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.
  

 

 
 

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.


 

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.

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.

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.

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. 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.

At least Charlie Brown got to be the pitcher

Summer's here, and what better time to talk about why I hated Little League so much. Mind you, I say hated Little league, not baseball. Fact is, I loved baseball. I loved playing baseball, watching baseball, listening to baseball - I just loved baseball, and the summers of my youth were an endless routine of doing my chores, playing ball, eating my lunch, playing ball, goofing around, playing ball, and then sitting down to supper and waiting for all the other kids to finish eating their suppers so we could go outside and play some more ball. Just tape up the bat, tape up the ball, choose sides and play, play, play.

But that was street baseball. You know, 3 or 4 to a side, the crack in the sidewalk was first base, the manhole was second, the lightpole was third, and that funny looking cement thing in the middle of the street was home. It was an unorganized, ad hoc, anything goes kind of baseball where the kids chose the teams and the kids made the rules and we didn't stop playing until it was too dark to see. It was all the fun of baseball with none of the fuss and bother.

Which brings me to Little League. Now I don't want to say that Little League was all a drag. There were some points in it's favor. First of all, you got to wear a uniform in Little League, and believe me, when you're 9 or 10 years old that's a BIG DEAL. What kid wouldn't want to be a Modern Ice and Cold Storage Dodger or a Royal Crown Cola Red, and if you were old enough you even got to wear cleats which just went way beyond cool. You also got to play on a real baseball diamond in Little League, with a pitchers mound and a backstop, and that was just about as real as it gets. Yes, there were advantages to playing in Little League. Unfortunately, there were also major drawbacks.

Major drawback number one (numero uno, as they say), without a doubt, was the grownups. Nothing spoils the fun more than having a bunch of grownups get involved. I remember times we'd be playing in the street when the grownups would come out to join us, and that was always a major drag. They'd hog all the action, and start giving us pointers and telling us what to do, and worst of all, they'd force us to let the girls play!!

"Now come on, Butch, let Vicki play. You know, she wants to play too".
"Aw, but Dad, she's a GIRL."
"I don't care. She wants to play so you let her have a turn at bat."
"Oh, alright", Butch would say, and then turn around disdainfully to the other kids in the field. "You can sit down now, my sister's gonna bat."

Little League was full of grownups, and though they probably meant well (most of 'em, anyways), they just got in the way. I hated playing with all those grownups around.

But the worst thing about Little League, bar none, was practice. If you wanted to play, YOU HAD TO GO TO PRACTICE, and I hated practice. I mean I really hated practice. For those of you who never played Little League, let me describe practice. Everyone takes their positions around the diamond and the coach stands at home plate with a bat in his hand and hits you the ball. My first position was second base, so there I would stand at second base for, I don't know, hours, days, years...it all seemed like an eternity to me, and every now and then I'd hear a

"Heads up, second base, this one's coming to you."

And the coach would hit me a little ground ball, and I'd stand in front of it, and it would bounce off my glove, and I'd pick it up and throw it to first. And then I'd stand around and wait, I don't know, hours, days, years...it all seemed like an eternity, for my turn to come around again. And all the while I'm out there I'd be thinking "Is practice over?" or "Can I bat now?" or "Can we go home. I'm gonna miss Batman."

Sometimes coach would change things up to try to make it more interesting.

"Heads up, second base. Plays at home."

(Coaches are always saying "Heads up", and it's funny, I still hear people using that phrase. I'll get an email saying "Just wanted to give you a heads up, we're getting ready to close on this one", and I'll send back a reply like "Ok, coach." I guess that's one reason why people think I'm weird.)

Anyways, "Heads up, second base. Plays at home."
"Ok, coach."
"Keep you're eye on the ball. Look it all the way into your glove."
"Ok, coach."

And he would hit me a little ground ball, and I'd stand in front of it, and it would bounce off my glove, and I'd pick it up and throw it to the catcher standing at home plate. And this would go on and on and on, make a play, wait your turn, make a play, wait your turn, until all thoughts of happiness, all feelings of youthful joy would just disappear down the drainhole of my existence. But you see, we weren't there just to play, we were there to learn, like in school. Yeah, just like school.

So anyways, I played Little League for 2 years and then gave it up. One day my father said to me "Are you sure you want to play Little League? You don't look you're having much fun out there", and I saw my out and took it. Like I said, my first position was second base, but it soon become obvious to everyone on the team, including myself, that I couldn't catch the ball, so they made me (what else) the catcher.

I should explain that the catcher on a Little League team doesn't really catch anything, and there are no signs or anything like that either. If you're lucky you've got one, maybe two pitchers on the team and each of them has only got one pitch anyways, so signs are pretty useless. Usually a catcher just spend most of his time looking around the edges of the backstop for the ball because Little League pitchers are lucky if they can throw the ball over the plate maybe 2 out of 5 times. The rest of the time God only knows where it's going to go. So you crouch, wait, reach for the ball, and then look around to see where it landed.

Ah, the life of a Little League catcher. Squatting there in your equipment, taking foul balls off your knuckles and toes, and knowing, no matter what, no one's gonna hit the ball to you. How fondly I do recall, and the memory I cherish above all others, the memory dearest to my heart, is the memory of the time a foul ball bounced behind home plate and hit me right in the cup. Personally, and let me state this with sincerest gratitude and appreciation, I think that mankind can consider it itself truly blessed that someone had the foresight to invent the cup. If not, I may never have been able to sing baritone in the choir. But let me also say with equal sincerity, that taking one in the cup had to be one of the most embarrassing moments in my life. I mean, I know everyone in the stands had to hear the thundering, resonating "pock" sound it made - Geez, you could have heard it clear across the valley. And then, as I'm laying there on the ground, more out of numbness than pain, I just knew all those people were in the stands snickering, putting two and two together and perhaps too shocked to break out in hysterical laughter. That's a moment only a catcher can understand. No second baseman ever had to suffer through something like that. No left fielder, no shortstop...

