Dear Friends of the Pub Quiz,
Do retired people miss the meetings, waiting for their phones to chime a reminder to sit down to Zoom?
Tonight at 7 I host a pub quiz at Sudwerk. It will be my ninth meeting / obligation of the day.
Once at the 20th anniversary celebration of the UC Davis journal on writing and the teaching of writing, titled Writing on the Edge, Chancellor Vanderhoef biked over to join us for the outdoor ceremony. He wasn’t obligated or even formally invited, but he wanted to show his support, standing in the back, his trouser-protecting bike clips in hand.
He joined us for only about half an hour, but everyone there remembers his consideration. Aesop reminds us that “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
As I write this from an Elk Grove office building, two women about 30 feet from me have taken a break from their laughing to harmonize with a Reggae song on the loudspeakers. Like an act of kindness, singing out loud can be its own reward.
As has been pointed out to me, kindness is always invited, but that’s not always the case with singing.
When I have no time to write a newsletter, I look to a recent poem and quote it the way that columnist Bob Dunning quotes emails from his readers.
For instance, as you can see from what follows, every poem I write about my Kate, the super-mom to our three children, becomes a love poem, even if its prompting occasion was our most recent holiday, Mother’s Day.
Let the Sun Rise on Us
A swatch of auburn rises,
visible even though the curtain’s drawn,
my eyes adjusted to the night,
but never may they adjust to this.
Let the sun rise on us.
How she pauses and stretches,
framed like a canvas in the doorway,
tall and drowsy, a whisper of fabric
moving as she moves, unhurried.
Let the sun rise on us.
See her big eyes, wide and wise,
still glinting from the night’s stars,
catch my glance in the morning hush,
her half-smile blooming like a secret.
Let the sun rise on us.
A horizontal lump, small as a shadow,
the French bulldog snores
softly before the dawn, dreaming
of even more sleep against her side.
Let the sun rise on us.
I reach for her long frame,
but a finger to her lips casts a spell,
keeps me rooted under the covers
that, even in sleep, she is readjusting.
Let the sun rise on us.
We share the same dreams
through the long hours of silence,
our synchronous breaths whispering
that love is made of listening.
Let the sun rise on us.
I wish for this simple night,
the best of all nights,
to linger in our earned stillness,
but still,
let the sun rise on us.
Happy belated Mother’s Day to all the mom readers of this newsletter, including Terry, Pat, Heghnar, Kris, Elaine, Kerry, Kate, Caitlin, Myra, Myrna, Peggy, Ellen, Leah, Diane, Angie, Carrie, Kathy, Niki, Kari, Lois, Sherri, Lisa, Yvonne, Lynne, Christine, Brook, Meagan, Donna, Michelle, Janet, Julie, Kim, Jennifer, Bridget, Amy, Ellen, Gena, and Kathy. Forgive me if I left off the names of any moms who regularly read this newsletter!
The weather will be pleasant this evening, but not as warm as it has been, so I invite you to join me outside at Sudwerk tonight, perhaps in layers. On such days, I especially love hosting an outdoor Pub Quiz at sunset. Others feel the same way, for we had almost 40 teams compete last week. I plan to move the quiz along quickly, likely possible because the quiz is 835 words long, if you exclude the answers.
In addition to topics raised above and below, expect questions tonight on the following: TV networks, names that start with N and J, pianists, record companies, historians, the journal Nature, expensive robots, notable hotels, Spanish artists, elimination games, Jon Stewart, duos, Harlem, relevant dots, Chinese innovations, trickery, birds, bands, televised football, jests, presidents, skeletons, populous cities, people who were born in 1994, the costs of plus, suits, paraders, fans of metal, bluebooks, libraries, foxes, South Korea, U.S. cities, geography, current events, and Shakespeare.
For more Pub Quiz fun, please subscribe via Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/c/yourquizmaster.
Thanks to all the new players joining us at the live quizzes and to all the patrons who have been enjoying fresh Pub Quiz content. We have over 60 Patreon members now! Thanks especially to new subscribers Bill and Diane, Tamara, Megan, Michael, Janet, Jasmine, Joey, Carly, The X-Ennial Falcons, and The Nevergiveruppers! Every week I check the Patreon to see if there is someone new to thank. Maybe next week it will be you! I also thank The Original Vincibles, Summer Brains, Still Here for the Shakesbeer, The Outside Agitators, John Poirier’s team Quizimodo, Gena Harper, the conversationally entertaining dinner companions and bakers of marvelous and healthy treats, The Mavens, whose players or substitutes keep attending, despite their ambitious travel schedules and the cost of avocado. Thanks in particular to Ellen and to my paid subscribers on Substack. Thanks to everyone who supports the Pub Quiz on Patreon. I would love to add your name or that of your team to the list of pub quiz boosters. I appreciate your backing this pub quiz project of mine!
Best,
Dr. Andy
P.S. Three crop questions from last week:
1. Is the 2021-dollar value of all crops grown worldwide closest to $100 billion, $1 trillion, $10 trillion, or $100 trillion?
2. Compared to wheat, is sorghum typically higher or lower in protein content?
3. What G word do we use for the sort of gardening that involves raising food, plants, or flowers on land that the gardeners do not have the legal rights to cultivate?
P.P.S. Poetry Night on May 15 features Mary Mackey! Join us on the Natsoulas Gallery roof at 7 PM.
P.P.P.S. Find bonus hints hidden in this odd and experimental poem.
Transitions
Does any poet moving to Brooklyn at age nine
See the slumping and porous skeleton
of a refugee in his every rhyme?
Something waits in white silence,
The vanishing point of the slow march.
Scars mark the remembered wound.
Ask the wincing tailored Vaudeville son
of the broken Confederate hero
If Harlem is more than a state of mind.
A fruitless bird scratches in the desert sand,
Inches above a pyramid’s buried apex,
Its hieroglyphics still undecoded,
The last sandblown workers having long
ago dotted one by last one across the desolation
like darkling beetles carving erasable sand angels.
Our overstuffed carry-ons packed,
Surrounded by clearcuts, we’ve forgotten the old games:
A pox, a needle, a memory.
Everyone eyes the door.