2 hours ago
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Liking the news again
Missing UW student found, minimum wage bill passes in Madison (one of just a handful of cities in the country now with a minimum wage that’s higher than the federal level), can we please just continue with the roll of good news?
Spring Update
The weather leaves much to be desired, BUT the white campanula is really shooting up, and the geranium is forming a thick mat. The veronica leaves are also quite large, and the dianthus is getting ready for the rabbit assault (their favorite).
The scientific revolution
A finding that is worth sitting up for: according to a UC San Diego study (published in Psychological Science), people pick pure-bread dogs that resemble them. I don’t really go for knocking studies that affirm the obvious. I’m surrounded by social scientists and have come to appreciate that there’s a big step from positing an “obvious” conclusion at a cocktail party (do people still go to cocktail parties?) to documenting it and drawing wider implications from it.
Still, this one seems so very basic that it, at the very least, does not deserve to be included in CNN.com’s top stories (here) for the morning.
On the other hand, it made ME click and read, just in case there was something to be learned from my own choice of an American Water Spaniel for a pet. The terribly frustrating thing about the cited study is that it seems not to specify (at least in the CNN synopsis of it) the criteria used for matching owners with their pets. It appears that different judges used different criteria, which, to me, is perhaps the most revealing aspect of the study: that you can use different criteria and arrive at the same place (similarly, when we admit students to law school, we use our own individually crafted set of markers, yet we wind up choosing pretty much the same students).
In dog selection, the conclusions presented are rather basic: Frenchies for trendy people, collies for gregarious folks.
They don’t say anything about American Water Spaniels, and I don’t think it would have application to my “selection process” anyway. I picked this particular dog because I was riding the bus from the Milwaukee airport and noticed this peculiar sight: a gorgeous, rather large animal, making his way up to the lap of its owner. I asked if he was feeling stressed after the plane ride. The owner said no, not especially, he just sort of fancied himself as lap dog – all 45 pounds of him. Ollie, our rather shy animal and offspring of this dog has the same (must therefore be genetic?) habit. If you sit down, he’ll make every effort to get into your lap. Yet his appearance is such that you’d think he’d be the perfect hunting companion to Dick Cheney. An incongruous mixture of traits. Does this say something about my predisposition?
[Btw, the American Water Spaniel also happens to be the state dog of Wisconsin, though absolutely NO ONE living here knows this, so I doubt it would steer a selection process.]
Still, this one seems so very basic that it, at the very least, does not deserve to be included in CNN.com’s top stories (here) for the morning.
On the other hand, it made ME click and read, just in case there was something to be learned from my own choice of an American Water Spaniel for a pet. The terribly frustrating thing about the cited study is that it seems not to specify (at least in the CNN synopsis of it) the criteria used for matching owners with their pets. It appears that different judges used different criteria, which, to me, is perhaps the most revealing aspect of the study: that you can use different criteria and arrive at the same place (similarly, when we admit students to law school, we use our own individually crafted set of markers, yet we wind up choosing pretty much the same students).
In dog selection, the conclusions presented are rather basic: Frenchies for trendy people, collies for gregarious folks.
They don’t say anything about American Water Spaniels, and I don’t think it would have application to my “selection process” anyway. I picked this particular dog because I was riding the bus from the Milwaukee airport and noticed this peculiar sight: a gorgeous, rather large animal, making his way up to the lap of its owner. I asked if he was feeling stressed after the plane ride. The owner said no, not especially, he just sort of fancied himself as lap dog – all 45 pounds of him. Ollie, our rather shy animal and offspring of this dog has the same (must therefore be genetic?) habit. If you sit down, he’ll make every effort to get into your lap. Yet his appearance is such that you’d think he’d be the perfect hunting companion to Dick Cheney. An incongruous mixture of traits. Does this say something about my predisposition?
[Btw, the American Water Spaniel also happens to be the state dog of Wisconsin, though absolutely NO ONE living here knows this, so I doubt it would steer a selection process.]
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Students are so helpful
A few weeks ago, I wrote here that a concerned, well-meaning student come up after class to tell me that calling something a “slam dunker” violated every athletic principle known to man, woman, or child. Gratefully, I made a note that henceforth it shall be simply a “slam dunk.”
A reader then informed me that he had problems with my blog because I alluded there to being dense about slam dunks due to my limited knowledge of the baseball field. He told me that it is not the habit for athletes to achieve slam dunks in baseball.
Today, the same concerned “slam dunk” student told me that I might expand my sports education even further: rather than mentioning the “hometown” advantage of filing a court petition where you reside, I might try incorporating such terms as “homecourt” or “homefield,” even though he assured me that the athletes in the class would be comfortable if I decided to stay with “hometowning.”
Oh, I think I can spot a set-up here: I’ll bravely throw out “homecourt” next time, and mention playing tennis, even though I should be back in basketball land. And what’s “homefield?” Is that baseball or have we now switched to football? Or maybe it’s hockey? So many mistakes to be made with using this terminology… so many…
A reader then informed me that he had problems with my blog because I alluded there to being dense about slam dunks due to my limited knowledge of the baseball field. He told me that it is not the habit for athletes to achieve slam dunks in baseball.
Today, the same concerned “slam dunk” student told me that I might expand my sports education even further: rather than mentioning the “hometown” advantage of filing a court petition where you reside, I might try incorporating such terms as “homecourt” or “homefield,” even though he assured me that the athletes in the class would be comfortable if I decided to stay with “hometowning.”
Oh, I think I can spot a set-up here: I’ll bravely throw out “homecourt” next time, and mention playing tennis, even though I should be back in basketball land. And what’s “homefield?” Is that baseball or have we now switched to football? Or maybe it’s hockey? So many mistakes to be made with using this terminology… so many…
Good will and cheer
This is one of those days where I had reason to cross the mile-long State Street that links our campus with the State Capitol (and the court buildings). I was going to attend a law firm baby shower for a former student, an event that brought forth great feelings of nostalgia as no fewer than three of the firm’s six attorneys are former students of mine, and I’ve worked on family law cases in the past with all but one of the partners.
Half way up State Street it struck me that my baby gift would benefit greatly from a little rubber duckie stuck to the outside and so I went into a soap store (the Soap Opera, pictured here) to purchase one. This is the way Madison works: one favor leads to another and before you know it you’re all over-favoring each other until there are no more favors to bestow. I paid $1.50 for my duckie; the sales clerk loved the duckie-on-top-of-box idea and offered to add ribbon for effect (the store has always been keen on elaborate ribbonning of gifts); of course that meant that I had time to browse and pick up a number of astronomically expensive soaps –gift ideas for imminent occasions requiring little things of this nature; it was determined then that I was also deserving of many free samples, including one that I thought would actually best be purchased, in large quantities.
A cynic may comment that I was a sitting duckie myself: a target for salesclerk largess that would inevitably lead me to deplete my bank account in that store. But that cynic would be wrong. True, I left with a beautifully ribbonned-duckie-adorned box plus many other items, with the final bill reaching outrageously high levels if you think of it as a duckie bill, but on the other hand, the bill was not so high if you think of all the stored-up presents, the good will, the exchange of kind words of praise and admiration and promises of life-long friendship.
Half way up State Street it struck me that my baby gift would benefit greatly from a little rubber duckie stuck to the outside and so I went into a soap store (the Soap Opera, pictured here) to purchase one. This is the way Madison works: one favor leads to another and before you know it you’re all over-favoring each other until there are no more favors to bestow. I paid $1.50 for my duckie; the sales clerk loved the duckie-on-top-of-box idea and offered to add ribbon for effect (the store has always been keen on elaborate ribbonning of gifts); of course that meant that I had time to browse and pick up a number of astronomically expensive soaps –gift ideas for imminent occasions requiring little things of this nature; it was determined then that I was also deserving of many free samples, including one that I thought would actually best be purchased, in large quantities.
A cynic may comment that I was a sitting duckie myself: a target for salesclerk largess that would inevitably lead me to deplete my bank account in that store. But that cynic would be wrong. True, I left with a beautifully ribbonned-duckie-adorned box plus many other items, with the final bill reaching outrageously high levels if you think of it as a duckie bill, but on the other hand, the bill was not so high if you think of all the stored-up presents, the good will, the exchange of kind words of praise and admiration and promises of life-long friendship.
Division of assets
Pausing in my review of notes for today’s Family Law class, I take a quick look at CNN.com (to make sure the world hasn’t yet destroyed itself; as Friedman of the NYT wrote yesterday, one has such low expectations of news stories these days), where I find an article about another couple’s relationship woes (story here).
Demba and Chaka (Demba’s the female) seem not in the mood for procreation. After five years of inhabiting the same space, they seem hardly to have glanced at each other and Philadelphia zookeepers now believe that they may have never even had a sexual encounter (this in spite of the fact that Chaka is one fertile guy, having fathered many babies in his previous surroundings).
She gets to keep the house (she’ll stay in their ‘home’), but he gets to move in (at another zoo) with a couple of promising females. Her biological clock has ticked away, while he can just keep going and going. Have we really evolved from ape-dom all that much?
[CNN photo is of Chaka--beloved by females, though not by Demba. I'm with Demba on this one]
Star gazing
A friend-reader reminded me that I should be looking at the sky at dusk because it will be many decades before I will be able to see again the line up of five planets without the aid of a telescope. I have only until the end of the month to do this.
Wanting to spread the wealth, let me post the map of planets so that you, too, can tell your children and grandchildren that you were fortunate enough to have read a webblog in 2004 that showed you what to look for:
Wanting to spread the wealth, let me post the map of planets so that you, too, can tell your children and grandchildren that you were fortunate enough to have read a webblog in 2004 that showed you what to look for:
Monday, March 29, 2004
You are so wrong, pal!
A Polish friend (referencing posts from earlier this month) wrote to ask if indeed Madison’s Odana Road, or for that matter, the Humanities Building on the U of Wisconsin campus can even compare with the pukey-pea-green square of concrete that houses Poland’s Supreme Court, or the Linguistics Department of Warsaw University? The suggestion is that those two structures require more immediate intervention (a date with the bulldozer comes to mind) than do our own urban crown jewels of hideosity.
No, no, you are wrong. Compare, please:
The Polish Supreme Court (Warsaw Uprising Monument stands in front)
U of Warsaw Department of Applied Linguistics
Humanities Building at the U of Wisconsin
No brainer, right? I don't even need to bother with Odana Road. Everyone knows about the singular ugliness of Odana Road.
No, no, you are wrong. Compare, please:
The Polish Supreme Court (Warsaw Uprising Monument stands in front)
U of Warsaw Department of Applied Linguistics
Humanities Building at the U of Wisconsin
No brainer, right? I don't even need to bother with Odana Road. Everyone knows about the singular ugliness of Odana Road.
Spring Update
They say chance of snow by mid-week, but it can hardly matter. The honeysuckle has sprouted big leaves, the bleeding heart bushes are at least 4 inches tall already. The forty million double bloom tulips I have scattered in forgotten places are never going to be as multifarious as their cousins in Holland, but they, too, are up and running (I plant early varieties just to get this early burst of pleasure) and the evening primrose has multiplied beautifully. So far so good…
China’s response to bad driving: shrug your shoulders and look to the gods
Earlier (last month?) I had blogged about the inherent dangers in crossing a street in China (to say nothing of navigating it by car). The seeming lawlessness of drivers, the diverse nature of motorized and pedaled vehicles, the crowds, the trucks and carts tilting with heaped, unbalanced cargo –all this produces a state of anarchy and chaos and a feeling of complete panic for anyone who finds herself in the middle of it.
Perhaps, then, I should not have been surprised that somewhere on a rural road in China a traffic death occurred (read about it here) when a wealthy woman, Su Xiuwen, ran over a peasant woman last October. The Times describes the incident thus: “Mrs. Su was driving her BMW when a farmer transporting his onion cart to market bumped the luxury sedan. Mrs. Su became enraged, hit the farmer, then revved her car and plunged into the crowd. The farmer's wife, Liu Zhongxia, was killed.”
The case sparked great controversy precisely because Mrs. Su was both wealthy and well connected (it’s commonly referred to as the BMW case). When the local judge ruled that the death was a traffic accident based on negligence and gave Mrs. Su a two-year suspended sentence, the public reacted instantly by alleging corruption and bribery. In an unprecedented move to quell these rumors, a special judicial panel was called to review the lower court ruling.
Today the panel came down with a verdict. It upheld the lower court’s finding of no corruption and stated that Mrs. Su did not intend to kill Mrs. Liu: she was simply a bad driver.
It is, possibly, the correct result. After all, this could have been an instance of reverse prejudice: her wealth lead people to think that of course it couldn’t have been JUST an accident (in the same way that people have speculated whether Laura Bush’s youthful driving ‘mishap,’ also resulting in a traffic death, was treated differently because of her family’s prominence in the community).
To me, what was notable in the case was the court’s tolerance for “bad driving,” as it indeed seems to excuse virtually anything that can occur on the road (short of intentional homicide through use of a vehicle). Couldn’t you say that every instance of crazy disregard for road rules is simply “bad driving?” The whole nation suffers from a case of bad driving. Perhaps the reaction of “wadda ya gonna do about it..” is not a good way to get the country to focus on road safety.
Local news
I often complain that our local paper has no inherent value to it. In fact, I don’t only complain, I ACT (I cancelled a subscription to the Wisconsin State Journal some time ago). I think my friends believe that I sometimes overreact to things, because some have been faithfully keeping me informed of what I have been missing.
For instance, tonight, a reader sent me the following clipping from out local paper (it is, bizarrely, about Kenya):
"After 10 years, he gets a bath.
A Kenyan villager who had not bathed in 10 years was stripped and scrubbed clean by neighbors sickened by the stench, local media reported on Saturday.
Four neighbors swooped on the 52-year-old-man in rural western Kenya, tying him up with a rope before washing him in public, the daily Kenya Times said.
It took four hours to clean the man, whose body was also scoured with sand to remove a thick layer of filth.
The man, a bachelor, has promised to wash once a day, and now hopes to find a wife, the newspaper said."
It is quite possible that absolutely no hint was intended with the transmission of the article. On the other hand, I saw the person who sent me this on Saturday, and she may be reacting to our particular encounter, though I don’t think so. Under normal circumstances, I may postpone a shower until after going to the gym (or for a run, or for another form of exercise), but on that particular Saturday, I distinctly remember showering very early in the morning, in anticipation of a very long day with many people-encounters.
For instance, tonight, a reader sent me the following clipping from out local paper (it is, bizarrely, about Kenya):
"After 10 years, he gets a bath.
A Kenyan villager who had not bathed in 10 years was stripped and scrubbed clean by neighbors sickened by the stench, local media reported on Saturday.
Four neighbors swooped on the 52-year-old-man in rural western Kenya, tying him up with a rope before washing him in public, the daily Kenya Times said.
It took four hours to clean the man, whose body was also scoured with sand to remove a thick layer of filth.
