chocolate, berries and cream
2 days ago
Thursday, July 22, 2004
What should be moving – the earth under my feet or the feet on the dance floor?
I am to join friends tomorrow for a night of clubbing and dancing. I have a concern. I have always thought myself to be a bit of a wild dancer. We’re talking about the height of my dancing activity – late 60s through 70s. Perhaps the label was given because I arrived back in Poland at a time when couples were still twirling each other in traditional rock ‘n roll movements. I didn’t even KNOW the traditional spins and twirls and so I broke loose. Eventually things evened out because Poles, too, started waving, jumping, swaying and generally making spectacles of themselves on the dance floor, just like their American counterparts. Still, my energy level being on the high side, I think I was rather excessive.
These days I never dance anywhere except in the privacy of my own quarters. But others who have observed me have noted that I dance in the “70s” way. What does that even mean, I want to know? I have been told that jumping from foot to foot in little steps is just not DONE and hasn’t been done for maybe two decades. Well, fine, I can contain myself, but then, do you mean you lose all that leg motion? Dancing with feet glued to the floor? What sense does that make?
So this, then, is the dilemma – dance like I once did and have people smile benevolently, or adapt to the new, feet-glued-to-the-floor mode (so far as I can tell) and get the hips to take over? It’s all very nerve racking.
Oh, for the easy days of the Polish dance floor… [Below is a shot from my Warsaw high school senior prom in the spring of ’69 so I am a fresh and eager 16 year-old; frankly my partner and I look whacked out – like we’ve tangoed our way through the gates of hell; I think I forgot that this was supposed to be a sedate and more formal event.)]
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
“Go to sleep my weary travelers..*”
A blogger, who has been working hard to develop an “equilibrium theory of anonymous blogging” (espoused here), suggests that juicier posts are the product of blogs that maintain greater anonymity. As I understand the theory, less juicy post are an eventual outgrowth of the blogger’s inevitable acquiescence to the demands of popularity: the shedding of the protections of anonymity, ergo, leads one to become boring.
If his theory is correct (and I have every reason to give him the proverbial sociological benefit of the doubt – or is it the benefit of the sociological doubt?) then indeed, you, the reader might as well just scroll to the bottom and check to see the one or two photos and then kiss the blog good night, because I operate under no pseudonyms. Indeed, I am the only one of the UW fac bloggers who hasn’t even bothered to create a separate EMAIL account to capture those illicit, torrid and lascivious EMAILS that must surely come if you just dare yourself to be RACEY enough.
And so here’s the truth: most of my posts are not even PG13. They are above the Disney standard of violence and potty-mouth language. And there’s no sex. In fact, I dare say I implied quite recently that I thought a conversation between two people with high chemistry (movie: Before Sunset) was more sexy than a visual undressing and explicit groping and touching.
Still, I am all for truth in advertising and so on the days I remember to do this, I will post the rating that correctly classifies my immanent paragraphs. I start (and with my memory of late, possibly end) with tonight:
THE POST THAT FOLLOWS IS APPROVED FOR GENERAL READERSHIP OVER THE AGE OF 5 (under 5 – well, you really don’t want them up late enough to understand what a sunset is).
Post now unfolds:
It should have rained tonight (100% probability – the main weather website said this; yet, how can it be 100%?). But it didn’t rain. Oddly it didn’t. So the organizers of Wednesday Concerts on the Square got it right when they called the shots at 3pm today announcing that “the show will go on.”
The clouds were ominous, then less so, less so, until finally, just around intermission, I looked up and saw the sun declare its victory. What a lustrous, tantalizing night! (No visuals -- it's all in the mind, for God's sake, it's all in the realm of the imagination!)
* from “A Hobo’s Lullaby” – rated G
Reports from the trenches
A Madison reader and fellow blogger writes:
It all seems a bit overwhelming to me. Today I went to the Law School with my laptop JUST IN CASE I would feel compelled to post a photo (I cannot do that from my office computer). I turned around half way there because I realized I'd forgotten to pack my camera-attachment cord (needed for photo transfers). I was late for an appointment (only by 5 minutes!) because of this (the traffic was unusually slow, I'm telling myself). Cords are dangling from my bag, my D-link card is an essential item, my camera is getting travel fatigued.
The Q is -- should I take my laptop to the Concert on the Square tonight? To catch up with blog reading? Will they steal my shoes (read about it here) if I click click click at the sidelines? What am I saying, what has become of me, I'm one of the listeners! I go for the music! Still.. music, blogging, blogging, music. Temptations in your face... Free wireless, eh?
State Street has free wireless Internet! yes, it does! I am at Steep and Brew, outside, and ONLINE. if there was any doubt about this street's permanent utopia status...In the same hour I read (today's WashPost, here) that every incoming freshman at Duke U will be receiving a free ipod in the first days on campus (though 'free' is a term that has to be regarded with a degree of skepticism given that Duke has one of the highest undergrad price tags in the country).
It all seems a bit overwhelming to me. Today I went to the Law School with my laptop JUST IN CASE I would feel compelled to post a photo (I cannot do that from my office computer). I turned around half way there because I realized I'd forgotten to pack my camera-attachment cord (needed for photo transfers). I was late for an appointment (only by 5 minutes!) because of this (the traffic was unusually slow, I'm telling myself). Cords are dangling from my bag, my D-link card is an essential item, my camera is getting travel fatigued.
The Q is -- should I take my laptop to the Concert on the Square tonight? To catch up with blog reading? Will they steal my shoes (read about it here) if I click click click at the sidelines? What am I saying, what has become of me, I'm one of the listeners! I go for the music! Still.. music, blogging, blogging, music. Temptations in your face... Free wireless, eh?
