Therefore no story, just random bits of leftover language in search of a narrative thread. If not a story, then maybe a recipe: collect whatever sticks in memory, coarsely chop and saute in midnight oil, then simmer on low heat until the metaphors are transparent.
1. Everything has consequences - actions, inaction, decisions, indecision, thoughts, thoughtlessness.
Corollary 1.a. What the consequences will be, however, is never known beforehand.
Corollary 1.b. And seldom afterward.
Corollary 1.c. And then sketchily at best.
2. Having a body is like having a house. You have to work on it continually or it will fall apart, and you have to live in it (where else are you gonna go?), sometimes both working on it and living in it simultaneously, but often at different times, and not necessarily according to a schedule, at least not a schedule that is known ahead of time (see item 1 above).
3. Soon-to-be-wildly-popular consumer products just waiting for someone to design, build, and market: The Amazing Drumbrella - allows you to keep a beat and stay dry at the same time! The Amazing Drumball - looks like a basketball, sounds like a djembe! Play it solo or in a combo, compositionally or improvisationally. All you need is a floor!
4. What's on TV? The Sox sweeping the Cubs on the South Side after the Cubs swept the Sox on the North Side, a bit of drama in the preliminary rounds of women's tennis at Wimbledon, The Longest Yard, The World's Dirtest Jobs, What Not to Wear, an ad for The Dark Knight, not much else.
5. The bread came out pretty well on Sunday. Sourdough responded well to moderate heat and high humidity, and the whole wheat cranberry was it's usual reliable self, in spite of (or because of) having no cinnamon or walnut, so I might live through the week. Timing and temperature are everything.
6. The soup came out okay too. Maybe it's the iron pot.
7. There was a guest speaker at the Old North Church, so I went to an open meditation at the Buddhist Center in Franklinton. I initially missed my exit, then it poured down rain, but somehow I got there on time. It took me three tries to find the right cushion, but then I settled in comfortably with a minimum of discomfort and distraction. Getting up to walk helped a lot.
8. There was tea during a kind of intermission, and I saw a couple of people I knew. Then Lama Kathy talked about not clinging to (the causes of) suffering and several related subjects. It struck me as kind of a dialectical process, involving cause, effect, solutions, steps in a practice, and happiness. Very practical stuff, and it resonates with things I've run into lately that Kant said, Jesus said, Aristotle said, Confucius said. Not sure what I'll do about it, except keep practicing.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Shocked!
Thursday: I checked out the Comfest schedule (looking for something that I did not find) and found, to my astonishment, that Michelle Shocked is headlining the main stage at prime time on Saturday. Make my day! Suddenly I have a specific, compelling reason to go.
Friday: I am psyched to go see Michelle Shocked, and Gven Golly is up for it, too, so we can share the excitement of seeing this quintessential punk-folk artist and cultural revolutionary in person. I've never seen her live, but I love her work. Her place in the schedule is sandwiched between other bands I want to see, so I'm looking forward to a great time.
Saturday: I listen to a couple of old CDs, "Short, Sharp Shocked" and "Texas Campfire Takes," while working around the house. Gven goes out to do some errands, and I go about my yardwork, laundry, and general chores. It rains, but it's no big deal, it's been raining on and off all week.
Then, due to a minor miscommunication, my projected departure time comes and goes, and Gven gets home about an hour later. "The secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go," says one of her songs. Should we even bother at this point? I consult the oracle.
Better late than never, we drive in silence to Vickie Village and squat in a friend's vacant driveway, assuming that he won't mind since he's in New Mexico, and thuse succeed in parking a few blocks from Goodale Park, where we arrive halfway through the final song of Michelle's set. She and the band do "Anchored Down in Anchorage" as an encore, one of her most touching songs. It's clear that this formidable woman has connected with the rain-soaked but spirited audience here in central swingstate, and true to her word, she keeps on rockin'. I, however, am disappointed due to my own unmet expectations.
We walked around, saw a few people we know from work, from yoga class, from the old neighborhood, from church, from drum circle, from work. We stopped briefly at a few booths to looked into art, Buddhism, revolution. We listened to a couple of bands for a couple of songs, but somehow never quite got into the rhythm of Comfest. Still, it was worth going, just to bear witness that there are people still putting themselves on the line for their beliefs.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
fear & loathing in central swingstate
Did you ever ask yourself, "What the %#&@* am I doing here?"
There is a blight on the landscape outside my window, right where I had gotten used to seeing a patch of trees between the steel and glass buildings and parking lots. A couple of months ago, the machines came and cut down all the trees, cut them up very efficiently into transportable pieces, and hauled them away, leaving a buildable strip of bare ground between the two adjacent parking lots with their steel and glass buildings. Around here they call that 'development'.
