Who, What And Where Are California's Economic Conservatives?

An old reference from the 1960's gives a concise analysis of the mechanics of one-party politics in Jim Crow South:

A politics that lacks coherence, i.e. that is insufficiently structured to give voters a meaningful choice or to impose responsibility to voters both when campaigning and when in office, tends to impede the formation of aggressive popular majorities and to play into the hands of the adherents of the status quo. Consequently the principle beneficiaries of southern one-partyism have been those groups and interests which are cohesive, alert, informed, well-organized, well-financed and capable of effective action, and which have a tangible material stake in government policies to impel them to political activity. The adverse effects of the one party structure on state politics, in short, have been borne most heavily by the disadvantaged elements of the population, by "have not" persons who score low on the characteristics just cited. It is well to remember, in connection with subsequent analysis in this paper, that economic conservatives have a considerable stake in maintaining politics at a low level of clarity and coherence.

Sindler, Allan P. "The South In Political Transition." in The South In Continuity And Change, edited by John C. McKinney and Edgar T. Thompson, Duke University Press (1965), p. 302.

Sindler's analysis dates from 1964, but relates to any one-party political state like Mexico, Cuba, or Venezuela. Sindler's message is that two-party competition is good in politics. Note especially the term "economic conservatives" which back then meant—and still does mean—vested interests; there is an alliance between political power and economic power.

Apply Sindler's analysis to modern day California politics. Who are the modern day "have nots" in California and who are the modern day "economic conservatives"?

The "have nots" are still the traditional minorities, but now also includes the young, and single-parent families, etc. They are the so-called low information voters in modern political parlance. And they were largely Obama voters in the last election. A growing class of "have nots" is anyone caught out without a job or a decent pension.

Who are the modern day "economic conservatives"? Nationally, we know who they are--"evil republicans" like Mitt Romney.  But who are they in California, where one-partyism is even more entrenched than ever? Are they just the wealthiest Californians--the ones with the greatest economic stake in the state?  The same ones vilified in the last election? Yes and no. According to Sindler's analysis of one-partyism, economic interests align with political power. It boggles my mind that "economic conservatives"—those in favor of the status quo—are the Bay Area and Hollywood moneyed elite, even though they fit the description of being aligned with the one-party political class.

Another choice for "economic conservatives" are the California State Employee Unions members--the teachers, firefighters, prison guards, University employees and the coterie of supporting administrators spread liberally throughout the State and clustered in Sacramento. Their political influence is gaining in strength--they are the real vested interests here. And they are conservative in the sense of being opposed to change in the status quo.

Split Rock Lighthouse

photo by Ron Winch

What good is a lighthouse in broad daylight?
Who needs such enlightenment in an age of modern communications?
The lighthouse is just an icon to admire--a quaint beacon of a bygone era.
_________________
I bought that print many years ago on eBay, perhaps from the photographer. I'd like to contact him to get his permission to use here, but I can't seem to find an address on the Web.

The photo reminds me of my father and the times we spent together along the Minnesota North Shore which I blogged about in a series called Revisiting Highway 61.

The photo juxtaposes many opposite compositional elements.  Here are a few that I see:

Black vs. white
Vertical cliff vs. plane of water
Wet vs. dry
Deep unknown vs. known clarity
Living trees vs. inorganic rock
Chaos (rubble) vs. order (monolithic cliff)
Near vs. far.
Darkness vs. lightness
Soft vs. hard
Edge/boundary vs. continuity

[As a comment, MamaM added: Two different cloud types. High cirrus in foreground and low cumulus close to horizon. Changing weather perhaps?

Two opposite diagonals. Tree trunks slanting one direction, cloud lines another.]

The Harpoon*

The Harpoon has become a favorite cocktail around our house. Of course we modified it, substituting gin for vodka:

1½ oz gin
½ oz orange liqueur
¼ oz lime juice
enough cranberry juice to color

Mix and shake over ice.  Pour into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with a slice of lime.
______________________
*Originally blogged by EBL, here.

