The Road Well Travelled
The old dirt road is gone now. Actually, it's been gone for a while, but the last section has finally been cleared and paved, and now there is a new avenue in it's place. An avenue that goes past the new light rail station, past the freeway, past the subdivisions and office parks, and all the way down to the airport. Is there anyone left besides me who can remember when there weren't any houses or freeways or light rail stations, when there was only a nameless dirt road meandering between the apricot trees to the north and the walnut trees to the south? No, I suppose not, and I suppose it's up to me to write the eulogy, or at least give some remembrance to the old dirt road and the old San Jose whose orchards and fields now lie buried in their grave beneath the asphalt, wood and concrete.
I have two very vivid memories of the dirt road, and to mark it's passing I'd like to write them down tonight. The first was when I was very young, five or six perhaps. My mother had gone visiting a friend who lived at the far end of the dirt road, and while she was away I had happened across a box of safety matches that were lying about the house. Being the curious sort, it didn't take too long for me to find that if you scraped one of these safety matches against a rock it would burst into flame, and eager to share news of my new discovery I hurried off to my friend Matthew Van Winkler's house.
When I got to Matthew's house we went out to his patio and I got out my pocketful of matches and we quickly started about the business of setting things on fire. It was great fun burning up little pieces of paper and old rags and then stomping on them to extinguish the flames, but boredom soon set in and we began setting our sights on new sources of fuel. Well, as luck would have it, out behind his house was this great big field of grass drying in the summer sun, and we wasted no time scurrying out the patio door and into the field to see what sort of mischief we could conjure up with a pocketful of matches and a great big field of grass. Needless to say, we got a lot more mischief than we had bargained for.
Now it can be said that there is a good side and a bad side to most new endeavors, and on the good side I must say that dry grass makes excellent fuel for a fire. One only need touch a lit match to it and it bursts into the most immediate and satisfying flame. On the bad side, however, I must also say that it burns much better than the poor abilities of two six year old boys to stomp it into submission, and in a matter of two or three panic stricken minutes we found ourselves facing a wall of fire and heat spreading in all directions and reaching a good foot or two above our heads. Being the rational sort and faced with overwhelming odds, I quickly ran the situation through my mind and quickly came to the decision "I'm outta here!", and without so much as a "So long, Matthew, see ya' later" I took off and left poor Matthew there to face the consequences.
I never said I was a hero.
And off I ran, and ran, and ran, through the orchards and down the dirt road until I got to my mother's friend's house. Somehow in my panic I had worked it out in my mind that this would be my alibi, you know "Fire? What fire? I was down here with my mother at the time." I rang the doorbell and went inside, and I was just the most well-behaved, courteous, and darling little angel of a boy you ever did see, and my mother was so delighted that I had come all the way down there just to spend the afternoon with her. To tell the truth I felt a little guilty deceiving her that way, but there was no way I was going to go back that fire to face the music.
So the afternoon passed and when evening came my mother and I got in her car and drove back up the dirt road to our house on the hill, and as we turned the corner what should I see but a fire truck sitting in front of our house and a couple of firemen talking to my father. Now I was pretty sure the the firemen weren't there to give me a junior firemarshall badge, so I quickly added up the situation and came to the unmistakable conclusion that Matthew had RATTED ME OUT. I got out of the car and I could see the firemen looking at me with this "So, is that the little punk?" look on their faces, and they told me that Matthew had told them everything, that I provided the matches, that I had gone to his house and induced him to commit an act of arson, and that I had run away when the fire had gone out of control. They also lectured me on the dangers of playing with matches, and the dangers of setting a field on fire, and finally admonished my parents for letting me get a hold of such dangerous things ( Hey, they didn't let me have them, I stole them!).
I don't remember what happened after that. I suppose I got a whipping, but it's all a blur. I do know that it was many years before my parents ever left matches laying around the house, and many, many years before my mother ever forgave me for trying to deceive her and use her for an alibi. I do remember the running, though, running down that dirt road as if somehow it could take away from all my troubles. Unfortunately, fortune was not on my side that day and the dirt road didn't bring me my salvation.
That wasn't the case a few years later, though, when I again found myself running down that road. I think I was about eight at the time and it was another summer afternoon just like before. I was playing army with some friends and we had been interrupted by a loud cackling of chickens coming from the old man's house across the road. I should probably explain that the old man in question was a drunk who drove a broken down pickup truck and kept about a half dozen chickens caged in the fron yard of the broken down old house he lived in across the road from our subdivision. He was one mean old man and had the nastiest disposition of anyone I ever met in my life, and I don't think a day ever passed when he wasn't in a foul mood. He was also the first grownup I can remember who ever used swear words in my presence (this was a long time ago when people used to watch what they said around children).