Most of the trees and fields in and around the formerly quiet village of Methodistville are being 'developed', that is, clear-cut, paved, cunningly designed to simulate little pre-fab cookie-cutter towns, and surrounded by acres of convenient parking. You know the scene: retail stores, chain restaurants, offices, and residential subdivisions, all tastefully landscaped and emblematic of economic growth, and everybody likes growth, right?
This is good, of course, or at least better than the alternative. Would I prefer the ghost-town architecture in large portions of Detroit and Cleveland? Or perhaps the transitional look so common in formerly thriving urban malls that are now empty, boarded-up, and looking for new uses. What am I complaining about? People around here have jobs, spend money, consume goods and services, and there are more people moving here who actually want to spend their money at those strip malls.
A few years ago, Jessi Golly turned me onto a book by Derek Jensen called Strangely Like War about the technological assault on forests in particular and a general industrial-era campaign for the conquest of everything wild.
In an economically privileged society like ours, this developmental frenzy is coupled with a kind of fortress mentality. If we just close off our borders, build a wall from San Diego to Brownsville, prohibit the speaking of non-English languages, and increase domestic surveillance, all our problems will be solved. While we're at it, let's incarcerate more law-breakers, increase the armed forces stationed abroad, command and control entire populations, and regulate social behavior. Why? To protect our freedom, of course.
I wonder whether there is a better place - hipper, more environmentally conscious, more architecturally interesting, more bike friendly - where the prime directive of civic improvement is something other than to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.
But where else is there to go? And would I really want to? After all, there are reasons behind my being here. I have a job, a family that is connected to Methodistville and Central Swingstate, and even I - peaceful warrior for all that is simple, sustainable, and free (or at least cheap) - yes, even I have attachments here (GASP!).
Lots of cool places there are, Grasshopper. They say Mt. Olympus is kind of special. I understand Crete is fabulous. Norway has a very high standard of living, and Traverse City isn't bad. Everyone says Portland is great, and Asheville is very nice. I hear good things about Taos, the East Village, and New Zealand. Peninsula, Ohio, is very picturesque, and I've always wanted to see Nova Scotia.
Jessi really likes the Big Apple. I have a friend who moved to Seattle a couple of years ago and loves it. Another friend moved to Santa Fe this spring, and a third is plotting his next chess move for Prescott, Arizona. A friend at church is spending the summer preparing for a visiting professorship in Berkeley. Although we will miss her, I think it's mostly envy we're feeling. While writing this, I got an email from a couple of friends who just started new jobs in Chicago. So I know it can be done.
The trouble is, I would bring my own baggage to Shangri-La. You know, "wherever you go, there you are." There might even be a couple of irritating things about Portland or Halifax. If so, I'm just the guy to find them.
There is a blight on the landscape outside my window, right where I had gotten used to seeing a patch of trees between the steel and glass buildings and parking lots. A couple of months ago, the machines came and cut down all the trees, cut them up very efficiently into transportable pieces, and hauled them away, leaving a buildable strip of bare ground between the two adjacent parking lots with their steel and glass buildings. Around here they call that 'development'.
Most of the trees and fields in and around the formerly quiet village of Methodistville are being 'developed', that is, clear-cut, paved, cunningly designed to simulate little pre-fab cookie-cutter towns, and surrounded by acres of convenient parking. You know the scene: retail stores, chain restaurants, offices, and residential subdivisions, all tastefully landscaped and emblematic of economic growth, and everybody likes growth, right?
This is good, of course, or at least better than the alternative. Would I prefer the ghost-town architecture in large portions of Detroit and Cleveland? Or perhaps the transitional look so common in formerly thriving urban malls that are now empty, boarded-up, and looking for new uses. What am I complaining about? People around here have jobs, spend money, consume goods and services, and there are more people moving here who actually want to spend their money at those strip malls.
A few years ago, Jessi Golly turned me onto a book by Derek Jensen called Strangely Like War about the technological assault on forests in particular and a general industrial-era campaign for the conquest of everything wild.
In an economically privileged society like ours, this developmental frenzy is coupled with a kind of fortress mentality. If we just close off our borders, build a wall from San Diego to Brownsville, prohibit the speaking of non-English languages, and increase domestic surveillance, all our problems will be solved. While we're at it, let's incarcerate more law-breakers, increase the armed forces stationed abroad, command and control entire populations, and regulate social behavior. Why? To protect our freedom, of course.
I wonder whether there is a better place - hipper, more environmentally conscious, more architecturally interesting, more bike friendly - where the prime directive of civic improvement is something other than to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.