Serious political commentary: On the campaign trail
From the Washington Post (here) I read about the sophisticated strategy employed by the Bush team to win over the media:
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Picnic
The thing that I love about University Food Services is that they can really put on a good party. For instance, you tell them “picnic for 30 foreign attorneys + hosts” and they really go all out. The food: yummy chicken parts, brats (boiled?), imitation-meat burgers – on white bread buns, with pudding pies for dessert.
And the setting. This is one green town. Perfect for a picnic. So take a look at our beautiful environs (below).
Yet, this is all trivial. It’s the company that makes or breaks a party and this group is up up up up there in terms of greatness.
We talked about the work week for a lawyer in Japan, the US, Brazil and Germany. Work to live, live to work – a familiar theme. The Japanese lawyer is expected to bill 3000 hours per year. 3000 hours!! (In a top NY firm you’re closer to 2500 which is insane; in Madison it’s around 2000.) In Brazil, the partner in one of the top branch offices of a US firm tells us that you could not get away with setting the bar at over 1500. The Europeans and South Americans praised their stars for the sanity which prevailed in their practices.
Excuse me, I need to pause and get something to eat. The veggie burger sucked, even with all the condiments (available choices: sauerkraut (why??) and yellow mustard), all you could taste was the white bread.
And the setting. This is one green town. Perfect for a picnic. So take a look at our beautiful environs (below).
Yet, this is all trivial. It’s the company that makes or breaks a party and this group is up up up up there in terms of greatness.
We talked about the work week for a lawyer in Japan, the US, Brazil and Germany. Work to live, live to work – a familiar theme. The Japanese lawyer is expected to bill 3000 hours per year. 3000 hours!! (In a top NY firm you’re closer to 2500 which is insane; in Madison it’s around 2000.) In Brazil, the partner in one of the top branch offices of a US firm tells us that you could not get away with setting the bar at over 1500. The Europeans and South Americans praised their stars for the sanity which prevailed in their practices.
Excuse me, I need to pause and get something to eat. The veggie burger sucked, even with all the condiments (available choices: sauerkraut (why??) and yellow mustard), all you could taste was the white bread.
Facing reality
I have been avoiding my office for many weeks now in the way that one would avoid disturbing encounters with people who are going to cause one's mood to plummet. It’s just not fun being there anymore. Everything is significantly out of control.
I know, everyone has stacks of unread papers, but mine look like a monumental groundswell had caused all books and papers to rise in uneven formations on top of every available surface. And the problem is that I hate it. I hate working in conditions that are symptomatic of a chaotic lack of control, like an announcement to the world : “hey, there’s no captain minding this ship!” Indeed, when things get this bad I begin stacking books outside the door hoping that someone’s ignoble impulse to steal will make them disappear. (They never do.)
What to do? Here’s my game plan: Spend the afternoon dumping EVERYTHING on the floor and putting it back into newly developed and defined spaces. No leaving the office until entire project is completed. File cabinets are spared the overhaul (after all, I can’t see the clutter there), but everything else gets inspected and, if at all possible, trashed.
Today is the day. I’m a little late getting started, what with this blog and a few friendly exchange with colleagues who had mistakenly concluded that I was on leave (I am usually much more present in the building than I have been recently). Now, just one quick run to State Street to see what’s new there, maybe a hasty cup of coffee to pump the adrenaline a bit and then I’m getting right to it.
Okay then, first State Street.
I know, everyone has stacks of unread papers, but mine look like a monumental groundswell had caused all books and papers to rise in uneven formations on top of every available surface. And the problem is that I hate it. I hate working in conditions that are symptomatic of a chaotic lack of control, like an announcement to the world : “hey, there’s no captain minding this ship!” Indeed, when things get this bad I begin stacking books outside the door hoping that someone’s ignoble impulse to steal will make them disappear. (They never do.)
What to do? Here’s my game plan: Spend the afternoon dumping EVERYTHING on the floor and putting it back into newly developed and defined spaces. No leaving the office until entire project is completed. File cabinets are spared the overhaul (after all, I can’t see the clutter there), but everything else gets inspected and, if at all possible, trashed.
Today is the day. I’m a little late getting started, what with this blog and a few friendly exchange with colleagues who had mistakenly concluded that I was on leave (I am usually much more present in the building than I have been recently). Now, just one quick run to State Street to see what’s new there, maybe a hasty cup of coffee to pump the adrenaline a bit and then I’m getting right to it.
Okay then, first State Street.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Traditional dress and a p.s. on language
There was a pleasant surprise in the mail today. My sister, ever encouraging of my linkage* to my home country, sent a colorful little text on Polish folk culture.
From the point of view of an American, I suppose folk culture is quaintly foreign. I don’t even know what it means to recognize American folk culture – I would probably associate it with Woody Guthrie folk songs and Old World Wisconsin Outdoor Museum, though that’s a cheat since much of the folk traditions on display there are direct imports from European countries.
But for a Pole, folk culture has rich associations: it’s Highland music and dance, colorful religious processions, painted houses and wooden carvings. It’s sculptured gingerbread, thatched cottages and delicately designed Easter eggs. And it’s traditional regional dress.
You have no idea how much I loved my very own Polish outfit. I wore it at every opportunity – anytime you were asked to wear a costume or dress up, there I’d be, dressed in my full flowered skirt with a ribboned apron and my beaded vest over a starched cotton blouse with puffy sleeves. [The shoes were never quite right, but I’ve already posted about the odd shoe choices of my youth.] It was a long time before I understood that this was perhaps not what was expected for Halloween trick-or-treating.
I copied just one or two pictures of traditional dress from the Folk book and I appended my own photo from a 1959 party in Poland. It is a forerunner to the clash of cultures that was to be mine in a matter of months. My friend Janek is the cowboy. Me, I’m proud as anything to be in my own little heaven of lustrously shiny beaded flowers and ribbons. Bliss.