The man, a bachelor, has promised to wash once a day, and now hopes to find a wife, the newspaper said."
It is quite possible that absolutely no hint was intended with the transmission of the article. On the other hand, I saw the person who sent me this on Saturday, and she may be reacting to our particular encounter, though I don’t think so. Under normal circumstances, I may postpone a shower until after going to the gym (or for a run, or for another form of exercise), but on that particular Saturday, I distinctly remember showering very early in the morning, in anticipation of a very long day with many people-encounters.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
How is it possible to eat four entire chickens at one sitting?
Gerard Depardieu the French actor-turned-restaurateur can do it (see photo). In the Times article (here) about his new Paris restaurant, Depardieu is described as a foodie and a gourmand (not the same thing! The former – loves to eat well, paying attention to latest trends in the preparation of food; the latter—loves to explore all aspects of food).
Of course, celebrity-owned eating places are rather suspect. A true foodie would probably want to avoid some of these: Aykroyd’s funky House of Blues on Sunset Strip, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Schazi on Main in Santa Monica, Steven Spielberg’s former place, Dive!, Kevin Costner’s Clubhouse, Peter Fonda’s Thunder Roadhouse, and Jennifer Lopez’s new Madre's in Pasadena. Why? Because none of our film stars get their elbows dirty. I don’t think Scharzenegger or Lopez ever go back into the kitchen to check on the food prepping or plating.
By contrast, the NYT writes about Depardieu thus:
He is a formidable cook who will whip up a whole roast pig for a casual lunch. He is a respected vintner who owns more than a dozen vineyards around the world and personally oversees the harvest and production at several. He wanders through foreign markets discovering local specialties, many of which he smuggles into France. He meanders freely into restaurant kitchens, eats whatever is stewing on the stove and peppers the chefs with questions: why are they cooking so-and-so, where does it come from and why are they making it that way?Gourmands aren’t in it for the money. They’re in it for the food.
Our president is energetic, caring and community-focused
I am thinking, of course, of the president-elect of the Wisconsin State Bar (interview with her here), Michelle Behnke. A young Madison-based solo-practitioner, Michelle is one of those energetic people you can’t stand having around because they always manage to do more than you. I remember writing her an email once asking questions about a non-profit that I was thinking of setting up. She responded with a long, encouraging outline of some possible steps for me to consider. Free guidance –so rare in our profession.
She has chosen diversity and pro bono work as the two themes for her term in office (Michelle is the first woman of color to be elected president and she fully intends to generate a discussion about race and ethnic issues in the State Bar). Her comments about pro bono work are well taken: people outside the Bar forget that civil cases do not entitle a party to free legal counsel. In my years of working with parents in abuse and neglect cases it was difficult to understand how parents could be forced to go to court for hearings concerning the removal of their children and not have access to legal counsel, yet that is the legal reality in Wisconsin (a legacy of the Tommy Thompson years).
Good leaders can be hard to come by. It’s nice to feel enthusiastic about the presidential office again.
She has chosen diversity and pro bono work as the two themes for her term in office (Michelle is the first woman of color to be elected president and she fully intends to generate a discussion about race and ethnic issues in the State Bar). Her comments about pro bono work are well taken: people outside the Bar forget that civil cases do not entitle a party to free legal counsel. In my years of working with parents in abuse and neglect cases it was difficult to understand how parents could be forced to go to court for hearings concerning the removal of their children and not have access to legal counsel, yet that is the legal reality in Wisconsin (a legacy of the Tommy Thompson years).
Good leaders can be hard to come by. It’s nice to feel enthusiastic about the presidential office again.
Spring Update
The grass outside is magnificently green and the helleborus orientalis is blooming its big puffy white-pink-green blooms! The rabbits are also proliferating, which is not good. They eat a good part of my crop of perennials each year. For me, the only half-way effective measure is to put cotton balls soaked in 100% fox urine near the plants that I want to protect, but it is a disgusting strategy. Ah well, it’s that or waking up the each morning to a new batch of stems with missing flower heads.
A salty conversation with Blix
The NYTimes Magazine’s interview with the former UN inspector Hans Blix comes at a bad moment for Bush given the current Clarke controversy. I know most of my readers do glance at the Magazine themselves, but if you bypassed this, at least read these snippets:
[context: Blix, once in agreement with the administration about weapons, reversed himself when inspections of the best possible sites revealed nothing; the interviewer commented at the end that Blix’ conversational style was ‘salty’—by which I suppose she meant that Blix seemed spicy rather than bland.]
Good point.
[context: Blix, once in agreement with the administration about weapons, reversed himself when inspections of the best possible sites revealed nothing; the interviewer commented at the end that Blix’ conversational style was ‘salty’—by which I suppose she meant that Blix seemed spicy rather than bland.]
Q: You never met [Saddam Hussein]?
A: He considered it far below his dignity to meet any sort of lowly creatures like international inspectors.
Q: Can one say the same of certain leaders in democratic countries? Wasn’t Vice President Cheney equally dismissive of you?
A: The Pentagon and Cheney have been very negative toward inspections. Cheney said inspections are useless at best.
Q: …you met with the president in the Oval Office?
A: It didn’t look very oval to me at the time, but I didn’t pay much attention. It was Colin Powell, Cheney and Bush and others—and a note taker! [He had earlier stated that no note takers were offered to the inspectors] They had one on their side and we had none on ours!
Q: Couldn’t you just have jotted down a few notes on the pad?
A: It’s not the decorum when you meet the president. You have to concentrate on the conversation.
Q: What was Bush like?
A: He was agile, moving, moving in the chair, especially compared to Cheney.
Q: Who, I suppose, seems more wooden.
A: Yes, the rumors that Cheney is alive are somewhat exaggerated. It’s Mark Twain in reverse.
[referring to Twain’s comment that the rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.]
…..
Q: What do you think of John Kerry?
A: I welcome his attitude toward multilateral cooperation. I think he is trying to get back to the traditional US attitudes.
Q: What do you make of the presidential race?
A: I think maybe we foreigners should have the right to vote in your next election, since we are so dependent on you.
Good point.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Madison is a one-movie-kinda-town
(don’t bother with this post if you aren’t interested in Eternal Sunshine)
A number of UW Madison bloggers whose blogs I track (here, here, here and again here) saw Eternal Sunshine this week. Obviously this is a small town and everyone sees only one movie each week and it is the same movie, because, indeed, I saw it as well.
It’s easy to get yourself thinking that this is a story about real emotions, as experienced by you and me. It’s a movie that casts shadows of human traits onto the audience, so that you find yourself embracing the reluctant, shy, introvert Joel, and applauding the tenacity and spunk of the wild and zestful Clementine.
You could say, however, that Joel and Clementine are not at all different: they are both Very Needy People. Sure, the film makes Clementine out to be generous and kind, bestowing her affect on a guy who knows not how to “live.” She is the rescuer, the golden light of dawn for him.
But why do we buy into this characterization? Could it be that Clementine is quite the opposite: a brazen woman who needs attention, picking on men who are likely to be attracted to her display of charisma? And Joel, her male friend: mightn’t he be a drifter, refusing to take emotional responsibility for any of the women (what ever happened to his poor left-behind Naomi)? It’s interesting how this quiet, staid guy has a bit of anger within him. Certainly Clementine does as well. They each have a past, only at these early stages of their relationship (and we are always viewing it as it is just beginning) it remains underground. The cynics wont be leaving the theater thinking “whew, they worked out their problems, what a relief.” They’ll say –“I give them at best 4 months until they split up again since both display the emotional maturity of adolescents.”
It’s a good movie, no doubt about it – the directing and editing alone make it a stunning film: there is a scene where Joel is once again young, but really not, but really yes, young, and Clem is in the kitchen with him: the shift from little boy to grown man to Clem to Joel again is nothing short of brilliant.
As for the “message?” Oh, obvious, is it? Given that it was directed by Gondry, one could run with the idea that perhaps love is so primordial that it will resurrect itself, arising from the chemistry between people: it’s nature, not nurture, it’s a match or its not. What brought you together last year will bring you together again ten years from now, not for sentimental reasons at all, but because there is something between the two of you that causes canons to roar.
A number of UW Madison bloggers whose blogs I track (here, here, here and again here) saw Eternal Sunshine this week. Obviously this is a small town and everyone sees only one movie each week and it is the same movie, because, indeed, I saw it as well.
It’s easy to get yourself thinking that this is a story about real emotions, as experienced by you and me. It’s a movie that casts shadows of human traits onto the audience, so that you find yourself embracing the reluctant, shy, introvert Joel, and applauding the tenacity and spunk of the wild and zestful Clementine.
You could say, however, that Joel and Clementine are not at all different: they are both Very Needy People. Sure, the film makes Clementine out to be generous and kind, bestowing her affect on a guy who knows not how to “live.” She is the rescuer, the golden light of dawn for him.
But why do we buy into this characterization? Could it be that Clementine is quite the opposite: a brazen woman who needs attention, picking on men who are likely to be attracted to her display of charisma? And Joel, her male friend: mightn’t he be a drifter, refusing to take emotional responsibility for any of the women (what ever happened to his poor left-behind Naomi)? It’s interesting how this quiet, staid guy has a bit of anger within him. Certainly Clementine does as well. They each have a past, only at these early stages of their relationship (and we are always viewing it as it is just beginning) it remains underground. The cynics wont be leaving the theater thinking “whew, they worked out their problems, what a relief.” They’ll say –“I give them at best 4 months until they split up again since both display the emotional maturity of adolescents.”
It’s a good movie, no doubt about it – the directing and editing alone make it a stunning film: there is a scene where Joel is once again young, but really not, but really yes, young, and Clem is in the kitchen with him: the shift from little boy to grown man to Clem to Joel again is nothing short of brilliant.
As for the “message?” Oh, obvious, is it? Given that it was directed by Gondry, one could run with the idea that perhaps love is so primordial that it will resurrect itself, arising from the chemistry between people: it’s nature, not nurture, it’s a match or its not. What brought you together last year will bring you together again ten years from now, not for sentimental reasons at all, but because there is something between the two of you that causes canons to roar.
NPR Notes
Q: On what grounds might German violinists (from the Beethoven Orchestra—this is a hint of sorts; think: many complicated measures) sue for a pay raise?
A: The action can be based on the claim that they play more notes per concert than their musical colleagues.
Rebuttal: Orchestra officials have responded that “the violinists knew this when they began taking violin lessons -- and if they wanted to play fewer notes, they should have chosen a different instrument.”
the brain: no repetition, constant recreation
I read the NYT article (here) on Dr. Edelman’s work on the brain twice, because I wasn’t sure I was picking up the pieces in a coherent way. I can’t begin to summarize it in the usual 2-sentenced oversimplification that I do here—I’m sure to get it wrong.
But if you are just looking for the punch line (in the way that you would summarize the holding in a legal case for an exam outline) then you can go from title of the article: “The Brain? It’s a Jungle in There,” to the last 2 lines: “But this vision [referring here to the idea that human consciousness is born out of accident and diversity] can also spur discomfort, because it implies that there is no supervising soul or self — nobody is standing behind the curtain. This, for Dr. Edelman, is Darwin's final burden.” That pretty much puts you right into the heart of the matter (forgive the organ-hopping here).
Thus we are stuck without a soul, only new and intricate mappings, one after another, millions of them, setting the course of thought and action. No conductor in there, no inside little guy pushing buttons, selecting, or optimizing. It’s a comfort really – no one to blame for excesses (such as blogging or emailing) – somewhere along the line those patterns became entrenched and there is no one inside to reset the brain and start all over again.
But if you are just looking for the punch line (in the way that you would summarize the holding in a legal case for an exam outline) then you can go from title of the article: “The Brain? It’s a Jungle in There,” to the last 2 lines: “But this vision [referring here to the idea that human consciousness is born out of accident and diversity] can also spur discomfort, because it implies that there is no supervising soul or self — nobody is standing behind the curtain. This, for Dr. Edelman, is Darwin's final burden.” That pretty much puts you right into the heart of the matter (forgive the organ-hopping here).
Thus we are stuck without a soul, only new and intricate mappings, one after another, millions of them, setting the course of thought and action. No conductor in there, no inside little guy pushing buttons, selecting, or optimizing. It’s a comfort really – no one to blame for excesses (such as blogging or emailing) – somewhere along the line those patterns became entrenched and there is no one inside to reset the brain and start all over again.
Time
Yesterday I had a chance to spend time with a visiting professor – someone whom I hadn’t seen since graduate school in the 70s. This man had single-handedly saved my plummeting confidence in academia. I eventually did leave academia for a while, but it was then a deliberate rather than desperate move.
The prof is now retired and he splits his time between Paris and SF (not a bad lineup of cities I must admit). That is fitting for a person who in my mind is sort of a poetic hero, infused with the worship one reserves for the leaders in one’s life (he doesn’t know that I feel this way about him).
People who save us from the worst aspects of ourselves are indeed heroes. But over time, they disappear and new heroes come to replace them. What a luxury it was to meet again, 28 years later. I never could quite say thank you in the way that I wanted to. Though as I listened to his little impromptu jazz piano playing later in the evening, I thought it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have understood anyway. People of that type are often so personally modest that they do not have a sense of their own force vis-à-vis others.
[a photo of said prof, playing jazz---->]
The prof is now retired and he splits his time between Paris and SF (not a bad lineup of cities I must admit). That is fitting for a person who in my mind is sort of a poetic hero, infused with the worship one reserves for the leaders in one’s life (he doesn’t know that I feel this way about him).
People who save us from the worst aspects of ourselves are indeed heroes. But over time, they disappear and new heroes come to replace them. What a luxury it was to meet again, 28 years later. I never could quite say thank you in the way that I wanted to. Though as I listened to his little impromptu jazz piano playing later in the evening, I thought it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t have understood anyway. People of that type are often so personally modest that they do not have a sense of their own force vis-à-vis others.
[a photo of said prof, playing jazz---->]
Poland at the cusp of something, but what?
Almost my entire political self is focused on my homeland today. With news of the resignation of the Prime Minister, Leszek Miller (I was right! You can’t fall below 0% approval ratings! He slipped from 10% to 5% in two days! The man HAD to step down), I now see this tense month of waiting while the entire nation focuses on the opening of the EU gates on May1st. Yet, I wonder, are these gates of heaven or gates of hell? For most Poles, the benefits of being in the EU are far away (read about it in the NYT today here)—possibly to be realized by the next generation of Poles; it’s a theoretical gift to the children, not to anyone currently living on the edge.
And there is the matter of the United States: it pains me to see this – it’s like a relationship where one person has all the love and the other has all the power. Poland is the most “in love with America” country I have ever seen. The support for military action in Iraq is a good example of this: most Poles are currently opposed to Polish military presence in Iraq (or at least have grave doubts about its wisdom; President Kwasniewski has publicly stated that he feels Poland was mislead about WMD and about the urgency of waging war to combat terrorism). Yet there is no protest (contrast Poland with Spain, where a government was toppled, to some degree because of Iraq). Poles just go along with the inevitability of this, because America has placed this demand for loyalty and they feel themselves obliged to deliver.