But where else is there to go? And would I really want to? After all, there are reasons behind my being here. I have a job, a family that is connected to Methodistville and Central Swingstate, and even I - peaceful warrior for all that is simple, sustainable, and free (or at least cheap) - yes, even I have attachments here (GASP!).
Lots of cool places there are, Grasshopper. They say Mt. Olympus is kind of special. I understand Crete is fabulous. Norway has a very high standard of living, and Traverse City isn't bad. Everyone says Portland is great, and Asheville is very nice. I hear good things about Taos, the East Village, and New Zealand. Peninsula, Ohio, is very picturesque, and I've always wanted to see Nova Scotia.
Jessi really likes the Big Apple. I have a friend who moved to Seattle a couple of years ago and loves it. Another friend moved to Santa Fe this spring, and a third is plotting his next chess move for Prescott, Arizona. A friend at church is spending the summer preparing for a visiting professorship in Berkeley. Although we will miss her, I think it's mostly envy we're feeling. While writing this, I got an email from a couple of friends who just started new jobs in Chicago. So I know it can be done.
The trouble is, I would bring my own baggage to Shangri-La. You know, "wherever you go, there you are." There might even be a couple of irritating things about Portland or Halifax. If so, I'm just the guy to find them.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Private
It has taken me a long time, but I've finally figured out the true meaning of the right to privacy. Here's a hint: it's private. Members only!
Yes, Virginia, there really is a right to privacy. But there's a catch. Not everyone has it. If everyone had a right to privacy, it wouldn't be very private now, would it? It would be public, and what good is a right to privacy that's public? That would make no sense at all in our private enterprise system.
Therefore the Founders and the Framers, in their wisdom, saw the need for the right to privacy to be, yes, privately held, like a family business or a corporation that is not, repeat not, publicly traded. Again, if something as valuable as privacy were to be made available to everyone, it would never be the same, and in fact it wouldn't be what it is, which is private.
But I've already said too much. I mean publicly. But this little nugget of information explains a lot.
For example, it explains why a chief executive can (privately) agree with telecommunications companies to indiscriminately tap the phones of (private) individuals, using so-called data mining to listen in on (private) conversations without a court order, without consent, and without probable cause that said (private) individuals have even a remote intention of breaking the law. Which said wiretapping is, that is, breaking the law, except when Congress says, many months or years after the fact, that it's really okay, um, because the chief executive said so.
Ergo, the people with privacy have a right to privacy, but they don't have to tell anybody, because then their privacy would be made public, and that's bad because then it wouldn't be private. And the people without any privacy do not have a right to privacy, but they shouldn't be told that they have no right to privacy, because then their lack of privacy would be public, which would be an breach of the privacy of those who do have a right to privacy, such as the chief executive and certain telecommunications companies and others, who shall go unnamed to protect their privacy, as well as their right to invade other people's privacy, which those other people don't have a right to anyway.
I have it on good authority, because I read it in a book, that public employees have greater privacy rights than private employees. So let me get this straight: if I'm a private individual who works for a private company, my files are not private, but if I'm a public employee, or civil servant, who works for a local, state, or federal agency, then my files are private. Okay, now I get it.
That explains a lot. For example, it explains why Vice Fuhrer Cheney has official meetings to discuss national energy policy with oil company executives in his office in the white house, but he doesn't have to tell the press or anyone else what was said. Sorry, national energy policy is none of the public's business. That was private.
Yes, Virginia, there really is a right to privacy. But there's a catch. Not everyone has it. If everyone had a right to privacy, it wouldn't be very private now, would it? It would be public, and what good is a right to privacy that's public? That would make no sense at all in our private enterprise system.
Therefore the Founders and the Framers, in their wisdom, saw the need for the right to privacy to be, yes, privately held, like a family business or a corporation that is not, repeat not, publicly traded. Again, if something as valuable as privacy were to be made available to everyone, it would never be the same, and in fact it wouldn't be what it is, which is private.
But I've already said too much. I mean publicly. But this little nugget of information explains a lot.
For example, it explains why a chief executive can (privately) agree with telecommunications companies to indiscriminately tap the phones of (private) individuals, using so-called data mining to listen in on (private) conversations without a court order, without consent, and without probable cause that said (private) individuals have even a remote intention of breaking the law. Which said wiretapping is, that is, breaking the law, except when Congress says, many months or years after the fact, that it's really okay, um, because the chief executive said so.
