At Twitter Fifteen Minutes Ago -- Drill, Drill, Drill -- November 20, 2016

@PennEnergy: 15 minutes ago --

#Trump has vowed to rescind "all job-destroying #Obama executive actions" and increase #oil and #gas drilling.

Truly amazing how many gullible folks voted to re-elect him:

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Thanksgiving Dallas FC Tournament

Olivia's team, 14-year-olds. Olivia and her friend are the only two 13-year-olds on the team, "playing up."

The team took second place in the tournament.

This was a very, very prestigious tournament: only the best of the best were invited to attend. Very low scoring games. It turns out that Olivia and her friend (the only one's "playing up") scored the only goals for their team throughout the tournament. They came in second: the championship game was 0 - 0 after regulation time. In overtime, the other team won on a penalty kick, and most agree, of course, the penalty was ill-called.

Her soccer shoes on Friday night were ruined because her shoes were "stepped" on so many times during the game. She bought a new pair Friday night and slept in them overnight to help break them in before Saturday games.

Olivia: third from left, top row. 

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The Literature Page

I couldn't recall if I had posted anything about The Paris Wife, Paula McLain, c. 2011, so I searched the blog. Only one entry that had McLain in it:

Link here to a most interesting essay (2011) on A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition, edited by Sean Hemingway, c. 2009. 

It begins:

Fifty years ago, Ernest Hemingway died by his own hand. The quintessentially American writer—and poster bear for burly masculinity—is undergoing one of his periodic revivals, spurred not only by the anniversary of his suicide but by Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, set in the 1920s Left Bank of Hemingway’s heavily fictionalized memoir A Moveable Feast, and The Paris Wife, Paula McLain’s novel about Hadley, the writer’s wife during the period chronicled in Feast.

So, as serendipity would have it, I am reading McLain's novel, a New York Times bestseller and a most interesting way of writing a biography.

I have just completed the first five chapters and do not know if I can go on. It reminds me too much of my coming-of-age years. Madly in love. Special delivery letters. Not knowing if she was real. She not knowing if I was real.

It's "funny" -- that entry above -- it mentions one of the movies on my top ten list: Midnight in Paris and the book I am currently reading.

It is interesting. There are times when I listened to Hemingway's dialogue in Midnight in Paris and thought he might be a poet, rather than "simply" a writer.

And then this, in Chapter Three, in response to a question from a woman he had just met about his plans --

Hemingway: "Now I'm writing trash copy for Firestone tires, but I mean to write important stories or a novel. Maybe a book of poetry."

Isn't that cool?