Reflections on Class
20 February 2006
On further consideration, I have realized that the American athletes who seem to be doing well are the ones who most exemplify that which I love about sport and athletes in general. They simply, quietly, efficiently go about their business without the spotlight, the pre-Game endorsements, the histrionics of less successful if more highly touted showboats, and they are the ones who are bringing home the medals. They conduct themselves with the kind of class I admire, to which I aspire, and in which I can take vicarious pride that we share nationality.
Similarly, I have only recently discovered this blogging frontier where there are clearly still many uncleared, unfenced territories. Here I have found and continue to find writing that does not have the accolades that accompany more traditionally published writings, yet it is writing that I find draws me to return with regularity. I do not often display their urls as links to follow, though they are rapidly filling up my bookmark menus, even as subsets. They are the unheralded gems, the well-kept secrets that nevertheless have much to offer.
Perhaps I need to follow Pollyanna’s example more often instead of getting so discouraged by the dross daily trumpeted in several prominent mainstream venues.
There are the BAFTAs awarded last night, during which Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe each took home a minor award.
There was LeBron James’ performance in the NBA All-Star game, and the very fact that such a fine young man is a positive role model emerging to fill the gap left by Grant Hill.
There is the double trouble celebration held here yesterday, thrown by really cool people for really grateful recipients.
There was today’s clear blue skies and wide open freeways; never mind what the thermometers said (and continue to say).
Life can be good, if I just let it.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
Fare Well Fair Weath
Fare Well Fair Weather
17 February 2006
So much for bragging rights, whether at the Olympics, or here at home, where we’re experiencing record low temperatures and meteorologists promise rain for the Sunday barbecue.
American athletes are an eclectic bunch, and none are more individualistic than the snowboarders. Curious, then, that they are the ones doing the best job of upholding the honor of the U.S. abroad, with one hotdogging exception. Of course, she’s female, which is, I suppose, divergent enough to qualify. As one who has long felt betrayed by NBC, I don’t actually mind that the athletes they’ve selected to tout have been experiencing less than stellar success. As one generally proud of the atmosphere in this country that has so often produced international championship competitors, I am disappointed that those doing well seem to be getting less press than those who are falling short. Perhaps I should read different headlines.
The weather, on the other hand, is a different story, my opening line notwithstanding. Yesterday dawned that cold, clear, crispy critter day that is simultaneously invigorating and groan evoking. I woke up swearing, which seemed to warm me up satisfactorily, actually. By the time I’d bundled up and piled into the car, things were warming up, from the car engine to my numb extremities. The waitress at my new favorite breakfast restaurant was a) late, b) slow, c) disaffected; on the other hand, she did score me an underripe half cantaloupe and the house specialty: upside down apple pie. Interesting breakfast, yes…
The views from the Bay Bridge were spectacular. As Barbra once sang, you could see forever, so it seemed. The rush hour traffic had obligingly worked itself off, so the trip through the City was as smooth as could be, except for one unfortunate idiot who had the inexplicable need to cut me short going past 80 m.p.h…. in front of a CHP. It was a pleasure to watch said CHP mount his cycle and accelerate past my rapidly decelerating vehicle. The pleasure was magnified tenfold as I sailed serenely past the poor sod pulled over on the side of the freeway moments later. The mildest twinge of guilt passed through me as I noted my glee, which I quickly toned down to merely annoying smug satisfaction. I’ll do penance later; that moment was worth the guilt.
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than the sights and smells of the Pacific Ocean, even here in the cold north. The waves were clean and crisp, not at all roiling with mud as they sometimes do. The pier was moderately lined with the usual fishing dilettantes and regular pros. The new snack shop was open, which was a nice change of pace. Too bad I gave the fellow too much information when he offered me a drink. (Told him my need for output was greater than my desire for input; gotta work on selection of information dissemination…)
Touring the old neighborhood was disturbing, as a great deal of construction has now been completed in the six short months since I’ve been gone. The wide open spaces are fenced in, and the blocks have been cluttered with overpriced housing selectively scattered with new stores. What was once a charming little cow town / suburb of the City has become more rolling burb clutter. Ah well…
Cruising El Camino, though, proved to be a wise alternative to booming on down the freeway. Pockets of resistance to the encroaching developmental projects still hold the line fiercely in a slow retreat down the peninsula. Glimpses of what life must have been like when the area was used for country retreats of the rich and idle remain, as do areas of what look like affordable housing, though they no longer are. The once sleepy town of San Mateo is a curious mix of old and new. Most important, however, is that it remains an excellent source of island-style ingredients for ono kine grub. Nearly as important is the ongoing existence of more of my favorite restaurants.