Ergo, the people with privacy have a right to privacy, but they don't have to tell anybody, because then their privacy would be made public, and that's bad because then it wouldn't be private. And the people without any privacy do not have a right to privacy, but they shouldn't be told that they have no right to privacy, because then their lack of privacy would be public, which would be an breach of the privacy of those who do have a right to privacy, such as the chief executive and certain telecommunications companies and others, who shall go unnamed to protect their privacy, as well as their right to invade other people's privacy, which those other people don't have a right to anyway.
I have it on good authority, because I read it in a book, that public employees have greater privacy rights than private employees. So let me get this straight: if I'm a private individual who works for a private company, my files are not private, but if I'm a public employee, or civil servant, who works for a local, state, or federal agency, then my files are private. Okay, now I get it.
That explains a lot. For example, it explains why Vice Fuhrer Cheney has official meetings to discuss national energy policy with oil company executives in his office in the white house, but he doesn't have to tell the press or anyone else what was said. Sorry, national energy policy is none of the public's business. That was private.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Mission Accomplished
If there was ever any question why U.S. troops will be in Iraq for 100 years, as predicted by Citizen McCain, take note of this bit of business news from Slate:
Lest we forget what Calvin Coolidge reminded us some time ago, the bidness of Amerika is bidness, even when it's a cozy little no-bid bidness deal involving the takeover of the U.S. government. Now, back to Citizen McCain's campaign contributions from ExxonMobil.
The New York Times leads with word that four big Western oil companies are on the verge of signing no-bid contracts with Iraq. The contracts would take Shell, Exxon Mobil, Total, and BP, who were the original partners in the Iraq Petroleum Company, back to Iraq 36 years after Saddam Hussein kicked them out....Iraq is widely seen as one of the few countries in the world where oil production could expand by a significant amount in a short period of time, and more than 40 companies from around the world wanted in on the action. But Iraq's Oil Ministry decided to award no-bid contracts, which, as the NYT points out, "are unusual for the industry." ...under a clause in the draft contracts, the companies would be allowed to "match bids from competing companies to retain the work once it is opened to bidding."
Lest we forget what Calvin Coolidge reminded us some time ago, the bidness of Amerika is bidness, even when it's a cozy little no-bid bidness deal involving the takeover of the U.S. government. Now, back to Citizen McCain's campaign contributions from ExxonMobil.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
strawberry fields forever
Good news and bad news, as far as the garden. Some experiments succeed, some fail miserably, and some you just learn from. Timing is everything.
I had big ideas in early spring about starting peppers from seed, and sister Jo Jo supplied packets of six different kinds of pepper seeds as a birthday present in the dead of winter. I made up six flats of seedlings, they were sprouting in the spare bathtub, and things were looking good.
But timing is everything. Those tiny seedlings would need light soon, and temperatures were just starting to rise outside. When it seemed warm enough to harden them off, I placed the flats of seedlings on long shelves beside a shed in the sunniest corner of the garden and started prepping the four beds where the 60-80 pepper plants would go. Optimism was running high.
Did I mention that timing is everything? In late May, about the time I should have been putting those baby plants in the ground, I took off out of town for a week, leaving them to sit in about half an inch of soil, in flats, on a shelf, in the sun. Not what a responsible farmer would do.
The weather warmed up, as it does Memorial Day weekend. Instead of everyday rain, we got everyday sunshine. Perfect for the timely gardeners who paid attention and planted their vegetables. Not so good for the 60-80 seedlings with two leaves each, baking on the shelf in their southern exposure. Hence there will be no pepper harvest this year.
The good news is the strawberry patch is having a banner year. We've been picking berries for about three weeks now, a big bowl full every weekend, with no end in sight. This bounty will end soon, of course, as strawbs are a seasonal phenomenon, but for now it is a treat to have fresh berries every day. Topped with whole milk Greek yoghurt, there is nothing quite like it.
Maybe I'll transplant strawberries in those other beds that were meant for peppers. Maybe the entire garden should be one big strawberry patch, except the part where the llamas and goats get to graze. Or maybe not.
I had big ideas in early spring about starting peppers from seed, and sister Jo Jo supplied packets of six different kinds of pepper seeds as a birthday present in the dead of winter. I made up six flats of seedlings, they were sprouting in the spare bathtub, and things were looking good.
But timing is everything. Those tiny seedlings would need light soon, and temperatures were just starting to rise outside. When it seemed warm enough to harden them off, I placed the flats of seedlings on long shelves beside a shed in the sunniest corner of the garden and started prepping the four beds where the 60-80 pepper plants would go. Optimism was running high.
Did I mention that timing is everything? In late May, about the time I should have been putting those baby plants in the ground, I took off out of town for a week, leaving them to sit in about half an inch of soil, in flats, on a shelf, in the sun. Not what a responsible farmer would do.
