Dr. Metablog

Dr. Metablog is the nom de blague of Vivian de St. Vrain, the pen name of a resident of the mountain west who writes about language, books, politics, or whatever else comes to mind. Under the name Otto Onions (Oh NIGH uns), Vivian de St. Vrain is the author of “The Big Book of False Etymologies” (Oxford, 1978) and, writing as Amber Feldhammer, is editor of the classic anthology of confessional poetry, “My Underwear” (Virago, 1997).

Travel

  • In the course of my long life, I've visited hundreds of museums — more than I can possibly count or remember. Nor just the famous and glorious ones: how many times, driving in unfamiliar locality, or wandering in a new city, have I been irresistibly lured into the local landmark?  Even in the most modest…

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  • For our annual winter stay in New Orleans, we rented a place in the old Bywater district. It's a feature of the neighborhood that one house is a perfect example of classic vernacular architecture while the next one over is a ramshackle mess, smelling of mold and nearly swallowed by yellow cat's paw creeper. And…

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  • It's humiliating for me to confess that until a few weeks ago I had never heard of the Piacenza Liver, which is a life-size bronze Etruscan replica of the liver of a sheep, and unquestionably European civilization's most heralded metal liver. How could I not have known?  The PL was unearthed in 1877 and dates…

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  • We visited the grandiose Americana at Brand Mall in Glendale, California. It's gigantic, splendid, and luxurious. I was, I gotta say, utterly transfixed by the artificial lake and its wondrous statue. Words cannot do it justice; here's a picture: The statue is titled, "The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves." It is 18…

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  • This will be a very short essay, because automobiles have never been a big part of my life. Unlike many of my friends, I've never been one to have a romantic relationship with a vehicle.  My parents did not own an automobile and neither of them ever learned to drive. I was a most provincial…

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  • I've arrived at the age in which even a momentary lapse of memory is worrisome. Have I at last begun the ineluctable descent into senility?  But then there's the contrary. When I happen to dredge up some bit of buried knowledge, I experience a rush of triumph. I feel it as evidence that I've put…

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  • We stayed at an inn in Lyme, New Hampshire called "Breakfast on the Connecticut." Good location, decent accommodations — but they don't serve breakfast. Which reminded me of the famous sign in front of the Fairlee Diner on Route 5 in Fairlee, Vermont: "Open Seven Days a Week. Closed Tuesday."

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  • Max had a long love affair with New Orleans, and he loved to initiate his friends into the city's splendors and secrets. We were beneficiaries of his generosity. It was because of "mad Max" that we enjoyed a series of winter visits to the crescent city. He was a splendid enthusiastic guide as well as…

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  • We visited Beardstown, in southwestern Illinois, because it was the birthplace, in 1845, of one of Lynn's maternal great-grandmothers, Mary St. John DeHaven. Even though it's Lincoln country, we had no idea what to expect, the AAA entry being so scant, but we soon discovered that Beardstown is a place that had its moment of…

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  • Stewardess:  "Chicken or pasta?" Dr. M.:  "Which do you recommend, Madam?" Stewardess:  "It's airline food.  They both taste exactly the same." Dr. M.:  "I'll try the chicken."

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