In return? The blasted object of affection wont even give them a small gift, one that Poles have been meekly requesting for years: the right to travel to the US without a visa. So many of my friends refuse to come here for a visit because of the INDIGNITY of having to wait in huge lines, filling out countless forms, waiting for the magic “yes” or “no” before they can board the plane. For the many who have relatives in the States, the humiliation has to be put aside. For those who would travel just for the sake of travel, it is not worth it.
My wonderful, brutally hardened yet resilient Poland. How much suffering can one country endure in a period of 200 years?
And there is the matter of the United States: it pains me to see this – it’s like a relationship where one person has all the love and the other has all the power. Poland is the most “in love with America” country I have ever seen. The support for military action in Iraq is a good example of this: most Poles are currently opposed to Polish military presence in Iraq (or at least have grave doubts about its wisdom; President Kwasniewski has publicly stated that he feels Poland was mislead about WMD and about the urgency of waging war to combat terrorism). Yet there is no protest (contrast Poland with Spain, where a government was toppled, to some degree because of Iraq). Poles just go along with the inevitability of this, because America has placed this demand for loyalty and they feel themselves obliged to deliver.
In return? The blasted object of affection wont even give them a small gift, one that Poles have been meekly requesting for years: the right to travel to the US without a visa. So many of my friends refuse to come here for a visit because of the INDIGNITY of having to wait in huge lines, filling out countless forms, waiting for the magic “yes” or “no” before they can board the plane. For the many who have relatives in the States, the humiliation has to be put aside. For those who would travel just for the sake of travel, it is not worth it.
My wonderful, brutally hardened yet resilient Poland. How much suffering can one country endure in a period of 200 years?
Friday, March 26, 2004
A threesome
A reader (who obviously cares deeply about my well being, but knows little about how light a sleeper I am) forwarded me an article about a strange occurrence in Oklahoma. A couple woke up yesterday morning to find a burglar sleeping in bed with them (see story here). The man had broken down their door and robbed them of their cell phone and loose cash before snuggling in besides them.
I think my friend is protectively suggesting that I lock my doors carefully each night, but she needn’t worry. This incident could NEVER happen to me. I wake up when the neighbor down the block sneezes. I wake up when the clock passes the hour (I think it’s a tad noisier as the minute hand circumvents the 12). I wake up for any and every reason. Alright, a bit of an exaggeration there, but I would absolutely most certainly wake up if a foul-smelling drunkard pocketed my cell phone and fell asleep next to me.
I think my friend is protectively suggesting that I lock my doors carefully each night, but she needn’t worry. This incident could NEVER happen to me. I wake up when the neighbor down the block sneezes. I wake up when the clock passes the hour (I think it’s a tad noisier as the minute hand circumvents the 12). I wake up for any and every reason. Alright, a bit of an exaggeration there, but I would absolutely most certainly wake up if a foul-smelling drunkard pocketed my cell phone and fell asleep next to me.
Continuing on the theme of Spring
Not finding enough happy people around me to exchange spring-related jokes and comments, I googled the words that describe my mood at the moment: “spring madness.”
The predominant listing is for the 1938 movie by that title. Here’s how it is described:
Category: Comedy
Director: S.Sylvan Simon
Cast: Lew Ayre, Burgess Meredith, Maureen O’Sullivan
Running time: 1 hr 20 mins
Summary: A coed’s love for a Harvard editor is threatened when she learns that he and his friends are planning a trip to Russia.
One could really take to task this laconic summary on any number of grounds. I’ll only say this: it recalls the time when it was an anathema for most Americans to call the Soviet Union by its name. Russia, then as now, was only one region. Possibly, the Harvard editor was indeed traveling only to Russia. Few ventured beyond Moscow in those days. But why do I think the choice of the R word was not for reasons of geographical precision, but because the writer and movie itself do not understand the distinction between the SU and R? Or that they did not like that the pre-Revolution Russia became the post-Revolution Soviet Union?
My fears on this are confirmed when I read yet another reviewer’s lovely choice of words (I’m avoiding commenting here on the plot line; this is, after all, a 1938 movie):
This comedy implies that the far-flung plan of a college student to visit Communist Russia has little chance when women conspire to restrain him with the lures of marriage and a good job.
All my childhood days I would hear Americans speak of Russia, the country, as if their souls would turn commie red if they even said the word “Soviet.”
But today, I am unruffled. Spring madness is more than just the movie. BTW, elsewhere on Google, the movie gets a rating of two stars (I can’t say out of how many, but two sounds pretty low under any rating scheme).
The predominant listing is for the 1938 movie by that title. Here’s how it is described:
Category: Comedy
Director: S.Sylvan Simon
Cast: Lew Ayre, Burgess Meredith, Maureen O’Sullivan
Running time: 1 hr 20 mins
Summary: A coed’s love for a Harvard editor is threatened when she learns that he and his friends are planning a trip to Russia.
One could really take to task this laconic summary on any number of grounds. I’ll only say this: it recalls the time when it was an anathema for most Americans to call the Soviet Union by its name. Russia, then as now, was only one region. Possibly, the Harvard editor was indeed traveling only to Russia. Few ventured beyond Moscow in those days. But why do I think the choice of the R word was not for reasons of geographical precision, but because the writer and movie itself do not understand the distinction between the SU and R? Or that they did not like that the pre-Revolution Russia became the post-Revolution Soviet Union?
My fears on this are confirmed when I read yet another reviewer’s lovely choice of words (I’m avoiding commenting here on the plot line; this is, after all, a 1938 movie):
This comedy implies that the far-flung plan of a college student to visit Communist Russia has little chance when women conspire to restrain him with the lures of marriage and a good job.
All my childhood days I would hear Americans speak of Russia, the country, as if their souls would turn commie red if they even said the word “Soviet.”
But today, I am unruffled. Spring madness is more than just the movie. BTW, elsewhere on Google, the movie gets a rating of two stars (I can’t say out of how many, but two sounds pretty low under any rating scheme).
I’m not the only one enlivened by the sudden appearance of Spring
A friend who lives in Arizona is equally transfixed. Remarkably, her moment of magic also struck within the last 24 hours. She writes:
“…why do I feel like I want to make a life with more freshness? After all, I have my tender seedlings popping their way into my garden and the flowers are blooming and the quail are kicking up
their feather in anticipation of drawing their mates.”
The imagery is so lovely that I had to look up quail in the hope of envisioning more accurately how their feathers may be kicking up. After sifting through files of photos of quail on a plate, or quail being carried by hunting hounds, I came up with the following far preferable picture.---->
“…why do I feel like I want to make a life with more freshness? After all, I have my tender seedlings popping their way into my garden and the flowers are blooming and the quail are kicking up
their feather in anticipation of drawing their mates.”
The imagery is so lovely that I had to look up quail in the hope of envisioning more accurately how their feathers may be kicking up. After sifting through files of photos of quail on a plate, or quail being carried by hunting hounds, I came up with the following far preferable picture.---->
A grass high
It was a night of miracles. The day ends, you expect nothing and suddenly: BLAST! Spring makes a midnight appearance, and the world changes into one big field of green grass. No one should be blogging now. Urgent message to all those living in Madison who can spare even 5 or 10 minutes: GO OUTSIDE AND SMELL THAT AIR!
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Ollie is fine, thank you
No fewer than TWO readers wrote this week and signed their message with the following missive; “be nice to your dog, Ollie” (or words to that effect).
Now listen here. I AM nice to the beast. Yesterday I dashed home in between work and book group just to walk him, feed him, and, as it turned out – give him a bath, since he seemed to smell funny. I was late for everything after that. Today – the same: I’m home FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF ATTENDING TO HIS ROYAL EVENING NEEDS. I could be sipping an aperitif or a latte on State Street (I have to be downtown this evening), I could be taking a walk by the Union and watching the ebb and flow of water, I could be in an arm chair of the swanky new coffee shop downtown, but NO, I am home dog-tending.
It is interesting that one of the readers explained in her email that she had had a run in with her cat, resulting in “accidental” scratches on her face and some black and blue marks around her eye. When I suggested that she perhaps trade in her cat for a new television set, she leapt to his defense as if I had advocated tying him to a stake with a match underneath to make him squirm and repent.
The idea that I am not an animal fan has to be put to rest. I think pets are cool—especially if they don’t require much care and don’t scratch your face. So, rest assured, Ollie does fine. Basically, he likes to sleep. That is his life. I have absolutely no problem with that.
Now listen here. I AM nice to the beast. Yesterday I dashed home in between work and book group just to walk him, feed him, and, as it turned out – give him a bath, since he seemed to smell funny. I was late for everything after that. Today – the same: I’m home FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF ATTENDING TO HIS ROYAL EVENING NEEDS. I could be sipping an aperitif or a latte on State Street (I have to be downtown this evening), I could be taking a walk by the Union and watching the ebb and flow of water, I could be in an arm chair of the swanky new coffee shop downtown, but NO, I am home dog-tending.
It is interesting that one of the readers explained in her email that she had had a run in with her cat, resulting in “accidental” scratches on her face and some black and blue marks around her eye. When I suggested that she perhaps trade in her cat for a new television set, she leapt to his defense as if I had advocated tying him to a stake with a match underneath to make him squirm and repent.
The idea that I am not an animal fan has to be put to rest. I think pets are cool—especially if they don’t require much care and don’t scratch your face. So, rest assured, Ollie does fine. Basically, he likes to sleep. That is his life. I have absolutely no problem with that.
Fashion trumps religious freedom
Another story from across the ocean –three in a row today (the weblog rests proudly on its title)!
According to the Times, in Italy, a northern town is refusing to hire a Moroccan woman to teach in the school because she has stated that she will wear her scarf on the job. Is it a question of stopping religion “at the school house gate?” In fact, I do believe Italians bring Christian symbols and lessons right into the classroom (at the same time that they are one of the least “practicing” predominantly-Catholic nations in the world), thus objections based on keeping schools free of religious messages would not have any place in this country.
Why the negative reaction to the scarf? A director of the school explained that "if she works with her head scarf on, she risks scaring the children." Well of course! Children there are used to a stunningly elegant dress code. Most likely a school would not hire a person in a t-shirt and cut-offs either. It would be too much of a strain for the children to see this anti-modish display on a regular basis.
According to the Times, in Italy, a northern town is refusing to hire a Moroccan woman to teach in the school because she has stated that she will wear her scarf on the job. Is it a question of stopping religion “at the school house gate?” In fact, I do believe Italians bring Christian symbols and lessons right into the classroom (at the same time that they are one of the least “practicing” predominantly-Catholic nations in the world), thus objections based on keeping schools free of religious messages would not have any place in this country.
Why the negative reaction to the scarf? A director of the school explained that "if she works with her head scarf on, she risks scaring the children." Well of course! Children there are used to a stunningly elegant dress code. Most likely a school would not hire a person in a t-shirt and cut-offs either. It would be too much of a strain for the children to see this anti-modish display on a regular basis.
I have an idea for Odana Road
Madison has some visually attractive neighborhoods. And then it has Odana Road. All the urban renewal in the world could not improve this stretch of incomprehensibly unattractive strip malls. Is there a solution? The British have the right idea.
The Times states that Britain’s big eyesore, the Tricorn Shopping Center in Portsmouth is scheduled for a date with the wrecking ball. This 1960s architectural nightmare has been eloquently described by Prince Charles as resembling a “mildewed lump of elephant droppings.”
With typical British humor, the city had workers begin demolishing the Center to the strains of the '1812 Overture' –a play on the historic significance of the orchestral piece, as when the Center had been built in 1966, its developers called it “an orchestration in reinforced concrete that is the equivalent of the '1812 Overture.'"
[As an aside – does anyone agree that the Center resembles UW’s Humanities Building? Now there’s an architectural wonder! photo credit: Tricorn Corp.]
The Times states that Britain’s big eyesore, the Tricorn Shopping Center in Portsmouth is scheduled for a date with the wrecking ball. This 1960s architectural nightmare has been eloquently described by Prince Charles as resembling a “mildewed lump of elephant droppings.”
With typical British humor, the city had workers begin demolishing the Center to the strains of the '1812 Overture' –a play on the historic significance of the orchestral piece, as when the Center had been built in 1966, its developers called it “an orchestration in reinforced concrete that is the equivalent of the '1812 Overture.'"
[As an aside – does anyone agree that the Center resembles UW’s Humanities Building? Now there’s an architectural wonder! photo credit: Tricorn Corp.]
Odd Recollections
Today is the birthday of my high-school-and-part-college crush (he is NOT a reader of this blog to my knowledge, though Poland has the markers sometimes of being one small town in terms of gossip). It was an on-again off-again dating situation, though for purposes of crush recollection, it was definitely “on” for me for many years. I have been known to comment that one reason I returned to the States to finish my studies in the 70s was really to get away from the shadow of that crush. One has to Take Charge Of One’s Life sometimes.
Mr. Crush and I tangoed our way through Econometrics at the U of Warsaw, though I eventually landed in Law here and he landed in Gregorian Chant in Warsaw (he chants for a living and apparently is quite successfully at it--my devious sister keeps me informed of his progress; this is a Net photo from one of his recent CDs ---->).
Why does one remember odd things of this nature? For instance, I remember that my best elementary school buddy’s mother’s birthday is on October 24th (some years I was tempted to send her a card, but then thought better of it as it, most likely, would freak her out). Or, that my flight bringing me to the United States on February 12, 1972 was delayed.
My crush and I never celebrated each other’s birthdays. His came first, and once I did get him a cute, meaningful little animal figure (we wont go there), but my birthday follows in the next month and he reciprocated by bringing over a “bouquet” of radishes (it was a joke), and so I called it quits on gifts thereafter.
I remember these details well, I just don’t remember quite why I liked him so much.
Mr. Crush and I tangoed our way through Econometrics at the U of Warsaw, though I eventually landed in Law here and he landed in Gregorian Chant in Warsaw (he chants for a living and apparently is quite successfully at it--my devious sister keeps me informed of his progress; this is a Net photo from one of his recent CDs ---->).
Why does one remember odd things of this nature? For instance, I remember that my best elementary school buddy’s mother’s birthday is on October 24th (some years I was tempted to send her a card, but then thought better of it as it, most likely, would freak her out). Or, that my flight bringing me to the United States on February 12, 1972 was delayed.
My crush and I never celebrated each other’s birthdays. His came first, and once I did get him a cute, meaningful little animal figure (we wont go there), but my birthday follows in the next month and he reciprocated by bringing over a “bouquet” of radishes (it was a joke), and so I called it quits on gifts thereafter.