The Harpoon is related to the Maggie, but less limey. Also, the Maggie looks different, lacking the socialist red hue.

Something I forgot which still upsets me:

I left this at Sissy Willis's blog:

7/29/10
Dick Dale briefly emerged from his latest bout with cancer and had something to say about this at the show I saw last Saturday. He gave up his beach life decades ago and has since lived alongside the USMC at Twentynine Palms. He dedicated the last song in what I pray is not his last show to the men and women fighting in Afghanistan. He derided what he called an insane policy of our soldiers not being able to fire back unless being fired upon with rockets. I don't recall his exact words but he said something along the lines of "These are our kids we're sacrificing-if I were there I'd want to shoot back." Then he launched into a free-style version "Amazing Grace." link

Whole Lotta Rhodia

Crank it!

The Color of Blues

Lots of people of pallor claim to have been inspired by Muddy Waters, but only one, Johnny Winter, stepped up to the plate when the man was down. Listen to Winter's rousing background vocals in this rendition of "Mannish Boy" from Waters' 1977 comeback album "Hard Again:"

Last Letters From Stalingrad: #25

...Just now the master sergeant told me that I cannot go home for Christmas. I told him that he has to keep his promise, and he sent me to the captain. The captain told me that the others had wanted to go on leave for Christmas too, and that they too had promised it to their relatives without being able to keep the promise. And so it wasn't his fault that we couldn't go. We should be glad that we were still alive, the captain said, and the long trip wouldn't be good in the cold winter anyhow. 

Dear Maria, you must not be angry now because I cannot come on leave. I often think of our house and our little Luise.  I wonder if she can laugh already. Do you have a beautiful Christmas tree? We are supposed to get one also, if we don't move into other quarters.  But I don't want to write too much about things here, otherwise you'll cry.  I'll enclose a picture; I have a beard in it; it is already three months old and was taken in Kharkov by a friend. A lot of rumors are going around here, but I can't figure them out. Sometimes I am afraid we will not see each other again.  Heiner from Krefeld told me that a man must not write this; it only frightens his relatives.  But what if it's true! 

Maria, dear Maria, I have only been beating around the bush. The master sergeant said that this would be the last mail because no more planes are leaving. I can't bring myself to lie. And now, nothing will probably ever come of my leave. If I could only see you just once more; how awful that is!  When you light the candles, think of your father in Stalingrad.

________________________
A key to understanding this ongoing series is here, and here. Each letter (39 in all) was written by a different and anonymous German soldier who knew he was going to die. I associate these letters with Christmastime for reasons explained at the links.

Conversations with Henry

Jack Halpern

Henry: Jack Halpern did that beautiful mechanistic work on rhodium you mentioned.

Me: Yes I know. It was pure blind luck that Chuck Casey handed me those papers by Jack--before I even knew how to read them. That guy could write. You know, I almost went to work for him.

Henry: Did you know I helped him get that job at Chicago? I knew him from Canada...back when he was at UBC in Vancouver.  He called me up in '62, asking if I could help him find a job. I said, "why don't you apply here?"
Jack said, "there's a position at Chicago?"

Me: You hired him?

Henry: No, he replaced me!  I hadn't told anyone yet but I was moving to Stanford.

Happy Thanksgiving and "Heh"!

Instapundit wrote:

I’M PRETTY SURE THE SCOTS-IRISH VERSION OF THIS STORY WOULD END “So then I went in, and the sumbitch at the door will be politer, next time. If he lives.” It would be a lot shorter, too.

Link

Metal Heart

50 Years Of MyTunes: 1996

Best Albums:
Nomad ~ Aqua Velvets
Odelay ~ Beck  Favorite song: Jackass
Sublime ~ Sublime

Best Singles:
Pepper ~ Butthole Surfers
1979 ~ Smashing Pumpkins
Real Solution #9 ~ White Zombie

If You See Her, Say Hello!