Ah, the life of a Little League catcher.

And now for the economic news

In case anybody didn't know it, the State of California's budget is in an awful mess. Revenues are short, expenses are high, and job growth has been moderate, at best. It's a big problem, and no one seems to have any easy answers. If you were the governor, what would you do? Well, our governor, Governor Schwarzenegger that is, wants to kill puppies. Ok, not really, but that's how the story broke in the press.

Now first of all let me say that I like the governator. I mean that. The man is on a mission to get the state moving, but unfortunately he is up against a government that refuses to move - a government that can best be compared to a wad of gum stuck on the sidewalk. He is pushing and prying and chiseling away, trying his best to get this wad of a government to do something, but it has been inert and unyielding for so long that even the ironman himself can barely get it to budge. Finally, the matter came to a head last week when the governor proposed cutbacks at the state's animal shelters (hence the reference to killing puppies) and all hell broke loose.

Like I said, I like the governor, and not being acquainted with the facts I can't debate the merits of the governors case, but I seriously doubt he is the monster that some have tried to make him out to be. He is trying to balance the budget, and with that in mind I have an alternate proposal to make. That is, why cut back on the animal shelters when there is a reliable source of revenues already at hand? I should admit that I came up with this idea some time ago and I still believe it will work. Simply stated, we can call it "Casinos on Campus".

Before you start screaming let me give some background. There was a story a few years ago about internet gambling where it was revealed that college students, accessing the internet through their campus networks, were one of the major sources of revenue for online casinos. When I heard the story I thought this was silly. Here we have state colleges and universities starved for money, allowing their students to send their dollars overseas into the coffers of offshore internet gambling operations. Why not put legal casinos right there on campus for the students to use, I thought, and use those gambling revenues to provide services right there where they are needed.

One major drawback, of course, is that students typically do not have enough of an income to support major casinos on campus. This is a problem, I admit, but it is also true that most students have major credit cards, and isn't that how they are currently funding their gambling addictions anyways. How about a credit card drawn against an open-ended line of credit secured by their existing student loans? That would make sense, and would allow each student to gamble (and lose, one would expect) as much as he or she likes without having to repay the debt until after graduation. I think this will work. I really do. This is not a modest proposal. So governor, if you're listening...

But tell me Tony, where should I invest my money today?

When investing, I think it is important to look at the broad trends underlying the economy. Don't get caught trying to cash in on the latest hot tip, but take a broader approach and look at the fundamentals. If you look at investing that way then I think you'll agree that one major trend, perhaps the major trend today, is the growing income gap between rich and poor. As you probably know, the average executive today earns over 400 times what the average worker does, and that gap is likely to grow much wider as equities continue to rise and wages continue to stagnate.

I am not alone in tracking this and many analysts are taking a close look at what this widening income gap means for future investments. The consensus seems to be to invest in those areas likely to benefit from an increasing concentration of wealth, such as leisure (hotels, travel, casinos), fashion, and real estate. But I say there is another side to that coin, i.e., poor people still have to eat.

With that in mind I think a good alternate course would be to invest in those areas that service the needs of the poor. Things such as drugs, prositution, and cheap handguns, for example, seemed poised for explosive growth as the dispossed in our society seek new sources of revenue. Why just look at the newspaper if you don't believe me. San Francisco's murder rate is already at more than 50 this year, and they have even surpassed the 31 or so murders in Oakland, their traditional rival across the bay. The trend is clear and rather than fight it, the prudent investor should see it as an opportunity.

It's true that investing in drugs, prostitution and cheap handguns is not easy for the average investor, so a mutual fund from a local street gang may be the best way to play this market. If that is not possible then there is another more indirect way to invest your money.

Casinos on Campus.

Just when you think life can't possibly get more annoying

There I was on my morning walk up in Alum Rock Park, frolicking among the flora and fauna, taking in the fresh air and soothing rhythms of the creek as it flowed gently down the canyon, thinking that life couldn't possibly get any better, when suddenly as if to jolt me from my reverie I heard two hikers coming up behind me talking office talk. "That's just great", I thought, "just when I was starting to feel relaxed". They got closer and closer and the conversation got louder and louder, but I just thought "Ok, no big deal. I'll just slow down and once they've passed I can return to the pastoral splendor of this magnificent morning".

Slowly they approached, their conversation becoming more and more annoying, and I started walking even slower, more desperate than ever for them to pass. Then, when they were about five paces behind, I heard a little tune ring out - "Doop dee doop doop dee deep doop", and I thought "No, don't tell me. Please, no. Don't tell me that's a CELL PHONE RINGING!!" Sure enough, I kid you not, the woman took out her cell phone, in the park, on the trail, frolicking among the flora and fauna, and began to talk.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that there was anyone in this world so anal or so self-important as to bring their cell phone to go hiking in the park. That has got to be one of the most annoying things I've ever experienced in my life. What is it with people nowdays, anyways? Can't they survive ten minutes without their fancy-dancy technology?

So that's when I began to scheme. You know, maybe I could accidentally trip or something, and brush her arm, and maybe her cell phone could sort of accidentally end up at the bottom of the creek (and maybe she could accidentally end up the bottom of the creek with it). And then I began to wonder if it was true that mountain lions are attracted to microwave transmissions, and if it was possible that an angry cougar could leap out from the bushes and clench it's jaws around her throat and hurl her to the ground like some limp and useless rag doll. Oh, what a gory scene that would be, to see the blood gush from her veins, to see her writhing in pain, and to know that she deserved it. Unfortunately none of those things happened. I took the next fork in the trail and left them behind, but the walk was ruined.