I remember these details well, I just don’t remember quite why I liked him so much.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
If it weren’t for environmental toxins, we’d be apes
A fascinating study is described in the NYT Science Section today (here). Researchers are suggesting that a gene mutation may well be responsible for the evolution of the human brain. The Times reports:
2.4 million years ago, a muscle gene underwent a disabling alteration. … This could have made all the difference, leading to the enlarged brains of the lineage that evolved into modern humans. Researchers who made the discovery said this might be the first recognized functional genetic difference between humans and the apes that can be correlated with anatomical changes in the fossil record. As they said, the gene mutation may represent the beginning of the ancestral triumph of brain over brawn.Why the mutation? The following speculation is offered:
At the least, scientists said, the small mutated gene probably accounts for the more graceful human jaw, in contrast to the protruding ape jaw and facial ridges.
The cause of the mutation was unknown and probably unknowable: damage from cosmic rays perhaps, ingested toxins or other environmental exposures. Other contemporary hominid species could have been exposed to the same conditions, but for some reason, escaped with their myosin gene unaltered — and their jaws as formidable as ever. These robust but small-brain species continued to live in Africa until their line became extinct about one million years ago.So, those whose gene remained unaltered were slated to become extinct, while lucky us, what with environmental toxins and our desire to keep grinding on those nuts and plants (early stages of Nighttime Eating Syndrome, see post yesterday), we get the better brain and a nicer jaw line. I’m going home to remove my lawn sign condemning the use of chemical lawn care products. I don’t want to be remembered as standing in the way of further evolutionary development.
Dr. Minugh-Purvis said it was unclear how the mutation could have become fixed in the species, considering its potentially deleterious effects on survival. Perhaps other agents of change were already at work, like the transition to a richer protein diet of meat. The heavier jaws were required for grinding the mainstays, nuts and plants, in their diets.
Two comments on paranoia
1. Reading moods
A reader wrote a concerned note about my post of last night where I alluded to intuitively surmising what the mood of the neighborhood was and whether or not I was to be the subject of scorn, ridicule, vengeance or what have you. While sympathetic to the post in general, she suggested that perhaps it exhibits a touch of paranoia. Reassurance: not at all! Perceiving the mood of a place or community can run in positive fields as well. For instance, my neighbor down the block and I were voting in the primaries at the same time and he instantly launched into friendly banter about the Green Party versus the Democrats. He knew and I knew that this was going to be a friendly exchange. No hostilities arose. ON THE OTHER HAND: when I walked down the block and a handful of women suddenly started looking heavenward as I passed, I KNEW they were grumbling and that I was the target of their displeasure. It could be that my little sign, stuck out front by the driveway, saying that ‘healthy children deserve healthy lawns’ (a direct attack at the 75% who still use chemical agents on their lawns in our neighborhood) was being bashed about. Hostility was palpable. No paranoia. Reality.
2. Poland is losing it
Another reader sent me clippings about a different possible paranoia – that which is gripping Poland at the moment. I’ve blogged about Polish fears of a terrorist attack ever since the tragedy in Madrid. Well, the nation is in a state of near panic. There are many reasons for it, some not unjustified, but I think the main source of anxiety rests in the recent switch of leadership in Spain. Poland had felt buoyed by its alliance with Spain – both on the Iraq invasion issue and on the protest to the EU constitution back in December. These two countries were European mavericks at a time when the push was to find common ground for all nations that are and will be part of the EU. With Spain now retreating somewhat (both on the issue of Iraq and on the Constitution), Poland is suddenly appearing awfully alone and vulnerable out there. It can’t feel good. I do think, however, that the Polish government (which enjoyed an 11% popularity rating back in December and now I read that it’s down to 9% --making me wonder if it’s possible to go into negative numbers, because there’s not much more before we’re at 0) needs to make some tough choices both about the Constitution and Iraq. In terms of the first – I understand completely Poland’s objections to the proposed document, but to “Die for Nice” seems ill founded [“Die for Nice’ is the slogan adopted by those that want to retreat to the Nice accords under which Poland enjoyed greater voting parity with the rest of the Western European states than it does under the new proposed Constitution]. A noble death in political parlance is still a death. Poland does NOT need to make enemies at a time when it is economically weak.
A reader wrote a concerned note about my post of last night where I alluded to intuitively surmising what the mood of the neighborhood was and whether or not I was to be the subject of scorn, ridicule, vengeance or what have you. While sympathetic to the post in general, she suggested that perhaps it exhibits a touch of paranoia. Reassurance: not at all! Perceiving the mood of a place or community can run in positive fields as well. For instance, my neighbor down the block and I were voting in the primaries at the same time and he instantly launched into friendly banter about the Green Party versus the Democrats. He knew and I knew that this was going to be a friendly exchange. No hostilities arose. ON THE OTHER HAND: when I walked down the block and a handful of women suddenly started looking heavenward as I passed, I KNEW they were grumbling and that I was the target of their displeasure. It could be that my little sign, stuck out front by the driveway, saying that ‘healthy children deserve healthy lawns’ (a direct attack at the 75% who still use chemical agents on their lawns in our neighborhood) was being bashed about. Hostility was palpable. No paranoia. Reality.
2. Poland is losing it
Another reader sent me clippings about a different possible paranoia – that which is gripping Poland at the moment. I’ve blogged about Polish fears of a terrorist attack ever since the tragedy in Madrid. Well, the nation is in a state of near panic. There are many reasons for it, some not unjustified, but I think the main source of anxiety rests in the recent switch of leadership in Spain. Poland had felt buoyed by its alliance with Spain – both on the Iraq invasion issue and on the protest to the EU constitution back in December. These two countries were European mavericks at a time when the push was to find common ground for all nations that are and will be part of the EU. With Spain now retreating somewhat (both on the issue of Iraq and on the Constitution), Poland is suddenly appearing awfully alone and vulnerable out there. It can’t feel good. I do think, however, that the Polish government (which enjoyed an 11% popularity rating back in December and now I read that it’s down to 9% --making me wonder if it’s possible to go into negative numbers, because there’s not much more before we’re at 0) needs to make some tough choices both about the Constitution and Iraq. In terms of the first – I understand completely Poland’s objections to the proposed document, but to “Die for Nice” seems ill founded [“Die for Nice’ is the slogan adopted by those that want to retreat to the Nice accords under which Poland enjoyed greater voting parity with the rest of the Western European states than it does under the new proposed Constitution]. A noble death in political parlance is still a death. Poland does NOT need to make enemies at a time when it is economically weak.
Expensive acquisitions
What is it about our species that leads us to be such collectors and proud possessors of things? True, I may not know many who get worked up about jewelry, but I do have a friend who has the largest, oddest shoe collection ever (she occasionally gives tours of her shoe closet for fundraising events). My neighbor collects stamps. My Tucson friend has gems and stones that are unbelievable. All good stuff.
However, I’m not much of a collector. When I first moved to the Midwest and was sure that our house, no other house, just our house was somehow marked and would therefore implode during a tornado, I would take with me to the basement my collection of photographs. That’s it. These days I’d probably also take my lap top. Otherwise I have no special attachment to things. My feeling is that it’s all replaceable and we’d all be better off without it anyway.
Maybe that’s why I never bothered to acquire, one expensive glass at a time, good wine glasses, even though I am a wine enthusiast and track wine trends through a variety of publications (predictably, I do not have much of a wine collection either).
Oh, I know all about Riedel glasses. Anyone who studies wines knows about Riedel glasses. Claus Josef Riedel hit on something big several decades ago when he discovered that the size and shape of a glass can significantly change the wine tasting experience. As an NYT article today says, “he spent 16 years studying the physics of wine delivery to the mouth and taste buds.” His factory began to manufacture distinct glassware – and I mean distinct! There are Riedel glasses for Burgundies, Bordeaux, French wines, old wines, young wines, California wines, you name it, – there is a glass for it.
But that’s not for me. And frankly, it’s not for most wine producers either – at least not the small family-run businesses that I like to visit and read about. Of course, even they would probably use appropriate glassware when opening their one remaining bottle of some 50-year old treasure. But there you are entering into an art form that goes beyond just drinking good wine.
However, two years ago, for some inexplicable reason, I broke down and bought 2 Riedel glasses. I picked the shape that would more or less work with bold full bodied reds (like Burgundies), which already is a cheat because you’re supposed to use a SPECIFIC glass for each wine. But the purchase set me back by a month’s worth of salary and so I wasn’t going to humor the Riedel nuts even more.
It was not meant to be. The box with the glasses was opened with some fanfare. The beautiful, delicate glasses were carefully washed, dried and placed in an old china closet (with a loose hinge). In closing the door of the closet, the hinge fell off, the door caved in and 50% of all glassware inside (the cheap stuff as well) was destroyed, including one of two Riedel glasses. I took that to be an omen and have never bothered with a replacement.
I read that Claus Josef Riedel died last week (NYT here). The company is in good family hands, but I do have to say that his was an impressive feat: to create a need that has busted the pocket book of many a person, even though, for the vast majority of wines, drinking from a tumbler will do just as well.
Hundreds down, one more to go
One last student file to read, one last check mark to make, one last scribbled post-it with comments to insert. Having read hundreds of these files this semester I am 1. relieved to be done 2. sorry to be done, in the way that one is sorry when a project has been captivating from day one and now is completed.
Who says only students stay up late to meet deadlines? Readers take note! It is possible to work this late and NOT still be chasing a degree!
Who says only students stay up late to meet deadlines? Readers take note! It is possible to work this late and NOT still be chasing a degree!
Malaise
Both the NYT and the IHT report that Germany is experiencing a ‘malaise,’ a downturn in spirit, a sort of “I had a hell of a bad ride” mood. It has something to do with not being number 1 in everything, and having persistently large unemployment rates.
I’m guessing that it also has to do with the fact that Poland will soon be part of the EU, which eventually will mean greater portability of investments across the eastern German border, straight to Poland, where labor costs right now are one sixth of what they are in Germany.
But what's further interesting is the whole concept of a country’s mood. Was there a survey? Were people asked? Were facial expressions examined? Or does one just KNOW, in the same way that you can tell if your class is feeling hateful, or when your neighbors all seem to be conspiratorially hatching plans to do you in, or your far off friends are morose, or your own dog is in a funk. One can just sense moods. I suppose that the NYT reporter went out for a stroll in Germany, sniffed the air, and came back with these conclusive results.
I wonder what they’d say about Poland. I never thought that Poland ever had a mood, it has 38 million moods, all of them fluctuating wildly around a feeling of fatalism and doom.
I’m guessing that it also has to do with the fact that Poland will soon be part of the EU, which eventually will mean greater portability of investments across the eastern German border, straight to Poland, where labor costs right now are one sixth of what they are in Germany.
But what's further interesting is the whole concept of a country’s mood. Was there a survey? Were people asked? Were facial expressions examined? Or does one just KNOW, in the same way that you can tell if your class is feeling hateful, or when your neighbors all seem to be conspiratorially hatching plans to do you in, or your far off friends are morose, or your own dog is in a funk. One can just sense moods. I suppose that the NYT reporter went out for a stroll in Germany, sniffed the air, and came back with these conclusive results.
I wonder what they’d say about Poland. I never thought that Poland ever had a mood, it has 38 million moods, all of them fluctuating wildly around a feeling of fatalism and doom.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Five purple crocuses and “Glorious Spring”
I’ve been seeing the white snow drops for several weeks now, but this is the first day that I have a patch of blooming crocuses out front underneath the birch. The season of cultivating perennial flowers has begun!
I was taking a blog trail break and I came across this story, referenced in Mary’s blog (here; mine is an abbreviated version): There is this horse in Japan. She is beloved by all. She draws huge crowds for each race. She has the wonderful name of Haru-urara (translates: Glorious Spring). A song has been written about her and a movie is in the works.
Is this a remake of Seabiscuit? No, Haru-urara has lost more than 100 races in a row. It’s not even close: in the last race she came in 10th out of 11 horses running.
What brings out this affection for a horse that is a sure-fire loser? The author of the piece speculates that perhaps it arises out of a Japanese fondness for the “hopeless but determined underdog.”
If you are beloved in spite of, or perhaps even because of the fact that you are not at the top of the heap, but still are making the effort, isn’t that the most glorious validation of your character, heartfelt perseverance, and sheer SPUNK? The fans seem to be saying “we’ve come to watch you because of your will to give it all, even though there is likely to be no reward at the end of the race.” Of course, the cliché (yet still lovely) ending is that Haru-urara gets the ultimate reward – the adoration of those whom she aims to impress. It seems that’s worth racing-losing for.
Teaching law
There are days when, simply put, you love your job. You come to class, see most everyone in place, you launch your topic for the day, hardly being able to contain your excitement.
My subject for today certainly remains high on the scale of bleakness: there’s virtually nothing happy to be said about enforcement of child support orders. But no matter. Blame the sunshine, the Spring Break rest, the electric quality of teaching on this day, in this mood, at this time—complete joy.
It’s worth recording this post – just to recall it on those other days, when you’re certain that you are not in a conversation with any of the students per se, but in the triangular communication between you, them, and whatever it is that they’re reading off the Net on their laptops. At those moments I feel the classroom should have a big TV screen on the back wall –sort of like the ones they have in gyms or in bars around town –with a Fox News or CNN headline banner running along the bottom, for when a student is speaking and I find I could use a momentary distraction [a reader and a law student elsewhere recently told me that in her class, when a student asks what amounts to a tangential question, you can see from where the students are sitting all the laptop screens automatically jump to email, CNN, blogs, spider solitaire etc, only to return to the notes page when the exchange is over].
My subject for today certainly remains high on the scale of bleakness: there’s virtually nothing happy to be said about enforcement of child support orders. But no matter. Blame the sunshine, the Spring Break rest, the electric quality of teaching on this day, in this mood, at this time—complete joy.
It’s worth recording this post – just to recall it on those other days, when you’re certain that you are not in a conversation with any of the students per se, but in the triangular communication between you, them, and whatever it is that they’re reading off the Net on their laptops. At those moments I feel the classroom should have a big TV screen on the back wall –sort of like the ones they have in gyms or in bars around town –with a Fox News or CNN headline banner running along the bottom, for when a student is speaking and I find I could use a momentary distraction [a reader and a law student elsewhere recently told me that in her class, when a student asks what amounts to a tangential question, you can see from where the students are sitting all the laptop screens automatically jump to email, CNN, blogs, spider solitaire etc, only to return to the notes page when the exchange is over].
Roll back the clock, this was me!
(or, a pre-breakfast post on the value of breakfast)
A WashPost article (here) describes an old health issue that has been retrieved out of the closet and reconsidered in light of the obesity epidemic in this country: NES (Nighttime Eating Syndrome). According to experts, persons with NES have a tendency to eat most of their calories after dinner (as best as I can understand from the article, there are “chemical-brain” issues that predispose some toward this), they then cannot sleep fitfully, and wake up not especially hungry for breakfast, repeating the cycle over and over again. Ultimately, what gets you in trouble is your messed up circadian eating rhythms (though I’m still not sure if this is the result or the cause of NES).