The weather warmed up, as it does Memorial Day weekend. Instead of everyday rain, we got everyday sunshine. Perfect for the timely gardeners who paid attention and planted their vegetables. Not so good for the 60-80 seedlings with two leaves each, baking on the shelf in their southern exposure. Hence there will be no pepper harvest this year.
The good news is the strawberry patch is having a banner year. We've been picking berries for about three weeks now, a big bowl full every weekend, with no end in sight. This bounty will end soon, of course, as strawbs are a seasonal phenomenon, but for now it is a treat to have fresh berries every day. Topped with whole milk Greek yoghurt, there is nothing quite like it.
Maybe I'll transplant strawberries in those other beds that were meant for peppers. Maybe the entire garden should be one big strawberry patch, except the part where the llamas and goats get to graze. Or maybe not.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Pistons-Celtics-Lakers
You had to be there. Cobo Arena, the Detroit riverfront, mid-1960s. The Palace, Auburn Hills, late-1980s. Charlie and Helen's living room, the Cumberland Plateau, 2008. Sawyer Auditorium, La Crosse, Wisconsin, late 1950s. Our driveway, anytime.
It was only fitting that the NBA playoffs were on ESPN while I was in Tennessee recently, and my Dad and I got to watch a couple of games between the Pistons and the Celtics. It was the rough and ready present-day Pistons, assembled by general manager Joe Dumars, the good guy of the Bad Boys of the 1990s, against the new-look Celtics, put together by general manager Danny Ainge, the irritant of the Bird-McHale-Parrish Celtics of the 1980s.
My Dad and I speak a kind of basketball shorthand: mention a player's name and it immediately evokes an entire lineup, plus coach, rivalries, successes, failures, who went to college where, and what a character so-and-so was. The theater of my youth and the man who introduced me to the game.
This year the Boston Celtics of Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, et al., prevailed over the Detroit Pistons of Rip Hamilton, Chauncey Billups, Rasheed Wallace, et al., but it took seven games, so Detroit can hold its head high. Which means Boston goes on to the finals against Kobe and the Lakers, the made-for-TV matchup that has the network hypesters of hoops creaming their jeans with comparisons to Magic, Kareem, and Worthy versus Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, and Robert Parrish. It is showtime indeed.
Seeing this group, you can't help but think about an earlier generation of great teams with a different combination of skills and temperaments. Take the Pistons of the Isiah Thomas-Bill Laimbeer era - please. With the peerless rebounder Dennis Rodman (before the tattoos and technicolor hair), the enforcer Rick Mahorn, the low-key Dumars, and other role players, they were an oddly balanced bunch.
How about the in-your-face speed of the Celtics when they had John Havlicek, Dave Cowens, and Jo Jo White. A generation earlier, of course, was the classic Celtic team of Coach Red Auerbach, Bill Russell, Sam Jones, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders, Tom Heinsohn, and several decent players who became better by being around them. Before that the Celtics were already perennial champions with Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, and the memorable Jim Luskitoff. Jim who? You know, Luskitoff, their hatchet man, who came in for a few minutes each game to put the muscle on the opposing team's hot scorer, knock him around a little, pick up a couple of fouls, and sit down.
Dad and I watched all these guys - in person, on TV - and felt like we knew them personally because we knew their work, their play, their weak spots, their basketball IQ. He started taking me to high school and college games when I was still learning to dribble, and La Crosse State had some good teams. Gar Ammerman and Gary Parker were a dynamite pair of guards one year. Why do I remember these names?
For the same reasons I remember seeing Elgin Baylor of the Lakers score 56 points in a game against the Pistons in the old Olympia Stadium, which was really a hockey arena, but they hadn't built Cobo yet, and the Pistons had just arrived from Fort Wayne. Elgin later teamed with Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain on one of the all-time great Laker teams. Why did we like the Lakers? Because before Los Angeles, they were the Minneapolis Lakers, of course. You remember George Mikan, right? Vern Mickelson? Hot Rot Hundley? Household names.
So the game is on, and we go on like this for a while, and Dad brings up Bill Bradley. Now here is an exemplary human being, and he hands me a copy of John McPhee's book A Sense of Where You Are, about Bradley's years at Princeton, and we remember his teammates on the New York Knicks of the early 1970s: Dave DeBusschere (University of Detroit, former Piston), Willis Reed (Grambling?), Jerry Lucas (Ohio State, former Cincinnati Royal), Walt Frazier (Southern Illinois), Earl the Pearl Monroe (Winston-Salem), and Phil Jackson, who must have learned something sitting on the bench, because now he's the mastermind coach of the Lakers (not to mention Michael Jordan's coach at the Bulls, but that's another story).
