Idea in the Ear vs. Candy in the Window
Yesterday morning my venerable elder declared that he was not moving, that no one could make him give up the home for which he had worked so hard and in which he has spent all of my life. He even went so far as to sleep in past our first appointment to tour three senior facilities located near enough to suit his comfort zone. That was yesterday morning.
Last evening we returned home after an evidently dazzling display of the latest in contemporary technology available for the health and welfare of those members of society who have survived the many breakthroughs their generation made possible for succeeding multitudes. There's something about clean, wide open spaces, elevators and people on call, regularly prepared meals, housekeeping and laundry, along with the promise of privacy when desired and company at arm's length. It's not the idea - that was clearly daunting. It's the reality of seeing one's peer group looking clean, happy, contented, active, alive. It's seeing other people in walkers and using canes, and nobody looking out of place. It's seeing people better off and worse off and everything in between. It's getting out of a befogged mind and into a bit of real life.
I find this works for me, too, though I generally operate under the gratifying delusion that I prefer ideas to actuality. You cannot move me, until you do. I must, indeed, be my parent's offspring - boing boing
Friday, April 27, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Response to an E-Mail
The f0llowing two pieces arrived in my email Inbox this morning. I have been receiving these sorts of things for the better part of a decade now, one of the benefits of being the youngest of a couple of decades of cousins, I guess. Normally, I chuckle and move on, counting my blessings as the youngest of my generation, but this time I was struck by the underlying premises and thus feel compelled to comment. If you're not interested in my comments, just ignore the interspersed italics and enjoy the pieces.
Black and White (Under age 40 - You won't understand.)
You could hardly see for all the snow,
Spread the rabbit ears as far as they go
Pull a chair up to the TV set,
"Good Night, David . Good Night, Chet."
Depending on the channel you tuned,
You got Rob and Laura - or Ward and June .
It felt so good. It felt so right.
Life looked better in black and white.
I Love Lucy , The Real McCoys,
Dennis the Menace, the Cleaver boys,
Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Wagon Train,
Superman, Jimmy and Lois Lane .
Father Knows Best, Patty Duke ,
Rin Tin Tin and Lassie too,
Donna Reed on Thursday night! --
Life looked better in black and white.
I want to go back to black and white.
Everything always turned out right.
Simple people, simple lives.
Good guys always won the fights.
Now nothing is the way it seems,
In living color on the TV screen.
Too many murders, too many fights,
I want to go back to black and white.
In God they trusted, alone in bed, they slept,
A promise made was a promise kept.
They never cussed or broke their vows.
They'd never make the network now.
But if I could, I'd rather be
In a TV town in '53.
It felt so good. It felt so right.
Life looked better in black and white.
I'd trade all the channels on the satellite,
If I could just turn back the clock tonight
To when everybody knew wrong from right.
Life was better in black and white!
Another Goody For The Oldtimers
My Mom used to cut chicken, chop eggs and spread mayo on the same cutting board with the same knife and no bleach, but we didn't seem to get food poisoning.
While I generally share this cavalier attitude, some of my guests and friends wish I had a different attitude. The fact that the speaker has survived does not mean that others have not felt the negative effects of such carelessness. What's more, mass production has increased the risks of food contamination. We no longer get our chickens, eggs, or their byproducts from the henhouse and our own kitchen. Rather, those lovely bacteria have ample opportunity to hitch rides cross country and across country lines, never mind county lines. During their travels, they have ample time to incubate, breed, and further disseminate their equally industrious offspring. Add to that the ever increasing efforts of antibacterialization leading to ever stronger surviving strains (survival of the fittest and all that), and what we have are less cast iron stomachs and greater risks of preventable food poisoning. As a further aside, my mother, the youngest of her clan as well, never wrung a chicken's neck in her life, though evidently most of her siblings did have that dubious privilege.
My Mom used to defrost hamburger on the counter AND I used to eat it raw sometimes, too. Our school sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper in a brown paper bag, not in ice pack coolers, but I can't remember getting ecoli.
Okay, my mom used to defrost everything on the counter, and I still eat raw stuff, probably more often than I should. I, too, had the lovely wax paper sandwhiches in brown paper bags, which I used to love popping to punctuate the end of lunch. In fact, I can vaguely remember forfeiting some quality recess time for indulging in that privilege... but I digress. I also remember practically twisting my mom's arm to invest in the novel plastic baggies that my friends' parents were using so that I wouldn't be the only one eating hard, stale crust while everyone else was playing with their food, making fingerprints in their super soft sandwiches. What's more, I remember someone in my class throwing up every single year of elementary school, at least once a year, usually more often than that. At the time, it was considered a sign that flu season had arrived. Now, I'm not so sure. What's more, if an ice pack cooler makes packing a more healthful lunch more practical, I'm all for it. Chips and other junk foods, after all, were simply a way to provide a nonperishable snack in warm weather when they first appeared on the landscape. Now, unfortunately, they appear to be considered staples, and that is just so wrong.
Almost all of us would have rather gone swimming in the lake instead of a pristine pool (talk about boring), no beach closures then.
Now that many of us have had a chance to see lake and river water under a microscope, is that still a popular choice? Personally, I prefer the natural purification of sea salt water over chlorinated pool water, but again, humankind has made that choice a bit iffy as well. When there hasn't been an oil or sewage spill recently, the ocean is still the best choice by far, except, of course, during man-of-war season...
