Sunday is National Dog Day

If Feeling Isn’t In It


“You can take it away, as far as I’m concerned—I’d rather spend the afternoon with a nice dog. I’m not kidding. Dogs have what a lot of poems lack: excitements and responses, a sense of play, the ability to impart warmth, elation . . . . ”  –  Poet Howard Moss


Dogs will also lick your face if you let them.
Their bodies will shiver with happiness.
A simple walk in the park is just about
the height of contentment for them, followed
by a bowl of food, a bowl of water,
a place to curl up and sleep. Someone
to scratch them where they can’t reach
and smooth their foreheads and talk to them.
Dogs also have a natural dislike of mailmen
and other bringers of bad news and will
bite them on your behalf. Dogs can smell
fear and also love with perfect accuracy.
There is no use pretending with them.
Nor do they pretend. If a dog is happy
or sad or nervous or bored or ashamed
or sunk in contemplation, everybody knows it.
They make no secret of themselves.
You can even tell what they’re dreaming about
by the way their legs jerk and try to run
on the slippery ground of sleep.
Nor are they given to pretentious self-importance.
They don’t try to impress you with how serious
or sensitive they are. They just feel everything
full blast. Everything is off the charts
with them. More than once I’ve seen a dog
waiting for its owner outside a café
practically implode with worry. “Oh, God,
what if she doesn’t come back this time?
What will I do? Who will take care of me?
I loved her so much and now she’s gone
and I’m tied to a post surrounded by people
who don’t look or smell or sound like her at all.”
And when she does come, what a flurry
of commotion, what a chorus of yelping
and cooing and leaps straight up into the air!
It’s almost unbearable, this sudden
fullness after such total loss, to see
the world made whole again by a hand
on the shoulder and a voice like no other.

Daisy, on the left, and her daughter, Ashley.


Roxy in repose


Jim Harrison, novelist, poet


“… Many of us can see our ends coming as in a dream. Under a tree in a meadow, or more likely, a car in the night, balling in the bathtub when drunk, sitting in a chair at the window and the world slowly disappears to music you’ve never heard before…”

–part of a poem from Dead Man’s Float

––Harrison died on March 26, 2016, in Patagonia, Ariz, while sitting in a chair at his desk working on a poem next to a window near a running stream.

Russell Lee


Russell Lee,  San Marcos, Texas.  March, 1940

Stanley Cavell, RIP


Stanley Cavell, 91, has died. He was my guide, along with Harold Bloom, into Emerson and Thoreau.  His influences included Wittgenstein, and Austin, and a range of popular mediums including photography, movies and music. He filled my life with a succession of essays and books as exciting and relevant as any written during the past five decades. A few tributes trumpeting his brilliance are listed below. If you don’t know his work, give him a look and you may  want to read more.

From the The New York Times, from the The New York Review of Books…Google Cavell’s books on Amazon. A lifetime of stimulating, human questioning of the big ideas, discussed in penetrating ordinary language, awaits you.




Gary Snyder on life…



“Three-fourths of philosophy and literature is the talk of people trying to convince themselves that they really like the cage they were tricked into entering.” – Poet Gary Snyder

At Night

t.ray bending em copy

The Tonic Rays

This is an excerpt from my unpublished travel book, part of a series of vignettes.

At Night

    The Babylon Club is open and there’s a chaotic clash of beautiful Asian ladies and a scattering of Thai hipsters, expats and visiting foreigners. You’d never believe it, unless you were here to witness the scene that unfolds every night. It’s what brought back all the old foreign farts, especially the Americans. Most of them went through Vietnam. Now they’re collecting pensions and sowing the last of their sperm bank. A lot of them had Asian Romance curled into their genes before they’d had real girlfriends, a return visit guaranteed, at least for the die hards, the ones who believed in the 60s, who knew acid wasn’t just a leisure drug. It was the Burning Bush.