So, like I said, there we were playing army and minding our own business when we heard these chickens start cackling and screaming and carrying on like they were going to be the evening meal. Naturally, when we heard all the commotion we had to go down the street and see what was happening. Well, it seems that on this particular day the old man happened to be away and a couple of the neighborhood kids who I'll just call E and H had decided it would be great fun to go down to the old man's house and harass the chickens, and so we got down there and saw them raising all kinds of hell with the chickens and decided hmmmm, that looks like fun, why don't we join them.
Well, one thing led to another and before you know it someone had opened one of the cages and let one of the chickens out. It was lots of fun and we chased the chicken around the yard until we got tired and decided to let another one of the chickens out. And then another, and another, and, pretty soon, the cages were empty and chickens are running around everywhere and we're chasing after them and laughing ourselves silly, because, you see, when you're a kid you live very much in the moment and you never stop to think "Hey, if we can't catch these chickens how are we gonna put 'em back in their cages?", and you certainly don't think "Gee, wonder what's gonna happen if the old man comes home and finds his chickens running all around the place." No we were having too much fun to worry about anything like that.
And then...
First thing I remember is someone yelling out "The old man's coming" and sure enough, I turned around and saw the old man's pickup coming up the road. Unfortunately, by the time we saw the pickup coming it was too late to run back up the hill to safety, and it was certainly too late to catch all the chickens and put them back in their cages. Luckily, the old man's house sat in front of the old walnut orchard which, through years of neglect, had become overgrown with indian gum, sticker bushes and mustard plants - perfect cover for a little kid to duck into and hide. So, without having to say a single word, we took off for the walnut orchard just as fast as our little legs could take us, and when we had gotten far enough out into the undergrowth we hit the ground and hid.
After a little while and when we thought it was safe, we peeked our heads out of the mustard plants and looked around for the old man, but couldn't see him. So back down we went to wait a little longer, when all of a sudden we starting hearing these sounds, strange sounds of something whipping through the air and making little snapping sounds as it went. Warily we peeked out above the mustard once again only this time we were shocked to see the old man coming towards us swinging a four foot length of black rubber hose. Back and forth he swung, cutting through the underbrush like a scythe, and as he came closer we quickly we ducked back down and grabbed on to dear mother earth as if our lives depended on it.
And so there I lay, face down in the dirt, wondering why I ever decided to go messing with those chickens, wondering why I didn't stay home and watch TV, wondering why I ever got out of bed that morning, when all of a sudden I heard a breathing sound, a heavy, labored, raspy ominous sound like the grim reaper himself had come calling. Heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh it went, and when I turned around there was the old man standing right over me with a look of drunken murder in his eyes.
And I froze.
I mean, I absolutely froze. It was like my brain short-circuited and every muscle in my body just turned to stone. Every muscle except my heart, that is, which was pumping so hard that I swore it was gonna pop right out of my chest. The old man looked down at me and I think I saw a look of suprise cross his face as if he wasn't expecting to find such a young kid laying there, and then just at that instant, everyone around me stood up from their hiding places, looked at the old man, and took off running. When he saw that, he turned around to one side and swung that black hose of his and tagged H right in the butt. Seeing my opportunity I gathered myself and took off in a panic in the direction of the dirt road, and when I finally made I turned down that dirt road and ran for dear life, past the orchards and back once again to the safety of my mothers friends house. Dear old dirt road, you couldn't save me before but this time you came through.
And so I'm gonna miss that old dirt road. It's an avenue now, and it runs all the way to the airport, and I have this feeling that I don't belong here anymore. Perhaps I've stayed too long at the fair and held all those memories too dear. I don't know, but the dirt road is still there, you see. Underneath the pavement, it's still there.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden
I never thought I'd be one of those old farts you see puttering around their gardens, and for good reason.
(1) I'm not old and
(2) I'm a lousy garderner.
Well, let me qualify that second part. I do not have a black thumb or anything like that - fact is, I can make things grow just fine. My problem is that when things start growing, they grow all over the place, and all kinds of strange things start growing right along with them. And I'm not just talking about your common everyday weeds, either, I'm talking about really weird looking stuff that looks like it landed here from Mars. I pulled something out the ground the other day that I swear to you looked like a little redwood tree. A little 1/100th scale redwood tree growing right there in my front yard. I was going to put it in a pot and call it Bonsai, but then I remembered that movie "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" where people are taken over by alien pods sent from outer space, and I decided to get rid of it.