The term cell phone would have conjured up a phone in a jail cell, and a pager was the school PA system.
We all took gym, not PE... and risked permanent injury with a pair of high top Ked's (only worn in gym) instead of having cross- training athletic shoes with air cushion soles and built in light reflectors. I can't recall any injuries but they must have happened because they tell us how much safer we are now..
Hah! What kind of weenie wrote this one? Every single year someone twisted or sprained an ankle, broke an arm, fell out of a tree or monkey bar or jungle gym, got concussed by an errant ball or elbow, and now there's plenty of work for all kinds of podiatrists and chiropractors and other medical specialists because of damage begun in the early years of our lives that went undiagnosed and therefore untreated until they were good and serious.
Flunking gym was not an option...even for stupid kids! I guess PE must be much harder than gym.
Well, yes, it is. Those who actually conduct physical education classes, as opposed to merely supervising a glorified play period, offer information as well as opportunities for large motor activities, and tests involve not just physical performance but paper responses as well. It doesn't sound as though the originator of this quip got much out of his/her educational opportunities, which is perhaps why the writer does not understand or appreciate what modern day educators are attempting to offer this next generation.
Speaking of school, we all sang the national anthem, and staying in detention after school caught all sorts of negative attention.
If this is so, why do so few people seem to know the lyrics these days, even among those over fifty? You can't seriously blame aging for all those unmoving lips at ballgames, can you? As for whether or not detention carries a stigma these days, I have to say that that depends on how and where it is conducted, sadly.
We must have had horribly damaged psyches. What an archaic health system we had then. Remember school nurses? Ours wore a hat and everything.
Well, yes, if you're still willing to believe everything authority figures tell you without question, then yes, you do have some conspicuous psyche damage. When do you figure you'll be old enough to think for yourself?
I thought that I was supposed to accomplish something before I was allowed to be proud of myself.
Okay, this one I have to agree with, dangling preposition be darned. (Needles, anyone?) I have to agree that in attempting to instill a sense of self-worth, we as a society have perhaps gone a little too far in developing unmerited pride. As our sense of self-worth has increased, however, our sense of national pride seems to have decreased, which seems a sad trade-off to me.
I just can't recall how bored we were without computers, Play Station, Nintendo, X-box or 270 digital TV cable stations.
I can, but that's because I wasn't allowed out of my front door. Once Mom began to make sure I got to the library at least once a week and was allowed to check out as many books as I could carry, however, I was okay. The sad truth is that it just isn't as safe to let kids play by themselves outdoors as it was in the Golden Age of Childhood right after WWII. I'm not sure it ever was, even then.
Oh yeah... and where was the Benadryl and sterilization kit when I got that bee sting? I could have been killed!
And there are sufficient case studies of children and adults who did, you arrogant ass.
We played 'king of the hill' on piles of gravel left on vacant construction sites, and when we got hurt, Mom pulled out the 48- cent bottle of Mercurochrome (kids liked it better because it didn't sting like iodine did) and then we got our butt spanked. Now it's a trip to the emergency room, followed by a 10-day dose of a $49 bottle of antibiotics, and then Mom calls the attorney to sue the contractor for leaving a horribly vicious pile of gravel where it was such a threat.
Clearly the Mercurochrome has affected whatever clear thinking of which you might once have been capable, if ever. Of course, you could buy penny loaf bread then, too, but now you can get a bottle of hydrogen peroxide for $.98 and it stings even less than that lovely orange stuff. If, however, someone wants to play on a gravel pile these days, trespassing is required. Most construction sites are now surrounded by chain link fences to prevent just such incursions.
We didn't act up at the neighbor's house either because if we did, we got our butt spanked there and then we got our butt spanked again when we got home.
Yes, I remember this. It's a fine tool for parents who can actually separate discipline from revenge for public humiliation. That's a fine line, though, and what's up with the double dose?
I recall Donny Reynolds from next door coming over and doing his tricks on the front stoop, just before he fell off. Little did his Mom know that she could have owned our house. Instead, she picked him up and swatted him for being such a goof. It was a neighborhood run amuck.
And how is that "goof" doing these days? Is he a well-adjusted contributing member of society? Had he been forewarned or was he just expected to know better? Has he grown up to be a creative individual or an absolutist bounded by rules he doesn't understand? Did he die in Vietnam trying to make his folks proud of him? Did he run away from home? Where's the rest of the anecdote?
To top it off, not a single person I knew had ever been told that they were from a dysfunctional family How could we possibly have known that?
What difference would it have made?
We needed to get into group therapy and anger management classes! We were obviously so duped by so many societal ills, that we didn't even notice that the entire country wasn't taking Prozac! How did we ever survive?
It wasn't. And to hear you tell it, you didn't survive, at least, not as you might otherwise have done.
LOVE TO ALL OF US WHO SHARED THIS ERA, AND TO ALL WHO DIDN'T- SORRY FOR WHAT YOU MISSED. I WOULDN'T TRADE IT FOR ANYTHING!