From the point of view of an American, I suppose folk culture is quaintly foreign. I don’t even know what it means to recognize American folk culture – I would probably associate it with Woody Guthrie folk songs and Old World Wisconsin Outdoor Museum, though that’s a cheat since much of the folk traditions on display there are direct imports from European countries.
But for a Pole, folk culture has rich associations: it’s Highland music and dance, colorful religious processions, painted houses and wooden carvings. It’s sculptured gingerbread, thatched cottages and delicately designed Easter eggs. And it’s traditional regional dress.
You have no idea how much I loved my very own Polish outfit. I wore it at every opportunity – anytime you were asked to wear a costume or dress up, there I’d be, dressed in my full flowered skirt with a ribboned apron and my beaded vest over a starched cotton blouse with puffy sleeves. [The shoes were never quite right, but I’ve already posted about the odd shoe choices of my youth.] It was a long time before I understood that this was perhaps not what was expected for Halloween trick-or-treating.
I copied just one or two pictures of traditional dress from the Folk book and I appended my own photo from a 1959 party in Poland. It is a forerunner to the clash of cultures that was to be mine in a matter of months. My friend Janek is the cowboy. Me, I’m proud as anything to be in my own little heaven of lustrously shiny beaded flowers and ribbons. Bliss.
* A famous blogger recently deplored the use of “linkage” and “signage” in everyday speech (here), arguing that they provide no additional benefit that would cause one to abandon the old stalwarts, links and signs. Having learned English later in life than 95% of the people reading this blog, I have to say that my hypersensitive-to-nuance understanding of it (fueled by the late-bloomer complex) leads me to respectfully disagree. And I am using linkage here to exactly demonstrate my point. Linkage, to me, bespeaks of a series, a system, with a common thread running through it. The same can be said of signage. It’s not just signs, it’s the signage in a given town or along a certain path. It’s the signage, not the pavement or the trees that grow by the roadside. This is a classic case of a word having an almost identical meaning but setting for you a different idea because of the context. In my sentence, nothing works as well as linkage – not links nor link. They would be okay, but linkage tells more – it emphasizes the system of links that I have to Poland. Or at least that is what my slow and shade-sensitive learning leads me to envision for the words under fire.
Happiness is less wealth and more leisure time
This morning the IHT (here) returns to one of my favorite comparisons between Europe and the United States: what is the value of leisure time on either side of the ocean?
Europeans work shorter weeks and typically take two long vacation periods during the year (it is my impression that the summer one often extends upwards of a month). Yes, the reduced work time translates into reduced wages. On the average, Europeans are 30% poorer than their counterparts in the States. But it is a relative deprivation. Consider these points from the IHT article (boldface is mine):
Europeans work shorter weeks and typically take two long vacation periods during the year (it is my impression that the summer one often extends upwards of a month). Yes, the reduced work time translates into reduced wages. On the average, Europeans are 30% poorer than their counterparts in the States. But it is a relative deprivation. Consider these points from the IHT article (boldface is mine):
...This image of a casual West European work ethic tends to be viewed with something just short of scorn among the world's other wealthy economies…
… Is Europe, which has about the shortest workweeks and longest vacations in the world, doomed to lag behind, a victim of its penchant for ever more leisure and an overly generous welfare state?
.
One response: If the answer is yes, then so what?
Rather than a failure to catch up with its more industrious competitors because of faltering productivity growth, Europe's more modest income level mainly reflects a series of policy choices that have tended to put a premium on leisure and equality at the expense of greater wealth.
…But for all the bad press the European economy receives, it is so far not performing that poorly.
…Contrary to conventional wisdom, West European productivity growth actually outpaced that of the United States over the past 30 years… Some countries, including France, now have productivity levels exceeding those in the United States.
.
If Europeans are still poorer than their American counterparts, it is because fewer of them hold jobs, and those who do have gradually reduced the time they spend at work … Americans have been much more hesitant to work fewer hours, keeping the tally virtually unchanged over the past 10 years despite strong growth. The result: They [Americans] work 18 percent more hours than Europeans.
The Atlantic, it seems, separates two radically different philosophies of life.
.
Polls show that Europeans are by and large happy to pay high taxes in return for social services, and anecdotal evidence suggests that the concept of well-being in Europe is less linked to material wealth than it is in America.
.
"It's a different mentality," said Kenneth Rogoff, an economist at Harvard University and former chief economist of the International Monetary Fund.
…Giuseppe Roma, who conducts society studies at the Rome-based research group Censis, said European shoppers were increasingly turning away from status-quo purchases to spend their money on lifestyle products. The new attitude, he said, is to care about the "real quality of life," meaning, I may not buy Prada, but I will buy organic olive oil.
.
…According to surveys conducted by the World Database of Happiness, which is run by Ruut Veenhoven, a professor at Erasmus University in Rotterdam, citizens in many European nations are more satisfied with their lives than Americans and other more hard-working nations, like Japan, where people have been clocking up even more hours than in the United States. More significant, happiness in the United States and Japan has been flat over the past 30 years but has risen in most West European countries.
.
…"The main difference with the U.S. is that we spend more time enjoying life," he said.
I go back to this idea over and over again. When I came to the US as an adult I was stunned to learn that many Americans did not really take a vacation. I remember talking to a friend early on who told me that out of two weeks paid leave time (two weeks??) she would use one week to catch up with chores around the house; the rest would be spread to lengthen a week-end here and there. This seemed unreal to me.
And the guilt! When I hear people bemoan time wasted here, it is always a complaint that runs in the vein of "I didn't get enough work done." Here, the word "procrastination" is thrown around as an admission of sinful behavior whereby one is working less than the amount of waking hours in a day. As friends and colleagues in Europe stretch time spent on the pursuit of leisure, here, "leisure time" appears to be a quaint notion, associated perhaps with the rich and idle. Sometimes I truly think that in the States, there are only three categories of time: work time, chore time and wasted time.