Anyways, I guess you could say that when it comes to gardening the thing I do best is the watering part, you know the part where you stand there (or sit) and point a hose. Up, down, side-to-side, I can handle a hose with the best with them. And talk about finesse. Just by adjusting the nozzle and finding the perfect angle of trajectory, I can even hit that plant way over there without once moving my feet. It's a subtle art, I tell you, with secrets all it's own. I've developed a special move where I open the nozzle all the way and point it almost straight up in the air so that the water comes down on the plants from above. Plants like that, you see. That way, they don't think there's just some idiot over there with a hose but are actually fooled into thinking they're in the middle of a gentle summer rain. It's a little thing, I know, but it's the little things that separate you're amateur plant waterer from the pro.
Yeah, I can do the watering part with the best of them, but what I'm not so good at are the weeding part, the feeding part, the trimming part, and especially the raking, digging, and getting down on your knees and doing actual physical labor part. To me all of that is really uncalled for anyways, and, after all, mother nature can look after those kinds of details herself, can't she. In fact I'll go even further by saying that I'm genuinely concerned that too much digging and lifting could do real harm to the natural ecosystem. After all, does anybody really know what kind of long term damage I could be doing when I go out there and pick those weeds? Of course not. Better safe than sorry, that's my motto.
That is until a beautiful summer evening like this comes along, and before you know it a sudden urge comes over me and there I am out there in the yard with a pair of clippers all set to have at those roses, and believe me, nothing brings out my shortcomings as a gardener more than those roses. I don't know why that is. Nobody else seems to have the problems I do. Geez, I look at the neighbors yards and their rose bushes are always so trim and perky and symetrical, with bright, colorful blooms glowing perfectly in the sun, and then I look at my rose bushes and they look like a South American jungle with canes going this way and that and blooms hanging wearily in all kinds of unattractive ways.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Proper pruning is the secret to a healthy, well-shaped rose bush. Well, all you rose experts out there, all I've got to say to that is Phhhhhhtt!!!! Believe me, I try proper pruning. Once I even asked a professional gardener friend of the family to show me how it's done. He was great. You know, cut at a 45 deg. angle about a half inch above an outward growing leaf, prune the canes growing through the middle, cut off the old blooms, etc..., and I try. I swear to you, I try, but I always seem to end up with either a rose bush that's on life support from overpruning, or a rose bush that grows right back into the same kind of mess I started out with, or both.
But like I said, it was a beautiful summer evening tonight, and there I was out in the yard again with my little clippers just clipping away at those roses and pretending that I was actually doing some good. I know it's futile, but afterwards when I got out the hose started watering I just had to think to myself "Isn't gardening wonderful!"
And so easy.
I never thought I'd be one of those old farts you see puttering around their gardens, and for good reason.
(1) I'm not old and
(2) I'm a lousy garderner.
Well, let me qualify that second part. I do not have a black thumb or anything like that - fact is, I can make things grow just fine. My problem is that when things start growing, they grow all over the place, and all kinds of strange things start growing right along with them. And I'm not just talking about your common everyday weeds, either, I'm talking about really weird looking stuff that looks like it landed here from Mars. I pulled something out the ground the other day that I swear to you looked like a little redwood tree. A little 1/100th scale redwood tree growing right there in my front yard. I was going to put it in a pot and call it Bonsai, but then I remembered that movie "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" where people are taken over by alien pods sent from outer space, and I decided to get rid of it.
Anyways, I guess you could say that when it comes to gardening the thing I do best is the watering part, you know the part where you stand there (or sit) and point a hose. Up, down, side-to-side, I can handle a hose with the best with them. And talk about finesse. Just by adjusting the nozzle and finding the perfect angle of trajectory, I can even hit that plant way over there without once moving my feet. It's a subtle art, I tell you, with secrets all it's own. I've developed a special move where I open the nozzle all the way and point it almost straight up in the air so that the water comes down on the plants from above. Plants like that, you see. That way, they don't think there's just some idiot over there with a hose but are actually fooled into thinking they're in the middle of a gentle summer rain. It's a little thing, I know, but it's the little things that separate you're amateur plant waterer from the pro.
Yeah, I can do the watering part with the best of them, but what I'm not so good at are the weeding part, the feeding part, the trimming part, and especially the raking, digging, and getting down on your knees and doing actual physical labor part. To me all of that is really uncalled for anyways, and, after all, mother nature can look after those kinds of details herself, can't she. In fact I'll go even further by saying that I'm genuinely concerned that too much digging and lifting could do real harm to the natural ecosystem. After all, does anybody really know what kind of long term damage I could be doing when I go out there and pick those weeds? Of course not. Better safe than sorry, that's my motto.