Too true. You wouldn't trade it for greater equality, for more equitable opportunities, for a more even footing with those who have less than you do. That would be communistic, wouldn't it? That would never do. Keep it simple. Keep things black and white. Don't notice that there are so many other colors and possibilities in life, that there are other people. Sure, sharing the world's resources will inevitably take a bite out of your privileges, but that is actually the right thing to do. You did mention that your heroes always did what was right, didn't you?
Black and White (Under age 40 - You won't understand.)
You could hardly see for all the snow,
Spread the rabbit ears as far as they go
Pull a chair up to the TV set,
"Good Night, David . Good Night, Chet."
Depending on the channel you tuned,
You got Rob and Laura - or Ward and June .
It felt so good. It felt so right.
Life looked better in black and white.
I Love Lucy , The Real McCoys,
Dennis the Menace, the Cleaver boys,
Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Wagon Train,
Superman, Jimmy and Lois Lane .
Father Knows Best, Patty Duke ,
Rin Tin Tin and Lassie too,
Donna Reed on Thursday night! --
Life looked better in black and white.
I want to go back to black and white.
Everything always turned out right.
Simple people, simple lives.
Good guys always won the fights.
Now nothing is the way it seems,
In living color on the TV screen.
Too many murders, too many fights,
I want to go back to black and white.
In God they trusted, alone in bed, they slept,
A promise made was a promise kept.
They never cussed or broke their vows.
They'd never make the network now.
But if I could, I'd rather be
In a TV town in '53.
It felt so good. It felt so right.
Life looked better in black and white.
I'd trade all the channels on the satellite,
If I could just turn back the clock tonight
To when everybody knew wrong from right.
Life was better in black and white!
Another Goody For The Oldtimers
My Mom used to cut chicken, chop eggs and spread mayo on the same cutting board with the same knife and no bleach, but we didn't seem to get food poisoning.
While I generally share this cavalier attitude, some of my guests and friends wish I had a different attitude. The fact that the speaker has survived does not mean that others have not felt the negative effects of such carelessness. What's more, mass production has increased the risks of food contamination. We no longer get our chickens, eggs, or their byproducts from the henhouse and our own kitchen. Rather, those lovely bacteria have ample opportunity to hitch rides cross country and across country lines, never mind county lines. During their travels, they have ample time to incubate, breed, and further disseminate their equally industrious offspring. Add to that the ever increasing efforts of antibacterialization leading to ever stronger surviving strains (survival of the fittest and all that), and what we have are less cast iron stomachs and greater risks of preventable food poisoning. As a further aside, my mother, the youngest of her clan as well, never wrung a chicken's neck in her life, though evidently most of her siblings did have that dubious privilege.
My Mom used to defrost hamburger on the counter AND I used to eat it raw sometimes, too. Our school sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper in a brown paper bag, not in ice pack coolers, but I can't remember getting ecoli.
Okay, my mom used to defrost everything on the counter, and I still eat raw stuff, probably more often than I should. I, too, had the lovely wax paper sandwhiches in brown paper bags, which I used to love popping to punctuate the end of lunch. In fact, I can vaguely remember forfeiting some quality recess time for indulging in that privilege... but I digress. I also remember practically twisting my mom's arm to invest in the novel plastic baggies that my friends' parents were using so that I wouldn't be the only one eating hard, stale crust while everyone else was playing with their food, making fingerprints in their super soft sandwiches. What's more, I remember someone in my class throwing up every single year of elementary school, at least once a year, usually more often than that. At the time, it was considered a sign that flu season had arrived. Now, I'm not so sure. What's more, if an ice pack cooler makes packing a more healthful lunch more practical, I'm all for it. Chips and other junk foods, after all, were simply a way to provide a nonperishable snack in warm weather when they first appeared on the landscape. Now, unfortunately, they appear to be considered staples, and that is just so wrong.
Almost all of us would have rather gone swimming in the lake instead of a pristine pool (talk about boring), no beach closures then.
Now that many of us have had a chance to see lake and river water under a microscope, is that still a popular choice? Personally, I prefer the natural purification of sea salt water over chlorinated pool water, but again, humankind has made that choice a bit iffy as well. When there hasn't been an oil or sewage spill recently, the ocean is still the best choice by far, except, of course, during man-of-war season...
The term cell phone would have conjured up a phone in a jail cell, and a pager was the school PA system.
We all took gym, not PE... and risked permanent injury with a pair of high top Ked's (only worn in gym) instead of having cross- training athletic shoes with air cushion soles and built in light reflectors. I can't recall any injuries but they must have happened because they tell us how much safer we are now..
Hah! What kind of weenie wrote this one? Every single year someone twisted or sprained an ankle, broke an arm, fell out of a tree or monkey bar or jungle gym, got concussed by an errant ball or elbow, and now there's plenty of work for all kinds of podiatrists and chiropractors and other medical specialists because of damage begun in the early years of our lives that went undiagnosed and therefore untreated until they were good and serious.
Flunking gym was not an option...even for stupid kids! I guess PE must be much harder than gym.
Well, yes, it is. Those who actually conduct physical education classes, as opposed to merely supervising a glorified play period, offer information as well as opportunities for large motor activities, and tests involve not just physical performance but paper responses as well. It doesn't sound as though the originator of this quip got much out of his/her educational opportunities, which is perhaps why the writer does not understand or appreciate what modern day educators are attempting to offer this next generation.