Expired Terms

Sixty Grit raised an interesting point back here about substituting everyday chemical substances for commercial products.  This is a very DIY approach and reminds me of a thriving barter economy.

It also reminds me of a Jeffersonian Ideal.  In his view, patents were a sort compromise: monopoly rights granted for a fixed term in exchange for a full disclosure into public domain.  The latter is never emphasized, and yet the Patent Office essentially publishes an online "how-to" manual for many many useful inventions. They all come with expiration dates, the one date which is rarely emphasized.  Why do you suppose that is?

Here Comes My Girl

The Parable Of The Doorkeeper*

link to original

Franz Kafka (1915):

Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in sometime later on. “It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.” The gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says: “If it tempts you so much, try going inside in spite of my prohibition. But take note. I am powerful. And I am only the gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I cannot endure even one glimpse of the third.” The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside. The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper. The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this first one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud; later, as he grows old, he only mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has also come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper. Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper. He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body. The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things considerably to the disadvantage of the man. “What do you still want to know now?” asks the gatekeeper. “You are insatiable.” “Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is it that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it."

The original:

Vor Dem Gesetz

Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter. Zu diesem Türhüter kommt ein Mann vom Lande und bittet um Eintritt in das Gesetz. Aber der Türhüter sagt, daß er ihm jetzt den Eintritt nicht gewähren könne. Der Mann überlegt und fragt dann, ob er also später werde eintreten dürfen. »Es ist möglich«, sagt der Türhüter, »jetzt aber nicht.« Da das Tor zum Gesetz offensteht wie immer und der Türhüter beiseite tritt, bückt sich der Mann, um durch das Tor in das Innere zu sehn. Als der Türhüter das merkt, lacht er und sagt: »Wenn es dich so lockt, versuche es doch, trotz meines Verbotes hineinzugehn. Merke aber: Ich bin mächtig. Und ich bin nur der unterste Türhüter. Von Saal zu Saal stehn aber Türhüter, einer mächtiger als der andere. Schon den Anblick des dritten kann nicht einmal ich mehr ertragen.« Solche Schwierigkeiten hat der Mann vom Lande nicht erwartet; das Gesetz soll doch jedem und immer zugänglich sein, denkt er, aber als er jetzt den Türhüter in seinem Pelzmantel genauer ansieht, seine große Spitznase, den langen, dünnen, schwarzen tatarischen Bart, entschließt er sich, doch lieber zu warten, bis er die Erlaubnis zum Eintritt bekommt. Der Türhüter gibt ihm einen Schemel und läßt ihn seitwärts von der Tür sich niedersetzen. Dort sitzt er Tage und Jahre. Er macht viele Versuche, eingelassen zu werden, und ermüdet den Türhüter durch seine Bitten. Der Türhüter stellt öfters kleine Verhöre mit ihm an, fragt ihn über seine Heimat aus und nach vielem andern, es sind aber teilnahmslose Fragen, wie sie große Herren stellen, und zum Schlusse sagt er ihm immer wieder, daß er ihn noch nicht einlassen könne. Der Mann, der sich für seine Reise mit vielem ausgerüstet hat, verwendet alles, und sei es noch so wertvoll, um den Türhüter zu bestechen. Dieser nimmt zwar alles an, aber sagt dabei: »Ich nehme es nur an, damit du nicht glaubst, etwas versäumt zu haben.« Während der vielen Jahre beobachtet der Mann den Türhüter fast ununterbrochen. Er vergißt die andern Türhüter, und dieser erste scheint ihm das einzige Hindernis für den Eintritt in das Gesetz. Er verflucht den unglücklichen Zufall, in den ersten Jahren rücksichtslos und laut, später, als er alt wird, brummt er nur noch vor sich hin. Er wird kindisch, und, da er in dem jahrelangen Studium des Türhüters auch die Flöhe in seinem Pelzkragen erkannt hat, bittet er auch die Flöhe, ihm zu helfen und den Türhüter umzustimmen. Schließlich wird sein Augenlicht schwach, und er weiß nicht, ob es um ihn wirklich dunkler wird, oder ob ihn nur seine Augen täuschen. Wohl aber erkennt er jetzt im Dunkel einen Glanz, der unverlöschlich aus der Türe des Gesetzes bricht. Nun lebt er nicht mehr lange. Vor seinem Tode sammeln sich in seinem Kopfe alle Erfahrungen der ganzen Zeit zu einer Frage, die er bisher an den Türhüter noch nicht gestellt hat. Er winkt ihm zu, da er seinen erstartenden Körper nicht mehr aufrichten kann Der Türhüter muß sich tief zu ihm hinunterneigen, denn der Größenunterschied hat sich sehr zuungunsten des Mannes verändert. »Was willst du denn jetzt noch wissen?« fragt der Türhüter, »du bist unersättlich.« »Alle streben doch nach dem Gesetz«, sagt der Mann, »wieso kommt es, daß in den vielen Jahren niemand außer mir Einlaß verlangt hat?« Der Türhüter erkennt, daß der Mann schon an seinem Ende ist, und, um sein vergehendes Gehör noch zu erreichen, brüllt er ihn an: »Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.«

