T.G.I. March 17th tomorrow

(Do you know that it took me ten years to figure out what those letters stood for? Us immigrants are at a definite disadvantage as far as these hidden little meanings are concerned.)

I am not Irish (who is shocked by this assertion?) and so the 17th has no Patty’s Day associations for me. Though I did live in Chicago for a number of years and that city went hog wild over the holiday. I mean, it really was a holiday, where nothing was required of you except to drink a lot and wear green. Preferably the donning of the attire would precede the drinking, but you never knew. This was a city that died it’s river green. You can’t expect great sanity from a city that (at least in the 70s) liked to purposefully dump green die into the already murky waters.

It’s not St. Patricks that I am heralding, it’s the arrival of Spring Break for me. After I teach my Thursday class, I hop on the plane and take my books, my camera and my restlessness over to New York for the week.

A student in my seminar today told me that she was going to Paris with her mom for Spring Break. She asked for tips and ideas and as I told her about my favorite hobby there of people watching, of children-going-to-school-holding-their-rushed-doting-parent’s-hand watching, of older-men-and-women-enjoying-a-late-night-dinner-watching, she said: “yeah… it sounds like New York.”

Maybe. Except there aren’t establishments that facilitate that in New York. [Write and tell me if you know of a café where I can alternate between staring into space and taking in the presence of others for hours on end. Because that’s even better than a day at a spa for me.]

Still, New York is New York and tomorrow night I’ll blog with the inevitable sound of sirens and car horns somewhere in the backdrop. No saffron banners to distract me this time. Only the city there with its New York-ish smells and rat clusters. I can deal with that.

Did you ever notice how some people are so clever and sharp when interviewed on the radio, while others are not?

I just finished being interviewed by the producer over at WUWM (Public Radio). I am glad that the reach of the show does not extend to Madison. Upon hearing my very long answers to very good questions about Ocean and blogging in general, my friends and colleagues here would have said this to me:

* you sounded like you were testing all ranges of the melodic scales – what’s with the high pitch and the low tone and everything in between? [answer: if you party the night before, your voice sounds weird the next day; coffee helps, but I can’t find my little stovetop espresso maker yet – it’s buried somewhere under the dirty dishes]

* sound bites: don’t you know that you have to give answers in bullet points? No one will remember a word you said, you were way too long-winded. [answer: it is good that they wont remember all that I said]

* you went on forever praising the blogs of others, how come you did not mention mine? [someone is bound to say that and they will have been right; how do you praise blogs on a radio show anyway? It’s not as if people are sitting there listening, with pen in hand, ready to jot down blog addresses]

* you talked about the blog of a guy who hates Ocean – why would you give him publicity? [answer: she got that out of me! she's too clever with her seemingly tame questions! But, notice that clever me did not reveal his blog address, nor am I even linking to the clown in this post]

* you weren’t that witty; people will think “why should I read the blog of a person who sounds so ordinary?” [gee, thanks; I thought my recycled (from Ocean!) stories were decent. -ish]

* so you wont hear the program when it airs? [answer: I’ll hear it alright. She’s sending me the tape. I’ll put it on someday, in the privacy of my own boudoir, thank you]

Slow down, slow down, slow down……Why? Full days are good days.

An investigation into why the last twenty-four hours offered no time to post:

Perhaps leaping out of bed at 3:30 a.m. is not your own personal preference. I feel sorry for you, because the light is very special then: it’s very unobtrusive, very subtle, very…. dark.

My lecture needs a tinker’s touch. I have this pattern now: I sit in the middle of the night staring at my computer screen for a good twenty minutes thinking absolutely nothing more profound than how pretty that Giverny iris is (photographed last May, now pasted as wallpaper on my computer). It’s that blue and yellow pairing that gets me every time. Oh, I suppose an Ocean reader would be well aware of my love for the blues and yellows…

captivating  

I rouse myself, I write something, and then I go into my next trance. Eventually I look outside and notice that the sun is out, touching everything in sight. A good half hour is devoted to looking at branches jiggling this way and that.

How did it get to be so late?? The run begins. I never want to be late for class. They can roll in as they see fit, often holding what must be the first cup of coffee of the day. I’d rather be there benevolently waiting for the last straggler, and the one after that...

Class is finished. I look outside my office and the sky is the kind of blue that asks: aren’t I good enough for you? Why aren’t you here with me, playing?. I can’t. I have to go home and cook. Blogger dinner tonight (noted with photos here and also here).

I work at food prepping as if I had extra super unleaded pumped right up to the brim: I am energized.