Speaking of school, we all sang the national anthem, and staying in detention after school caught all sorts of negative attention.
If this is so, why do so few people seem to know the lyrics these days, even among those over fifty? You can't seriously blame aging for all those unmoving lips at ballgames, can you? As for whether or not detention carries a stigma these days, I have to say that that depends on how and where it is conducted, sadly.
We must have had horribly damaged psyches. What an archaic health system we had then. Remember school nurses? Ours wore a hat and everything.
Well, yes, if you're still willing to believe everything authority figures tell you without question, then yes, you do have some conspicuous psyche damage. When do you figure you'll be old enough to think for yourself?
I thought that I was supposed to accomplish something before I was allowed to be proud of myself.
Okay, this one I have to agree with, dangling preposition be darned. (Needles, anyone?) I have to agree that in attempting to instill a sense of self-worth, we as a society have perhaps gone a little too far in developing unmerited pride. As our sense of self-worth has increased, however, our sense of national pride seems to have decreased, which seems a sad trade-off to me.
I just can't recall how bored we were without computers, Play Station, Nintendo, X-box or 270 digital TV cable stations.
I can, but that's because I wasn't allowed out of my front door. Once Mom began to make sure I got to the library at least once a week and was allowed to check out as many books as I could carry, however, I was okay. The sad truth is that it just isn't as safe to let kids play by themselves outdoors as it was in the Golden Age of Childhood right after WWII. I'm not sure it ever was, even then.
Oh yeah... and where was the Benadryl and sterilization kit when I got that bee sting? I could have been killed!
And there are sufficient case studies of children and adults who did, you arrogant ass.
We played 'king of the hill' on piles of gravel left on vacant construction sites, and when we got hurt, Mom pulled out the 48- cent bottle of Mercurochrome (kids liked it better because it didn't sting like iodine did) and then we got our butt spanked. Now it's a trip to the emergency room, followed by a 10-day dose of a $49 bottle of antibiotics, and then Mom calls the attorney to sue the contractor for leaving a horribly vicious pile of gravel where it was such a threat.
Clearly the Mercurochrome has affected whatever clear thinking of which you might once have been capable, if ever. Of course, you could buy penny loaf bread then, too, but now you can get a bottle of hydrogen peroxide for $.98 and it stings even less than that lovely orange stuff. If, however, someone wants to play on a gravel pile these days, trespassing is required. Most construction sites are now surrounded by chain link fences to prevent just such incursions.
We didn't act up at the neighbor's house either because if we did, we got our butt spanked there and then we got our butt spanked again when we got home.
Yes, I remember this. It's a fine tool for parents who can actually separate discipline from revenge for public humiliation. That's a fine line, though, and what's up with the double dose?
I recall Donny Reynolds from next door coming over and doing his tricks on the front stoop, just before he fell off. Little did his Mom know that she could have owned our house. Instead, she picked him up and swatted him for being such a goof. It was a neighborhood run amuck.
And how is that "goof" doing these days? Is he a well-adjusted contributing member of society? Had he been forewarned or was he just expected to know better? Has he grown up to be a creative individual or an absolutist bounded by rules he doesn't understand? Did he die in Vietnam trying to make his folks proud of him? Did he run away from home? Where's the rest of the anecdote?
To top it off, not a single person I knew had ever been told that they were from a dysfunctional family How could we possibly have known that?
What difference would it have made?
We needed to get into group therapy and anger management classes! We were obviously so duped by so many societal ills, that we didn't even notice that the entire country wasn't taking Prozac! How did we ever survive?
It wasn't. And to hear you tell it, you didn't survive, at least, not as you might otherwise have done.
LOVE TO ALL OF US WHO SHARED THIS ERA, AND TO ALL WHO DIDN'T- SORRY FOR WHAT YOU MISSED. I WOULDN'T TRADE IT FOR ANYTHING!
Too true. You wouldn't trade it for greater equality, for more equitable opportunities, for a more even footing with those who have less than you do. That would be communistic, wouldn't it? That would never do. Keep it simple. Keep things black and white. Don't notice that there are so many other colors and possibilities in life, that there are other people. Sure, sharing the world's resources will inevitably take a bite out of your privileges, but that is actually the right thing to do. You did mention that your heroes always did what was right, didn't you?
Monday, April 16, 2007
3 Strikes
Today has been a busy day.
This morning's news was full of talk about the ongoing teachers' strike in nearby Hayward, the school district that pays the least in all the tech-rich Bay Area. The School Board went on vacation during Spring Break while making a public announcement that they were contacting the teachers' union as they spoke. Now school is theoretically back in session and substitute teachers are in place, but the majority of students were not foolish enough to show up for classes today, and those who did will not be back tomorrow; they may be slow learners, but they're not that thick.
This afternoon I finally logged on to find that the now customary news of violence and death overseas had found its echo here at home. I couldn't help noticing how much larger the picture coming out of Virginia seems than those that have been coming out of Iraq in recent months.
I had just started reading about the Virginia Tech situation in which authorities believe that one gunman struck twice on the same campus: first in a dorm, then in a building full of classrooms chained shut from within. As with many other troubled mass killers, he turned his weapons on himself, but only after sending far too many others on ahead of him. Is it any more or less horrific that his violence was syncopated, as opposed to the immediate and finite destruction wreaked by suicide bombers?