_________________________
*Doorkeeper or gatekeeper?  The original German is Türhüter, a compound word meaning door + guard.** German has two words Tür and Tor which mean door and gate, respectively. Both stem from the same root and are obviously cognate with "door." Kafka would have used doorkeeper instead of gatekeeper, but the metaphorical gatekeeper is more entrenched in English.

**hüter is cognate with the English word/concept "to heed."

That Which We Call Rhodium By Any Other Name Would Have Been As Sweet

I introduced my favorite element back here.  Known to others since 1804, I met rhodium around 1982 or so. Rhodium drew my attention as the center of a specific type of molecule, then thought to be the closest man-made thing to an enzyme. Rhodium catalysts made unnatural amino acids such as L-DOPA. What was surprising was that it didn't make d-DOPA.

Back in the late 1970's and early 1980's asymmetric catalysis was a hot new topic. The thinking was that we could imitate nature and mimic enzymes.  Those were audacious and heady times. I can still smell how sweet it was.

Correcting A Misconception

A recent article in Science dismayed me. The authors wrote one of those "perspectives" articles describing the gist of one of the real peer-reviewed research articles later on in the magazine.

"Getting Moore from Solar Cells" by David J. Norris and Eray S. Aydil, Science 2012, 238, 625.

After describing some new and interesting materials for solar cells, the authors state:

"Although this sounds exotic, these materials are known to behave like semiconductors, allowing them to absorb the sunlight and create electrons"

At the risk of sounding pedantic, electrons are not created--nor are they destroyed. They are there in the dark in the beginning, and they are still there after the lights go out.  The electrons are merely excited by the light.

Photons knock up electrons and then leave the seen.

The First Day Of the Fiscal Cliff

I got news yesterday that my position will end Jan. 1.  The severance offer is generous, but of course limited in duration.

I immediately called an old colleague who may be able to line up some free-lance intellectual property work.

I have a small window to retool myself for the brave new world.  I'm thinking of returning to teaching and/or research for the longer haul.

Everything's on the table except the turkey.

Happy Veteran's Day!

If At Day's Dawn Dies...

If at day's dawn 


My dear love dies, 


Tell not the day, 


Lest the laughing eyes 


Of the day grow dim 


And the bird-song cease. 


Until eventide 
Let her lie in peace.

If at day's death 


My dear love dies,

My own hands 
Will close her eyes,

And the rising moon 
And the stars shall shed 


Their silver tears 
Round her white death-bed.