Because we hide our desire to indulge in leisure, it is not a concept that deserves review or open discussion. Thus, rather than having a creative engagement in the structuring of leisure, we snatch hours of it here and there, feeling guilty and doing little to extend it into something truly magnificent.
Yes, this article is a reminder to me that not all habits of one's adopted country can easily become one's own. The denigration of leisure time is something that will always feel foreign to me. And I'm happy that this is so.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Signs
Unlike most campus bulletin boards, the one at Borders is a model of orderliness. The signs and ads are neatly tacked, they are organized by whether they offer services or announce performances. But of course, the quality of the notice itself depends on the author. Here, I am fascinated by these, right at my elbow:
ROOM FOR RENT IN A PRIVATE HOME
Located in the fabulous Hilldale Community, this spacious room provides you with your own private entrance. There is space for a semiprivate bedroom and a TV room with your own spacious bathroom.
[nc: so, you can move in with your own rooms, but if you bring in a bedroom, you have to share? And there’s space to haul in a spare TV room plus bathroom? Fabulous neighborhood, fabulous room rental!]
Or, here’s another:
ENERGY MANAGEMENT THROUGHT BREATH
Would you like increased vitality, better concentration, and more health, harmony, and happiness in your life? Through the practice of breathing techniques, sounds, gestures, and body positions you will learn how you can find relief...
[nc: well now, that’s misleading. I thought “breath” is all you need. But there are gestures and sounds to master as well? Ah well, if all this will lead to better health, harmony and happiness, we should all sign up.]
There are also announcements that, while not wrong, are still slightly off. For example:
MEN NEEDED FOR VOICE RESEARCH
Let us record your speech for 15 minutes and get paid $15!
We are looking for healthy people to participate in our studies of how neurological disorders sucha s ALS, Parkinson's Disease, MS, storkes, traumatic brain injuries affect how people are able to speak and communicate.
[nc: is it that you could participate if you are healthy but have a neurological disorder? Or healthy in all ways? Or are these examples of trivial little abnormalities, not rising to the level of “unhealthy?”]
Of course, as I sit here mocking people's gallant efforts at posting announcements, I am probably committing significant errors at a rate of ten per blogging minute. Oh well, I'm sure I give readers plenty to laugh at.
ROOM FOR RENT IN A PRIVATE HOME
Located in the fabulous Hilldale Community, this spacious room provides you with your own private entrance. There is space for a semiprivate bedroom and a TV room with your own spacious bathroom.
[nc: so, you can move in with your own rooms, but if you bring in a bedroom, you have to share? And there’s space to haul in a spare TV room plus bathroom? Fabulous neighborhood, fabulous room rental!]
Or, here’s another:
ENERGY MANAGEMENT THROUGHT BREATH
Would you like increased vitality, better concentration, and more health, harmony, and happiness in your life? Through the practice of breathing techniques, sounds, gestures, and body positions you will learn how you can find relief...
[nc: well now, that’s misleading. I thought “breath” is all you need. But there are gestures and sounds to master as well? Ah well, if all this will lead to better health, harmony and happiness, we should all sign up.]
There are also announcements that, while not wrong, are still slightly off. For example:
MEN NEEDED FOR VOICE RESEARCH
Let us record your speech for 15 minutes and get paid $15!
We are looking for healthy people to participate in our studies of how neurological disorders sucha s ALS, Parkinson's Disease, MS, storkes, traumatic brain injuries affect how people are able to speak and communicate.
[nc: is it that you could participate if you are healthy but have a neurological disorder? Or healthy in all ways? Or are these examples of trivial little abnormalities, not rising to the level of “unhealthy?”]
Of course, as I sit here mocking people's gallant efforts at posting announcements, I am probably committing significant errors at a rate of ten per blogging minute. Oh well, I'm sure I give readers plenty to laugh at.
It’s none of my business but…
If a parent beats a child repeatedly for misbehaving in a grocery store, would you say anything? Even though many would consider this to be egregiously offensive conduct, most (and I don’t know that I am different in this) would say nothing. (Offered justifications: it wouldn’t help, they may only hit harder, they may in fact hit YOU, it’s not our child, etc.)
Lighter offenses, however, inspire me to frown at the offender. And lighter still gets me to speak up.
I’m sitting at Borders and watching a fellow café patron read through the Sunday paper. Many have grunted already about people (for example this guy) who sit at cafés without ordering something. That’s just irritating – though in a bookstore, I suppose the idea is that these tables are also places to sit at and leaf through books (and not blog on laptops perhaps?). My tolerance thus should be greater.
But watching this patron pick from the stacks clean Sunday editions of various newspapers, take them apart, read them, put them back together, replace them, then move to the next paper and the next just hits at the gut. He gets my evil glare for his efforts.
Mostly, though, one wants to be helpful. A time to interfere is when a woman gets up and walks out the door forgetting her purse. The desire to chase her down outside is overwhelming. The reward? Why, it’s the feeling of doing a good deed (a tame good deed, but good nonetheless). Or, is it that you finally get to slide into the now unoccupied spot at the table?
Lighter offenses, however, inspire me to frown at the offender. And lighter still gets me to speak up.
I’m sitting at Borders and watching a fellow café patron read through the Sunday paper. Many have grunted already about people (for example this guy) who sit at cafés without ordering something. That’s just irritating – though in a bookstore, I suppose the idea is that these tables are also places to sit at and leaf through books (and not blog on laptops perhaps?). My tolerance thus should be greater.
But watching this patron pick from the stacks clean Sunday editions of various newspapers, take them apart, read them, put them back together, replace them, then move to the next paper and the next just hits at the gut. He gets my evil glare for his efforts.
Mostly, though, one wants to be helpful. A time to interfere is when a woman gets up and walks out the door forgetting her purse. The desire to chase her down outside is overwhelming. The reward? Why, it’s the feeling of doing a good deed (a tame good deed, but good nonetheless). Or, is it that you finally get to slide into the now unoccupied spot at the table?