As I was reading, I was notified that Andre Agassi had accidentally struck his wife in the face with his tennis racquet during a charity fundraiser yesterday. She required a towel and three stitches, but she walked away to play another day. I suppose it is worth noting that while both husband and wife are left-handed, he was wielding his racquet in his left hand, whereas she was playing with her right, yet it was still he who erred and she who was struck.
There is much news today but little logic. The Boys of Summer live and die by strikes in clusters of three. So, evidently, do many others . . . in situations far more literally life and death.
This morning's news was full of talk about the ongoing teachers' strike in nearby Hayward, the school district that pays the least in all the tech-rich Bay Area. The School Board went on vacation during Spring Break while making a public announcement that they were contacting the teachers' union as they spoke. Now school is theoretically back in session and substitute teachers are in place, but the majority of students were not foolish enough to show up for classes today, and those who did will not be back tomorrow; they may be slow learners, but they're not that thick.
This afternoon I finally logged on to find that the now customary news of violence and death overseas had found its echo here at home. I couldn't help noticing how much larger the picture coming out of Virginia seems than those that have been coming out of Iraq in recent months.
I had just started reading about the Virginia Tech situation in which authorities believe that one gunman struck twice on the same campus: first in a dorm, then in a building full of classrooms chained shut from within. As with many other troubled mass killers, he turned his weapons on himself, but only after sending far too many others on ahead of him. Is it any more or less horrific that his violence was syncopated, as opposed to the immediate and finite destruction wreaked by suicide bombers?
As I was reading, I was notified that Andre Agassi had accidentally struck his wife in the face with his tennis racquet during a charity fundraiser yesterday. She required a towel and three stitches, but she walked away to play another day. I suppose it is worth noting that while both husband and wife are left-handed, he was wielding his racquet in his left hand, whereas she was playing with her right, yet it was still he who erred and she who was struck.
There is much news today but little logic. The Boys of Summer live and die by strikes in clusters of three. So, evidently, do many others . . . in situations far more literally life and death.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Don't Fondle the Fondue
Don't fondle the fondue. That's what I was told as I was seated, or something to that effect. Essentially, the table was very much on the order of a conventional tepanyaki setup, with a fair portion of the center of the table being occupied by a built-in hot plate that looks very much like my mother's sewing machine console when it's shut. The size of the first table, in fact, was comparable to that of my mother's sewing machine; naturally, I requested a different table. The next table was roomier for two, though cramped for the four it was clearly intended to accommodate. I don't see how anyone can expect anyone else not to be tempted to touch the hot plate at some point during the course of a convivial meal. (And someone did: Ouch!)
There's this really cool gizmo used to transport the various pots from kitchen to table and back again. A further precaution is taken by adding unheated ingredients and liquids at the table, as opposed to in the kitchen. I guess the gizmo is handiest for clearing tables that don't empty their pots. What kind of person would spend that kind of money, only to leave a fair portion on the table, is beyond me... Unlike the fondue, which I continue to want to fondle... or follow...
First came a lovely assortment of shredded cheeses, briskly whipped in the heating pot at the table. There was, of course, also the lovely liqueur, along with sundry herbs. I can see why the server wanted to whip the cheese, but adding scallions pretty much guaranteed that the mixture would remain lumpy...
Next came something labeled Zen, though my sense of it was that it was basically jazzed up chicken broth. Again with the wine and scallions, this time accompanied by ginger, garlic, lemon grass, and more stuff like that. There was a very distinct shared hot pot sense to it all. Fortunately, this was accompanied by a predominantly seafood platter. As seafood comes from water, it does well when placed in brief contact with hot water, especially water that has been jazzed up a bit. Red meat, unfortunately, does not do so well in such thin liquids, though I'm not sure why. I think the key is to slice as thinly as possible; otherwise, too much contact is required to cook adequately. And really, who goes out only to cook for oneself? I can see why my mother was less than appreciative when I first took her for shabu shabu...
Finally, there was the chocolate. Now, I have to respect a menu that offers me so many different combinations of chocolate, just for the dipping. Unfortunately, even the darkest was too sweet, and I don't mean that in the French way I can't spell, either. Well, at least one can always just munch the fruit: strawberries, bananas, pineapple, pound cake, cheesecake, etc. (yeah, yeah, about those last two listed as fruit...)
The urge to fondle the fondue, or at least to lick the remnants in the pot, is almost overwhelming. Fortunately, the hot surface areas form an adequate moat to give one time to remember just why doing so is a foolish idea. . . . almost
There's this really cool gizmo used to transport the various pots from kitchen to table and back again. A further precaution is taken by adding unheated ingredients and liquids at the table, as opposed to in the kitchen. I guess the gizmo is handiest for clearing tables that don't empty their pots. What kind of person would spend that kind of money, only to leave a fair portion on the table, is beyond me... Unlike the fondue, which I continue to want to fondle... or follow...
First came a lovely assortment of shredded cheeses, briskly whipped in the heating pot at the table. There was, of course, also the lovely liqueur, along with sundry herbs. I can see why the server wanted to whip the cheese, but adding scallions pretty much guaranteed that the mixture would remain lumpy...