Looking back over my graduate school years (less so later in law school) I have to say that this describes me to the last inch. It also describes a great number of students I hung out with, and perhaps a great number of people today, since the article tells us that some significant portion of the population manifests symptoms of NES.
One of the solutions, according to the authors, is to reprogram your system by forcing yourself to start each day with breakfast. Of course, a person who is wolfing all sorts of heavy duty calories at 1 am hardly feels like granola at 7 am the next day, but the strategy makes sense to me (and indeed, it is one I eventually adopted since I was later surrounded by breakfast-eaters and did not want to miss out on the morning fun; it took me years to realize that no one ever has FUN at the breakfast table, but by then I was addicted to my morning granola).
It’s nice to know that there’s a label for just about every bad habit that you pick up in life. Had I known then that I was a marked NES-er, I may have felt a great urge to dig myself out of NES-dom. At the very least, I would have tried the breakfast routine.
A WashPost article (here) describes an old health issue that has been retrieved out of the closet and reconsidered in light of the obesity epidemic in this country: NES (Nighttime Eating Syndrome). According to experts, persons with NES have a tendency to eat most of their calories after dinner (as best as I can understand from the article, there are “chemical-brain” issues that predispose some toward this), they then cannot sleep fitfully, and wake up not especially hungry for breakfast, repeating the cycle over and over again. Ultimately, what gets you in trouble is your messed up circadian eating rhythms (though I’m still not sure if this is the result or the cause of NES).
Looking back over my graduate school years (less so later in law school) I have to say that this describes me to the last inch. It also describes a great number of students I hung out with, and perhaps a great number of people today, since the article tells us that some significant portion of the population manifests symptoms of NES.
One of the solutions, according to the authors, is to reprogram your system by forcing yourself to start each day with breakfast. Of course, a person who is wolfing all sorts of heavy duty calories at 1 am hardly feels like granola at 7 am the next day, but the strategy makes sense to me (and indeed, it is one I eventually adopted since I was later surrounded by breakfast-eaters and did not want to miss out on the morning fun; it took me years to realize that no one ever has FUN at the breakfast table, but by then I was addicted to my morning granola).
It’s nice to know that there’s a label for just about every bad habit that you pick up in life. Had I known then that I was a marked NES-er, I may have felt a great urge to dig myself out of NES-dom. At the very least, I would have tried the breakfast routine.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Does anyone else think this looks like a monster tongue?
Many news services are reporting today the awarding of the Pritzker Architecture Prize to Iraqi born Zaha Hadid (the first woman to ever win the most prestigious prize in the field). The articles are brief – perhaps more will follow in the next days. I’ll be brief as well, though I do want to say that I was amused by the recurring mention of her “difficult personality.” No details are given on this, but I suspect her resolve not to be deferential to all rich clients at all times may have something to do with acquiring the “difficult” label.
I’m posting a quick peek at the much revered ski jump (designed by her) because it reminds me of a cheerful people-eating monster – something to give sweet dreams for the night.
And, a photo of the "difficult" but brilliant Ms. Hadid.
Women, hotels and good snacks in the refrigerator
Recent reports from travel industry sources indicate that women are taking over business travel by storm. I myself don’t believe it. In Asia, business (meaning fancy) hotel lobbies are 95% populated by men. I never enter business hotels in Europe, but I can tell who flies business class, since I am often snuck into the lounge by very nice ticket agents who feel sorry for my frequent-traveler-but-poor-in-funds status and give me a free pass to the business lounge (at least in Chicago). It is ALWAYS filled with men, accompanied occasionally by a wife who'll sit and stroke her fur coat as she awaits departure. These women are actually a nuisance because they disturb the peace as they make their chatty cell phone calls to their friends back in the neighborhood. Everyone else in the lounge is busy doing important things on their laptops like emailing (me) or studying profit reports and stock market prices (others).
Yet, today I read again, this time in the International Herald Tribune (here), that women are not only visible in business hotels, they are redefining the way these places relate to customers. The author of the article uses the Adlon (a top-of-the-line Berlin hotel) as an example. He writes:
Further into the piece, the author does admit that in terms of sheer numbers, business women travelers are in the minority. Still, they remain instrumental in redefining standards, down to the fridge contents in the hotel room. [I wonder just a little bit what that means – what is a “woman” food or beverage? Less whiskey and more white wine? Cashew nuts instead of beer and pretzels?]
Is this recent hotel acquiescence toward women travelers an important phenomenon for us to reckon with? No, not really, but it beats blog-writing about the testy White House response to the Clarke assertions today. Hotels are such charming and benign spots to consider. News stories about them take the mind off of everything else that happens once you step outside the hotel doors.
Yet, today I read again, this time in the International Herald Tribune (here), that women are not only visible in business hotels, they are redefining the way these places relate to customers. The author of the article uses the Adlon (a top-of-the-line Berlin hotel) as an example. He writes:
Despite the fact that the new Adlon was the scene of Michael Jackson’s baby-dangling escapade from the balcony of the $7,000-a-night presidential suite in late 2002, The resurrected Adlon remains one of the great hotels of Europe. But what struck me most about the hotel on the afternoon I dropped in for a look was that the lobby was crowded with well-dressed women, most of whom appeared to be business travelers, sipping tea or coffee, either alone or in groups of two or three. ‘‘Women with class always know where the best place is to have coffee,’’ Reto Wittwer, the chief executive officer of Kempinski Hotels and Resorts, which numbers the Adlon among its properties, said on the telephone from the Adlon. …
Ask any executive in the hotel industry about the effect of this phenomenon, and you will hear this loud and clear: Far more than businessmen, businesswomen take careful measure of a hotel's amenities, design and service - and they compare notes with colleagues. More so than men, women clearly articulate their tastes and personal preferences in accommodations - and hotels respond. We can thank women travelers for the fact that at most good hotels, the beds are now more comfortable and better appointed than most at-home beds; the bathrooms have become spacious and luxurious; room service has been whipped into shape, and everything from towels to snacks in the minibar has improved.
Further into the piece, the author does admit that in terms of sheer numbers, business women travelers are in the minority. Still, they remain instrumental in redefining standards, down to the fridge contents in the hotel room. [I wonder just a little bit what that means – what is a “woman” food or beverage? Less whiskey and more white wine? Cashew nuts instead of beer and pretzels?]
Is this recent hotel acquiescence toward women travelers an important phenomenon for us to reckon with? No, not really, but it beats blog-writing about the testy White House response to the Clarke assertions today. Hotels are such charming and benign spots to consider. News stories about them take the mind off of everything else that happens once you step outside the hotel doors.
Pills, airplanes and vodka
A friend just returned from a Spring Break vacation in Colorado. I hadn’t known he was going anywhere. His big vacation break was to have been in the Caribbean Islands in February. He told me that he decided to go because he got a few free coupons from Northwest after his Caribbean experience. He had been flying south for his holiday and was nearing his destination when he, along with all passengers sitting on his side of the plane, noticed that one of the engines was on fire. The plane began to drop altitude. The pilot came on to say that they would shut down the engine and try to extinguish the flames. They would also make an emergency landing at the nearest Florida airport.
My friend said that everyone was silent and cooperative as they all went into emergency preparations.
In the end, it was the smoothest landing my friend (who is a very frequent flyer) had ever experienced. Any reflections on the incident? He tells me: “I was sorry that I didn’t get to finish my beer because the attendants swept away all loose debris during the emergency preparations. It was a good beer.” Any thoughts about flying? “The pilots are like anesthesiologists: most of their work is boring. They train for these emergencies. They did a good job, even though the fire extinguishers inside the engine did not work properly and so we wondered if the fire would eventually spread.” Wondered???
Perhaps we should all be flying these days with a small supply of tranquilizers. Not because I especially think flying is unsafe, but I do think you can get crazy with anxiety when the unexpected happens (an engine on fire in mid-air would qualify). I bet many hearts were racing on my friend’s flight. Though, when I was 10 and flying over the Atlantic, two of the prop engines of the small plane died in mid-flight. We had to make an emergency landing in Gander. It was freaky to be flying and looking out the window at the still blades. My recollection is that by the time we were over Gander, we were down to only one spinning propeller, but I could be off by a blade in this. As the drama unfolded, fellow passengers from the Soviet Union (it was a cheap charter flight, full of very frugal Eastern Europeans) opened several bottles of vodka and sang very loudly. There was an almost jovial atmosphere as we spun to our demise. Of course, we didn’t crash, but it wasn’t a terribly fearful experience.
A thought for future travel then: either pills or vodka in the flight bag. And the confidence that pilots can indeed land a broken down piece of metal with malfunctioning fire extinguishers.
My friend said that everyone was silent and cooperative as they all went into emergency preparations.
In the end, it was the smoothest landing my friend (who is a very frequent flyer) had ever experienced. Any reflections on the incident? He tells me: “I was sorry that I didn’t get to finish my beer because the attendants swept away all loose debris during the emergency preparations. It was a good beer.” Any thoughts about flying? “The pilots are like anesthesiologists: most of their work is boring. They train for these emergencies. They did a good job, even though the fire extinguishers inside the engine did not work properly and so we wondered if the fire would eventually spread.” Wondered???
Perhaps we should all be flying these days with a small supply of tranquilizers. Not because I especially think flying is unsafe, but I do think you can get crazy with anxiety when the unexpected happens (an engine on fire in mid-air would qualify). I bet many hearts were racing on my friend’s flight. Though, when I was 10 and flying over the Atlantic, two of the prop engines of the small plane died in mid-flight. We had to make an emergency landing in Gander. It was freaky to be flying and looking out the window at the still blades. My recollection is that by the time we were over Gander, we were down to only one spinning propeller, but I could be off by a blade in this. As the drama unfolded, fellow passengers from the Soviet Union (it was a cheap charter flight, full of very frugal Eastern Europeans) opened several bottles of vodka and sang very loudly. There was an almost jovial atmosphere as we spun to our demise. Of course, we didn’t crash, but it wasn’t a terribly fearful experience.
A thought for future travel then: either pills or vodka in the flight bag. And the confidence that pilots can indeed land a broken down piece of metal with malfunctioning fire extinguishers.
An anniversary of sorts
As I start a new week in my “daily planner” book, I notice that today marks 8 full months (that’s 35 weeks) of rewriting the same basic list of general “to do” items in the side bar. This column has items that are of medium to low priority. Nonetheless, the assumption is that I will get to them for sure that week. (I start a new planning calendar each year toward the end of July, since that is when publishers of academic planners throw the new batch on the market.)
So what from this general list did I fail to accomplish yet again last week?
1. fax a copy of a statute that was requested by someone back in June (excuse: it would take me a long time to find the person’s fax number).
2. Ask for a refund of the deposit I gave to a hotel that I did not visit in the year 2002 (excuse: low likelihood of success, even though they do owe me the $230).
3. Check to make sure there isn’t radon in the basement (excuse: if our lungs have been damaged in the 15+ years that we have lived here, they can stand one more week of poison. I know this is a lousy excuse, similar to the justification for your own three-martini lunch offered in the line about the grandmother who drank whiskey daily and still lived to be 100; I do intend to get to this item. Really.)
4. Write a “congratulations” note and send present to a former student who notified me of giving birth last summer (excuse: I have since had two more students letting me know of similar events in their lives; if I wait a little longer, perhaps I can get a discount on a half-dozen cute Baby GAP overalls. That plus a baby book to start the kid reading is the standard Nina-gift-to-parent-of-newborn. If any of you are reading this, know that the gift & card WILL someday make it to your doorstep).
5. and so on.
A smart reader may point out that I should just write these items on a page in the back or front of the planning book rather than rewriting them each week. But the act of re-writing is guilt-inducing and so I will continue this practice until July 22 2004 at which time I will reevaluate my strategy for accomplishing things.
So what from this general list did I fail to accomplish yet again last week?
1. fax a copy of a statute that was requested by someone back in June (excuse: it would take me a long time to find the person’s fax number).
2. Ask for a refund of the deposit I gave to a hotel that I did not visit in the year 2002 (excuse: low likelihood of success, even though they do owe me the $230).
3. Check to make sure there isn’t radon in the basement (excuse: if our lungs have been damaged in the 15+ years that we have lived here, they can stand one more week of poison. I know this is a lousy excuse, similar to the justification for your own three-martini lunch offered in the line about the grandmother who drank whiskey daily and still lived to be 100; I do intend to get to this item. Really.)
4. Write a “congratulations” note and send present to a former student who notified me of giving birth last summer (excuse: I have since had two more students letting me know of similar events in their lives; if I wait a little longer, perhaps I can get a discount on a half-dozen cute Baby GAP overalls. That plus a baby book to start the kid reading is the standard Nina-gift-to-parent-of-newborn. If any of you are reading this, know that the gift & card WILL someday make it to your doorstep).
5. and so on.
A smart reader may point out that I should just write these items on a page in the back or front of the planning book rather than rewriting them each week. But the act of re-writing is guilt-inducing and so I will continue this practice until July 22 2004 at which time I will reevaluate my strategy for accomplishing things.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Cybertruth
I was just thinking about issues of truth and falsehood when lo and behold, the paper today turned up a story that tracked my thoughts.
The following assertion was made by Clive Thompson of NYT fame in the Times (I’m paraphrasing): even though one would think that internet communications would breed a large number of falsehoods (after all, who could ever track down a fabricated life?), it seems that people are more likely to lie face-to-face than they are in email or blogs (read about it here).
The cited study would throw any self-respecting survey analyst into a tizzy, but I think the conclusions are credible nonetheless. I can tell on my own survey of an n = one: the other day I told someone that I was really happy to have run into them and that I was hoping to get together very soon. I meant none of it. I would have never said that in an email. At most, I would have sent them best regards or wishes or some such nonsense and then moved on.
It’s not only a question of POLITENESS. In part, it is the act of writing things down – once written, the statement takes on extra potency and irreversibility. And, it also has to do with your own (my own) sense of what this particular forum is meant to accomplish. Why blog or write emails based on lies? If you don’t want to be truthful, you needn’t write much of anything. You can omit, mislead, you can diffuse – you have a wide variety of tools at your disposal. Whereas in conversation, you have no time to ponder, to select the best strategy to get away from an irksome topic. You just lie to high heaven to get yourself out of the hot spot.
I like the fact that Clive Thompson admitted to a blogging fanaticism of sorts (he writes: “I spend about an hour every day [I’m sure he’s not honest here—multiplier of at least two needed] visiting blogs, those lippy [great word!] websites where everyone wants to be a pundit and a memoirist. Then I spend an hour writing my own blog and adding to the cacophony.” Me too [who cares if this is an overstatement or an understatement; it is, for the most part, true].
The following assertion was made by Clive Thompson of NYT fame in the Times (I’m paraphrasing): even though one would think that internet communications would breed a large number of falsehoods (after all, who could ever track down a fabricated life?), it seems that people are more likely to lie face-to-face than they are in email or blogs (read about it here).