Saturday, July 17, 2004
BEFORE and AFTER, redux
The peak of the blueberry season. Fresh berries are so phenomenal in a tart: a flaky crust, a thin layer of crème patisserie, a heaping mound of berries, currant jelly and toasted almonds. It’s really a perfect midsummer dessert. And so I made it.
Eventually it had to go back in the refrigerator.
Except that it took a detour. Sadly, it can’t be mended. The bright side? It slipped out of my hand after the first tasting. And, the dog had a field day with the gloppy floor.
Eventually it had to go back in the refrigerator.
Except that it took a detour. Sadly, it can’t be mended. The bright side? It slipped out of my hand after the first tasting. And, the dog had a field day with the gloppy floor.
Running on niceness
Market notes:
* To Bill of Snug Haven for discounting my 6 pounds of tomatoes by 75% and, so that she wouldn’t feel less loved, for discounting the next customer’s tomatoes 75% as well;
* To blogger pal Dorotha, who looks just like her blog, for taking the time to chat at the Market and for introducing me to her friend [it is always surprising and disheartening when you are not offered this basic courtesy, as if a rude absence of introductions is supposed to be an inconsequential act of forgetfulness – which it almost never is];
* To the photographer who followed me around the Market today, for knowing how to give instructions without insult, and for showing me the wonders of his fantastic camera;
* To Artesian Trout, not only for the whopper discount, but for being willing to float me the sum until next week, just so I wouldn’t have to walk to the other side of the Square (for my tenth orbit today!) to use an ATM;
* To Bill again, for letting me write a check in excess of the amount so that I could pay back the nice seller at Artesian Trout;
* To Felix of Capri cheese for making a small amount of espresso ice cream each week because he knows I like it (he doesn’t typically sell it, but if you ask, he’ll save you some);
* To Ruth of blueberry fame who waited and waited (after she’d already finished selling her very last berry) until I had a moment to run back and get the correct checkbook to pay her for the flats of fruit [Ruth is a schoolteacher who supplements her income by growing and selling blueberries; she tells me that this is what teachers do these days – she was not surprised to find a colleague filling cars at their local gas station];
* To the bakers who prepared for me a box of croissants and spice girls to take home;
Thank you all. It means so much to have this much niceness charge my early Saturdays.
* To Bill of Snug Haven for discounting my 6 pounds of tomatoes by 75% and, so that she wouldn’t feel less loved, for discounting the next customer’s tomatoes 75% as well;
* To blogger pal Dorotha, who looks just like her blog, for taking the time to chat at the Market and for introducing me to her friend [it is always surprising and disheartening when you are not offered this basic courtesy, as if a rude absence of introductions is supposed to be an inconsequential act of forgetfulness – which it almost never is];
* To the photographer who followed me around the Market today, for knowing how to give instructions without insult, and for showing me the wonders of his fantastic camera;
* To Artesian Trout, not only for the whopper discount, but for being willing to float me the sum until next week, just so I wouldn’t have to walk to the other side of the Square (for my tenth orbit today!) to use an ATM;
* To Bill again, for letting me write a check in excess of the amount so that I could pay back the nice seller at Artesian Trout;
* To Felix of Capri cheese for making a small amount of espresso ice cream each week because he knows I like it (he doesn’t typically sell it, but if you ask, he’ll save you some);
* To Ruth of blueberry fame who waited and waited (after she’d already finished selling her very last berry) until I had a moment to run back and get the correct checkbook to pay her for the flats of fruit [Ruth is a schoolteacher who supplements her income by growing and selling blueberries; she tells me that this is what teachers do these days – she was not surprised to find a colleague filling cars at their local gas station];
* To the bakers who prepared for me a box of croissants and spice girls to take home;
Thank you all. It means so much to have this much niceness charge my early Saturdays.
Friday, July 16, 2004
BEFORE
“A French grad student meets an American boy on a train between Budapest and Vienna.” So goes the description of a movie I saw some 6 or 7 years ago (“Before Sunrise”). My reticence about revealing favorite films on the blog notwithstanding, I do admit to having liked it. One person called it a meandering nothing. Perfect! The characters take part in a sensual little adventure, stimulated more than anything by the ongoing conversation that they have with each other. And chemistry. It is a lovely little film (kind of a culty thing, with a very loyal following).
Today the sequel comes to Madison. I was buying tickets hours in advance. Just in case.
AFTER
In the previous film they set a time and place to meet again. We now find out that one of them doesn’t show. Many years into the future they come across each other again, in Paris, where he is on a book-signing tour. They have only a few hours. How does anyone use such a short circuit of time?
The 9:30 Madison showing (opening night!) is almost completely empty (the film has been well received elsewhere and the movie houses have been full). That kind of cavernous atmosphere makes the movie seem tentative, fragile somehow.
But it is subtle and sweet and she (Julie Delpy) is so splendid looking! The conversation between them is playful, spontaneous, informal and therefore enthralling. The movie is just that – an 80 minute chat through the back streets of Paris. And in this time, the audience understands more of the physical tension between them than if they had had explicit sex before close-up cameras. Wonderful.
“A French grad student meets an American boy on a train between Budapest and Vienna.” So goes the description of a movie I saw some 6 or 7 years ago (“Before Sunrise”). My reticence about revealing favorite films on the blog notwithstanding, I do admit to having liked it. One person called it a meandering nothing. Perfect! The characters take part in a sensual little adventure, stimulated more than anything by the ongoing conversation that they have with each other. And chemistry. It is a lovely little film (kind of a culty thing, with a very loyal following).
Today the sequel comes to Madison. I was buying tickets hours in advance. Just in case.