All that driving and eating can make eyes weary, so it’s important to take along a spare chauffeur. The ride home across yet another bridge, this one nearly ten miles long, was magnificent. The setting sun played hide and seek with sculling clouds, casting curious shadows on otherwise ugly brick walls up the 880 corridor. It’s times like that when knowing back roads just makes sense. And then it was time for fine feline lovings.
17 February 2006
So much for bragging rights, whether at the Olympics, or here at home, where we’re experiencing record low temperatures and meteorologists promise rain for the Sunday barbecue.
American athletes are an eclectic bunch, and none are more individualistic than the snowboarders. Curious, then, that they are the ones doing the best job of upholding the honor of the U.S. abroad, with one hotdogging exception. Of course, she’s female, which is, I suppose, divergent enough to qualify. As one who has long felt betrayed by NBC, I don’t actually mind that the athletes they’ve selected to tout have been experiencing less than stellar success. As one generally proud of the atmosphere in this country that has so often produced international championship competitors, I am disappointed that those doing well seem to be getting less press than those who are falling short. Perhaps I should read different headlines.
The weather, on the other hand, is a different story, my opening line notwithstanding. Yesterday dawned that cold, clear, crispy critter day that is simultaneously invigorating and groan evoking. I woke up swearing, which seemed to warm me up satisfactorily, actually. By the time I’d bundled up and piled into the car, things were warming up, from the car engine to my numb extremities. The waitress at my new favorite breakfast restaurant was a) late, b) slow, c) disaffected; on the other hand, she did score me an underripe half cantaloupe and the house specialty: upside down apple pie. Interesting breakfast, yes…
The views from the Bay Bridge were spectacular. As Barbra once sang, you could see forever, so it seemed. The rush hour traffic had obligingly worked itself off, so the trip through the City was as smooth as could be, except for one unfortunate idiot who had the inexplicable need to cut me short going past 80 m.p.h…. in front of a CHP. It was a pleasure to watch said CHP mount his cycle and accelerate past my rapidly decelerating vehicle. The pleasure was magnified tenfold as I sailed serenely past the poor sod pulled over on the side of the freeway moments later. The mildest twinge of guilt passed through me as I noted my glee, which I quickly toned down to merely annoying smug satisfaction. I’ll do penance later; that moment was worth the guilt.
Nothing gives me greater pleasure than the sights and smells of the Pacific Ocean, even here in the cold north. The waves were clean and crisp, not at all roiling with mud as they sometimes do. The pier was moderately lined with the usual fishing dilettantes and regular pros. The new snack shop was open, which was a nice change of pace. Too bad I gave the fellow too much information when he offered me a drink. (Told him my need for output was greater than my desire for input; gotta work on selection of information dissemination…)
Touring the old neighborhood was disturbing, as a great deal of construction has now been completed in the six short months since I’ve been gone. The wide open spaces are fenced in, and the blocks have been cluttered with overpriced housing selectively scattered with new stores. What was once a charming little cow town / suburb of the City has become more rolling burb clutter. Ah well…
Cruising El Camino, though, proved to be a wise alternative to booming on down the freeway. Pockets of resistance to the encroaching developmental projects still hold the line fiercely in a slow retreat down the peninsula. Glimpses of what life must have been like when the area was used for country retreats of the rich and idle remain, as do areas of what look like affordable housing, though they no longer are. The once sleepy town of San Mateo is a curious mix of old and new. Most important, however, is that it remains an excellent source of island-style ingredients for ono kine grub. Nearly as important is the ongoing existence of more of my favorite restaurants.
All that driving and eating can make eyes weary, so it’s important to take along a spare chauffeur. The ride home across yet another bridge, this one nearly ten miles long, was magnificent. The setting sun played hide and seek with sculling clouds, casting curious shadows on otherwise ugly brick walls up the 880 corridor. It’s times like that when knowing back roads just makes sense. And then it was time for fine feline lovings.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Cold Setting in Again
Cold Setting in Again
13 February 2006
Abraham Lincoln’s birthday passed again, relatively unmarked. The once great man lies cold and dead, his grave disturbed, his memory nearly forgotten. The land he led remains split, though not nearly as cleanly as his logs. In the country where he once proclaimed an unwillingness to allow lands to slip away in the name of liberty and equality, now is added further arguments as to how and if the land’s resources ought to be utilized, and whether or not its young people ought to be sent overseas to fight for the right to exploit other people’s resources in order to preserve our established way of life. Meanwhile, the original argument over which he ostensibly plunged us into civil war has mutated into more subtle scrimmages throughout society, never having been fully settled to anyone’s satisfaction.