Have I missed anyone? Yes, I've left out hundreds of players, many of whom I've forgotten, and most of the teams, some of which don't exist anymore, but this is already way too esoteric. I mean who pays attention to these things, but I guess that's the point. There's a game on in the other room as I write this, and I sort of care whether this group of Celtics can beat this group of Lakers, and it's Father's Day, and I appreciate the connection.
It was only fitting that the NBA playoffs were on ESPN while I was in Tennessee recently, and my Dad and I got to watch a couple of games between the Pistons and the Celtics. It was the rough and ready present-day Pistons, assembled by general manager Joe Dumars, the good guy of the Bad Boys of the 1990s, against the new-look Celtics, put together by general manager Danny Ainge, the irritant of the Bird-McHale-Parrish Celtics of the 1980s.
My Dad and I speak a kind of basketball shorthand: mention a player's name and it immediately evokes an entire lineup, plus coach, rivalries, successes, failures, who went to college where, and what a character so-and-so was. The theater of my youth and the man who introduced me to the game.
This year the Boston Celtics of Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, et al., prevailed over the Detroit Pistons of Rip Hamilton, Chauncey Billups, Rasheed Wallace, et al., but it took seven games, so Detroit can hold its head high. Which means Boston goes on to the finals against Kobe and the Lakers, the made-for-TV matchup that has the network hypesters of hoops creaming their jeans with comparisons to Magic, Kareem, and Worthy versus Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, and Robert Parrish. It is showtime indeed.
Seeing this group, you can't help but think about an earlier generation of great teams with a different combination of skills and temperaments. Take the Pistons of the Isiah Thomas-Bill Laimbeer era - please. With the peerless rebounder Dennis Rodman (before the tattoos and technicolor hair), the enforcer Rick Mahorn, the low-key Dumars, and other role players, they were an oddly balanced bunch.
How about the in-your-face speed of the Celtics when they had John Havlicek, Dave Cowens, and Jo Jo White. A generation earlier, of course, was the classic Celtic team of Coach Red Auerbach, Bill Russell, Sam Jones, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders, Tom Heinsohn, and several decent players who became better by being around them. Before that the Celtics were already perennial champions with Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, and the memorable Jim Luskitoff. Jim who? You know, Luskitoff, their hatchet man, who came in for a few minutes each game to put the muscle on the opposing team's hot scorer, knock him around a little, pick up a couple of fouls, and sit down.
Dad and I watched all these guys - in person, on TV - and felt like we knew them personally because we knew their work, their play, their weak spots, their basketball IQ. He started taking me to high school and college games when I was still learning to dribble, and La Crosse State had some good teams. Gar Ammerman and Gary Parker were a dynamite pair of guards one year. Why do I remember these names?
For the same reasons I remember seeing Elgin Baylor of the Lakers score 56 points in a game against the Pistons in the old Olympia Stadium, which was really a hockey arena, but they hadn't built Cobo yet, and the Pistons had just arrived from Fort Wayne. Elgin later teamed with Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain on one of the all-time great Laker teams. Why did we like the Lakers? Because before Los Angeles, they were the Minneapolis Lakers, of course. You remember George Mikan, right? Vern Mickelson? Hot Rot Hundley? Household names.
So the game is on, and we go on like this for a while, and Dad brings up Bill Bradley. Now here is an exemplary human being, and he hands me a copy of John McPhee's book A Sense of Where You Are, about Bradley's years at Princeton, and we remember his teammates on the New York Knicks of the early 1970s: Dave DeBusschere (University of Detroit, former Piston), Willis Reed (Grambling?), Jerry Lucas (Ohio State, former Cincinnati Royal), Walt Frazier (Southern Illinois), Earl the Pearl Monroe (Winston-Salem), and Phil Jackson, who must have learned something sitting on the bench, because now he's the mastermind coach of the Lakers (not to mention Michael Jordan's coach at the Bulls, but that's another story).
Have I missed anyone? Yes, I've left out hundreds of players, many of whom I've forgotten, and most of the teams, some of which don't exist anymore, but this is already way too esoteric. I mean who pays attention to these things, but I guess that's the point. There's a game on in the other room as I write this, and I sort of care whether this group of Celtics can beat this group of Lakers, and it's Father's Day, and I appreciate the connection.
Friday, June 13, 2008
You'll never guess who I bumped into at the MoMA
Jessi Golly put on a tux last weekend for a very special event at the Museum of Modern Art that he and Alex attended. There must have been quite a crowd. I heard through the grapevine that at one point he took a step backward but a hand restrained him. He turned around and saw that he had backed into Claire Danes.
La-dee-dah!