Emerson, Huck’s escape, Thoreau’s escape. Such people have watched four decades of the Real America evaporate before their eyes. Those that should and could live in the East now, content to jump into the flow, roll with the waves, lock in to the clock in their mind and body, for all it’s worth, or die trying. Like where Dylan sings, “We’re gonna drive until the wheels catch fire and fall off.” That Dylan unconsciousness, summoning Kerouac’s lonely highway. Three beers or a few straight shots of Mekong Whiskey will burn out the old farts’ fire for the night.

It chills me how many old men I see at the hospital and recognize them as night prowlers. Standing up from a table for them is damn near as embarrassing as looking in the mirror. The ticking clock, nearly God Damn frozen already, including their privates. But give credit where it’s due. If it weren’t for the inventor of Viagra, there would be a hundred thousand fewer old men living in Asia now.

Let’s see now, The Tonic Rays band is cranking up. Tasty musicians and magicians. You can get enough 60s music here in one night to awaken a month of memories. Now here’s two grinning punk Thai hipsters circling two Chinese girls. Fun seekers are staring hard now, and what do they see? This old guy with baggy jowls, flaccid muscles around the biceps, white hair, a paunch belly and lips so frozen they forget how to smile, a cardinal sin in the Land of Smiles. I ask myself why do I look this way? Who’s that? It has everything to do with that rainbow-colored, psychedelic wheel that’s spinning around the day-glow Buddha image behind the bar, garish as hell, postmodern religious symbolism, perfect for the Second Millennium, right? Buddha and Marley. And Elvis, and you name it.

With time, you’ll walk in my shoes too, punks, just liked I’ve walked in yours, to far better music if I do say. Why does all the good music go back to my generation? I’m in paradise now. We’ve got the Marley portrait behind the bar, the green, red and yellow Rasta colors everywhere you look, the white and red Chinese lanterns swaying high in the trees, Chinese and Thai hookers, even more amateurs prowling around, wives and lovers, horny young and old men, all nodding to the Rasta beat. It astounds the Asians how the old farts are even awake this time of night, much less looking for the sweetest ladies here.

Tonight there’s something new. Israeli Army soldiers, probably on leave, close-cropped black hair, still tensed up in military postures, plus a few Afghanistan War exes, all with the same brooding, silent pose, unsure around the casual, fun-loving, friendly Thai lovelies. One American, a giant of a man, a walking oak tree, circles a table of Thai ladies several times. Thinking he sees the future, he grabs a tiny Thai lady and throws her over his shoulder while spinning in circles. Her girlfriend, rising only to his belt buckle, screams at him to put her down – “she’s afraid.”

The Jolly Green Giant puts her down, embarrassed, gives her a monstrous wai with both hands clasped, chastised, as thought balloons appear inside his comic skull – he doesn’t have a clue. He was just playing out a movie scene.

I can’t take my eyes off the light’s rich, yellow glow from the table candles infusing the glasses and  beer and liquor bottles scattered around, turning the tableau into a liquid underwater still life. The place is a Chinese poem, scrolling, scrolling. Sing song girls. Crossroads. My wife is into her second Blue Margarita as a chorus of Eyeeees! erupt from her and her niece when they see the eyes of the two Israeli soldiers focused on the niece, newly enshrined in her uplifting bra. A semi-blind man suddenly stands beside me, not saying a word. He stares straight ahead. Silent. Impassive. His empty beggars cup speaks for us all.

The Israeli doesn’t realize he could have a beautiful Thai wife with only an hour of decent conversation and some karma. He smiles weakly and nods. The Chinese girls at the next table, real beauties, what used to called “road flowers,” are wearing tight miniskirts. Their ivory-white skin casts a glow as they get up and start to boogie around their table, throwing back shots of tequila, arms raised, stabbing upward into the night air. Movie star auras. One flicks a look through me, which thrills my heart and sends a faint signal to my past. Ok? In the surface of things is the heart of things.  I’m not dreamin’ about sweetcakes in the sky. Come on, all of it.