____________________
Captain Ivar Campbell,
1st Seaforth Highlanders
Died of wounds received in action,
8 January 1916, aged 25,
No known grave

Letters From Their Eleventh Hour: Ivar Campbell (1891-1916)

Captain Ivar Campbell wrote this while fighting in the trenches of France:

France, 1915: 

The sputter of shrapnel, the red squeal of field guns, N.E.; the growl of the heavies moving slowly through the air, the cr-r-r-r-ump of their explosion. But in a bombardment all tones mingle and their voice is like machinery running not smoothly but roughly, pantingly, angrily, wildly making shows of peace and wholeness. 

You perceive, too, in imagination, men infinitely small, running, affrighted rabbits, from the upheaval of the shells, nerve-wracked, deafened; clinging to earth, hiding eyes, whispering "O God, O God!"  You perceive, too, other men, sweaty, brown, infinitely small also, moving guns, feeding the belching monster, grimly, quietly pleased. 

But with eyes looking over this land of innumerable eruptions, you see no line. The land is inhuman. 

But thousands of men are there; men who are below ground, men who have little bodies but immense brains. And the men facing West are saying, "This is an attack, they will attack when this hell's over," and they go on saying this to themselves continually. 

And the men facing East are saying, "We have got to get over the parapet. We have got to get over the parapet--when the guns lift." 

And then the guns lift up their heads and so a long, higher song. 

And then untenanted land is suddenly alive with little men, rushing stumbling--rather foolishly leaping forward--laughing, shouting, crying in the charge... 

There is one thing cheering. The men of the battalion--through all and in spite of that noisy, untasty day; through the wet cold night, hungry and tired, living now in mud and water, with every prospect of more rain to-morrow--are cheery. Sometimes, back in billets, I hate the men--their petty crimes, their continual bad language with no variety of expression, their stubborn moods. But in a difficult time they show up splendidly. Laughing in mud, joking in water--I'd "demonstrate" into Hell with some of them and not care. 

Yet under heavy shell-fire it was curious to look into their eyes--some of them little fellows from shops, civilians before, now and after: you perceived the wide, rather frightened, piteous wonder in their eyes, the patient look turned towards you, not, "What the blankety, blankety hell is this?" but "Is this quite fair? We cannot move, we are like little animals. Is it quite necessary to make such infernally large shells to kill such infernally small and feeble animals as ourselves?" 

I quite agreed with them, but had to put my eye-glass fairly in my eye and make jokes; and, looking back, I blush to think of the damnably bad jokes I did make...

__________________________
Captain Campbell was killed in action in Mesopotamia (modern Iraq), January 8, 1916, aged 25 years. Prior to his service, he had been educated at Eton and at Christ Church College, Oxford, and had traveled to America.  I blogged another letter of his last year as part of a series "Letters From Their Eleventh Hour" in remembrance of 11/11/18. Link

Campbell's family published an entire series of his letters posthumously.  This one came from a collection of British soldiers' letters called "War Letters Of Fallen Englishmen." More about this remarkable book here. Link

Happy 237th Birthday!

Nickel and Diming US 'Til Death Do US Part

1913 Indian Head (Buffalo) Nickel, designed by James Earle Fraser.

1913 was an odd year, seeing the introduction of the Buffalo (Indian Head) nickel, and also the ratification of the 16th Amendment which introduced the permanent Federal Income Tax.

I recently finished reading a scholarly paper about the history of the 16th Amendment called "The Ratification Of The Federal Income Tax Amendment" by John D. Buenker.  There's a PDF copy here. The article is old (1980) but still relevant, especially in view of the subsequent Reagan Revolution and the more recent Obama Revanche. I took note of quite a few themes and arguments, because they never seem to go out of style. I want to write something further on this topic and this is just sort of a place keeper.