Of course, what's even worse is this new human skin network that Microsoft has just patented. Now, through the miracle of science, we can use the conductivity of the human body to connect different network devices together. Well, isn't that just great. Now a person can go for a walk in the park and bring their entire office with them. Just plug the phone in one ear, plug the printer in another, and plug the fax machine in, er, some other place, and you're all set to go. I think when we get to that point the civilized world should just stop what it's doing, chuck all the techno gizmos in the trash, go back to the Renaissance and start all over again. And try to get it right this time.

Olympia

Well, enough of that ranting - let's talk about Manet. I was browsing through an Art book at the bookstore and happened across Manet's Olympia, one of my very favorite paintings. Although it's a nude, Olympia is not really nude in the painting, not in the classical or romantic sense anyways, and what I find so compelling is that she is reclining there so stark naked. By that I mean the light in the painting glares as it illuminates, and she is not idealized or venerated, just naked. I don't know why I've always been so drawn to the work, but many others have been drawn to it too, and if I ever get to Paris that painting is one of the first things I will want to see.

What's really strange, though, is that for some reason Olympia always reminds me of an old Millay poem I like. I don't know what it is about the painting or the poem that makes the connection, but the one always reminds me of the other. I guess it's because the Millay poem is similarly stark, in it's own way, and has a glare much like the one which seems to surround Olympia.

To prove my point, just picture the painting in your mind (or if you don't know the painting, just use your internet skills to find it), and then with that picture firmly in your mind, read the following poem:

Rendevouz - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Not for these lovely blooms that prank your chambers did I come, Indeed,
I could have loved you better in the dark;
That is to say, in rooms less bright with roses, rooms more casual, less aware
Of History in the wings about to enter with benevolent air
On ponderous tiptoe, at the cue "Proceed"
Not that I like the ash-trays over-crowded and the place a mess,
Or the monastic cubicle too unctuously austere and stark,
But partly that these formal garlands for our Eighth Street Aphrodite are a bit too Greek,
And partly that to make the poor walls rich with our unaided loveliness
Would have been more chic.

Yet here I am, having told you of my quarrel with the taxi-driver over a line of Milton, and you laugh; and you are you none other.
Your laughter pelts my skin with small delicious blows.
But I am perverse: I wish you had not scrubbed - with pumice, I suppose -
The tobacco stains from your beautiful fingers. And I wish I did not feel like your mother.

The difference between man and the ape is that when an ape looks in the mirror, he just sees another monkey

The best part about getting a new computer is just playing around with it. I knew that the technology had made enormous advances over the past 3 or 4 years, but reading about them is one thing and actually digging in and playing with it is another.

I think what has amazed me most is how important the chipsets have become. In fact, it used to be that you didn't think about chipsets very much, if at all, but now if you're going to call yourself a serious computer buyer you have to consider them very carefully. I originally wanted to go with an NForce3 motherboard, myself, but Velocity Micro didn't offer that choice and so I ended up with the VIA KT800 instead. Still, I thought I was alright going with the VIA, but now that I've actually sat down with it and gone through it's strengths and weaknesses I think I probably should have found an NForce3 based mobo instead. Not that I'm bummed or anything. When you get down to it, the only significant difference between the two is the broken PCI/AGP lock in the VIA KT800, which means that overclocking is not really an option. I wasn't planning on doing any OC'ing anyways, so that's not much of a problem for me. It just bothers me that there is something broken with the chipset.

Other than that I'm pretty happy so far, and like I said, I feel like I'm getting a little more up to date with what's happening in the computer world. You know what they say, "wisdom is not knowing things that you don't know", and that's where you need to start before you can learn. Although, now that I think of it, there are a whole lot of people out there who know all kinds of things that they don't know, aren't there? In fact, getting ahead in life might really just be the art of knowing things you don't know and without anyone knowing it. Right?

Oh well, there are lots of vain people in the world. Better to be strong in your ignorance, than weak with vanity, that's what I say. Problem is, that only works if you keep learning new things, so, where's that motherboard manual?

Oh Brave New World that has such...

Computers!! My new Velocity Micro PC came the other day, and WOW. Let's just say that when you go from a 1.2 Gh P4 to a 3000+ AMD 64, you, uh, notice the difference. I think I'll just indulge myself tonight and talk about this beauty.

First of all, I'm calling it "Honey Bun". You know, a hundred and one, pounds of fun, that's my little honey bun, get a load of honey bun tonight. Actually, she only weighs 30 pounds, tops, but with the monitor and printer it could come to a hundred and one.

The buying process couldn't have been better. Faster, certainly, but not better. It took about 3+ weeks for Velocity Micro to take my money, order the parts, build it, test it, and ship it. What's nice is that all along the way they send you emails updating the status. They let you know when the parts have been ordered, when they arrive, when they've been sent to "staging", etc..., and it's really kind of exciting. Every few days you get this little progress report which, of course, builds the anticipation. I thought it would have been kind of cool if they could have attached little sonograms to the emails so that you could see the thing sort of growing and taking shape. You know, there's the hard drive, there's the mobo, oh and look, you can see it's little led's wiggle.

Anyways, I picked it up at the UPS office, unpacked it, plugged it in, and darned if the thing didn't fire right up. It even included everything they said it would with no substitutions. As an added bonus (I guess) they put red glow lights in the case, although I don't remember those being quoted in the original spec. It's ok, though, they're kinda cool, and they make it look fancy and modern. And if I can give myself a little pat on the back, it only took me 30 minutes, at most, from the time I fired it up to the the time I had her on the network, with internet access and email, with the printer printing and the pda syncing, and with all of my old email and financial data transferred over. The last time I got a new computer it took me all night to figure out how to do all that. Damn, I must be a geek.