Monday, June 09, 2008
Qicycle
Spelled ch'i-cycle in the old Wade-Giles system, prounounced CHEE-sick-uhl, as if the makers of popsicles and creamsicles came out with a cheddar-flavored frozen treat on a stick! But no, it can't be found in the frozen food section because it was last seen making a left turn onto Plumb Road from Old 3C.
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's just some guy on a bike pulling in and pushing out the life-force of the universe.
The other day I made an interesting discovery that has the potential to change my workouts significantly. I found out I can practice qigong (ch'i-kung) while riding a bike! In effect, I can grasp two sparrows with one stone, so to speak, and work out more kinks than I could before by doing a little self-healing while two-wheeling.
It's not like Madame Curie discovering radium, or Signor Columbo disovering Amerika, or Sir Isaac Newton discovering the laws of thermodynamics, but it will do for a Sunday afternoon in central swingstate. And among the millions of practitioners, Eastern and Western, who have done qigong, I'm sure a few have tried it on their Huffy, their Raleigh, their Trek, their Cannondale, or their Motobecane.
Notwithstanding all that, and keeping things in humble perspective, it felt like a a bit of a breakthrough when a little arm stretch out to both sides, kind of like wings extending from the shoulderblades, turned into a full-blown round of "Lift Qi Up, Pour Qi Down" while cruising up Tussic Road on my black Schwinn, Schvin.
But when I shared my insight with some friends at our Thursday night class, they were like "Uh-oh, we're gonna read about you in the paper one of these days." Not to worry, I'll be careful. Yes, you have to go no-handed to really do this, and I only go no-handed on smooth stretches of road or trail with minimal turns and traffic anyway, so it's not that different. I'll try to use common sense and not get too carried away with the sheer awesomeness of it.
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's just some guy on a bike pulling in and pushing out the life-force of the universe.
The other day I made an interesting discovery that has the potential to change my workouts significantly. I found out I can practice qigong (ch'i-kung) while riding a bike! In effect, I can grasp two sparrows with one stone, so to speak, and work out more kinks than I could before by doing a little self-healing while two-wheeling.
It's not like Madame Curie discovering radium, or Signor Columbo disovering Amerika, or Sir Isaac Newton discovering the laws of thermodynamics, but it will do for a Sunday afternoon in central swingstate. And among the millions of practitioners, Eastern and Western, who have done qigong, I'm sure a few have tried it on their Huffy, their Raleigh, their Trek, their Cannondale, or their Motobecane.
Notwithstanding all that, and keeping things in humble perspective, it felt like a a bit of a breakthrough when a little arm stretch out to both sides, kind of like wings extending from the shoulderblades, turned into a full-blown round of "Lift Qi Up, Pour Qi Down" while cruising up Tussic Road on my black Schwinn, Schvin.
But when I shared my insight with some friends at our Thursday night class, they were like "Uh-oh, we're gonna read about you in the paper one of these days." Not to worry, I'll be careful. Yes, you have to go no-handed to really do this, and I only go no-handed on smooth stretches of road or trail with minimal turns and traffic anyway, so it's not that different. I'll try to use common sense and not get too carried away with the sheer awesomeness of it.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
There Be Dragons
Aye, and they be real, me hearties! Medieval maps showed them far from shore, at the edge of the world where you don't want to go, lest you fall to your doom.
Call it 'negative energy', or the 'shadow self', or your 'personal demons', or your 'darkness', or that scary corner in the back of the closet. Winston Churchill called it his 'black dog'. Most people these days use the popular clinical term 'depression'. Rev. Susan, in a sermon a year or more ago, used the image of the dragon, which strikes me as more balanced and multifaceted.
The dragon might not be empirically known by Doctor Science or even acknowledged by others, but you know it when you encounter it. Like in the children's story, if you (or your mother) deny its existence, it gets bigger and bigger until it fills up the house.
It can be a metaphor for any number of powerful entities: a dangerous challenge ahead, a traumatic experience past, untapped internal energy, a source of creative/destructive power, or just some weird shit lurking just outside cognition. No doubt Freudians and Jungians and Adlerians all have taken their turn trying to slay or embrace or harness the dragon.
When I was little I had what in a later era would have been called a sleep disorder. I slept deeply, so when I was out, I was out. I had quite a few major league nightmares; some I remembered and some I didn't. My parents and siblings told me I would sleepwalk and do nutty things that I didn't recall in the morning. I guess that was my childhood dragon.
You can try to kill it or try to tame it, slay it or dance with it, fence it in or wall it out, appease it, drug it, give it space or try to channel it where you want it. Easier said than done, since the dragon is elusive, evasive, sneaky, inconsistent, and unpredictable as well as invisible.