The cited study would throw any self-respecting survey analyst into a tizzy, but I think the conclusions are credible nonetheless. I can tell on my own survey of an n = one: the other day I told someone that I was really happy to have run into them and that I was hoping to get together very soon. I meant none of it. I would have never said that in an email. At most, I would have sent them best regards or wishes or some such nonsense and then moved on.
It’s not only a question of POLITENESS. In part, it is the act of writing things down – once written, the statement takes on extra potency and irreversibility. And, it also has to do with your own (my own) sense of what this particular forum is meant to accomplish. Why blog or write emails based on lies? If you don’t want to be truthful, you needn’t write much of anything. You can omit, mislead, you can diffuse – you have a wide variety of tools at your disposal. Whereas in conversation, you have no time to ponder, to select the best strategy to get away from an irksome topic. You just lie to high heaven to get yourself out of the hot spot.
I like the fact that Clive Thompson admitted to a blogging fanaticism of sorts (he writes: “I spend about an hour every day [I’m sure he’s not honest here—multiplier of at least two needed] visiting blogs, those lippy [great word!] websites where everyone wants to be a pundit and a memoirist. Then I spend an hour writing my own blog and adding to the cacophony.” Me too [who cares if this is an overstatement or an understatement; it is, for the most part, true].
Bumper sticker that was so simple that it completely confused me
This morning I saw this on a car:
Regime change begins at home
The car was a bit tattered and beaten up and it was being driven by fairly young drivers. I was sure they were the rebellious sort (ascribing traits based on my inherent biases and internalized preconceptions). Therefore, it was natural for me to worry about what devious plots might be going through their heads as they no doubt schemed to overthrow the dreaded parental authority at home. Perhaps they had already devised a way to create anarchy and chaos, to destroy existent methods of communication, and to replace dictatorial rule with proletarian control.
I was so wrapped up in my spin that it never struck me that the sign was of a political nature until I started writing this post.
Regime change begins at home
The car was a bit tattered and beaten up and it was being driven by fairly young drivers. I was sure they were the rebellious sort (ascribing traits based on my inherent biases and internalized preconceptions). Therefore, it was natural for me to worry about what devious plots might be going through their heads as they no doubt schemed to overthrow the dreaded parental authority at home. Perhaps they had already devised a way to create anarchy and chaos, to destroy existent methods of communication, and to replace dictatorial rule with proletarian control.
I was so wrapped up in my spin that it never struck me that the sign was of a political nature until I started writing this post.
Empty chairs at empty tables
It’s one of those times where a lyric from a song (matching the mood of the moment) hits some portion of your brain and stays there (hence the title to the post). Another trip to the airport today, this time emptying the house of visitors and returning me to a work-dominated existence.
To add a chuckle to an otherwise bleak day, I again poke around my favorite presses to see if they are printing anything even mildly amusing. For some reason, the following letter in the Washington Post makes me smile. It is a response to the prod “Tell us about the most money you ever wasted.” Now, you could say that small sums are going to lead to small waste and big sums to big waste, but in this case, the respondent makes you understand that sometimes even smallish sums will make you feel like you’ve suffered a tremendous rip-off, just because of the discredited hope and failed expectation. The person writes:
To add a chuckle to an otherwise bleak day, I again poke around my favorite presses to see if they are printing anything even mildly amusing. For some reason, the following letter in the Washington Post makes me smile. It is a response to the prod “Tell us about the most money you ever wasted.” Now, you could say that small sums are going to lead to small waste and big sums to big waste, but in this case, the respondent makes you understand that sometimes even smallish sums will make you feel like you’ve suffered a tremendous rip-off, just because of the discredited hope and failed expectation. The person writes:
My sister once told me transcendental meditation would change my life, so I went ahead and did it: paid $125 for a mantra. It may not sound like a lot of money, but (a) this was 1976 and my annual salary as a budding botanist was $8,000, and (b) no money ever bought less.Exceptionally funny for about eight reasons. Or maybe I am just that desperate for a laugh.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
I don’t understand the US indifference toward the UN
Some days ago, I read a story about a film that is currently in production (“the Interpreter”). Many of the scenes are being filmed at the United Nations (at night, when the staff goes home), under an agreement entered into with Secretary General Kofi Annan, who gave consent because he found the film to be consistent with the basic values of the organization.
Pollock is directing it and Nicole Kidman along with Sean Penn have leading roles. Pollock had commented to the press that even though he lived for a good part of his life in New York, as did Nicole Kidman, neither had ever been inside the UN. He said when he first took a tour in connection with making the film, he was awestruck. Always a silent advocate, he found himself suddenly being a more outspoken one.
It makes me terribly sad to realize that the following is true for most people living in New York, (to say nothing of those from farther away): they’ll not have been inside the UN, nor thought about its mission. They’ll have never understood the work that it does, yet they will fire off strong statements evincing a lack of support, doubting the value or even the need for the UN. “I am no fan of the UN” – I have heard this a lot, and not only in conservative circles.
I was not surprised, therefore, to read the Op-Ed Column in the Times today where Nicholas Kristof describes the horror of childbirth in developing nations (where close to 500,000 women die each year in the absence of medical care at the time of delivery), focusing especially on Chad. Kristof is dismayed with our apathy toward this issue, and wonders how it could be that the Bush Administration would not only not increase aid for programs that help bring care to birthing women, but would actually cut off aid from (among others) the UN Population Fund (which, for example, provides training for midwives in places such as Chad). There are so many things wrong with this decision (made for political rather than budgetary reasons)! We are terribly incurious about the operations of the UN and its agencies. A blockbuster film by Pollock could change that. I’m hoping.
Pollock is directing it and Nicole Kidman along with Sean Penn have leading roles. Pollock had commented to the press that even though he lived for a good part of his life in New York, as did Nicole Kidman, neither had ever been inside the UN. He said when he first took a tour in connection with making the film, he was awestruck. Always a silent advocate, he found himself suddenly being a more outspoken one.
It makes me terribly sad to realize that the following is true for most people living in New York, (to say nothing of those from farther away): they’ll not have been inside the UN, nor thought about its mission. They’ll have never understood the work that it does, yet they will fire off strong statements evincing a lack of support, doubting the value or even the need for the UN. “I am no fan of the UN” – I have heard this a lot, and not only in conservative circles.
I was not surprised, therefore, to read the Op-Ed Column in the Times today where Nicholas Kristof describes the horror of childbirth in developing nations (where close to 500,000 women die each year in the absence of medical care at the time of delivery), focusing especially on Chad. Kristof is dismayed with our apathy toward this issue, and wonders how it could be that the Bush Administration would not only not increase aid for programs that help bring care to birthing women, but would actually cut off aid from (among others) the UN Population Fund (which, for example, provides training for midwives in places such as Chad). There are so many things wrong with this decision (made for political rather than budgetary reasons)! We are terribly incurious about the operations of the UN and its agencies. A blockbuster film by Pollock could change that. I’m hoping.
Seals, spring and serendipity
What can you say about a person who spends a brilliant first day of spring indoors, with stacks of files, mountains of papers and unopened envelopes—of the sort that have little windows on the front? That she should have attended to some of these on days when the weather was less alluring?
Perhaps. However, there’s value in finding myself in this predicament. I may garnish a number of awards: the only one in town dumb enough not to be outside at the moment, the only one blogging at the moment (I checked – all favored blogs are dormant), the only one amusing herself by breaking for a search of press stories that have the occasional puzzler or oddity to mull over.
And here’s just such an oddity, especially picked for the pathetic reader who also finds him or herself stuck working instead of playing. So, DID YOU KNOW THAT IF YOU TRANSPORT A DEAD SEAL’S HEAD IN YOUR LUGGAGE ON A DOMESTIC FLIGHT YOU MAY 1. HAVE THE SEAL TAKEN AWAY FROM YOU; 2. BE FINED UP TO $20,000; AND 3. FIND YOURSELF IMPRISONED FOR UP TO A YEAR? Along with the druggies and the Martha Stewarts and the disturbers of bear hibernation (see post yesterday), there may be in the jail yard someone who found it necessary to take back home the head of a dead seal. Read about it here, and then go back to your work.
Me, I’m going outside for a walk so that I can think about all this heady stuff.
Perhaps. However, there’s value in finding myself in this predicament. I may garnish a number of awards: the only one in town dumb enough not to be outside at the moment, the only one blogging at the moment (I checked – all favored blogs are dormant), the only one amusing herself by breaking for a search of press stories that have the occasional puzzler or oddity to mull over.
And here’s just such an oddity, especially picked for the pathetic reader who also finds him or herself stuck working instead of playing. So, DID YOU KNOW THAT IF YOU TRANSPORT A DEAD SEAL’S HEAD IN YOUR LUGGAGE ON A DOMESTIC FLIGHT YOU MAY 1. HAVE THE SEAL TAKEN AWAY FROM YOU; 2. BE FINED UP TO $20,000; AND 3. FIND YOURSELF IMPRISONED FOR UP TO A YEAR? Along with the druggies and the Martha Stewarts and the disturbers of bear hibernation (see post yesterday), there may be in the jail yard someone who found it necessary to take back home the head of a dead seal. Read about it here, and then go back to your work.
Me, I’m going outside for a walk so that I can think about all this heady stuff.
It’s hard to deliver a good closing line
Sometimes a writer can whiz through a text with lightening speed, but get completely stuck on the final line. Summarizing makes the piece suddenly trite, punctuating it with a punchy comment may not fit with the tenor of the piece, nothing works.
I’m going to guess that the CNN reporter who wrote about travel to Eastern Europe (story here) had an angry editor standing over her or him, waiting to run the article over to the delayed presses (my imagery is very 40s), because the final line in the piece comes out of the blue. Here we are, reading along about the beauty of Prague, the cultural sights of Warsaw, the venerable streets of Vilnius and then, bang! –we get this finale:
Just head east -- and take a walk on the wild side.
Now I don’t much mind having my homeland described thus. There is something racy and attractive about viewing my roots as belonging to a place where wild things sprout. But it seems an odd way to end a story about sitting through Chopin concerts in the park and exploring the Royal Castle in the Old Town. Do I really not understand Westerners at all? Do they regard these sights and behaviors as brash? Audacious? Savage? What?
I think that the East in Europe is like the West is in the States – forever fighting the image of an untamed land. No matter how many centuries of history we have behind us, we will always appear quaintly eccentric and …wild.
I’m going to guess that the CNN reporter who wrote about travel to Eastern Europe (story here) had an angry editor standing over her or him, waiting to run the article over to the delayed presses (my imagery is very 40s), because the final line in the piece comes out of the blue. Here we are, reading along about the beauty of Prague, the cultural sights of Warsaw, the venerable streets of Vilnius and then, bang! –we get this finale:
Just head east -- and take a walk on the wild side.
Now I don’t much mind having my homeland described thus. There is something racy and attractive about viewing my roots as belonging to a place where wild things sprout. But it seems an odd way to end a story about sitting through Chopin concerts in the park and exploring the Royal Castle in the Old Town. Do I really not understand Westerners at all? Do they regard these sights and behaviors as brash? Audacious? Savage? What?
I think that the East in Europe is like the West is in the States – forever fighting the image of an untamed land. No matter how many centuries of history we have behind us, we will always appear quaintly eccentric and …wild.
Reflections on the last day of winter
The day (I'm thinking of time before midnight, so my focus is on Friday) had several things wrong with it:
1. A reader wrote that she had a premonition. She is the one, mentioned in an earlier post, who dreams things and then the dreams turn out to be true. This time she dreamt that I would be attacked in some way. As a result I have barricaded myself in the house, canceling all appointments until the alert lever goes down (tomorrow? She seemed to imply that it was a 24 hour thing).
2. I got a new ATM card (my old one was eaten by the ATM machine), with a promise of a new number, new personality, new pin, new look, new future. Yet, when I used it, it would only accept the old pin. Panic. What does this mean? Does it have the soul of the old yet the character of the new?
3. It was, formally, the last day of Spring Break. Tomorrow (Saturday) may look and feel and actually BE spring (acc. to the calendar), but today was the last day of BREAK. That means that I may officially tear up the list of ‘things to do during Spring Break’ and start afresh. I need not pay heed to the fact that I only accomplished two of the items on said list. After all, I have a whole new season to improve in.
4. A workman came to fix glitches in windows (we had installed new windows a few months back). One problem window was in my ‘study’—the room with the blooming jasmine tree (see earlier post). The workman, an old pal from many construction projects of years gone by, sought me out to inquire about the blooming tree. He said it was the most beautifully fragrant plant he had ever come across. I should have given it to him then and there, explaining that I myself could not live with it as it reminded me of Russian ladies of the 70s. But suddenly I felt proud and possessive. I answered: “yes, lovely, isn’t it?” The jasmine plant could have had a loving home and yet I refused to surrender it because suddenly it had VALUE ascribed by another. The human species is a selfish lot.
1. A reader wrote that she had a premonition. She is the one, mentioned in an earlier post, who dreams things and then the dreams turn out to be true. This time she dreamt that I would be attacked in some way. As a result I have barricaded myself in the house, canceling all appointments until the alert lever goes down (tomorrow? She seemed to imply that it was a 24 hour thing).
2. I got a new ATM card (my old one was eaten by the ATM machine), with a promise of a new number, new personality, new pin, new look, new future. Yet, when I used it, it would only accept the old pin. Panic. What does this mean? Does it have the soul of the old yet the character of the new?
3. It was, formally, the last day of Spring Break. Tomorrow (Saturday) may look and feel and actually BE spring (acc. to the calendar), but today was the last day of BREAK. That means that I may officially tear up the list of ‘things to do during Spring Break’ and start afresh. I need not pay heed to the fact that I only accomplished two of the items on said list. After all, I have a whole new season to improve in.
4. A workman came to fix glitches in windows (we had installed new windows a few months back). One problem window was in my ‘study’—the room with the blooming jasmine tree (see earlier post). The workman, an old pal from many construction projects of years gone by, sought me out to inquire about the blooming tree. He said it was the most beautifully fragrant plant he had ever come across. I should have given it to him then and there, explaining that I myself could not live with it as it reminded me of Russian ladies of the 70s. But suddenly I felt proud and possessive. I answered: “yes, lovely, isn’t it?” The jasmine plant could have had a loving home and yet I refused to surrender it because suddenly it had VALUE ascribed by another. The human species is a selfish lot.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Why do mothers send their adult children newspaper clippings?
I just got my fat yellow envelope full of news stories from my Mom (defying stereotypes, she turned Berkeley-radical in her old age and so the clippings are of a certain slant, left-leaning shall we say).
I think she must still be holding a grudge about my primary voting behavior (reminder: she remained a loyal “Deanie” while I was already an “Edwardsian”), because many of the stories she sends point to character traits in Kerry that she knows I would find reprehensible (at the same time that she understands that the issues are moot since just about nothing would cause either of us to cross over and cast a vote for the GWB-DC ticket).