Instead, we as a society have created and glorified a well-paid gladiator class built upon the backs and knees of the sons and daughters of the formerly enslaved and otherwise oppressed. These warriors continue to be sent into battle, regardless of health status. State-of-the-art medicine, driven in part by their physical needs, keeps their bodies honed for service until they break down. Then, like used cars, they are cast aside for younger, newer models. (This description, by the way, is intended to fit both soldiers and athletes.)
This coming weekend we as a nation will pause a moment to rest from our work, ostensibly in honor of the men who have led the country over the last century and a half, but really to catch our own breaths from the onslaughts of winter and to hope for a glimpse of spring. Then, we will return to work, leaving unmarked the bookend birthday of George Washington, the man who had such high hopes for the ideals on which this experimental nation was founded. Someone besides the untimely deceased JFK, Jr. should recall him with honor. After all, if he had not led, and led well, we would not even have our current opportunities to muck things up the way we do.
But I began this with thoughts of cold in mind, and not just politically. We as a people have a unified yet undeserved sense of entitlement, if a lesser sense of our nation’s greatness. This is very evident in the broadcast coverage of the Winter Olympics going on right now in Torino, Italy. As coverage of the third day of competition continues, the U.S. is coming up short in the medal count tally more often than not. The athletes our sponsors have sold to us as guaranteed standard bearers are faltering. True, it’s early in the competitions, but it would not be considered early if we had begun with a slew of bragging rights already won.
Meanwhile, Emily Hughes, the alternate women’s figure skater who has been bumped back up to first string, is fighting through the literal cold that has a firm grip on the Northeast. She needs more than enthusiasm to get to Torino in time to acclimate and prepare for her participation in the women’s competition next week. Will the media foolishly now turn its spotlight microscope on her as it did Michelle Kwan? Probably. In fact, they’ve already been out to her house, snowstorm notwithstanding. They’ve written off Kwan forever and they’re ready for fresh meat, wolves in the winter landscape that they are.
So where does our sense of entitlement originate? Are we watching its demise now? Is this the generation that will see Americans once again relegated to the status of overseas upstarts with more blow than show? What will we do when we are challenged to back up our words with actions? Will we retain our image as world thugs, or will we find a way to demonstrate grace under fire? Where are those among us who will let example speak louder than words in a positive way?
13 February 2006
Abraham Lincoln’s birthday passed again, relatively unmarked. The once great man lies cold and dead, his grave disturbed, his memory nearly forgotten. The land he led remains split, though not nearly as cleanly as his logs. In the country where he once proclaimed an unwillingness to allow lands to slip away in the name of liberty and equality, now is added further arguments as to how and if the land’s resources ought to be utilized, and whether or not its young people ought to be sent overseas to fight for the right to exploit other people’s resources in order to preserve our established way of life. Meanwhile, the original argument over which he ostensibly plunged us into civil war has mutated into more subtle scrimmages throughout society, never having been fully settled to anyone’s satisfaction.
Instead, we as a society have created and glorified a well-paid gladiator class built upon the backs and knees of the sons and daughters of the formerly enslaved and otherwise oppressed. These warriors continue to be sent into battle, regardless of health status. State-of-the-art medicine, driven in part by their physical needs, keeps their bodies honed for service until they break down. Then, like used cars, they are cast aside for younger, newer models. (This description, by the way, is intended to fit both soldiers and athletes.)
This coming weekend we as a nation will pause a moment to rest from our work, ostensibly in honor of the men who have led the country over the last century and a half, but really to catch our own breaths from the onslaughts of winter and to hope for a glimpse of spring. Then, we will return to work, leaving unmarked the bookend birthday of George Washington, the man who had such high hopes for the ideals on which this experimental nation was founded. Someone besides the untimely deceased JFK, Jr. should recall him with honor. After all, if he had not led, and led well, we would not even have our current opportunities to muck things up the way we do.
But I began this with thoughts of cold in mind, and not just politically. We as a people have a unified yet undeserved sense of entitlement, if a lesser sense of our nation’s greatness. This is very evident in the broadcast coverage of the Winter Olympics going on right now in Torino, Italy. As coverage of the third day of competition continues, the U.S. is coming up short in the medal count tally more often than not. The athletes our sponsors have sold to us as guaranteed standard bearers are faltering. True, it’s early in the competitions, but it would not be considered early if we had begun with a slew of bragging rights already won.