That is until a beautiful summer evening like this comes along, and before you know it a sudden urge comes over me and there I am out there in the yard with a pair of clippers all set to have at those roses, and believe me, nothing brings out my shortcomings as a gardener more than those roses. I don't know why that is. Nobody else seems to have the problems I do. Geez, I look at the neighbors yards and their rose bushes are always so trim and perky and symetrical, with bright, colorful blooms glowing perfectly in the sun, and then I look at my rose bushes and they look like a South American jungle with canes going this way and that and blooms hanging wearily in all kinds of unattractive ways.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Proper pruning is the secret to a healthy, well-shaped rose bush. Well, all you rose experts out there, all I've got to say to that is Phhhhhhtt!!!! Believe me, I try proper pruning. Once I even asked a professional gardener friend of the family to show me how it's done. He was great. You know, cut at a 45 deg. angle about a half inch above an outward growing leaf, prune the canes growing through the middle, cut off the old blooms, etc..., and I try. I swear to you, I try, but I always seem to end up with either a rose bush that's on life support from overpruning, or a rose bush that grows right back into the same kind of mess I started out with, or both.
But like I said, it was a beautiful summer evening tonight, and there I was out in the yard again with my little clippers just clipping away at those roses and pretending that I was actually doing some good. I know it's futile, but afterwards when I got out the hose started watering I just had to think to myself "Isn't gardening wonderful!"
And so easy.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
In Response to Dean Takahashi's Article in the San Jose Mercury
A favorite topic among so-called computer "gamers" is the issue of violence in games, especially the category of games known as first person shooters, or FPS's. It's no secret that game violence is a hot topic and often pointed to as one of the major factors in the moral decline of not only this society but most other societies around the world as well. That's always seemed strange to me because I've always considered FPS's as more akin to a game of ping-pong than a gangland murder. By that I mean the quick reactions and agile fingers required in a computer game mimics the kind of experience I have when playing a good, fast-paced game of table tennis, and do not inspire the visions of bloodlust that so many game detractors seem to ascribe.
That said, I would like to further add that I don't consider myself a "gamer", and there are a couple of reasons. The first is my natural disinclination towards labeling, and of the way people try to assign labels and prejudge others as a result. I guess I am politically conservative, but don't label myself as such and reserve the right to subscribe to liberal ideas if so inclined. I am a male, but don't feel dismissive towards female ideas and reserve the right to watch "Sewing With Nancy" if so inclined (and I like that show, by the way. Creative people can be fascinating to watch sometimes - creating something out of nothing, which happens to be the exact opposite of this blog wherein I manage to start with something and create absolutely nothing).
The second, and more important reason I don't consider myself a "gamer" has to do with a game that came out a couple of years ago called Grand Theft Auto II. If you haven't heard of it then let me briefly describe it. In the game you play some kind of low-level criminal whose objective is to hijack cars and run errand's for the mob. Along the way you get to do such fun things as run down pedestrians, kill cops and beat up women. The game was a massive hit in the video game world and based on unanimous praise from the so-called gaming "press" (really just PR hacks, but that's another blog) I bought it. Big mistake.
As you may or may not know, inherent in any game or movie or book, for that matter, is this idea of suspension of disbelief. That is a good game, just like a good book or movie, depends on it's ability to draw you into it's game world and deliver a sort of vicarious thrill as you live and do things outside of your normal everyday experience. Unfortunately, for me GTA II failed miserably on that account because it was leading me into things I didn't want to do, and taking me into a life that I absolutely did not want to live. It's like a movie where you hate the hero, despise him even, and don't want his experiences and certainly don't want him to succeed. After a while I reached a point in the game where I lost all suspension of disbelief and became acutely self -conscious and aware of the fact that I was sitting there playing this repulsive game.
But, like I said the game was a huge hit and obviously struck a nerve with the people who were playing it. What that nerve is I can only imagine, and why so many parents have bought this game and its sequel for their children is a total mystery to me. Maybe they're just passing along their values to the next generation, or maybe it just benign neglect instead. Either way, to this day GTA II still retains a kind of mystique in the gaming world and remains an important reference point to the common experience of "gamers". And that's why it struck me that if this is what "gamers" do for fun, if rape and murder is part of the "geek" fantasy, then I must not be a geek, or a "gamer", and had no desire to be one. That's not a fraternity I want to join.