It is difficult not to love your candidate. I remember a long time ago when I taught social psych (to a class of 350, made worse by the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing), I tried to explain the common phenomenon on imputing traits onto a person based on traits already in their possession. In Kerry’s case, one would tend to think that because he is a Democrat, running as a populist against a conservative Republican, he would be, therefore, more likely to give generously to charity, feel kindly toward the little guy, scorn ostentatiousness and pretension, and in general opt for a certain level of moneyed simplicity (no, this is not an oxymoron), regardless of the affluence that marks his life.
Au contraire.
True, Kerry’s current and past wealth are grounds well trampled by the press. However, in one article, the packaging of facts unfortunately creates an image of a man who is a big spender on himself and not so much on the little guy. In the SF Chronicle story, sent by my CA Clipper Supreme, the reporter mentions Kerry’s mansion on Beacon Hill and recalls how a fire hydrant in front prevented Kerry and his wife from parking their SUV there. They asked the city of Boston to remove the hydrant and the city obliged. In Nantucket, Kerry spends leisure time in a sprawling house and a power boat, the latter worth well over half a million (which he purchased recently for cash). Kerry comes with privilege written up and down his shirt sleeve: his mother was from one of the oldest WASP families in the state of Massachusetts. More importantly perhaps, while living on a senator’s salary of $100,000, Kerry’s total contribution to charity in one year was $135. During that same year he purchased a brand new imported Italian motorcycle (priced at $8,600). The locals in Boston and Nantucket report that he routinely cuts to the front of the line in airports, theaters, clam shacks, and at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
It’s irrelevant of course – all of it, down to the Italian motorcycle. My Mom just wants to rub it in. She liked Dean’s frugality. As to Kerry’s life-style choices – well, a Berkeley-radical is not going to go for any of this. I expect my Clipping Service is going to be hackin’ away at the newspapers in the months ahead.
I think she must still be holding a grudge about my primary voting behavior (reminder: she remained a loyal “Deanie” while I was already an “Edwardsian”), because many of the stories she sends point to character traits in Kerry that she knows I would find reprehensible (at the same time that she understands that the issues are moot since just about nothing would cause either of us to cross over and cast a vote for the GWB-DC ticket).
It is difficult not to love your candidate. I remember a long time ago when I taught social psych (to a class of 350, made worse by the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing), I tried to explain the common phenomenon on imputing traits onto a person based on traits already in their possession. In Kerry’s case, one would tend to think that because he is a Democrat, running as a populist against a conservative Republican, he would be, therefore, more likely to give generously to charity, feel kindly toward the little guy, scorn ostentatiousness and pretension, and in general opt for a certain level of moneyed simplicity (no, this is not an oxymoron), regardless of the affluence that marks his life.
Au contraire.
True, Kerry’s current and past wealth are grounds well trampled by the press. However, in one article, the packaging of facts unfortunately creates an image of a man who is a big spender on himself and not so much on the little guy. In the SF Chronicle story, sent by my CA Clipper Supreme, the reporter mentions Kerry’s mansion on Beacon Hill and recalls how a fire hydrant in front prevented Kerry and his wife from parking their SUV there. They asked the city of Boston to remove the hydrant and the city obliged. In Nantucket, Kerry spends leisure time in a sprawling house and a power boat, the latter worth well over half a million (which he purchased recently for cash). Kerry comes with privilege written up and down his shirt sleeve: his mother was from one of the oldest WASP families in the state of Massachusetts. More importantly perhaps, while living on a senator’s salary of $100,000, Kerry’s total contribution to charity in one year was $135. During that same year he purchased a brand new imported Italian motorcycle (priced at $8,600). The locals in Boston and Nantucket report that he routinely cuts to the front of the line in airports, theaters, clam shacks, and at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
It’s irrelevant of course – all of it, down to the Italian motorcycle. My Mom just wants to rub it in. She liked Dean’s frugality. As to Kerry’s life-style choices – well, a Berkeley-radical is not going to go for any of this. I expect my Clipping Service is going to be hackin’ away at the newspapers in the months ahead.
Nonconformity
A blogger-reader-friend (her blog can be seen here) did a neat round up of “odd stories” in her post. Among the items is the following (from a Wisconsin paper, found here):
But let me focus on the bear for now. Why is he up there in that tree? Typically, bears hibernate in caves or other hollow places on the ground. The DNR specialist speculates that perhaps the bear had had some unpleasantry happen to it on the ground and was escaping the mean world below. Eagles are tolerant of other species: they’ll stare, but they wont be aggressive toward the visitor.
There is a fine for humans who would get it into their heads to disturb a hibernating bear. Just entering the den of a sleeping bear carries a maximum fine of $10,000 and 9 months in jail. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to put a person who entered a den of a bear in prison along with the Martha Stewarts and druggies of this world, but I suppose it would make for interesting, lively conversation during morning prison yard exercises (and what are you in here for? “insider trading” “possession of narcotics” “disturbing a bear”).
[photo credit: bear with us, inc.]
A bear is hibernating in a bald eagle nest at the top of a tree … while several of the birds look on.This sounds like something that would happen to me: I would pick the wrong place to recline in, completely inappropriate to my species, dispossessing some bewildered souls of their lair and then have the whole community just laugh and laugh from below. Or, translated to human terms, I would plunge into doing something [in the manner of: “oh, this sounds neat.” plunge.] that most would consider rather batty, not realizing, not caring maybe, forging ahead because it seemed interesting, not seeing the oddity of it at all.
``You can imagine they're thinking, 'Now what?' `` said Ron Eckstein, a state Department of Natural Resources wildlife biologist.
But let me focus on the bear for now. Why is he up there in that tree? Typically, bears hibernate in caves or other hollow places on the ground. The DNR specialist speculates that perhaps the bear had had some unpleasantry happen to it on the ground and was escaping the mean world below. Eagles are tolerant of other species: they’ll stare, but they wont be aggressive toward the visitor.
There is a fine for humans who would get it into their heads to disturb a hibernating bear. Just entering the den of a sleeping bear carries a maximum fine of $10,000 and 9 months in jail. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to put a person who entered a den of a bear in prison along with the Martha Stewarts and druggies of this world, but I suppose it would make for interesting, lively conversation during morning prison yard exercises (and what are you in here for? “insider trading” “possession of narcotics” “disturbing a bear”).
[photo credit: bear with us, inc.]
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Rooms without a view
Every time I travel and stay in a hotel, I ask for a room with a pleasant view. This could be regarded as compensation for my early years in a Warsaw apartment that looked out on the ugliest church in the world (in a terrifying and gothic sort of way), adjacent to a highly trafficked tram stop; or for the years after, when our New York bedroom looked out on the back of the YMCA, where men routinely, unabashedly sat by their windows and stared right at our apartment. Creepy.
A good view should not be a hotel priority and I chalk up my request as belonging to the “dumb things I like in life.” After all, you come back late at night, it’s dark, you close the curtains, turn on CNN or check your email, and go to sleep. Still, unless there’s a price issue, I ask for the view.
So why do I eat with some frequency in places that offer at best a parking lot for your viewing pleasure? Or a gas station? Or a ridiculously busy intersection? Or –as in today’s lunch place—all of the above (did someone say Sunprint Café? Damn, you’re smart!). Yes, of course, a view can be sacrificed for the company, the food, or even (third on the list) the ambience of the interior. But I long for it anyway: a place to eat and talk and people-watch, with potted bay leaf trees or baskets of flowers at the entrance and maybe some winding little street or dirt road just outside, and let’s go for broke here: a boy pedalling an old bike, with a baguette sticking out of his basket, heading for an alley lined with tall cypress trees. Yes, totally idyllic—such stuff as dreams are made of.
Ah well, if something should be sacrificed, I suppose it has to be the view. Even a boy pedalling down a cypress lane isn’t going to overcome ratty food or tiresome company. Sitting through a meal where after ten minutes you wonder if it would be transparent to play the “sick dog at home” card (and after five more minutes you no longer care if it’s polite, you play it anyway), as you stare miserably at your plate of buffalo stew can ruin a day.
A good view should not be a hotel priority and I chalk up my request as belonging to the “dumb things I like in life.” After all, you come back late at night, it’s dark, you close the curtains, turn on CNN or check your email, and go to sleep. Still, unless there’s a price issue, I ask for the view.
So why do I eat with some frequency in places that offer at best a parking lot for your viewing pleasure? Or a gas station? Or a ridiculously busy intersection? Or –as in today’s lunch place—all of the above (did someone say Sunprint Café? Damn, you’re smart!). Yes, of course, a view can be sacrificed for the company, the food, or even (third on the list) the ambience of the interior. But I long for it anyway: a place to eat and talk and people-watch, with potted bay leaf trees or baskets of flowers at the entrance and maybe some winding little street or dirt road just outside, and let’s go for broke here: a boy pedalling an old bike, with a baguette sticking out of his basket, heading for an alley lined with tall cypress trees. Yes, totally idyllic—such stuff as dreams are made of.
Ah well, if something should be sacrificed, I suppose it has to be the view. Even a boy pedalling down a cypress lane isn’t going to overcome ratty food or tiresome company. Sitting through a meal where after ten minutes you wonder if it would be transparent to play the “sick dog at home” card (and after five more minutes you no longer care if it’s polite, you play it anyway), as you stare miserably at your plate of buffalo stew can ruin a day.
Life imitates cheap Russian perfume
I once purchased a gift for someone who had done us a tremendous service. I picked out a giant blossoming jasmine tree and left it on her doorstep with a gushy note attached. She called shortly after thanking politely but letting me know that she could not accept the gift. Even though she was a horticulturist, she said she could not tolerate perfumes of any sort indoors, and so she could not bring in the jasmine plant.
Only slightly hurt (the return of gifts is always a painful experience, moreover, I would have never known had she made a bonfire of the tree—I was not a frequent visitor to her place), I took back the tree, and plotted how I could rescind the gushy message as well.
The tree stands in my home ‘office’ and every few months it bursts into bloom, exuding the intense fragrance of jasmine throughout the entire lower portion of the house.
I should be pleased. However, I was conditioned to cringe at the sickly sweet smell of artificial so-called floral perfumes. For me, they are associated with the forceful Russian women who traveled to Poland frequently to stock up on our superior cosmetics. The odorous jasmine, I’m sorry to say, smells a bit like them.
I should pass on the well-intentioned tree to someone who will appreciate its willingness to sprout blooms with such regularity. But I’ve already had one tree chopped into firewood this year (see post somewhere below). I can’t live with the idea that I killed one off and orphaned another. It’s too much. I’ll just move my papers and work on the living room floor for all the weeks (the many weeks) of its blooming life.
Only slightly hurt (the return of gifts is always a painful experience, moreover, I would have never known had she made a bonfire of the tree—I was not a frequent visitor to her place), I took back the tree, and plotted how I could rescind the gushy message as well.
The tree stands in my home ‘office’ and every few months it bursts into bloom, exuding the intense fragrance of jasmine throughout the entire lower portion of the house.
I should be pleased. However, I was conditioned to cringe at the sickly sweet smell of artificial so-called floral perfumes. For me, they are associated with the forceful Russian women who traveled to Poland frequently to stock up on our superior cosmetics. The odorous jasmine, I’m sorry to say, smells a bit like them.
I should pass on the well-intentioned tree to someone who will appreciate its willingness to sprout blooms with such regularity. But I’ve already had one tree chopped into firewood this year (see post somewhere below). I can’t live with the idea that I killed one off and orphaned another. It’s too much. I’ll just move my papers and work on the living room floor for all the weeks (the many weeks) of its blooming life.
Occasionally, one must write about politics
The IHTribune has an interesting comment (by Ian Buruma, who lives mostly in Asia and is the author of "The Wages of Guilt: Memories of War in Germany and Japan.") on the US presence in Iraq (here). Buruma compares the Western imposition of principled values (personal and religious freedom, democratic elections, etc) on a reluctant nation with the Napoleanic wars, when a true despot waged wars in the name of liberty, equality and brotherhood (and what French person doesn’t choke with pride over “Liberté Egalité Fraternité,” to this day?).
The author takes a sweeping look at the two hundred years that followed Napoleon’s crusade. He writes:
And herein lies the real issue: was it not predictable that the ‘mission’ would be impossible? That internal conflicts would bolster extremism, making it difficult for the moderate Muslims (in all corners of the world) to maintain their stance against fundamentalism without appearing like puppets of the West?
A friend from Poland wrote that the nation is becoming skittish about supporting the coalition forces in Iraq ever since the recent dismantling of terrorist plots to attack the airport and a railway station in Poland. That, of course, is a curious reason to pull out support (but then, the reasons for initial support were also curious). However, it may be that the time has come for Europe to coalesce around the idea of forcing another round of discussions about the future of Iraq. That discussion will not be initiated by anyone in this country in the next seven months, and waiting until November seems dangerously long.
The author takes a sweeping look at the two hundred years that followed Napoleon’s crusade. He writes:
France's armed intervention was deeply resented. Some nativist reactions were relatively benign: romantic poetry celebrating the native soul, or a taste for folkloric roots.
.
But in other cases the native soul, especially in Germany, turned sour and became antiliberal and anti-Semitic. (…)
As soon as Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, the liberal laws he instituted in Prussia were annulled. And a century later, the resentments planted by Napoleon's armed liberation sprouted their most bitter fruits in Nazi Germany.
.
Arab and Muslim extremism may never become as lethal or powerful as the 20th-century German strain, but it has already taken a terrible toll. Once again a nation with a universalist mission to liberate the world is creating dangerous enemies.(...)
.
This is not necessarily because the Islamic world hates democracy, but because the use of armed force - combined with the hypocrisy of going after one dictator while coddling others, the arrogant zealotry of some American ideologues and the failures of a ham-handed occupation - are giving America's democratic mission a bad name.
(…) There seems to be little doubt that most Iraqis were more than happy to see Saddam go. Most would have remained grateful to the United States and Britain, if only the coalition forces could have somehow gone home quickly, leaving Iraq with a functioning administration, electricity, running water and safe streets.
.
This, of course, would not have been possible even if Britain and America had done everything right. The fact that the coalition got so much spectacularly wrong has made things far worse.
And herein lies the real issue: was it not predictable that the ‘mission’ would be impossible? That internal conflicts would bolster extremism, making it difficult for the moderate Muslims (in all corners of the world) to maintain their stance against fundamentalism without appearing like puppets of the West?
A friend from Poland wrote that the nation is becoming skittish about supporting the coalition forces in Iraq ever since the recent dismantling of terrorist plots to attack the airport and a railway station in Poland. That, of course, is a curious reason to pull out support (but then, the reasons for initial support were also curious). However, it may be that the time has come for Europe to coalesce around the idea of forcing another round of discussions about the future of Iraq. That discussion will not be initiated by anyone in this country in the next seven months, and waiting until November seems dangerously long.