Meanwhile, Emily Hughes, the alternate women’s figure skater who has been bumped back up to first string, is fighting through the literal cold that has a firm grip on the Northeast. She needs more than enthusiasm to get to Torino in time to acclimate and prepare for her participation in the women’s competition next week. Will the media foolishly now turn its spotlight microscope on her as it did Michelle Kwan? Probably. In fact, they’ve already been out to her house, snowstorm notwithstanding. They’ve written off Kwan forever and they’re ready for fresh meat, wolves in the winter landscape that they are.
So where does our sense of entitlement originate? Are we watching its demise now? Is this the generation that will see Americans once again relegated to the status of overseas upstarts with more blow than show? What will we do when we are challenged to back up our words with actions? Will we retain our image as world thugs, or will we find a way to demonstrate grace under fire? Where are those among us who will let example speak louder than words in a positive way?
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Olympic Vultures
The Olympic competitions can offer for our viewing pleasure some of the finest sporting equivalents of ballet, but their coverage leaves much to be desired.
Michelle Kwan, now 25, has served as the American icon for figure skating for a full decade, but now she is an aging athlete on the comeback trail from injury and enforced inactivity. Does any of this register with those who cover the Olympics? Yes, but all they see is potential catastrophe and they want to record and broadcast every moment of it. They call this drama; I call it scavenging at its worst.
Then there's the bit Professor Batty pointed out about Bob Costas talking over Pavoratti's singing: what's up with that? Why are American broadcasters (and some athletes) so oblivious of courtesy except when they feel slighted? What is it about our culture that leads to such public faux pas?
Michelle Kwan, now 25, has served as the American icon for figure skating for a full decade, but now she is an aging athlete on the comeback trail from injury and enforced inactivity. Does any of this register with those who cover the Olympics? Yes, but all they see is potential catastrophe and they want to record and broadcast every moment of it. They call this drama; I call it scavenging at its worst.
Then there's the bit Professor Batty pointed out about Bob Costas talking over Pavoratti's singing: what's up with that? Why are American broadcasters (and some athletes) so oblivious of courtesy except when they feel slighted? What is it about our culture that leads to such public faux pas?
Friday, February 10, 2006
Warmth Excites Me
The sun's been shining all week long
Convincing me that I feel strong
So I've been moving boxes all morning long
Just hope evening doesn't prove me wrong
When the sun comes out
I tend to shout
Instead of speaking in a whisper
Max and JJ bound instead of being content to purr
My sense of pacing goes out the window
I just want to get into the garden and sow
Though I'm equally sure as the warmth increases
The thought of weeding will send me to pieces
Yes,warmth excites me, that is true
Though smurf that I am, I love being blue
Convincing me that I feel strong
So I've been moving boxes all morning long
Just hope evening doesn't prove me wrong
When the sun comes out
I tend to shout
Instead of speaking in a whisper
Max and JJ bound instead of being content to purr
My sense of pacing goes out the window
I just want to get into the garden and sow
Though I'm equally sure as the warmth increases
The thought of weeding will send me to pieces
Yes,warmth excites me, that is true
Though smurf that I am, I love being blue
Thursday, February 09, 2006
A Winding Road
A Winding Road
9 February 2006
This has been a week of impromptu decisions leading to unexpected ways: a trip across water, a ride on a rail, a meandering journey across three towns and six bookstores in search of an ever more elusive item. One of the great joys of research that seems less common in these days of instant Internet searches is the unexpected find. The dusty volume that draws the eye when searching for a particular text, the article one finds oneself reading while skimming for other information, the curiously concealed marginalia written by others who have come before, all seem relegated to the old-fashioned and the economically depressed. Along the byways I have trod this week have lain such treasures, startling as much for their unanticipated delight as for their presence outside dusty halls. I should tread more, I think, and I shall. I feel young again.