Still, even though I'm admittedly no "gamer", I have played lot's of computer games and believe that you have to take each game as it comes. You can't really judge a popular FPS like Half-Life, for instance, based on the excesses of a GTA II, and you can't really draw any meaningful conclusions about game violence beyond the expectations brought by those that promote them, those that play them, and those that deride them. I'm sure there are sick people in the world who play computer games and perhaps get more from them than they should, but there are also healthy, literate, balanced people who play them, and I like to believe that I belong to the latter group.
Just don't call me a "gamer".
City of God
And now for my video pick of the day. Actually this isn't a pick, this is mandatory viewing. The movie is called City of God, and those who haven't seen it are hereby ordered to get thee to your local video store and rent it. While computer games may be about imaginary violence, City of God is about the very real world violence of Rio de Janeiro's favelas, and achieves something that I was beginning to believe was all but impossible - it manages to show the drug trade without glorifying it. The dealers are not hollywood villains, and their are no Shanes riding in to town to clean up the town. When this movie ends there are plenty of guns left in the valley, along with plenty of ugliness and hopelessness. And, more importantly, there's a sad sort of logic to it all.
Before you return it, though, be sure to check out the special features too, because this DVD also includes one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. The documentary is independent exploration of the world of the favelas beyond what the movie offers, and includes some really fascinating and insightful interviews. In particular watch for the interview with the Chief of Police who I guarantee will suprise you with his very frank and brilliant assessments of the police, dealers and residents working and living in the favelas. Unfortunately, I think he also manages to undermine one of the premises of the movie. In the real world of the favelas, there are no heroes and there are no solutions.
Anyways, I could do ten blogs just thinking about some of the things he said, and maybe I will someday.
A favorite topic among so-called computer "gamers" is the issue of violence in games, especially the category of games known as first person shooters, or FPS's. It's no secret that game violence is a hot topic and often pointed to as one of the major factors in the moral decline of not only this society but most other societies around the world as well. That's always seemed strange to me because I've always considered FPS's as more akin to a game of ping-pong than a gangland murder. By that I mean the quick reactions and agile fingers required in a computer game mimics the kind of experience I have when playing a good, fast-paced game of table tennis, and do not inspire the visions of bloodlust that so many game detractors seem to ascribe.
That said, I would like to further add that I don't consider myself a "gamer", and there are a couple of reasons. The first is my natural disinclination towards labeling, and of the way people try to assign labels and prejudge others as a result. I guess I am politically conservative, but don't label myself as such and reserve the right to subscribe to liberal ideas if so inclined. I am a male, but don't feel dismissive towards female ideas and reserve the right to watch "Sewing With Nancy" if so inclined (and I like that show, by the way. Creative people can be fascinating to watch sometimes - creating something out of nothing, which happens to be the exact opposite of this blog wherein I manage to start with something and create absolutely nothing).
The second, and more important reason I don't consider myself a "gamer" has to do with a game that came out a couple of years ago called Grand Theft Auto II. If you haven't heard of it then let me briefly describe it. In the game you play some kind of low-level criminal whose objective is to hijack cars and run errand's for the mob. Along the way you get to do such fun things as run down pedestrians, kill cops and beat up women. The game was a massive hit in the video game world and based on unanimous praise from the so-called gaming "press" (really just PR hacks, but that's another blog) I bought it. Big mistake.
As you may or may not know, inherent in any game or movie or book, for that matter, is this idea of suspension of disbelief. That is a good game, just like a good book or movie, depends on it's ability to draw you into it's game world and deliver a sort of vicarious thrill as you live and do things outside of your normal everyday experience. Unfortunately, for me GTA II failed miserably on that account because it was leading me into things I didn't want to do, and taking me into a life that I absolutely did not want to live. It's like a movie where you hate the hero, despise him even, and don't want his experiences and certainly don't want him to succeed. After a while I reached a point in the game where I lost all suspension of disbelief and became acutely self -conscious and aware of the fact that I was sitting there playing this repulsive game.
But, like I said the game was a huge hit and obviously struck a nerve with the people who were playing it. What that nerve is I can only imagine, and why so many parents have bought this game and its sequel for their children is a total mystery to me. Maybe they're just passing along their values to the next generation, or maybe it just benign neglect instead. Either way, to this day GTA II still retains a kind of mystique in the gaming world and remains an important reference point to the common experience of "gamers". And that's why it struck me that if this is what "gamers" do for fun, if rape and murder is part of the "geek" fantasy, then I must not be a geek, or a "gamer", and had no desire to be one. That's not a fraternity I want to join.