It could be snowing bugs
To stave off my complaints about the weather (snow AGAIN this morning), a friend sent me this CNN image from Australia (she is especially insect-averse):
[story about Australia's plague of locusts can be found here]
Of course, I could retaliate and send her this ---->, as a pleasant reminder of what’s ahead, after the snow. Morning bantering of this kind can really jumpstart the day.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Of all things, a post about God
To think I almost missed the article (in the Guardian, but not in the form of a major headline – rather, buried in the science/education section, as if it was only marginally important to the majority of its readership) that gave me a scientific formula persuasively stating that indeed, there is a God. Well, perhaps not too persuasively: odds are, according to the scientist who worked this through (read about it here), as ‘high’ as 67% that God exists.
I see the cautious way the newspaper is approaching this finding. After all, 67% isn’t that great. Not enough to be reassuring to “Passion” viewers, for example. Does the Guardian really want to underscore a study that says that there’s a 33% chance that life is all about a meaningless Darwinian pursuit of food, mating, and survival?
I want the blog readers who have some methodological acumen to tell me that I know what I’m talking about when I say the study is odd to begin with. It starts with the premise that there’s a 50-50 chance of there being a deity. Why that high (or that low, depending on your perspective)? And the factors that are then worked into the formula (for example: the existence of miracles) – do they not tilt the outcome somewhat?
Wait. Perhaps the math is credible, but the conclusion is wrong. Maybe the data should indicate that there is only a 67% of a God out there – that he or she isn’t all that we make him/her out to be? In which case we would have a God that is divine, yet as imperfect as the rest of us.
But I don’t think that is the author’s intent. It’s a yes – no type inquiry, reassuring to those who want science to be on their side. And BTW, the author himself is 95% confident about God’s existence. The discrepancy is a little befuddling, though maybe the author’s lack of impartiality helps explain the final outcome – on the side of God.
I see the cautious way the newspaper is approaching this finding. After all, 67% isn’t that great. Not enough to be reassuring to “Passion” viewers, for example. Does the Guardian really want to underscore a study that says that there’s a 33% chance that life is all about a meaningless Darwinian pursuit of food, mating, and survival?
I want the blog readers who have some methodological acumen to tell me that I know what I’m talking about when I say the study is odd to begin with. It starts with the premise that there’s a 50-50 chance of there being a deity. Why that high (or that low, depending on your perspective)? And the factors that are then worked into the formula (for example: the existence of miracles) – do they not tilt the outcome somewhat?
Wait. Perhaps the math is credible, but the conclusion is wrong. Maybe the data should indicate that there is only a 67% of a God out there – that he or she isn’t all that we make him/her out to be? In which case we would have a God that is divine, yet as imperfect as the rest of us.
But I don’t think that is the author’s intent. It’s a yes – no type inquiry, reassuring to those who want science to be on their side. And BTW, the author himself is 95% confident about God’s existence. The discrepancy is a little befuddling, though maybe the author’s lack of impartiality helps explain the final outcome – on the side of God.
Bubbles
As I am not even remotely Irish, I have no special privileges on March 17 and moreover, nothing about the world appears green today (fresh snow outside). However, I do have a nephew whose name is Patrick and I know that in Poland, where he lives, name-days are even more important than birthdays and so at least one member of my extended family is certain to be celebrating today, though most likely he will be doing so not by dancing jigs, but by chanting with his Krishna friends (yes, that appears to be his calling—no secret there, he has a website with all details made public).
Still, even in my non-Irish frame of mind, I appreciated a reader’s email with a link to a CNN article on Guinness. Not so much because I am a Guinness Stout fan (predictably, my Eastern European DNA would prefer a pilsner), but because the phenomenon described in the article is baffling and incomprehensible to me. Guinness bubbles go down, not up. Really. I am assured of the correctness of this since it has the seal of approval from a joint team of Stanford U and U of Edinburgh experts who studied the bubbles and came forth with a definitive statement on the matter.
Nothing is certain in life after all, even the trajectory of bubble movement.
Still, even in my non-Irish frame of mind, I appreciated a reader’s email with a link to a CNN article on Guinness. Not so much because I am a Guinness Stout fan (predictably, my Eastern European DNA would prefer a pilsner), but because the phenomenon described in the article is baffling and incomprehensible to me. Guinness bubbles go down, not up. Really. I am assured of the correctness of this since it has the seal of approval from a joint team of Stanford U and U of Edinburgh experts who studied the bubbles and came forth with a definitive statement on the matter.
Nothing is certain in life after all, even the trajectory of bubble movement.
A Passion for the Cross
Thanks to the reader who sent me the story (here) about an unfortunate incident in Maine. I hope there wasn’t a suggestion that perhaps this is conduct worthy of me or anyone I know. Most likely the story was forwarded because much has been written lately about movies with crosses in them and this added an interesting new twist to the idea of religious fervor.
It appears that a 23 year-old man attempted to nail himself to a wooden cross in his own living room last week. Why did he do it? He said he had been seeing images of Christ on his computer screen. Having accomplished the act of nailing one hand, he then realized that he could not nail the second one and so he called 911. The article states that it was not clear if he was calling 911 to get medical assistance or to ask for help with the nailing of the other hand.
He committed no crime in his undertaking of this project and so after being treated for wounds, he was released. BTW, he had not (yet) seen “The Passion.” Since he seems highly impressionable, one has to worry what ideas will strike him after watching the film.
It appears that a 23 year-old man attempted to nail himself to a wooden cross in his own living room last week. Why did he do it? He said he had been seeing images of Christ on his computer screen. Having accomplished the act of nailing one hand, he then realized that he could not nail the second one and so he called 911. The article states that it was not clear if he was calling 911 to get medical assistance or to ask for help with the nailing of the other hand.
He committed no crime in his undertaking of this project and so after being treated for wounds, he was released. BTW, he had not (yet) seen “The Passion.” Since he seems highly impressionable, one has to worry what ideas will strike him after watching the film.
Food soliloquy
Who cooks these days? –asks a reader from Poland. Her son had just completed a translation of a cook book from English to Polish and both were a little perplexed at the complexity of the recipes and the number of ingredients used to prepare each dish.
It’s an interesting question. I suppose you could divide the country into foodie types and normal people. Foodie types insist on fresh ingredients, rarely serve leftovers, make a big production of most meals, are passionate cookbook hounds, and have stacks of magazines telling them how to do all this better. I admit to being a foodie type. I would think that most card-holding members of Slow Food are foodie types: it’s our mantra, after all, to cook slowly and eat in ways that promote social discourse.
But being a foodie person and following complicated recipes are not the same thing. Over the years, my own fastidiousness with having the “right ingredients” has gone down, to the point that I can now make a ginger sauce without even procuring the ginger, though maybe it should then be called “ginger-less ginger sauce.” If you’ve ever baked a spice cake, you’ll have had the experience of being on spice ingredient number 239 and wondering if ANYONE on earth would notice if you skipped finely grinding ingredient number 240. By your tenth bake of the cake, you’re down to only 10 spices and still no one comments on the omissions.
For once I can lay it on the French for having complicated out cooking lives. The Italians are quite different in their approach – none of this saucing, fussing with ingredients: simple and fresh suffice. After all, just switching a brand of olive oil with significantly alter the taste of a dish. You needn’t confuse the palate with 30 additional ingredients. But the French—oh, how they can strain your patience, particularly with their sauce obsession. Making the broth base alone requires ten herbs and thirty vegetables – and that is only the beginning. But in all this fuss you learn to respect each product, fall in love with the scent and texture of every item brought to the table. Behind this reverence for food is, of course, a high regard for the work of the person who crafted it with such care and with attention to the land, the climate, the history that conspire to give food its unique, regional character.
Of course, all this growing and preparing is not done in isolation. Working with food should never be a lonely act. And eating it? Even cave people huddled together over their buffalo stew, didn’t they?
It’s an interesting question. I suppose you could divide the country into foodie types and normal people. Foodie types insist on fresh ingredients, rarely serve leftovers, make a big production of most meals, are passionate cookbook hounds, and have stacks of magazines telling them how to do all this better. I admit to being a foodie type. I would think that most card-holding members of Slow Food are foodie types: it’s our mantra, after all, to cook slowly and eat in ways that promote social discourse.
But being a foodie person and following complicated recipes are not the same thing. Over the years, my own fastidiousness with having the “right ingredients” has gone down, to the point that I can now make a ginger sauce without even procuring the ginger, though maybe it should then be called “ginger-less ginger sauce.” If you’ve ever baked a spice cake, you’ll have had the experience of being on spice ingredient number 239 and wondering if ANYONE on earth would notice if you skipped finely grinding ingredient number 240. By your tenth bake of the cake, you’re down to only 10 spices and still no one comments on the omissions.
For once I can lay it on the French for having complicated out cooking lives. The Italians are quite different in their approach – none of this saucing, fussing with ingredients: simple and fresh suffice. After all, just switching a brand of olive oil with significantly alter the taste of a dish. You needn’t confuse the palate with 30 additional ingredients. But the French—oh, how they can strain your patience, particularly with their sauce obsession. Making the broth base alone requires ten herbs and thirty vegetables – and that is only the beginning. But in all this fuss you learn to respect each product, fall in love with the scent and texture of every item brought to the table. Behind this reverence for food is, of course, a high regard for the work of the person who crafted it with such care and with attention to the land, the climate, the history that conspire to give food its unique, regional character.
Of course, all this growing and preparing is not done in isolation. Working with food should never be a lonely act. And eating it? Even cave people huddled together over their buffalo stew, didn’t they?
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
So far away… doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?
(Carole King)
Almost the entire day was spent on rectifying a scheduling mistake, of the type you make when you are either over 40 or under 35. (In between you have a window of opportunity to behave in a rational and sane manner, with the benefit of experience, but with the ability still to remain attentive to detail.)
Next month I am to return to Japan to complete my interviews with court personnel in every corner of that sprawling country. I will, as before, go from the northernmost island of Hokkaido to southern Kyushu, hoping to discover some variation in the way that customary law intersects with the civil code, to produce the uniquely Japanese brand of conflict resolution in family disputes.
This project has been difficult from day one. For one thing, I don’t speak Japanese and so an entire dissertation could be written on whether I am entitled to draw conclusions based on interviews that are painstakingly conducted with an interpreter or two at my side. I continue with the project only because I have gotten my hands on such wonderfully telling information that I have not the courage to throw it all away. So, this spring I am about to work through my final round of interviews.
Except that in setting these up, I forgot about the Japanese Golden Week. The Golden Week is something we just don’t associate with the working people of that country. We imagine them to be industrious, after all, putting in an average of 80 hours a week, with overtime for especially demanding tasks (like entertaining foreign visitors). Because we operate with this fixed bias in our heads, we simply do not expect the entire country to look at a calendar and say: “oh! all those national holidays so close together! why don’t we simply close down the nation for ten days and not work at all?” Well, from April 29 until May 9 this year I can expect all government offices to be shut down in observance of this spring holiday period. And where will I be then? Trapped in the middle, waiting for the country to “reopen” again.
I could, I suppose, fly home in between my already scheduled meetings, but something tells me that spending 13 golden hours on the plane each way to escape this golden week of Japanese leisure makes little sense. Thus I will kill time on the islands, waiting for the holidays to be over.
Today I tried to find a spot in Japan where I could hide for ten days and not go nuts in my solitary state of disengagement (in the “Lost in Translation” sense), at the same time that I could experience something breathtakingly beautiful, at a reasonable price, on days when the entire nation will be hell-bent on travel and holiday merrymaking. I have several email messages out to different places where I may hole up for the period, but I am certain they will only produce the typical miscommunication I am famous for with my polite and non-comprehending pals in Japan.
I was discussing all this with a reader and a friend today. I got the distinct impression that she thought that a month of solitary work and travel would be too much for the likes of me – even though I generally am terrific at solo treks and enjoy talking to myself on sightseeing expeditions where the only person within a 100 mile radius that speaks any familiar language is me. She suggested that I turn to my usual list of people who in the past have not minded accompanying me on these ventures, just to see if they’d tag along this time, but I know it’s hopeless. The trip is barely a month away and Japan is expensive.
All I can say is this: be prepared for some odd blogs in April and May as I make my way through many weeks of conversational solitude, trying yet again to understand what the hell people are saying around me. It will be a challenge. Am I looking forward to it? But of course.
Almost the entire day was spent on rectifying a scheduling mistake, of the type you make when you are either over 40 or under 35. (In between you have a window of opportunity to behave in a rational and sane manner, with the benefit of experience, but with the ability still to remain attentive to detail.)
Next month I am to return to Japan to complete my interviews with court personnel in every corner of that sprawling country. I will, as before, go from the northernmost island of Hokkaido to southern Kyushu, hoping to discover some variation in the way that customary law intersects with the civil code, to produce the uniquely Japanese brand of conflict resolution in family disputes.
This project has been difficult from day one. For one thing, I don’t speak Japanese and so an entire dissertation could be written on whether I am entitled to draw conclusions based on interviews that are painstakingly conducted with an interpreter or two at my side. I continue with the project only because I have gotten my hands on such wonderfully telling information that I have not the courage to throw it all away. So, this spring I am about to work through my final round of interviews.
Except that in setting these up, I forgot about the Japanese Golden Week. The Golden Week is something we just don’t associate with the working people of that country. We imagine them to be industrious, after all, putting in an average of 80 hours a week, with overtime for especially demanding tasks (like entertaining foreign visitors). Because we operate with this fixed bias in our heads, we simply do not expect the entire country to look at a calendar and say: “oh! all those national holidays so close together! why don’t we simply close down the nation for ten days and not work at all?” Well, from April 29 until May 9 this year I can expect all government offices to be shut down in observance of this spring holiday period. And where will I be then? Trapped in the middle, waiting for the country to “reopen” again.
I could, I suppose, fly home in between my already scheduled meetings, but something tells me that spending 13 golden hours on the plane each way to escape this golden week of Japanese leisure makes little sense. Thus I will kill time on the islands, waiting for the holidays to be over.
Today I tried to find a spot in Japan where I could hide for ten days and not go nuts in my solitary state of disengagement (in the “Lost in Translation” sense), at the same time that I could experience something breathtakingly beautiful, at a reasonable price, on days when the entire nation will be hell-bent on travel and holiday merrymaking. I have several email messages out to different places where I may hole up for the period, but I am certain they will only produce the typical miscommunication I am famous for with my polite and non-comprehending pals in Japan.
I was discussing all this with a reader and a friend today. I got the distinct impression that she thought that a month of solitary work and travel would be too much for the likes of me – even though I generally am terrific at solo treks and enjoy talking to myself on sightseeing expeditions where the only person within a 100 mile radius that speaks any familiar language is me. She suggested that I turn to my usual list of people who in the past have not minded accompanying me on these ventures, just to see if they’d tag along this time, but I know it’s hopeless. The trip is barely a month away and Japan is expensive.
All I can say is this: be prepared for some odd blogs in April and May as I make my way through many weeks of conversational solitude, trying yet again to understand what the hell people are saying around me. It will be a challenge. Am I looking forward to it? But of course.
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