9 February 2006
This has been a week of impromptu decisions leading to unexpected ways: a trip across water, a ride on a rail, a meandering journey across three towns and six bookstores in search of an ever more elusive item. One of the great joys of research that seems less common in these days of instant Internet searches is the unexpected find. The dusty volume that draws the eye when searching for a particular text, the article one finds oneself reading while skimming for other information, the curiously concealed marginalia written by others who have come before, all seem relegated to the old-fashioned and the economically depressed. Along the byways I have trod this week have lain such treasures, startling as much for their unanticipated delight as for their presence outside dusty halls. I should tread more, I think, and I shall. I feel young again.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Fish
Fish
6 February 2006
Fish, wet and raw, call my name
I get Gollum’s song, for I feel the same
How can one resist the thought
Of that cold, smooth, succulent onslaught
Of sensations: taste, touch, and feel
Of crunchy clam, squishy roe, and sweet eel
Of tuna raw and salmon wild
Tasting of life, not farm-fresh mild
Seas and rivers are fed by streams
Bearing tastes to fulfill my dreams
You may lust after the wet and wild;
I dream of free fish undefiled
Crustaceans are also a tasty bunch
Raw, steamed, or fried for that tasty crunch
Baked in mayonnaise is also good
It’s only when frozen or canned that they taste like wood
When the meat’s gone, the bones I’ll steep
So bring on the treasures of shallows and deep
6 February 2006
Fish, wet and raw, call my name
I get Gollum’s song, for I feel the same
How can one resist the thought
Of that cold, smooth, succulent onslaught
Of sensations: taste, touch, and feel
Of crunchy clam, squishy roe, and sweet eel
Of tuna raw and salmon wild
Tasting of life, not farm-fresh mild
Seas and rivers are fed by streams
Bearing tastes to fulfill my dreams
You may lust after the wet and wild;
I dream of free fish undefiled
Crustaceans are also a tasty bunch
Raw, steamed, or fried for that tasty crunch
Baked in mayonnaise is also good
It’s only when frozen or canned that they taste like wood
When the meat’s gone, the bones I’ll steep
So bring on the treasures of shallows and deep
Noon Chimes
Noon Chimes
6 February 2006
Every day for three years in high school my day came to an abrupt halt as the bells of the Cathedral of St. Andrew chimed the noon hour and we all paused to observe the Angelus. The majority of nuns had just been recalled to their home convent and this was that brief time when the spiritual and secular vied for control of daily life. Though my college belfry also rang out the noon hour, life did not come to a halt; the secular side was already beginning to win the war across the country.
Many years have passed since then. My life has taken me far from noontime chimes and daily religious observances. Today, however, noon was once again marked for me, this time by the bells of the Port of San Francisco. I find it curious that a secular tradition has brought back this flood of half-buried memories from youth. I feel old… and all too secular… How far have I wandered along life’s byways in pursuit of unexplored paths…
6 February 2006
Every day for three years in high school my day came to an abrupt halt as the bells of the Cathedral of St. Andrew chimed the noon hour and we all paused to observe the Angelus. The majority of nuns had just been recalled to their home convent and this was that brief time when the spiritual and secular vied for control of daily life. Though my college belfry also rang out the noon hour, life did not come to a halt; the secular side was already beginning to win the war across the country.
Many years have passed since then. My life has taken me far from noontime chimes and daily religious observances. Today, however, noon was once again marked for me, this time by the bells of the Port of San Francisco. I find it curious that a secular tradition has brought back this flood of half-buried memories from youth. I feel old… and all too secular… How far have I wandered along life’s byways in pursuit of unexplored paths…
Caveat
Caveat
6 February 2006
I don’t mind dying
You know that’s true
It’s the pain of illness
That’s got me blue
So I have to be good, I guess
If I want to avoid all that painfulness
That comes from ignoring medical advice
By eating as casually as rolling the dice
6 February 2006
I don’t mind dying
You know that’s true
It’s the pain of illness
That’s got me blue
So I have to be good, I guess
If I want to avoid all that painfulness
That comes from ignoring medical advice
By eating as casually as rolling the dice
Fried Chicken
Fried Chicken
6 February 2006
Fried chicken is on my mind
Fried things of every kind
LDL readings be damned
Health industry warnings be rammed
If living long means eschewing bliss
Then longevity I’ll just have to miss
What’s the point of getting old and grumpy
I’d rather die young and happily lumpy
The people that matter don’t mind how I look
What truly matters is who knows how to cook
If the food is tasteless, then what’s the sense?
Who’s going to care fifty years hence?
We’re all going to live before we die
So who’s got the oil? I say, “Let’s FRY!”
6 February 2006
Fried chicken is on my mind
Fried things of every kind
LDL readings be damned
Health industry warnings be rammed
If living long means eschewing bliss
Then longevity I’ll just have to miss
What’s the point of getting old and grumpy
I’d rather die young and happily lumpy
The people that matter don’t mind how I look
What truly matters is who knows how to cook
If the food is tasteless, then what’s the sense?
Who’s going to care fifty years hence?
We’re all going to live before we die
So who’s got the oil? I say, “Let’s FRY!”
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