Still, even though I'm admittedly no "gamer", I have played lot's of computer games and believe that you have to take each game as it comes. You can't really judge a popular FPS like Half-Life, for instance, based on the excesses of a GTA II, and you can't really draw any meaningful conclusions about game violence beyond the expectations brought by those that promote them, those that play them, and those that deride them. I'm sure there are sick people in the world who play computer games and perhaps get more from them than they should, but there are also healthy, literate, balanced people who play them, and I like to believe that I belong to the latter group.
Just don't call me a "gamer".
City of God
And now for my video pick of the day. Actually this isn't a pick, this is mandatory viewing. The movie is called City of God, and those who haven't seen it are hereby ordered to get thee to your local video store and rent it. While computer games may be about imaginary violence, City of God is about the very real world violence of Rio de Janeiro's favelas, and achieves something that I was beginning to believe was all but impossible - it manages to show the drug trade without glorifying it. The dealers are not hollywood villains, and their are no Shanes riding in to town to clean up the town. When this movie ends there are plenty of guns left in the valley, along with plenty of ugliness and hopelessness. And, more importantly, there's a sad sort of logic to it all.
Before you return it, though, be sure to check out the special features too, because this DVD also includes one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. The documentary is independent exploration of the world of the favelas beyond what the movie offers, and includes some really fascinating and insightful interviews. In particular watch for the interview with the Chief of Police who I guarantee will suprise you with his very frank and brilliant assessments of the police, dealers and residents working and living in the favelas. Unfortunately, I think he also manages to undermine one of the premises of the movie. In the real world of the favelas, there are no heroes and there are no solutions.
Anyways, I could do ten blogs just thinking about some of the things he said, and maybe I will someday.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Pleasures Leave Too Early and Troubles Leave to Slow
Many's the time I wished I could come return from a vacation and be like those people who come back from vacation all refreshed and ready and eager to work. Have you ever seen people like that? I have, and unfortunately, I'm not one of those people. Whenever I come back from vacation it just seems like I'm just ready for more vacation. What's that old Ogden Nash rhyme -
All my life would I gladly spend
In nonchalance and insouciance
Were it not for having to make a living
Which I find to be rather a nousiance.
Yep, that's me.
The Southwest is nice, though. You have you're rocks, and dirt, and dust, and more rocks, and more dust, and more dirt, and so on and so on. Add in the traffic and the heat and it's easy to see why so many people are leaving California to move to the Southwest. I can't blame them, and it's true that the cost of living is much lower down there than it is up here, but I don't think I'd want to live down there. And it's not because of the weather or anything like that. It's more about nuances, the subtle, everyday, Bay Area kind of things that you miss when you're down in Arizona or New Mexico. You know what I'm talking about, the little things you just seem to take for granted up here...
Like vegetation and water.
I had a good flight though. Well no, actually I had a crummy flight, but then I hate to fly so for me any flight is a crummy flight. This one was just crummier than most. The flight was on United so I naively assumed that we'd be flying an actual passenger jet, or at least something similar, but they suprised us by putting us on a CRJ instead. If you've never flown on a CRJ before, well, just picture in your mind one of those little mini motorcycles you may have seen buzzing around town, and then think of something smaller. The plane seats 4 across with a little crease running up the middle of the plane that the airlines, in all seriousness, call an "aisle". Of course, I made the mistake of booking an aisle seat for the outbound leg, which meant that everytime someone passed my row I had to make a quick lean to the right to avoid getting a face full of someone's butt. Needless to say, I booked a window seat for the return.
Geez, I had so much I was going to say but I guess I'm feeling a little lagged tonight. Oh well, save it for another day.
Maria Stuarda
If you are looking for a good Opera DVD (and who isn't?) try this one with Remigio, Ganassi, Calleja and Zanellato. Even though it features a cast of unknowns, the singing and the acting are both quite good, and it's an unusual opera in that the drama centers around the two female leads rather than the usual male-female arrangement. Carmela Remigio is particularly good in the title role, and Sonia Ganassi plays a different kind of Elisabetta than you may be used to - less a queen than a woman scorned, and an interesting counterpoint to the famous Sills portayal. Marzio Giossi also does well with a good, if small evil baritone part, and really seems to have mastered the art of the arched eyebrows. Ooh, they're so evil when they arch those brows.
Anyways, I'd thought I'd use this blog to try to impart some actual useful information for a change. You know, something journalistic that teachers can cite and decision makers can use. Something that proves to people that this blog isn't a total waste of time. Something that future generations can point to as an important turning point in their lives. Something that ...
Oh, never mind. Hopefully I'll have something to write about later.