Next came something labeled Zen, though my sense of it was that it was basically jazzed up chicken broth. Again with the wine and scallions, this time accompanied by ginger, garlic, lemon grass, and more stuff like that. There was a very distinct shared hot pot sense to it all. Fortunately, this was accompanied by a predominantly seafood platter. As seafood comes from water, it does well when placed in brief contact with hot water, especially water that has been jazzed up a bit. Red meat, unfortunately, does not do so well in such thin liquids, though I'm not sure why. I think the key is to slice as thinly as possible; otherwise, too much contact is required to cook adequately. And really, who goes out only to cook for oneself? I can see why my mother was less than appreciative when I first took her for shabu shabu...
Finally, there was the chocolate. Now, I have to respect a menu that offers me so many different combinations of chocolate, just for the dipping. Unfortunately, even the darkest was too sweet, and I don't mean that in the French way I can't spell, either. Well, at least one can always just munch the fruit: strawberries, bananas, pineapple, pound cake, cheesecake, etc. (yeah, yeah, about those last two listed as fruit...)
The urge to fondle the fondue, or at least to lick the remnants in the pot, is almost overwhelming. Fortunately, the hot surface areas form an adequate moat to give one time to remember just why doing so is a foolish idea. . . . almost
Friday, April 13, 2007
Odd Contest
I confess to a clear weakness for tantalizing headlines, especially if there's just the slightest possibility that there might actually be some sense just beyond the click. Just now Yahoo's front page, possibly having learned from my previous linkings, presented me with an article about an annual contest conducted by a U.K. publisher for oddest book title. Now, that's an article I consider irresistible, especially since there's a good chance my fellow e-correspondents will soon be sending around a linear listing of the results. (I'd like, just once, to see the original context of such information, rather than just the listing of punchlines.)
This year's title comes from the U.S.: "The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification." One might reasonably assume it's a book of photographs, possibly of the coffee table variety. There is an expectation of whimsy, not just because of the title, but also because it is the winner of a contest that identifies itself as a seeker of oddities. In this case, the author does not entirely fail.
Another title, however, "How Green Were the Nazis?", promises to be a significantly less scintillating page turner, having more to do with environmental issues than offering up any potentially Seuss-like entertainment. Seriously, these were people who polluted the air day and night with some serious smog - how green could they have been? Moving along...
I remain befuddled as to the results of the contest, but that may have more to do with my cultural orientation than anything else. I think the Yahoo-pilfered article says it best, so here in italics are the closing paragraphs:
This year's title comes from the U.S.: "The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification." One might reasonably assume it's a book of photographs, possibly of the coffee table variety. There is an expectation of whimsy, not just because of the title, but also because it is the winner of a contest that identifies itself as a seeker of oddities. In this case, the author does not entirely fail.
Another title, however, "How Green Were the Nazis?", promises to be a significantly less scintillating page turner, having more to do with environmental issues than offering up any potentially Seuss-like entertainment. Seriously, these were people who polluted the air day and night with some serious smog - how green could they have been? Moving along...
I remain befuddled as to the results of the contest, but that may have more to do with my cultural orientation than anything else. I think the Yahoo-pilfered article says it best, so here in italics are the closing paragraphs:
Runner-up for the prize was "Tattooed Mountain Women and Spoon Boxes of Daghestan," by Robert Chenciner, Gabib Ismailov, Magomedkhan Magomedkhanov and Alex Binnie (Bennett & Bloom).
The other finalists were "Di Mascio's Delicious Ice Cream: Di Mascio of Coventry: an Ice Cream Company of Repute, With an Interesting and Varied Fleet of Ice Cream Vans," by Roger De Boer, Harvey Francis Pitcher and Alan Wilkinson (Past Masters); "Proceedings of the Eighteenth International Seaweed Symposium" (Kluwer); and "Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming Into Existence," by David Benatar (Clarendon Press).
Past winners of the 29-year-old prize include "People Who Don't Know They're Dead: How They Attach Themselves to Unsuspecting Bystanders and What to Do About It."
That last one, now, there's a title to titillate the imagination...Thursday, April 12, 2007
KV
"When my mother went off her rocker late at night, the hatred and contempt she sprayed on my father, as gentle and innocent a man as ever lived, was without limit and pure, untainted by ideas or information." Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Kurt Vonnegut has died. Obituaries are cropping up across the Internet and in newspapers across the country, possibly around the world, as I type this. Vonnegut was one of the most influential writers of the mid-20th century. As a chance survivor of the fire-bombing of Dresden near the end of World War II, his writings touched a chord with the Vietnam War generation. Evidently his works have been garnering attention once again as Americans find themselves embroiled in an unpopular war overseas. Clearly the young people who read Vonnegut so avidly have grown up to assign the reading of his writings to a new generation of activists. In fact, one of last summer's pool attendants was deeply immersed in Vonnegut's works, drowning children left to their own devices.
