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Monday Morning Memo

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GrantCooper_and_IndyBeagleGrant Cooper was the first person to stay in Rocinante, the John Steinbeck look-alike truck from his famous travelogue Travels With Charley. Charley was the standard size poodle who traveled shoulder-to-shoulder with him. According to Steinbeck,

As he sat in the seat beside me, his head was almost as high as mine. He put his nose close to my ear and said ‘Ftt.’ He is the only dog I ever knew that could pronounce the consonant F. The word ‘Ftt’ usually means he would like to salute a bush or a tree.”

Back to Grant Cooper: When he got home, he tracked down a bunch of home-grown Iowa Whiskey – yes, I said Iowa Whiskey – for us to put in the vast Groom-Naftulyev Whisky Vault behind the bookcases in the tower. Brittington unveiled the Iowa Whiskey on Friday at the Toad and Ostrich and I took photos of the AMAZING ARTWORK that Grant sent with it.  That artwork is handmade – perfectly distressed – and includes Cognoscenti Commentary. It and the whiskey will be entered into the Academy Archives. The whiskey will slowly disappear but the artwork will remain forever. THANKS GRANT. – Indy Beagle

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Random Quote:

“Where is Danny? Lonely as smoke on a clear, cold night, he drifts through Monterey in the evening. To the post-office he goes, to the station, to the pool rooms on Alvarado Street, to the wharf where the black water mourns among the piles. What is it, Danny? What makes you feel this way? Danny didn’t know. There was an ache in his heart like the farewell to a dear woman; there was vague sorrow in him like the despair of autumn. He walked past the restaurants he used to smell with interest, and no appetite was aroused in him. He walked by Madam Zuca’s great establishment, and exchanged no obscene jests with the girls in the windows. Back to the wharf he went. He looked over the rail into the deep, deep water. Do you know, Danny, how the wine of your life is pouring into the fruit jars of the gods? Do you see the procession of your days in the oily waters among the piles? He remained motionless, staring down.”

- From Chapter XVI of Tortilla Flat, by John Steinbeck (1935)

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