Many's the time I wished I could come return from a vacation and be like those people who come back from vacation all refreshed and ready and eager to work. Have you ever seen people like that? I have, and unfortunately, I'm not one of those people. Whenever I come back from vacation it just seems like I'm just ready for more vacation. What's that old Ogden Nash rhyme -
All my life would I gladly spend
In nonchalance and insouciance
Were it not for having to make a living
Which I find to be rather a nousiance.
Yep, that's me.
The Southwest is nice, though. You have you're rocks, and dirt, and dust, and more rocks, and more dust, and more dirt, and so on and so on. Add in the traffic and the heat and it's easy to see why so many people are leaving California to move to the Southwest. I can't blame them, and it's true that the cost of living is much lower down there than it is up here, but I don't think I'd want to live down there. And it's not because of the weather or anything like that. It's more about nuances, the subtle, everyday, Bay Area kind of things that you miss when you're down in Arizona or New Mexico. You know what I'm talking about, the little things you just seem to take for granted up here...
Like vegetation and water.
I had a good flight though. Well no, actually I had a crummy flight, but then I hate to fly so for me any flight is a crummy flight. This one was just crummier than most. The flight was on United so I naively assumed that we'd be flying an actual passenger jet, or at least something similar, but they suprised us by putting us on a CRJ instead. If you've never flown on a CRJ before, well, just picture in your mind one of those little mini motorcycles you may have seen buzzing around town, and then think of something smaller. The plane seats 4 across with a little crease running up the middle of the plane that the airlines, in all seriousness, call an "aisle". Of course, I made the mistake of booking an aisle seat for the outbound leg, which meant that everytime someone passed my row I had to make a quick lean to the right to avoid getting a face full of someone's butt. Needless to say, I booked a window seat for the return.
Geez, I had so much I was going to say but I guess I'm feeling a little lagged tonight. Oh well, save it for another day.
Maria Stuarda
If you are looking for a good Opera DVD (and who isn't?) try this one with Remigio, Ganassi, Calleja and Zanellato. Even though it features a cast of unknowns, the singing and the acting are both quite good, and it's an unusual opera in that the drama centers around the two female leads rather than the usual male-female arrangement. Carmela Remigio is particularly good in the title role, and Sonia Ganassi plays a different kind of Elisabetta than you may be used to - less a queen than a woman scorned, and an interesting counterpoint to the famous Sills portayal. Marzio Giossi also does well with a good, if small evil baritone part, and really seems to have mastered the art of the arched eyebrows. Ooh, they're so evil when they arch those brows.
Anyways, I'd thought I'd use this blog to try to impart some actual useful information for a change. You know, something journalistic that teachers can cite and decision makers can use. Something that proves to people that this blog isn't a total waste of time. Something that future generations can point to as an important turning point in their lives. Something that ...
Oh, never mind. Hopefully I'll have something to write about later.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Maria Sharapova
If you haven't heard of Maria Sharapova, I predict that very soon you will. Trust me on this. She's the gifted young Wimbledon champion from Russia with the long blond hair and the million dollar smile who's picture seems to be popping up everywhere these days. And frankly, if I do say so myself Mrs. MacGregor, she's quite the bonnie lass. Quite the bonnie lass indeed.
Being the cynic that I am, though, I'm sure that at this very moment every advertiser, every TV network, and every tabloid in the world is lining up to cash in on a little of her gold. It's too bad, really, and I've just got to wonder how anyone so young can possible handle all of that. Sure there are a lot of people with bigger problems to deal with than being young, gifted and beautiful, but it's got to be tough. I think what she needs is someone to give her advice and guidance, someone older, much older maybe, with experience in the ways of the world who can keep her grounded and level-headed. Someone from California, maybe, someone with a Blog, an opera lover, someone like.... Ok, ok, even an old man is entitled to his young dreams, isn't he?
Of course the press is already calling her the new Anna Kournikova, or at least what the old Anna Kournikova would have been if she could actually play. I hope she sets her sights on becoming the new Chris Evert or Martina Navratilova instead. Either way, in the days to come I wouldn't be too suprised if the mothers out there started seeing their teenage sons take a sudden interest in women's tennis. I mean with Britany getting married and all (huh, that'll last), it wouldn't be unusual to see a young man's fancies turning in a new direction, would it? And furthermore, mothers, don't be suprised it your husbands start taking an interest in the sport as well.
Just be prepared, that's all I'm saying.