AFTER
In the previous film they set a time and place to meet again. We now find out that one of them doesn’t show. Many years into the future they come across each other again, in Paris, where he is on a book-signing tour. They have only a few hours. How does anyone use such a short circuit of time?
The 9:30 Madison showing (opening night!) is almost completely empty (the film has been well received elsewhere and the movie houses have been full). That kind of cavernous atmosphere makes the movie seem tentative, fragile somehow.
But it is subtle and sweet and she (Julie Delpy) is so splendid looking! The conversation between them is playful, spontaneous, informal and therefore enthralling. The movie is just that – an 80 minute chat through the back streets of Paris. And in this time, the audience understands more of the physical tension between them than if they had had explicit sex before close-up cameras. Wonderful.
Whomping the yak and beaming the gadget
Looking over Dave Barry’s column today in the IHT (here), I was dismayed that I am gender neutral by his analysis. [Because if you have one count of manhood and one of womanhood, what could you possibly be if not stuck in a gender warp of neutrality?]
Barry makes the familiar point about male/female differences in shopping. He traces male goal-directedness (enter store, zero in on item, purchase, leave store) to prehistoric times where man would draw a piece of meat on the cave wall (a yak perhaps), go out and whomp the yak (“making the purchase”), come home and eat it. I am just like that. I despise malls and am anxious when the first store doesn’t have exactly what I want. I want my yak to be there and waiting for me to whomp it.
But there is his second point – about the manhood of acquiring gadgets that are about as necessary as a spare tire is for a tricyce. Barry describes his experiences with using a fancy new cell phone ineffectively (since men don’t read instruction manuals. Ever.). The goal? To beam an email message to his pal standing two feet away (who attempts then to beam one back).
My history with gadgets is terribly dysfunctional, which, I suppose, places me in the category of a stereotypical woman who prefers to work her dough with her hands and talk to people directly rather than through gadgets. Not only do I avoid gadgets, but when I buy them I don't use them. I acquired a palm thingie back in November. I set it up on my desk in the study just to remind myself how stupid that purchase was. I hereby admit that I never even studied all its special features.
So perhaps when I was getting my hair cut today I should have taken into account my newly established gender identity: half and half. Hmm, maybe I’ll start using more gadgets. Why is it that men have the better set of stereotypes in this equation?
Barry makes the familiar point about male/female differences in shopping. He traces male goal-directedness (enter store, zero in on item, purchase, leave store) to prehistoric times where man would draw a piece of meat on the cave wall (a yak perhaps), go out and whomp the yak (“making the purchase”), come home and eat it. I am just like that. I despise malls and am anxious when the first store doesn’t have exactly what I want. I want my yak to be there and waiting for me to whomp it.
But there is his second point – about the manhood of acquiring gadgets that are about as necessary as a spare tire is for a tricyce. Barry describes his experiences with using a fancy new cell phone ineffectively (since men don’t read instruction manuals. Ever.). The goal? To beam an email message to his pal standing two feet away (who attempts then to beam one back).
My history with gadgets is terribly dysfunctional, which, I suppose, places me in the category of a stereotypical woman who prefers to work her dough with her hands and talk to people directly rather than through gadgets. Not only do I avoid gadgets, but when I buy them I don't use them. I acquired a palm thingie back in November. I set it up on my desk in the study just to remind myself how stupid that purchase was. I hereby admit that I never even studied all its special features.
So perhaps when I was getting my hair cut today I should have taken into account my newly established gender identity: half and half. Hmm, maybe I’ll start using more gadgets. Why is it that men have the better set of stereotypes in this equation?
Squelch rumors before they form
It is absolutely not true that I am having “my hair done” today because a photographer will be following me around the Market tomorrow. I am not vain and I do not care that the sun has made my hair streak with every conceivable shade of brown. Irrelevant. Glossy magazine coverage of my L’Etoile foraging activities does not phase me. I am above and beyond such trivialities. [I was scheduled to have my hair attended to today way before I knew of tomorrow’s Market plans and if you knew how hard it is to get an appointment with my man Jason, you’d understand that last minute requests are, in any event, out of the question.]
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Working late
Although I’ve completed my formal teaching in the Summer Program in American Law (for foreign attorneys), I am not done with the Program in its entirety. For instance, tonight we had a meeting to go over the finer details of the separation of ‘powers.’ It was clear that the issue of gender was uppermost in the minds of men, women, and children. I am still worn from my marathon teaching. I strayed from the crux of the discussion in order to keep company with those who had a strong concern with what food was in the offering.
A snapshot from an evening of hard work:
A snapshot from an evening of hard work:
The crazy lady was right -- sort of.
The other day I described getting lost in the neighborhood just behind Perkins on University Ave. I’m sure everyone thought I’d given myself poetic license when I described the directions given by one seemingly loony resident: “find the tunnel that leads from University Ave. to Old Middleton Road,” she said. Ridiculous? Not at all!
Today I went back to the scene of the near tragedy (dehydration, overheating, foul mood leading to who knows what level of violent behavior) and I found it!
True, one cannot say that it stretches from Old Middleton all the way to University. And, the inside of it is hideous: it has a massive amount of broken glass, as well as a dampness to it, reminding you that you are in an unhealthy environment. Thankfully no one was selling drugs there during my explorations, but I think that’s because I hit the post-lunch sleepy hour.
Today I went back to the scene of the near tragedy (dehydration, overheating, foul mood leading to who knows what level of violent behavior) and I found it!
True, one cannot say that it stretches from Old Middleton all the way to University. And, the inside of it is hideous: it has a massive amount of broken glass, as well as a dampness to it, reminding you that you are in an unhealthy environment. Thankfully no one was selling drugs there during my explorations, but I think that’s because I hit the post-lunch sleepy hour.
A message from a bleak and barren solarium
On days like this, I wish I were living at some future time period (say the year 2036), when we’ll all have had our fill of ‘natural’ and are ready to accept this basic truth: natural can be a nightmare.