Don't get me wrong: I'm as avid a fan of Vonnegut's writings as many of my generation. Upon spotting the announcement of his passing, I hastened to read what obituaries I could find. The article that most caught my attention, however, was a two-year-old editorial by the author's son, Mark Vonnegut, a pediatrician in Massachusetts. The younger Vonnegut presents himself as a thinking individual separate from his father, even has he defends his father from slander. More important, he makes an excellent point about today's so-called journalists: "I hope I'm wrong, but if the people actually in charge of this war can't listen and think better than the people beating up my dad, it's not good news for military families and no amount of flag waving will make it so." I find it reassuring that the grandson of a woman diagnosed as mentally unstable and so thoroughly stigmatized by her own son (see quote above) is able to demonstrate such clear and humane thinking, genetics notwithstanding. It's a good argument for nurture despite nature, I think, and hopeful for those of us neither so afflicted nor so blessed.
Kurt Vonnegut has died. Obituaries are cropping up across the Internet and in newspapers across the country, possibly around the world, as I type this. Vonnegut was one of the most influential writers of the mid-20th century. As a chance survivor of the fire-bombing of Dresden near the end of World War II, his writings touched a chord with the Vietnam War generation. Evidently his works have been garnering attention once again as Americans find themselves embroiled in an unpopular war overseas. Clearly the young people who read Vonnegut so avidly have grown up to assign the reading of his writings to a new generation of activists. In fact, one of last summer's pool attendants was deeply immersed in Vonnegut's works, drowning children left to their own devices.
Don't get me wrong: I'm as avid a fan of Vonnegut's writings as many of my generation. Upon spotting the announcement of his passing, I hastened to read what obituaries I could find. The article that most caught my attention, however, was a two-year-old editorial by the author's son, Mark Vonnegut, a pediatrician in Massachusetts. The younger Vonnegut presents himself as a thinking individual separate from his father, even has he defends his father from slander. More important, he makes an excellent point about today's so-called journalists: "I hope I'm wrong, but if the people actually in charge of this war can't listen and think better than the people beating up my dad, it's not good news for military families and no amount of flag waving will make it so." I find it reassuring that the grandson of a woman diagnosed as mentally unstable and so thoroughly stigmatized by her own son (see quote above) is able to demonstrate such clear and humane thinking, genetics notwithstanding. It's a good argument for nurture despite nature, I think, and hopeful for those of us neither so afflicted nor so blessed.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Laxatives Are Easy
Maybe those Long Island teens had the right idea after all. The Net has been sizzling since the weekend because of foul-fingered bloggers and that foul-mouthed shock jock, Imus... or perhaps what these latter folk require is something for tightening their already loose brain cells, fingers, and mouths.
Actually, I am against censorship in principle, but I have nothing against self-control on a personal level. There ought to be some reasonable way of differentiating between freedom of expression and diarrhea of the mouth, though clearly those who pride themselves on being "shock jocks" have lost sight of that difference, if they ever knew. I do think the first ones did; how else does one know how to step over a line except by actually knowing where that line is? Of course, as so many childhood games once taught us, crossing back and forth over lines drawn in dirt and sand quickly leads to the blurring, obscuring, and ultimate erasing of said lines.
In the case of Kathy Sierra, death threats are serious business, like yelling fire in a theater or bomb on a plane. About such things there really is little or no room for humor. In the case of Don Imus and the Rutgers Women's basketball team, generations-long racism leaves little or no room for humor as well. I find it particularly disturbing that women are the targets in both these instances, though to be fair, a man thus treated would simply be told to suck it up, get even instead of mad, etc.
The truth of the matter is that the kinds of things that are happening and making the news these days are far too reminiscent of darker times in American history. Though we are admittedly a young country, we are no longer the youngest, nor are we eligible for nursery status any longer. We don't have excuses for failing to learn from our past, and the explanations aren't pretty. Too many of our people of all ages are either polarized or apathetic, neither of which is healthy or helpful. If we can't hear and won't listen to each other because our ipods are up too loud and our monitors are so large that they obscure our view of anything but the entertainment before us, then we as a nation are lost to our own inventions.
Actually, I am against censorship in principle, but I have nothing against self-control on a personal level. There ought to be some reasonable way of differentiating between freedom of expression and diarrhea of the mouth, though clearly those who pride themselves on being "shock jocks" have lost sight of that difference, if they ever knew. I do think the first ones did; how else does one know how to step over a line except by actually knowing where that line is? Of course, as so many childhood games once taught us, crossing back and forth over lines drawn in dirt and sand quickly leads to the blurring, obscuring, and ultimate erasing of said lines.
In the case of Kathy Sierra, death threats are serious business, like yelling fire in a theater or bomb on a plane. About such things there really is little or no room for humor. In the case of Don Imus and the Rutgers Women's basketball team, generations-long racism leaves little or no room for humor as well. I find it particularly disturbing that women are the targets in both these instances, though to be fair, a man thus treated would simply be told to suck it up, get even instead of mad, etc.
The truth of the matter is that the kinds of things that are happening and making the news these days are far too reminiscent of darker times in American history. Though we are admittedly a young country, we are no longer the youngest, nor are we eligible for nursery status any longer. We don't have excuses for failing to learn from our past, and the explanations aren't pretty. Too many of our people of all ages are either polarized or apathetic, neither of which is healthy or helpful. If we can't hear and won't listen to each other because our ipods are up too loud and our monitors are so large that they obscure our view of anything but the entertainment before us, then we as a nation are lost to our own inventions.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Nature vs. Nurture . . . Again
Perhaps the most famous feud in American history is that between the Hatfields and the McCoys. Anecdotal evidence suggests it lasted from the Civil War era as recently as 2003, when an official document was drawn up and signed to bring it all to a formal close, or at least an official truce.