And did I say this thing was fast. Well it is, very fast. Being the miserly bastard that I am, I always try to buy about 2 or 3 notches below the bleeding edge, and this machine fits the bill perfectly. It's not high-end, but it's not mid-range either. Sort of high mid-range or low high-end, with lot's of room to expand in the future. The day after I bought the machine AMD announced that the 3700+ Athlon 64 would be the last in the line and then they would be phasing out socket 754. I don't have a problem with that at all. I think an upgrade from a 3000+ to a 3700+ would be a pretty significant boost in processing power, and if the prices on the 3700+ ever come down (which they should eventually) then I'll be sitting pretty. Meanwhile, I've got a pretty good little system to play with.

It's also got a 200 gig hardrive, which I'll be augmenting sometime down the road. I'd like to add another 400 gigs or so, but I can wait for the prices to come down on those. The graphics card is a GeForce 5700LE, certainly not the fastest card out there, but suprisingly capable. The system shipped with a game called Far Cry, and the graphics are just stunning. To tell the truth I wasn't expecting to get performance this good from the card, and I think I should be able to hold off until Xmas time before I think about upgrading. By then, there's a good chance that the ATI 9800XT's will be under $200, or under $150 maybe. On the other hand, I might just stick with this card if it continues to impress the way it has so far. We'll see. I only ordered 512 MB of ram and I'm sure I'll be upgrading that too.

I haven't really had a chance to figure out the rest of the system yet. I took a look at the BIOS and damn near had a nervous breakdown. Page after page after page - I didn't know there were that many settings you could make on a computer! Well, I suppose I'll have to read the manual (man, I hate having to read the manual). It's also got some kind of Microsft keyboard with all kinds of buttons and doohickies, and I doubt I'll ever use half of them. Still kind of cool though. And of course, there's also a bunch of pre-installed video editing software which seems to be all the rage these days. I'm not really into video editing, but it'll be fun to play with. So much to learn and so little time...

So here we are, me and my little Honey Bun. One thing I thought I would like but I'm not so sure about now is the temperature readouts and speed-adjustable fans. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it makes me nervous watching the temperatures go up and down. I keep getting this feeling that I'm gonna fry the thing any second, although it runs well within the spec. In fact, it's never gotten any hotter than 37 degrees celsius, but I wonder if I wouldn't be better if I just didn't know. It just makes me nervous.

Summertime

The Long, Hot Summer. The African Queen. Lawrence of Arabia. Yes, like some old William Faulkner novel, the heat is on. You know how people tell you to think cool thoughts when the temperature starts rising - just put Schubert's Winterreise on the stereo and think about frozen lakes and deep banks of snow they tell ya. Well, that doesn't work and never has. I think the best thing to do is put on some summer music and go with the flow.

Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime

I love that song. Good ol' Sly Stone knew what the summer was all about.

End of the spring
And here she comes back
Hi hi hi hi there
Well, summer days
Those summer days
That's when I had most of my fun back
Hi hi hi hi there
Well, summer days
Those summer days
I'd lie down when I want to
Out of school
County fair in the country sun
And everything is cool

Ok, let's everybody sing it.

Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime
Hot fun in the summertime

No, they don't write 'em like they used to. That's the problem with rap music. I'd like to like it, but somehow when they start singing about "I'm gonna kill you bitch" I lose interest. Give me a little of that "Hot fun in the summertime" anyday.

Movies are a different matter though. Face it, it's just plain uncomfortable to sit there sweltering and watch a movie like Bridge on the River Kwai to see a bunch of other people sweltering too. Let me tell ya, seeing those British soldiers sweating and fainting in the jungles of Burma is not a good way to pass a hot summer night. Although I love that scene where the Japanese Colonel Saito stands up before the troops to make his little pep speech. Don't know if you remember it, but these British troops have just arrived in a POW camp exhausted and half-dead after a brutal forced march through the jungle in a withering heat, and the colonel, standing there is a crisp, dry uniform, tells them that they are going to be put to work on a bridge over the River Kwai, and to remember to "be happy in your work." I love that. It reminds me so much of some company meetings I've been to.

Hot fun in the summertime

You go Sly.

Milpitas

The sign in front of the Milpitas City Hall says that Milpitas is fifty years old, so it seems to me that congratulations are in order. Something to commemorate a city I've been acquainted with almost all my life. Well, what can I say? Sure, it's a suburban wasteland just like hundreds of other suburban wastelands, but there must be something noble about it, something worthy of praise.

I'm thinking...

Well, let me just say this. It doesn't smell nearly as bad as it used to. I mean, the County landfill is still out there, but the smell doesn't carry the way it once did, and believe me, as someone who grew up downwind from a chicken farm I know about smells. There are people who tell you they know smells, but they don't know anything until they've spent a hot summer night downwind from a couple of thousand chickens. No sir, they're just amateurs in my book.

So, happy fiftieth Milpitas. Yes, I know you've been the butt of a lot of jokes over the years, but the fact is that you're all grown up now. You're hi-tech, and chances are that anyone who owns a computer or digital device has a little piece of technology built or researched in Milpitas right there with him. You've got the Great Mall, McCarthy Ranch, a Walmart, a Mervyn's and even an Embassy Suites Hotel. You've got parks and restaurants and major highways, movie theaters and the new light rail. Yep, you're all grown up, and best of all, you got rid of that awful smell.

Classic Arts Showcase

So I'm becoming a Classic Arts Showcase junkie. In case you don't know, Classic Arts Showcase is a TV show for insomniacs that airs off and on throughtout the day, but mostly in the early morning hours, and shows performance videos of ballet, opera and classical music. The clips are pretty old for the most part, but some of them seem to be quite rare, showing notables of the past such as Martha Graham and Leonard Bernstein. They also have some bizarre stuff like a Pagliacci where John Hurt plays the part of Canio to an old soundrack of Enrico Caruso, but for the most part it's pretty straightforward.