Roll Over Chuck Berry
And speaking of the symphony, a survey came out a few weeks ago that found that while rock music was still the first choice among people who attended a concert in the previous year, the symphony and opera were number two. The symphony was followed by a lot of other genres which I can't remember, and country music finished dead last. Huh, what do you think of that!? I'll tell you what I think. I think it just goes to show that sure, everyone likes to act like Joe Cool, but underneath the facade there are still a lot of people out there who like to sneak in a little Bach and Beethoven every now and then. I mean, Carlos Santana listens to classical music, and it even came out last week that Marlon Brando liked to listen to Mozart. I mean, c'mon, you can't get much cooler than Brando.
So, you see, we serious music lovers aren't the geeks they say we are. Fact is, we're mainstream, baby, and the rest of the world is just following our lead.
If you haven't heard of Maria Sharapova, I predict that very soon you will. Trust me on this. She's the gifted young Wimbledon champion from Russia with the long blond hair and the million dollar smile who's picture seems to be popping up everywhere these days. And frankly, if I do say so myself Mrs. MacGregor, she's quite the bonnie lass. Quite the bonnie lass indeed.
Being the cynic that I am, though, I'm sure that at this very moment every advertiser, every TV network, and every tabloid in the world is lining up to cash in on a little of her gold. It's too bad, really, and I've just got to wonder how anyone so young can possible handle all of that. Sure there are a lot of people with bigger problems to deal with than being young, gifted and beautiful, but it's got to be tough. I think what she needs is someone to give her advice and guidance, someone older, much older maybe, with experience in the ways of the world who can keep her grounded and level-headed. Someone from California, maybe, someone with a Blog, an opera lover, someone like.... Ok, ok, even an old man is entitled to his young dreams, isn't he?
Of course the press is already calling her the new Anna Kournikova, or at least what the old Anna Kournikova would have been if she could actually play. I hope she sets her sights on becoming the new Chris Evert or Martina Navratilova instead. Either way, in the days to come I wouldn't be too suprised if the mothers out there started seeing their teenage sons take a sudden interest in women's tennis. I mean with Britany getting married and all (huh, that'll last), it wouldn't be unusual to see a young man's fancies turning in a new direction, would it? And furthermore, mothers, don't be suprised it your husbands start taking an interest in the sport as well.
Just be prepared, that's all I'm saying.
Roll Over Chuck Berry
And speaking of the symphony, a survey came out a few weeks ago that found that while rock music was still the first choice among people who attended a concert in the previous year, the symphony and opera were number two. The symphony was followed by a lot of other genres which I can't remember, and country music finished dead last. Huh, what do you think of that!? I'll tell you what I think. I think it just goes to show that sure, everyone likes to act like Joe Cool, but underneath the facade there are still a lot of people out there who like to sneak in a little Bach and Beethoven every now and then. I mean, Carlos Santana listens to classical music, and it even came out last week that Marlon Brando liked to listen to Mozart. I mean, c'mon, you can't get much cooler than Brando.
So, you see, we serious music lovers aren't the geeks they say we are. Fact is, we're mainstream, baby, and the rest of the world is just following our lead.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
The Long and Winding Road
Ever since my father passed away I haven't really seen much point in having birthdays anymore. Let's face it, birthdays are more meaningful to parents anyways, and now that they're gone I'm probably the only person still living who was even there that day - and I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I? Yet, the birthdays keep coming. Mine is still a ways off, but the subject came up today and once again I'm forced to consider the weight of my years.
Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...
Retirement.
I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance.
"What do you want to do when you retire?"
What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the
"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.
Then there are the
"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.
And of course there are the
"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.
But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?
Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.
Ever since my father passed away I haven't really seen much point in having birthdays anymore. Let's face it, birthdays are more meaningful to parents anyways, and now that they're gone I'm probably the only person still living who was even there that day - and I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I? Yet, the birthdays keep coming. Mine is still a ways off, but the subject came up today and once again I'm forced to consider the weight of my years.
Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...
Retirement.
I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance.
"What do you want to do when you retire?"
What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the
"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.
Then there are the
"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.
And of course there are the
"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.
But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?
Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.
Ever since my father passed away I haven't really seen much point in having birthdays anymore. Let's face it, birthdays are more meaningful to parents anyways, and now that they're gone I'm probably the only person still living who was even there that day - and I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I? Yet, the birthdays keep coming. Mine is still a ways off, but the subject came up today and once again I'm forced to consider the weight of my years.
Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...
Retirement.
I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance. Namely, "what do you want to do when you retire?"
What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the
"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.
Then there are the
"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.
And of course there are the
"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.
But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?
Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.
Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...
Retirement.
I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance. Namely, "what do you want to do when you retire?"
What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the
"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.
Then there are the
"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.
And of course there are the
"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.
But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?
Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.
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