I struggle with plants, outside and in, because the insect and beast is mightier than the Nina. Outside, all is ravaged by animals, inside, the sickening white flies are again attacking my passion flower and are greedily eyeing the rest. Since I live in 2004, I have to fight such avarice with concoctions that will eventually make botanists reel with laughter: natural soaps, fox urine, egg whites mixed with cayenne – I mean, come on, do people have success with any of this?
I’m about to walk my sticky plant outdoors, not because it’s dead already, but because I can’t stand to watch the vultures fly off the leaves, leaving sappy residue behind and mocking me and my natural remedies all the while.
My study is losing its greenery: it’s becoming naturally bare, naturally ugly in its purity and wholesomeness. I know, I know, I am protecting the environment. I‘m only saying that if we are about to revert again to synthetics and chemicals, let’s do it NOW, so that I can enjoy again the splendid things nature has to offer and not lose them all to species that Darwin may have scorned and labeled inferior, but I myself find tougher than the wimpy human being (me) who can’t deal with a dumb rabbit or a stupid fly.
After the tempest, a musical evening
It’s hard to explain the Concerts on the Square to a non-Madisonian. The basics are simple enough: a weekly summer outdoor event for which thousands gather; a concert, a bring-your-own-picnic, a spread-blanket-on-the-grass and sit-in-comfy-beach-chair-that’s-no-more-than-six-inches-off-the-ground (that’s a rule) event. There, it’s starting to get complicated. Bullet time!
• You have to know that to get anywhere within viewing distance of the “stage” (really, the SE entrance of the Capitol), you must put your blanket down at 3 p.m. to claim a spot. Not earlier (that’s a rule), not later (others will fill the spaces). The concert starts at 7, but you don’t have to stay with your blanket (and chairs if you’ve brought those as well) because this is Madison and things remain where you leave them.
• If it’s windy, your blanket will flutter away in your absence unless you weigh it down – but you can’t use stones (that’s a rule). Some years ago people (including me; hey, everyone was doing it!) looted stones from around the Capitol to weigh down blankets and after the show they would take their things and leave the stones behind (not guilty on this one) so that it looked like it had hailed boulders that evening.
• You can eat, read books, drink wine or beer, play cards or board games, do pretty much any quiet, low-to-the-ground activity, using the music as an excuse to be there. Listening to the music is an option (about 75% do listen), but not a requirement.
• The rules of concert going go out the door (no pun intended). People applaud after movements, or in fact before movements even finish (ey harriet? The dern thing finished yet? Sounds like it should be done. Clap clap clap).
And so on.
Tonight’s theme was “classical hits.” You would think that this would be boring to the thousands who gather (last week’s polka theme seemed more fitting for the carnival atmosphere), but no: the crowds will swell no matter what and for the most part, people listen.
The sun moves behind the Capitol dome in the course of the first hour and the concert ends in the pallor of early dusk. You stretch your legs, chomp away at your edibles and feel at peace with the evening (or, if you’re like me, you get a tad weepy at the first strains of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto; it’s so beautiful, and it’s been a long day; one can get emotional like that and no one will notice).
looking up from the blanket
napping is also an option
intermission
• You have to know that to get anywhere within viewing distance of the “stage” (really, the SE entrance of the Capitol), you must put your blanket down at 3 p.m. to claim a spot. Not earlier (that’s a rule), not later (others will fill the spaces). The concert starts at 7, but you don’t have to stay with your blanket (and chairs if you’ve brought those as well) because this is Madison and things remain where you leave them.
• If it’s windy, your blanket will flutter away in your absence unless you weigh it down – but you can’t use stones (that’s a rule). Some years ago people (including me; hey, everyone was doing it!) looted stones from around the Capitol to weigh down blankets and after the show they would take their things and leave the stones behind (not guilty on this one) so that it looked like it had hailed boulders that evening.
• You can eat, read books, drink wine or beer, play cards or board games, do pretty much any quiet, low-to-the-ground activity, using the music as an excuse to be there. Listening to the music is an option (about 75% do listen), but not a requirement.
• The rules of concert going go out the door (no pun intended). People applaud after movements, or in fact before movements even finish (ey harriet? The dern thing finished yet? Sounds like it should be done. Clap clap clap).
And so on.
Tonight’s theme was “classical hits.” You would think that this would be boring to the thousands who gather (last week’s polka theme seemed more fitting for the carnival atmosphere), but no: the crowds will swell no matter what and for the most part, people listen.
The sun moves behind the Capitol dome in the course of the first hour and the concert ends in the pallor of early dusk. You stretch your legs, chomp away at your edibles and feel at peace with the evening (or, if you’re like me, you get a tad weepy at the first strains of the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto; it’s so beautiful, and it’s been a long day; one can get emotional like that and no one will notice).
looking up from the blanket
napping is also an option
intermission
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Craziness of a sort
A feisty reader and blogger who herself has a record of dropping days upon days from her blogging obligations asks why I have had no posts today. Heavens! This day is one big mudslide into cardiac arrest, it has been that busy.
ALL WORK NO SLEEP
First of all, there was the last lecture to deliver -- three hours on the important civil rights Supreme Court decisions of the century (and which ones would you choose to include here?). Did anyone else notice that Charter crashed access to the Internet between 3:30 and 6:30 a.m.? Was anyone else frantically clicking away waiting for it to come back on so that they could finish last-minute scavenging for updates and information?
WHEN SOMEONE IS WILLING TO WALK WITH ME, I AM THERE!
Second of all, I once again misestimated distances and so what was to be a one hour walk turned into one hour and forty minutes (and the friend I walked with is a speed demon!).