Yesterday, for example, they showed a clip of Elizabeth Schwarzkopf singing an excerpt from Der Rosenkavalier, followed by an interview with George Solti in which he talked about meeting Richard Strauss back in the 1940's in Munich. And then, during the interview, they actually showed a clip of Richard Strauss himself conducting Solti's orchestra in the same opera. Tell me that's not great stuff. I guarantee you no one else is showing programming like that on the air. The funny part was when Solti described the time he went to Munich to meet Strauss and knocked on the Strauss' door. He was expecting some servant or subordinate to greet him, but instead Solti found himself standing face to face with Strauss himself. "My God", Solti said, "you don't go to Valhalla and expect to see Wotan open the door." Well, I thought that was funny.

Then today, as if to bring me back down to earth, I'm watching the TV again and on comes a flea collar commercial. There's some dog on the screen singing with joy over his new collar, and for some strange reason the commercial is set to the Dance of the Hours from La Gioconda. What an artistic contrast, going from Schwarzkopf, Solti and Strauss to a singing dog (I'm sure that's what Ponchielli had in mind when he composed it). Yes, I'm a child of popular culture but sometimes I really hate it.

Alfredo Kraus

And speaking of opera, which I do a lot, my new DVD this week was Lucrezia Borgia with Joan Sutherland, Alfredo Kraus, Anne Howells and Stafford Dean, and I have to say this might be the best sung and worst acted opera in my collection. Joan Sutherland will never be known as a great actress and seems to need a capable cast around her to hide her shortcomings. This time, however, with the exception of Anne Howells, no such cast exists. They were all bad.

It was also the first time I've seen Alfredo Kraus in an opera, and my impression is that the voice may be legendary, but he is what they call the classic "stand and sing" tenor. He almost makes no effort whatsoever to impart any of the drama of the story, and that's a problem with an opera like Lurcrezia which has a pretty complicated story to impart. Worst of all he committed what I consider to be the greatest sin in all of opera by taking a bow after one of his arias. I've heard of singers doing this before, but I had never actually seen it until this DVD. What a disaster. It completely destroys the illusion or suspension of disbelief (I think that's what they call it). Then again, what singing! I guess he deserved his bow.

Of course, Joan Sutherland's singing was just remarkable too. With apologies to all the Maria Callas boosters out there, she was the best coloratura soprano I've ever heard. And speaking of Maria Callas boosters, don't you get tired of them sometimes.

"Who was the best Norma you ever heard?"
"Maria Callas. Everyone else is a pig."
"Who was the best Violetta you ever heard."
"Maria Callas. No one sang Violetta like Maria Callas."
"Who was the best Rigoletto you ever heard?"
"Maria Callas. No one sang Rigoletto like Maria Callas."
"But Rigoletto is a baritone role."
"Maria Callas could sing anything."
"I'm hungry. I think I'll go have some breakfast."
"No one could eat breakfast like Maria Callas."

Well, sorry, Dame Joan's number one in my book.

Condolences

Seems like everyone's reminiscing about Reagan right now and giving their revisionist histories of "Morning Again in America", so why not add to the pile. When I remember the Reagan years, I remember hard times. It's funny to me how no one seems to remember that little thing called the "Reagan Recession", but I remember it very well. I remember business being so bad that I had my hours cut back at work, and I remember having so little money left after paying the bills and the rent that some weeks I lived on nothing but pancakes and water. In fact, it was only many years later that I could even stand the smell of pancakes, and to this day I detest them and the memories of those times.

But I don't want this to be a political statement. This is not politcal, but strictly personal. I was poor under Reagan, and didn't really get back on my feet until the Clinton years rolled along, the go-go 90's as they were called. That's not a politcs or a re-writing of history, that's just the plain truth as I knew it.

I remember going to hear Reagan give a speech in Cupertino back in '84. I went to hear a lot of speeches back in those days, partly because I was only working 4 days a week, and partly because I felt I really had a stake in the elections that year. I was hoping the democrats would nominate someone who could defeat Reagan and get the country moving again, but unfortunately they nominated Walter Mondale instead. I went to hear Mondale give a speech in San Jose that year too, and came away with the distinct impression that this guy had all the personality and charisma of warm jello. I also heard his running mate Geraldine Ferraro give a speech at San Jose State, and thought the democrats had gotten the ticket backwards. Ferraro was everything that Mondale wasn't - energetic, informed, committed, but, of course she was a woman. There have been Queens and Empresses throughout history, but for some reason America will never elect a woman president. That never made sense to me.

Anyways, I heard Reagan give his speech, and while I was never a big fan of his, the speech was a revelation nonetheless, for he was not more than a minute or two into it when it became abundantly clear to me that he was the biggest phony I'd ever seen in my life. He just stood there with that "aw shucks" manner of his, and told one pretty lie after another, and with each new lie the crowd roared and I felt more and more like Winston Smith at a party convention. I came home that day and wrote my impressions in a little song (which is something I used to do in those days). I can't remember the whole thing, but I do remember one of the choruses. It was supposed to be like a Sons of the Pioneers song and it went

There's a man named Reagan and he's showing us the way
This working for a livin's gonna put me in my grave
But he was talking to God and he heard him say
Jesus Saves at the BofA
Yep, the Lord told him
Jesus Saves at the BofA.

Well, that was my song. As far as I'm concerned, if anyone ever asks me who Reagan was, I'll just tell him he was The Face in the Crowd. Only no one knew it, and it seems like no one ever figured it out.

School Drowning

While I'm being topical, there was a story yesterday about a 12 year old boy who drowned in a swimming pool while on a school outing. I'm don't want to be morbid here, but it immediately reminded me of kid from my old junior high school who also drowned many years ago on a school outing at a place called the Rock Canyon Club. In yesterdays news story they mentioned that grief couselors would be on hand to help the kids cope with this tragedy, and it struck me that back when I was going to school there were no such things grief couselors.