Now the medical community has come forward with the results of decades long studies to suggest that at least one underlying factor in the longstanding feud was genetics, specifically, the development of tumors on the adrenal glands that affect numerous bodily functions and organs. The symptoms described are remarkably similar to those attributed to road rage and other manifestations of poor anger management.
Those involved in the studies are quick to qualify their findings as only a partial potential explanation for the generations long fighting. Members of the McCoy clan, a fair number of whom have married out and scattered across the country, have differing reactions to this pronouncement, ranging from relief at the discovery and concern for fellow clan members to skepticism that the lifelong learned animosities and century plus of violence could or should be attributed to "illness".
This is not the first time the medical community has attempted to explain violent behaviors and propensities as the result of physical defects, possibly though not always correctable by surgery and/or other treatments involving radiation or pharmaceutical regimens. Religious fundamentalists naturally disagree vehemently, preferring to hold each individual morally accountable for his/her actions, regardless of any potential physiological inequities.
So are these excuses or is there blame to be cast? Why must the answer be either/or? Or must it?
Now the medical community has come forward with the results of decades long studies to suggest that at least one underlying factor in the longstanding feud was genetics, specifically, the development of tumors on the adrenal glands that affect numerous bodily functions and organs. The symptoms described are remarkably similar to those attributed to road rage and other manifestations of poor anger management.
Those involved in the studies are quick to qualify their findings as only a partial potential explanation for the generations long fighting. Members of the McCoy clan, a fair number of whom have married out and scattered across the country, have differing reactions to this pronouncement, ranging from relief at the discovery and concern for fellow clan members to skepticism that the lifelong learned animosities and century plus of violence could or should be attributed to "illness".
This is not the first time the medical community has attempted to explain violent behaviors and propensities as the result of physical defects, possibly though not always correctable by surgery and/or other treatments involving radiation or pharmaceutical regimens. Religious fundamentalists naturally disagree vehemently, preferring to hold each individual morally accountable for his/her actions, regardless of any potential physiological inequities.
So are these excuses or is there blame to be cast? Why must the answer be either/or? Or must it?
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Teaser
From the title of this story to its content, the tease is on. There is, in fact, nothing directly relating to the popular American television show, American Idol, in this article. The use of the title, however, is a surefire hook that reels in a readership not necessarily likely to click on other articles dealing with any aspect of the current Middle East conflicts. Beyond the initial sensation of a hoax, however, there is an intriguing suggestion that the writer clearly recognized. There is, in fact, a dim hope in an increasingly desperate situation.
The article is based on a simple fact: the results of a pan-Arabic talent competition called Star Academy that is based on a French model. It is noteworthy that the contestants are described as classmates at this academy, not as competitors. This fact is particularly significant in light of the fact that the article presents the results of the show's finale as a unifying factor for a war-torn country. Participants are "mates", not rivals, just as the Sunnis and Shi'ites of Iraq are fellow countrymen, not just warring factions.
Likewise, the winner is both a young woman and of mixed Moroccan and Iraqi heritage. The fact that the image of a young woman presenting herself unveiled in public performance has evoked a positive response rather than a negative one in a country as conservative as Iraq has to be a good sign. The fact that Iraqis in large numbers accept her as their own despite the fact that she lives in Morocco, from whence her mother comes, is another plus. Though her Iraqi father has chosen to live outside his homeland's geographic boundaries, they view his daughter as one of their own in terms of national pride. As long as he remains publicly quiet about his personal politics, that should be a good thing.
Of course, one can still worry that the noted public response to the news of this young woman's success was the sounds of intensifying gunfire, but the report is that the guns were aimed skyward, not at any individuals. It may be a small step, but it does seem to be a step in the right direction, if one desires peace. The other question, of course, is whether or not the price of peace is affordable. To that, conservatives may not return quite so optimistic an answer.
The article is based on a simple fact: the results of a pan-Arabic talent competition called Star Academy that is based on a French model. It is noteworthy that the contestants are described as classmates at this academy, not as competitors. This fact is particularly significant in light of the fact that the article presents the results of the show's finale as a unifying factor for a war-torn country. Participants are "mates", not rivals, just as the Sunnis and Shi'ites of Iraq are fellow countrymen, not just warring factions.
Likewise, the winner is both a young woman and of mixed Moroccan and Iraqi heritage. The fact that the image of a young woman presenting herself unveiled in public performance has evoked a positive response rather than a negative one in a country as conservative as Iraq has to be a good sign. The fact that Iraqis in large numbers accept her as their own despite the fact that she lives in Morocco, from whence her mother comes, is another plus. Though her Iraqi father has chosen to live outside his homeland's geographic boundaries, they view his daughter as one of their own in terms of national pride. As long as he remains publicly quiet about his personal politics, that should be a good thing.
Of course, one can still worry that the noted public response to the news of this young woman's success was the sounds of intensifying gunfire, but the report is that the guns were aimed skyward, not at any individuals. It may be a small step, but it does seem to be a step in the right direction, if one desires peace. The other question, of course, is whether or not the price of peace is affordable. To that, conservatives may not return quite so optimistic an answer.
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