I WAS LURED INTO THE FRANCE-BASTILLE-DAY THING ONCE AGAIN
Thirdly, yes I did blog about not celebrating any holiday of a country where I am not currently residing, but when a friend told me he was making Vichyssoise for dinner today in honor of Bastille Day I got jealous. Of course, not having time to do anything in the kitchen, I limited my celebratory measures to picking up a bottle of the French aperitif, Dubonnet. (Does it matter, do you suppose, that it was really bottled in the US? And why is it that I imagine every clebration of things French should include a wine-based beverage?)
MY MOM'S AT IT AGAIN
Fourthly, I came home and found a thick packet in the mail from my California out-of-the-ordinary mother. Among the items:
one book is autographed -- to compensate for not getting Clinton's signature in his text when he was in Berkeley
an article about a very tall bridge; don't ask -- I don't know why
For the first time in a long time, I wont even read blogs until late tonight. The day's not over yet. I'm keeping the car engine running as I write this. Thank God I haven't time to be tired.
ALL WORK NO SLEEP
First of all, there was the last lecture to deliver -- three hours on the important civil rights Supreme Court decisions of the century (and which ones would you choose to include here?). Did anyone else notice that Charter crashed access to the Internet between 3:30 and 6:30 a.m.? Was anyone else frantically clicking away waiting for it to come back on so that they could finish last-minute scavenging for updates and information?
WHEN SOMEONE IS WILLING TO WALK WITH ME, I AM THERE!
Second of all, I once again misestimated distances and so what was to be a one hour walk turned into one hour and forty minutes (and the friend I walked with is a speed demon!).
I WAS LURED INTO THE FRANCE-BASTILLE-DAY THING ONCE AGAIN
Thirdly, yes I did blog about not celebrating any holiday of a country where I am not currently residing, but when a friend told me he was making Vichyssoise for dinner today in honor of Bastille Day I got jealous. Of course, not having time to do anything in the kitchen, I limited my celebratory measures to picking up a bottle of the French aperitif, Dubonnet. (Does it matter, do you suppose, that it was really bottled in the US? And why is it that I imagine every clebration of things French should include a wine-based beverage?)
MY MOM'S AT IT AGAIN
Fourthly, I came home and found a thick packet in the mail from my California out-of-the-ordinary mother. Among the items:
one book is autographed -- to compensate for not getting Clinton's signature in his text when he was in Berkeley
an article about a very tall bridge; don't ask -- I don't know why
For the first time in a long time, I wont even read blogs until late tonight. The day's not over yet. I'm keeping the car engine running as I write this. Thank God I haven't time to be tired.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Q/A
Q: If you’ve lived in Madison for 25 years and have a pretty reliable sense of direction, is it possible to get lost while walking within a mile or two of where you live?
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to ask 6 separate people directions to Old Middleton Road when you're stuck on some godforsaken street called Brody Drive and get 6 separate wrong answers?
A: Yes.
Q: When you finally decide to go back to University Ave and you miraculously see the Perkins American flag just a few feet away, can you still face great obstacles like wire fences and prickly thistle before you can reach it?
A: Yes.
Q: Are there bloggers out there who cannot transfer Mapquest pictures onto their blog without taking a photo of the computer screen?
A: Yes.
Q: Does the red star on the map below indicate the place where the author of this post first got lost?
A: Yes.
the scene of a foul mood resulting from overheating, dehydration and being lost
If you can figure out how to get from the red star to Old Middleton Road, please email me. One woman swore there was a secret tunnel that took you underground right from University Ave to Old Middleton by Knoche's grocery store. If you know of it, I will PAY you if you tell me where it is.
A: Yes.
Q: Is it possible to ask 6 separate people directions to Old Middleton Road when you're stuck on some godforsaken street called Brody Drive and get 6 separate wrong answers?
A: Yes.
Q: When you finally decide to go back to University Ave and you miraculously see the Perkins American flag just a few feet away, can you still face great obstacles like wire fences and prickly thistle before you can reach it?
A: Yes.
Q: Are there bloggers out there who cannot transfer Mapquest pictures onto their blog without taking a photo of the computer screen?
A: Yes.
Q: Does the red star on the map below indicate the place where the author of this post first got lost?
A: Yes.
the scene of a foul mood resulting from overheating, dehydration and being lost
If you can figure out how to get from the red star to Old Middleton Road, please email me. One woman swore there was a secret tunnel that took you underground right from University Ave to Old Middleton by Knoche's grocery store. If you know of it, I will PAY you if you tell me where it is.
Understanding Ariel
Ariel and I don’t speak the same language. Oh, we both use English words, but our meanings don’t coincide. She works behind the counter at Borders café and I am a frequent customer. I do tip her for the small latte I get, but perhaps she has figured out that once in a while I withhold the quarter and only throw in a dime (I like to keep a quarter around for parking reasons). Or something. She appears sanguine, yet she is completely areal in her approach to her job.
Ariel, I’ll say, the tables really need a wipe. Ariel gives a concerned look and hands over a wet rag. Ariel, a small skinny latte please. She takes the cash, forgets to punch my card, makes the coffee and carries it over to the opposite end of the counter and shouts out to the public “small skinny latte!” I sigh, go over, take my drink, come back to the cash register, give her my card, she punches it.
I have many such Ariel stories, all trivial and all part of my routine now. Someday I’ll have to work out good responses to her, as soon as I figure out why she always does that which, while not wrong, is not right either.
Ariel, I’ll say, the tables really need a wipe. Ariel gives a concerned look and hands over a wet rag. Ariel, a small skinny latte please. She takes the cash, forgets to punch my card, makes the coffee and carries it over to the opposite end of the counter and shouts out to the public “small skinny latte!” I sigh, go over, take my drink, come back to the cash register, give her my card, she punches it.
I have many such Ariel stories, all trivial and all part of my routine now. Someday I’ll have to work out good responses to her, as soon as I figure out why she always does that which, while not wrong, is not right either.
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