I'm not trying to wax nostalgic, but in those days, you see, kids had people called parents and family that they would go to if they were feeling distressed. But for some reason that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. It almost like with everything that kids have today - televisions, video games, designer clothes, cellphones, etc..., they don't really have very much, do they? Not if you need to see a grief counselor when you need someone to talk to.

As it happens, I don't remember talking to my parents about the drowning that happened at our school. The boy was not in my class, and I think he may have been one or two years behind me, so I didn't know him. I do remember talking to my parents many other times, though, and in the four years since my mother died I think about it a lot.

You see, it's funny. When parents think about what they will leave to their children they usually think about money, or heirlooms, or estates, and I won't pretend that those things don't matter, but I doubt that most people who've lost a parent would feel that those are the really important things. To me, the really important thing is the thing I can never get back. That is, being with my mother and sitting in the kitchen and talking to her.

She came from a town in northern Japan and emigrated here after marrying my father, and had lived a very interesting life, starting literally from horse-and-buggy roots (she had pictures of the town where she grew up and you could see the horse-drawn carts in the background), moving to postwar Tokyo, and then making a headlong rush into the twentieth century here in California. Sometimes we used to sit in the kitchen for hours and I loved to hear her stories of the changes she'd seen and the life that she'd lost. When she died it was strange because despite all the stories she shared, I still felt like I never got to know her as well as I should, and I've wished many times for one more chance to talk to her again and really get to know who she was, and to let her know how much I loved her and how much I was going to miss her when she was gone.

My father passed away about a year and a half ago, but it wasn't the same with my father. I don't know why that is... I guess my father and I never really talked the way my mother and I did. He was a rocket scientist (really, he was) and travelled a lot on business, and just wasn't there a lot of the time. Not that he wasn't a good father, he was a great father, but there was always that distance. I think the relationship between fathers and sons is different, anyways. There was always more of a sense of expectation, of having to prove myself to my father. Of course he never really understood why I dropped out of college or seemed to live this sort of desultory life of mine, but I think somewhere along the line we both came to the understanding that I wasn't him, or my brothers, and that he would never change me nor I him. It was just different with my father.

Anyways, I think that is what most people cherish and miss when their parents are gone. Just the chance to be with them and talk with them, and I don't know if the kids today will feel the same way as they reflect on those office visits they had with their grief counselors. Maybe they will, who knows, or maybe with all the things they have today, they don't really have that much.

Ramblin' on My Mind

I was standing in line at the supermarket today with my usual talent for always picking the slowest line in the store, and wouldn't you know it that out of all the hundreds of people who walked through that door, picked out their groceries and left so that they could get on with their lives, I had to get in line behind the one person in the entire store who came to have an argument. So, of course, before the cashier could even say "paper or plastic" the woman starts in.

"How much did you charge for those grapes?"
"$1.89 a pound."
"No, the sign said $1.29 a pound".
"That's for the red grapes, not the green ones. The green ones are $1.89 a pound".
"No, no. The sign said $1.29 a pound".
"Are you sure? Ok, let me get a price check."

And there I was. I'd been standing in that line for 2, maybe 3 hours, and now I've got to wait for Elsa to go over to produce and check the price of those stupid grapes. And it burned me up because I knew the lady was wrong. I had checked out those grapes, too, and knew that price was $1.89 a pound. But I didn't say anything because, as you know, people in grocery stores never comment on other people's purchases. Not even if they're standing there watching a couple of twenty-something guys put 4 cases of beer and package of Oreo's on the belt, or if they see some "hefty" folks pull into the line with a cart full of sausages, ribs, ice cream, cookies, pies, and cheetos, no, they just keep you're mouth shut and don't get involved. So, it was none of my business and even though I knew the woman was wrong about the grapes, I just stood there saying nothing. And then, as the hours passed, I started scanning the covers of the women's magazines.

And I love scanning the covers because they always have such provacative articles. How to get a man, how to love a man, how to keep a man coming back for more. It's funny how women are always saying that the only thing men think about is sex, sex, sex, or how some of those pop psychologists tell us that women care about romance and cuddling while men just care about satisfying their filthy, degenerate desires. Just once I'd like to grab one of them by the arm and show them the magazine racks at the local grocery store and say "Oh yeah, miss pop psychologist, explain that! You on your high-horse. Don't talk to me about filthy desires."

So I was looking at one the magazine covers and I saw this article about the 10 Secret Love Techniques Guaranteed to Satisfy Your Man, and I thought this is intriguing. And I started running through it in my mind. Let's see, one, two, three, and, ok, four, five... but then I got stuck. And I wanted to know the 10 secrets, so I started wondering if people would think I was weird if I started reading a womens magazine. Then I thought maybe if I just somehow sort of give it a sideways peek, or something, or pretended that I was just checking out a recipe for spinach casserole. Lucky for me, Elsa came back.

"$1.89 a pound on that price check".

(Hah, I knew it!)

"Well the sign says $1.29 a pound. You should take down the sign if it's wrong".
"You're right. I'll have someone take a look at that sign".
"Yes, because, you know, it's not right that the sign says $1.29 a pound if they're really $1.89 a pound. You know, I wouldn't have got the grapes if I knew it was $1.89 a pound but since I saw the sign that said $1.29 a pound I thought I would go ahead and buy them, because that's what the sign said. You know, I looked, and the sign said $1.29 a pound so I got the grapes, but $1.89 a pound's too expensive. If they're supposed to be $1.29 a pound then you should change the sign, or someone should go take a look and see if it says $1.29 a pound and change it to $1.89 a pound".

(Hey lady, I'm dying here. I swear, another minute of this and I'm going to keel over and expire right here in the express line)

"Then you don't want the grapes?"
"No, I don't want them."
"Do you want the red grapes instead?"
"No, that's ok. I'll get some later."