My little secret is that this, my life, is working out exactly like my dream. If only I could be young forever–and always in love, the love of the hunter under a spring moon, forever. Copyright@Roy Hamric


The Internet’s tangled web

Science without conscience is the soul’s perdition. – Francois Rabelais

Friends, an important book on technology is discussed below. This was forwarded to me by my friend Don Handley, who lives in Thailand: You may be well aware of this issue, but I like the way the book’s author, Jaron Lanier, puts it:

From Don Handley: “Below are the final few paragraphs from Maureen Dowd’s opinion column yesterday [May 27, 2018] in the NYTimes called Grifters Gone Wild.  I feel conflicted about my ongoing use of Facebook and Instagram, and even more conflicted after reading this opinion piece yesterday.  I guess my alternatives are to use email to stay in touch with friends and the Blogger blog to post my photos to instead of Facebook and Instagram:

Dowd writes: Jaron Lanier, the scientist and musician known as “the father of virtual reality,” has a new book out, “Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now.” He says that the business plans of Facebook and Google have served to “elevate the role of the con artist to be central in society.” [While of course doing much more…RH] “Anytime people want to contact each other or have an awareness of each other, it can only be when it’s financed by a third party who wants to manipulate us, to change us in some way or affect how we vote or what we buy,” he says.

“In the old days, to be in that unusual situation, you had to be in a cult or a volunteer in an experiment in a psychology building or be in an abusive relationship or at a bogus real estate seminar. “But now you just need to sign onto Facebook to find yourself in a behavior modification loop, which is the con. And this may destroy our civilization and even our species.” Lanier worries, now that tech has lost its halo, that there is nothing optimistic to replace it. “We don’t believe in government,” Lanier says. “A lot of people are pissed at media. They don’t like education. People who used to think the F.B.I. was good now think it’s terrible. With all of these institutions the subject of ridicule, there’s nothing — except Skinner boxes and con artists.”


Personally, I’m going to erase my limited presence on Facebook and other social media platforms. But is it too late?  Has the “con” and the “addiction” gone too far and blinded the masses? Also, by nature I must retain my belief that technology is inherently benign and can be controlled for the common good, but my gut says if you allow greed and con artists unfettered access to one of the most powerful platforms and tools in the world, they will corrupt it – and our culture – as sure as fire burns.

“Do no harm” is the right idea, but the smart people who run Silicon Valley collectively represent the other side of an enduring debate that highlights the gap between the “two cultures,” most recently sparked by C. P.  Snow’s book, The Two Cultures, in 1959. The two cultures concept is a fuzzy description, but generally it represents the scientific and the non-scientific.

From Wikipedia: Snow said:  “A good many times I have been present at gatherings of people who, by the standards of the traditional culture, are thought highly educated and who have with considerable gusto been expressing their incredulity at the illiteracy of scientists. Once or twice I have been provoked and have asked the company how many of them could describe the Second Law of Thermodynamics. The response was cold: it was also negative. Yet I was asking something which is the scientific equivalent of: Have you read a work of Shakespeare‘s?[5]

“I now believe that if I had asked an even simpler question – such as, What do you mean by mass, or acceleration, which is the scientific equivalent of saying, Can you read? – not more than one in ten of the highly educated would have felt that I was speaking the same language. So the great edifice of modern physics goes up, and the majority of the cleverest people in the western world have about as much insight into it as their neolithic ancestors would have had.[5]”  

Unfortunately, both the public body and our governing class are only now coming around to the immediate issues surrounding Facebook. While not grappling with the larger consequences, we are simultaneosly gutting education – the only hope that the “two cultures” can be reconciled in a beneficial way – accomodating both sides of our human nature.

The governing class is poorly equipped to deal with this clash of cultures. At the same time, we have a president – a Supreme Con Artist on Twitter – who leads a movement to discredit experts and intellectuals, wherever they are found within the two cultures.

Clearly, it’s a setup for a potential, unintended cultural tragedy. We desperately need a combined body that represents the two cultures to come to some sensible conclusions and recommendations. It’s imperative that discussion begins and is ongoing.

We need enlightened gatekeepers to filter out and better control the corrupting influences of the Internet. The legitimate media is trying to counter balance the malignancy that’s attacking our culture, but the “con” loop is constantly perpetuating its own world of self-interest.

Too little, too late is a real danger. May Lanier’s book shine a light on the way forward.