I suspect that some dragons are manic; when they visit there is no stopping the energy and activity, it's go go go. Other dragons are depressive; there's no go at all, nothing much to do, and what's the point anyway. Maybe the dragon is bipolar. Like magnets, batteries, neurons, thunderstorms, the tao, digital technology, and a lot of other contained, high-energy entities.
I have a feeling I'm going to revisit this topic.
Call it 'negative energy', or the 'shadow self', or your 'personal demons', or your 'darkness', or that scary corner in the back of the closet. Winston Churchill called it his 'black dog'. Most people these days use the popular clinical term 'depression'. Rev. Susan, in a sermon a year or more ago, used the image of the dragon, which strikes me as more balanced and multifaceted.
The dragon might not be empirically known by Doctor Science or even acknowledged by others, but you know it when you encounter it. Like in the children's story, if you (or your mother) deny its existence, it gets bigger and bigger until it fills up the house.
It can be a metaphor for any number of powerful entities: a dangerous challenge ahead, a traumatic experience past, untapped internal energy, a source of creative/destructive power, or just some weird shit lurking just outside cognition. No doubt Freudians and Jungians and Adlerians all have taken their turn trying to slay or embrace or harness the dragon.
When I was little I had what in a later era would have been called a sleep disorder. I slept deeply, so when I was out, I was out. I had quite a few major league nightmares; some I remembered and some I didn't. My parents and siblings told me I would sleepwalk and do nutty things that I didn't recall in the morning. I guess that was my childhood dragon.
You can try to kill it or try to tame it, slay it or dance with it, fence it in or wall it out, appease it, drug it, give it space or try to channel it where you want it. Easier said than done, since the dragon is elusive, evasive, sneaky, inconsistent, and unpredictable as well as invisible.
I suspect that some dragons are manic; when they visit there is no stopping the energy and activity, it's go go go. Other dragons are depressive; there's no go at all, nothing much to do, and what's the point anyway. Maybe the dragon is bipolar. Like magnets, batteries, neurons, thunderstorms, the tao, digital technology, and a lot of other contained, high-energy entities.
I have a feeling I'm going to revisit this topic.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Zelda Golly, Shift Leader
Buy the book! See the movie! Action figure sold separately.
A few weeks ago, Zelda came home with something weighing on her mind, so she talked to her dad. This, in case you didn't know, is what her dad lives for.
Another branch of the store where she works has an opening for a shift leader, and her manager encouraged her to apply. A 'shift leader' is a step up in responsibility from a 'bookseller', the position at which she was hired about a year ago. She is thinking of applying, but she isn't sure for a number of reasons:
I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, but I think we both benefited from unpacking some of the issues involved. At least I did, mainly by getting to witness the clear, methodical, Nordic thinking that was going on.
It's another one of many small steps forward in living an examined life, realistically assessing the situation, honestly evaluating your own abilities, attitudes, and motives in order to make informed choices. Beyond that point, other factors will determine what we don't ourselves control. I think I'm making progress toward graduation.
She decided to go for it.
Zelda turned 24 later that week, completing her second tour of the heavens and returning to the Year of the Rat, in which she was born under the constellation Taurus. Tough cookie.
She sent me a text message last night. She got the promotion.
A few weeks ago, Zelda came home with something weighing on her mind, so she talked to her dad. This, in case you didn't know, is what her dad lives for.
Another branch of the store where she works has an opening for a shift leader, and her manager encouraged her to apply. A 'shift leader' is a step up in responsibility from a 'bookseller', the position at which she was hired about a year ago. She is thinking of applying, but she isn't sure for a number of reasons:
Is the retail bookstore business what she really wants to be doing "for the rest of her life"?
Would a job with more responsibility keep her in this line of work longer, and therefore keep her from doing what she eventually wants to do?
Will she like the new job, the new store environment, and the new people as much as she likes the job, the store, and the people where she is now?
Since most of these questions cannot be answered with certainty, should fear of the unknown keep her from a potentially good opportunity?
I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, but I think we both benefited from unpacking some of the issues involved. At least I did, mainly by getting to witness the clear, methodical, Nordic thinking that was going on.
It's another one of many small steps forward in living an examined life, realistically assessing the situation, honestly evaluating your own abilities, attitudes, and motives in order to make informed choices. Beyond that point, other factors will determine what we don't ourselves control. I think I'm making progress toward graduation.
She decided to go for it.
Zelda turned 24 later that week, completing her second tour of the heavens and returning to the Year of the Rat, in which she was born under the constellation Taurus. Tough cookie.
She sent me a text message last night. She got the promotion.
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