(Well, thank God for small miracles)

Now it's my turn, so I put the magazine back and make my way to the front of the line. Of course first thing I heard was the stupid supermarket greeting

"Find everything ok?".
"No," I said. "I thought I'd pay for what I've got so far and then go back around for a second trip."
(Actually I didn't say that, but I wanted to. Instead I just said)
"Yeah."
"Well, what did you think?", she asked.
"Pardon me", I said.
"The magazine. I saw you reading it while you were standing in line."
"Oh that. Actually, they had a recipe for spinach casserole that I thought looked pretty good. Maybe I'll try it sometime."
"No not the casserole. The article. You know, the 10 Secrets of Love."
"Excuse me, but I don't think I know you well enough to talk about something like that."
"Oh, that's alright. The only reason I asked is because my husband and I are going down to Monterey this weekend and I thought, maybe, you know..."
"I see. Well, I'm sure both of you will have a wonderful time. I'd be careful with number seven, though. I think it may be illegal in California."
"Illegal, huh. Ooh, that's sounds fun."
"Yes and a little dangerous too. You might want to have a few paramedics on hand, just in case."
"Thanks, I'll remember that. Paper or plastic?"

And then I was on my way out of the store and back into the sunlight. I was carrying my bag of groceries and I saw my car over across the way, so I pulled out my keys and just as I was about to unlock the door I looked and said "Hey, wait a minute. That's not my car." And for a minute I just stood there sort of dazed and disoriented, with this overwhelming sense of being old and helpless coming over me. "Where's my car?", I said, and I look around the parking lot some more and couldn't find it. "Where's my car?", and then I began to panic and sense that there were people looking at me. "Look, over there. He can't find his car." Mothers scolding their children "You see, you see what's gonna happen if you just sit around and watch TV all day. Poor man can't even find his car." Even an elderly couple walked past and gave me a sort of pleasant, patronizing kind of stare. They didn't fool me, though. I knew the only reason they were out there was because they couldn't find their car either.

Which brings me to the topic of San Francisco, and why you can never lose your car in San Francisco. The reason is simple if you think about it - before you can lose your car you have to park it someplace, and there is no place to park in San Francisco. I'm always amazed when people ask me if I know any good restaurants in San Francisco (or "The City" as we Bay Areans call it. We like to keep things simple here in the Northland, so you look right and that's "The Bay", and you look left and that's "The Ocean", and you look up and that's "The Sky", and of course, the place with all the tall buildings is "The City". And here's a tip for you tourists. Never, under any circumstances call it "Frisco". You may not know it but there are packs of goons who roam the city looking for tourists saying "Frisco", and when they find them they force them into the backs of vans and dump them off the Golden Gate Bridge. You think I'm kidding, but it's true. In fact, it's not uncommon for dead tourists to wash up on Baker Beach, heads bobbing in the waves, cameras still strapped around their necks. It's a gruesome sight).

Where was I? Oh yeah, people ask me for the name of a good restaurant and I tell them I don't have a clue. And they ask why. You live so close to "The City". Don't you ever go there? And I tell them "Sure, I go there all the time, but I've never found a place to park. Instead I just drive around for a few hours, and then when the tank gets low on gas I drive home. I've been to San Francisco a couple hundred times in my life and I've never parked once."

Which is what we San Joseans call "The Paradox". That is, why is it in San Francisco you have lot's of things to do and no place to park, while in San Jose we have lots of parking and nothing to do? Is a puzzlement, is it not. Another thing you'll find in San Francisco that you won't find in San Jose is politics. I don't know why that is but it seems like in San Francisco every little thing is political. For example, suppose the mayor wants to start putting toilet paper in the public restrooms, I guarantee you that in 30 minutes or less some group calling itself the TAPT (Treees Are People Too) will be organizing a protest and carrying signs and shutting down traffic and just causing a hell of a row about it. San Franciscans just love getting all worked up over things. I can still remember the row that Woody Harrelson caused a few years ago. Seems Woody was smoking some dope one morning and decided that it would be a good idea to go climb the Golden Gate Bridge during the rush hour commute and hang up a sign. Of course he managed to back traffic up for hundreds of miles around in the process, and so the police came and took him away. Later, when he was asked why he did it he said he did it to save the Redwood Trees. Sooooo, the people said sure Woody, whatever you say, and the judge took his bong away and sent him back to Los Angeles, which was really a more appropriate place for him to be anyways.

But in San Jose, you see, we don't have any politics because, well, we don't have any government. Actually that's not true. We have a government, it's just that nobody pays any attention to them. In fact, we recently had a campaign down here to the recall the mayor and it was a miserable failure. The problem, it turns out, was that nobody knew who the mayor was. The recall people went down to the shopping centers and set up their tables and asked people to sign their petitions, but it was like no one knew what they were talking about.
"Sign the petition to recall Ron Gonzalez" they'd ask.
"Who's Ron Gonzalez?"
"He's the mayor of San Jose, you idiot."
"Oh. Have you seen my car?"

Charlotte Church

First, let me say that I'm no big fan of most classical crossover singers. Sure, there are some true talents out there like Cecilia Bartoli and the 3 tenors who've managed to eke their way into the mainstream, but alongside them there are also lesser talents and no-talents like Josh Groban who've somehow managed to transform some pretty meager abilities into million and millions of record sales. (When I think of Josh Groban I think of the word "limp", because that's the only way to describe his music).

Which brings me to Charlotte Church, probably the biggest of the crossover singers right now. If you haven't heard of her she is the Welsh teen sensation who burst onto the scene at age 13 with a collection of sacred and folk songs on an album called "Voice of An Angel". She has since followed up that successful debut with 3 or 4 wildly successful albums which cover the range from sacred to folk to opera to broadway and pop as well. Go to her website and they describe her as having "the voice of an angel, but a wicked flare for life".

