The more deductively inclined amongst you, dear readers, shall of course have extrapolated two conclusions from the above photograph. First, there has been a wedding. Second, I have obtained a pipe. Huzzahs all around.

I have known the young lady formerly known as Katie Lennon as long as I can remember, and I’ve known Brendan Daly more or less as long as they’ve been an item. The twain were joined in a happy and blessed union on Saturday afternoon at the Church of St. Joseph in Bronxville, and we all wish Mr. and Mrs. Brendan Daly a fruitful and happy marriage. The reception followed shortly afterwards at the Shenorock Shore Club on Milton Point in Rye, New York.

I had not really been to Shenorock in a number of years but many a day in the Cusack childhood was spent there, especially during the summers. We kids generally found it disagreeable while our parents found it an ideal place to unwind. Some summers my mother worked the 7:00pm to 7:00am shift at Lawrence Hospital in Bronxville. She would come home from work in the morning, wake my brother, sister, and I, pile us into the car, pick up the Lennon children and the McKegney children and head to Shenorock. We were kept busy at the club’s day camp while Mum slept on the beach for a five or six hours, read when awake, then collected us all again, dropped us off at our homes, fed us Cusacks dinner, and headed off to work.

For some reason I never liked going to Shenorock as a kid but nonetheless the place is a fountain of fond memories as I grow older. Just the other day a few of us were sitting in Scott Bennett’s back garden; Scott and I reminisced about summers at Shenorock, kickaboo juice, and crazy Mr. A (the summer camp’s director). Tommy Lennon (who’s my age, the younger brother to Mrs. Daly) and I would built forts and castles on the beach and man them with those little green plastic army men. Barbecues in the wooded Bowery were frequent, and of course the magnificent fireworks display for the Fourth of July was an annual obligation (who can forget the grand finale!). Strangely, we kids also had a pronounced hatred for Coveleigh, the neighboring club. (For some reason there was no similar disliking of the American Yacht Club, also on Milton Point on the other side of Shenorock). They were the France to our Germany and for some reason amongst us young’ins the rivalry was passionate. Of course now that I’m an old man Coveleigh’s bowling green grows more and more attractive.

Shenorock’s home on Milton Point is easily the most beautiful spot on the Westchester coast (only Red Bridge and Manor Park come close to challenging it). A seemingly permament breeze rolls off the Long Island Sound and keeps the Summer Clubhouse with its long, awninged deck overlooking the sandy strand at a comfortable temperature. The Winter Clubhouse across the street overlooks Milton Harbor and the dining room once afforded an excellent prospect of the Twin Towers all the way down in Manhattan. A happy place with happy memories.

The large beach in the center belongs to Shenorock, with the large summer clubhouse on it with flanking cabanas. The winter clubhouse and dock are on the other side of Milton Point, on Milton Harbor. Coveleigh is at the top right, and the American Yacht Club at the bottom left, covering the end of the point.
From Google Maps

And the pipe, dear reader? What a felicitous gift! It was a present from my old school friend Lev Trubkovich (aka Leviathan), who even chucked in some tobacco from Nat Sherman. The last time I had enjoyed the pleasures of the smoking pipe was deepest winter amongst our friends in New Haven. Places where we have smoked our pipe so far: on Red Bridge, watching the world (and the geese, and the swans) pass by; in my hammock in the back garden whilst reading; in Pelham enjoying the company of Nick Merrick, Panda, Simon (also called ‘Generalinnimo’ owing to his short stature), and Miss McGarry; and finally, planted in a deck chair at Shenorock on Saturday evening. We hope we shall find many more places to enjoy our pipe.

During my various travels – which have been limited in comparison to those of others but I dare say very rich experiences nonetheless – I have sometimes been tempted into a system for the classification of people and peoples. There are friends, cousins, and foreigners.

Since I am an American, friends are Americans. American is a very open, wide, and varied category of person. A cabbie born in India, an accountant of Italian extraction, a stockbrocker with Irish origins, a factory worker who a few generations back is a Pole: all are Americans. A New Yorker, DCer, Virginian, a Kansan, Texan, Oklahoman, even a Californian: all are Americans.

As Americans, our cousins are varied. There are first the most obvious cousins: Brits, Canucks, Aussies, Kiwis, the Irish, and white Africans. They all might prefer their home countries, but don’t feel as if each others are quite foreign. I have lived in (or to be precisely, I currently spend most my time in) Britain and it doesn’t seem quite that foreign, though it certifiably isn’t home. I suspect (though cannot prove) this would be quite the same were I an American at Sydney, McGill, Otago, Trinity, or Rhodes instead of an American at St Andrews.

Let us therefore suppose the British, Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Irish, and white Africans are our first cousins. There are also other people, who seem foreign but I think would also be quite familiar to us. During my time in Argentina I discovered that the Argentine middle/upper class were entirely our cousins, not foreigners. They are also zealous Anglophiles. (The saying goes that Argentines are all Italians who speak Spanish and want to be English). However, I very much doubt the Argentine working class are cousins (and I doubt even more they are Anglophiles). I suspect a great deal of Indians are cousins, though I suspect a great deal more are foreigners. These are examples of second cousins and further. I think the remainder of the Commonwealth, West Indians, black Africans, the Hong Kong Chinese, etc., etc, fit into this category, and arguably the Filipinos as well.

We have much in common with our first and second cousins, and we much to ourselves as well. Foreigners, on the other hand, are foreign. We have little in common with them in culture, politics, tradition, or otherwise. Our only real connection with them is our common brotherhood as men created in the image of God. They are the type of people who don’t understand your ways and at whom you mutter “bloody foreigner” under your breath.

Continental Europe is an issue. Friends of mine (in the real, social sense, that is) tell me that under my system of classification the Germans/Austrians are dear misguided cousins, while the French are definitely wily foreigners, while the Italians are dear, misguided, wily, foreign cousins. I plead ignorance.

“Friends”, “cousins”, “foreigners”. Like all systems, it is a flawed one, and I would hesitate in pushing it too far, but I’ve found it holds true to a certain extent.

The past two days have been enjoyable. Yesterday, after getting my driver’s license renewed (it expired upon my twenty-first), I highed off to neighbouring Mamaroneck and had some Walter’s with Adam, recently made Bachelor of Arts from that place up in New Haven. You know, he hadn’t had one of Walter’s world-famous hot dogs in two years?!? Imagine that! And he only lives just over in Larchmont. Quel ridicule!

Nonetheless, after our great American luncheon we resolved to take advantage of my new legal status by engaging in a midday (well, early afternoon) pint in Larchmont. We were much disappointed, however, when we discovered that practically all the preferred drinking holes did not open until at least the fourth hour. Mournfully, we retreated to Adam’s front porch for some cool ginger ale, good conversation, and a flip through the paper before adjourning.

Today was leisurely as well. After dropping in for a chat at the bookshop in town, I called upon the Gills and was finally introduced to Daisy, their latest corgi, purchased during my academic period abroad. Caroline suggested I rest in the hammock while she potted some flowers in the garden, and I happily obliged. Above is the view from the hammock as Caro gives the dogs (behind the chairs) a corrective glance. (more…)

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