Ligation Was His Religion But His Love Was Platonic

A relatively obscure Swiss chemist named Alfred Werner won the Chemistry Nobel Prize in 1913. In retrospect, it was ironic (but coincidental) that someone from a neutral country won for ostensibly organizing things, a year before things really started to fall apart in Europe. Stockholm did the same thing the following year when they awarded T.W. Richards, an American, the prize in the midst of the Great War. They even gave the prize to a German, Richard Willstätter, in 1915 for his seminal work on chlorophyll (which happens to an example of a magnesium-ligand complex: link). Then the Nobel Prize was suspended for two years until 1918 when another German, Fritz Haber won it, despite his innovations in poison gas warfare. But back to Alfred Werner.  What did he do that so moved the committee?

For starters, he reorganized the Periodic Table and he taught generations of chemists how to think about it. Secondly, he got chemists to think beyond carbon and the tetrahedron--to octahedra and polyhedra. What le Bel and van 't Hoff did for carbon, Werner did for everything else. He introduced the general notion of the coordination complex, merging the novel concept of a central atom surrounded and ligated with ligands arrayed like classical Platonic solids. Something new and something old.

An elderly professor once showed me the carefully preserved remnants of Alfred Werner's laboratories at the University of Zurich. They're stored under lock and key these days, partly out of lack of space, partly out of lack of interest. And yet Werner's long forgotten contributions changed chemistry as much as any of his peers.

Forces of Exclusion

Forces of exclusion are repulsive. Talking chemistry, it's called hydrophobia. Grease, for example, will not dissolve like salt does in the sea; instead it clots together, usually floating on top because it lacks the gravitas of water. And while grease is hydrophobic, it is lipophilic, a word that, like hydrophobia, also comes to us via Greek, rooted in the word lipos.

Lipids and water don't mingle. It's not that lipids are weak--they are very strong internally, giving us energy--they just lack enough polarity to part water like salt can. Salt ions actually direct water: cations attract the oxygen part of H₂O and anions attract the hydrogen part. These are electrostatic forces. They are intermolecular forces meaning between atoms and molecules:

While lipids have strong intramolecular forces, they lack intermolecular forces like hydrogen bonding in water (this also explains hydrocarbons' volatilities). Because lipids don't mingle with water, they appear to seek their own kind, separating out. But why don't they mingle with water? It's because they restrict water's freedom. They have no charge to slake. Most lipids don't hydrogen bond like water does:

Notice the orientation of white to red (hydrogen to oxygen, plus to minus),  H-bonding is an attractive force, not unique to water, but best exemplified by it. When a lipid or a hydrophobe enters the picture, the waters give up their ordered coziness and are forced to reorient around each hydrophobe to make what's called a cage--without enthalpic recompense as with a salt. Thus the exclusion is an entropic effect because it relates to physical law and order.

Not In Nottingham

Tipping Points And Change

Bill Whittle makes a number of excellent points in this video.  I can relate to his mention of tipping points and change at 14:48.  I tried to convey some of this abstractly and mathematically back here: Tipping Points And Change. Downhill change always has an easier (lower energy tipping point); uphill change comes late and requires sustained effort. Inevitable change is downhill.

Kudos for also mentioning the Titanic at around 24:30.

Permanent Honeymoon

Will mainstream media outlets give Obama another permanent honeymoon in his second term?

Something really bothered me about how Jake Tapper tweeted last month during the Benghazi aftermath: (paraphrasing): "You won't like it if the Washington Press Corps changes its tune next January if Romney's elected."

That tacit admission, perhaps as much as Congress not passing budgets and letting the Executive Branch call more shots, is a breakdown of checks and balances.

Don't Get Cocky!

Stub for Woodstock in Europe, September 21, 1979, Turin, Italy

No matter who wins, this is the dawning of the Age of Austerity

Indian Summer

Then God commanded November to brighten the sky and to mitigate the air for the entire duration of Martin's travel. And since God does not rescind his orders, the first days of November are always cheered by a warm sun. We call this season Indian Summer. Link

If one is not inclined to the sacred, there is always the profane redeemed:

According to Robby Krieger, "Indian Summer" was the very first song The Doors ever recorded, in 1966. The version everyone knows was released in 1970 on Morrison Hotel.