Right.

Well, needless to say I haven't exactly rushed out to buy any of her albums. Tonight, however, I was browsing around Rhapsody and happened to come across her name, so I clicked on the link and gave her a listen and....suprise! She wasn't all that bad, not for a teenager at least. She has a very sweet little voice (dare I say, angelic) and a disarming, unpretentious manner which is really quite charming. No, she's not one of my favorites, but she's no Josh Groban either, and she really sings the sacred pieces quite well.

Charlotte Church - Panis Angelicus

Her opera singing, on the other hand, is not so good. I'm afraid her voice just isn't strong enough at this stage to really handle it, and she has a tendency to wobble. To compensate it appears that a lot of reverb or echo is used in her recordings to add fullness and strength to her sound. If you listen to Church's recording of the famous "O mio babbino caro" from Gianni Schicchi, for example, and compare it to say Leontyne Price's recording of the same aria, well, it's clear that Charlotte Church has a long way to go before she becomes a top diva. At least in the opera world.

Charlotte Church
Leontyne Price

But I'm not going to get down on her. I know there are a lot of music snobs out there who just love taking their potshots, but I think she's got some talent and a pretty, if not strong, voice. I'd certainly take one of her CD's over one of Groban's or Bocelli's, although there are plenty of singers in the classical section of the music store that I'd take over all 3 of them. Hmmm, Sutherland maybe. Or Caballe. Or Pavarotti...

Nora

I've got a new idea for my great libretto. I was sitting there thinking I'd like to try a more modern theme this time, something more academic and abstract than what I've worked on in the past, and then it hit me. Why not write an entire libretto that rhymes with the word orange? Just deconstruct all those stuffy ideas about drama and conflict and reduce everything to the bare essentials - rhyme and meter. Yes, an entire opera about a piece of fruit! My working title is "Nora" and I'm afraid this is all I have so far -

(The curtain rises and we see a young girl sitting at the kitchen table. It is dawn, there is a crowd outside her window, and we hear the chorus sing)

The floorboards creak,the doorhinge sighs
The room is bathed, in soft orange light

Sounds like Keats, doesn't it? Anyways, continuing on -

(Nora, sitting at the table, begins to read the newspaper. She takes an orange out of the fruit bowl, peels it and begins to eat. Again, the chorus sings)

Nora winces, Nora cringes
What a bitter taste have these oranges
And skimming through the foreign news
She washes them down with fresh orange juice

Not bad, if I do say so myself, but I'll have to find a score worthy of these words. That's the problem we librettists have - composers who butcher and distort our meaning. Ah, damned composers! I could get lucky, though, and find someone who can really capture their beauty. And then, who knows, maybe a commission - a commission for opening night at the Met!!! And then, other opera companies will want to stage it. And record companies will want to record it. And the next thing you know, the radio will be playing my Opera!

"Tonights fresh classic is a new recording of ______'s exciting new Opera Nora, based on a brilliant libretto by the librettist (ahem, that would be me). It's said that (ahem, that would be me again) got the idea for this opera while working on his other major work, Candoleeza di California, which will be making it's premiere at the Weiner-Staatsoper later this year. Here now is the Kitchen Table Chorus from Nora, with James Levine conducting the Metropolitan Orchestra and Chorus. Tonights fresh classic."

Yeah, someday...

The critics will hate it, of course. Well, most of 'em. There all a bunch of dullards, anyways. They'll say it's just a gimmick, and only a few will appreciate its post-modern sensibilities. Damn critics!

Chick Flicks

Here I am ready to pop a DVD in the old machine and settle back for a nice relaxing evening at home. An opera sounds good, and I really feel like a little La Traviata tonight. It's the one with Teresa Stratas and Placido Domingo and I've seen it, oh, a couple of dozen times. Teresa Stratas is just so good, though, so frail and tragic, and I just want to leap through the screen and give her a big hug.

Some would call La Traviata a "chick flick", but I'm afraid I don't have a clue what that means. I guess it means that guys are only supposed to watch movies with lots of guns and explosions, or something like that. I swear, everything is so polarized now days. You're either right wing or left wing, born-again or devil worshiper, filthy rich or living paycheck to paycheck. Well, sorry world, I'm none of those things. I reserve the right to like action movies and melodramas, comedies and tragedies, and I'll weep for poor Violetta if I feel like it. And for god's sake, Violetta, you really need to take better care of yourself. Take a pill or something, would ya'. No, don't go out partying tonight. Stay home, get some rest...oh, it's useless. It always ends the same.

Misterioso, altero, Croce e delizia al cor. (Excuse me for singing, but it's just so sad.)

You know what I think? I think "guy flick" is really just a euphemism for "dumbed-down". Not that there's anything wrong with that. I like dumb movies as well as the next person, but I hope I can be forgiven if occasionally I aspire to something different. Anyways, it all fits in with my whole, much broader Theory of Devolution. That is, after beginning as lowly primates and achieving our intellectual and spiritual pinnacle, we are now slowly devloving, growing more apish, and soon we'll be nothing more than brainless bacterium. It's gonna happen, you watch.

Ernani

And speaking of Verdi, what was he thinking when he took on this libretto? This may well be the worst surviving opera still in the repertory. I got the Met version with Pavarotti, Milnes, Mitchel and Raimondi, and with a cast like that and a score by Verdi I figured it had to be good. Well....

If ever there was a "guy flick" opera, this is the one. The soprano doesn't really have that much of a role, and the bulk of the dramatic action amounts to nothing more than a lot of silly alpha male posturing between the other 3 leads. I'd call it kind of a cross between Goodfellas and The Sound of Music. In fact, if they would have cast De Niro as Ernani, Pesci as the Duke, and Liotta as the King, they might have had something. Of course the violence level would have to be turned way up, but it would be interesting.