Officially, we call it “blogger dinners” – but increasingly we do not bring out our computers unless, toward the end, someone wants to check their email. Here’s the thing: we always have our laptops with us – like the photographer who doesn’t want to be caught without proper equipment exactly at the moment when the child looks up at the aging face of her greatgrandfather and trustingly takes his hand. The computers are charging, waiting, not realizing that after many courses and many bottles of wine, the chance of any of us spotting a precious bloggable moment is very very small.

It’s dark outside. Someone says it is hot and we should open the door to the back yard. When was the last time I opened the door to feel the night air come in to the kitchen? Last October? [Someone else says it’s too cold. People who say that they are too cold typically win.]

The last guest leaves at 12:30. I make an effort to at least to wash my treasured plates, painted by an older woman living at the foot of the French Alps. Somehow I can’t stand seeing them stacked to the side, dirty and waiting.

I sit down for just a few minutes. No, that can’t be. If I am just sitting down then how come it is suddenly 5:30a.m., and I am under a quilt on top of my bed? I get up, I go down and turn off Ella and Louis who apparently have been singing all night. I survey the storm damage in the kitchen. I smile and sit down to post.

The face behind JFW: happy birthday, Jeremy! 

The face behind the Tonya Show 

The face behind Marginal Utility 

The face behind the Althouse blog 

Working in the early morning by the window, I see the pine face up to a day of sunshine

The beginning of a good day: it starts with a morning greeting. Sun, meet tree. Tree, say hi to the sun. 

In anticipation of food and more food

[Another one of those conversations where it isn't clear which voice is me and which, if any, is not me.]

I’m cooking a Napa meal today!
What’s that?

You know, with Napa influence.
You mean California-like? Avocado and crab?

No, not, California rolls. And not California cooking. I never knew what that’s supposed to mean anyway, except it sounds vaguely vegetarian and this meal is not vegetarian.
So what’s Napa?

Oh, please, use your imagination! It’s all about wine and lemons and spring greens and Dapple Dandies (dried pluots) and fresh peppercorns picked off the tree and kumquats ripped off the backyard bush last month – so, all sorts of ingredients and ideas brought back straight from the Napa region.
Because you can’t get them here? I understand you had trouble locating arugula…

Ideas arise out of inspiration. I am, today, inspired. As for ingredients -- I remember attending a lecture once by Charlie Trotter where he said that these days you can get any ingredient from anywhere in the world if you are willing to pay the price for it. So I could perhaps have purchased everything from here, but that’s not a fun way of looking at things.
So you lugged food from California anyway? And wine? How quaint.

Yes, it’s the type of thing I would do. So today is Napa day.
Pictures? There’ll be pictures?

Definitely if something burns. Remember, I am on a modest streak at the moment.
On the other hand, we are celebrating a very important birthday, so photos may be appropriate. Check in later.

A new old Polish proverb: a swollen head is emptier than a pickle barrel after a pickle eaters’ convention

This afternoon, someone alerted me to the fact that Ocean had been nominated for a prize (one of ten blogs so honored).

It took me only five minutes to start drafting an acceptance speech/post, even though the winner would not be announced until April.

Why this mad dash toward the podium? Clearly I will never have this opportunity again! I do not act – I cannot even hope for a Razzie Award (given to worst performances of the year). When else will I be drafting acceptance speeches? I wanted to savor the feeling of a nomination! Step aside, Halle, it’s my turn to thank the lawyer!

Ultimately, I knew Ocean could not win. It was astonishing enough to see it up there on a list of ten, though perhaps less astonishing if you read the description of what’s under consideration: They’re not exactly Shakespeare, But they’re some of the more amusing, informative or otherwise quirky blogs among the hundreds we scouted… (a Milwaukee publication is the sponsor). Ocean does not have a large enough readership. Even without a tracker, I am quite certain that it cannot compete with the others, even if Ocean had 100% turnout and all readers voted for it -- a mighty hefty "if." It’s like the obscure film that people say “huh?” about and wonder if this is the little indie that’s thrown in to show that the judges are not a predictable lot.

So, no win means no speech-post to write in April. I may as well play with one now, thanking everyone under the sun for placing Ocean on a list, any list.

I wrote my draft. Too contrived! Not humble enough. Should I start again? No, I have too much work to do. I’ll let it go. But you were all mentioned! Especially those who came through today with a lot of “there, there, don’t get discouraged with your cyber-writing” – you were in my speech!

My thank-yous ended with this:

Out of time, I’m out of time! Oh, and the grocery store clerk who laughed when I told him that the sign saying tulips for $6, 2 bunches for $12 seemed silly – thanks for laughing! Yes, all of you, thanks for laughing at my ridiculousness sometimes. Thanks for not taking me seriously so that I, too, can feel free to not take myself seriously.

Not great, but not bad for a first draft.

Proud as a pickle, I posted the whole story. I sat back, beamed a little, then clicked on the site, just to see Ocean’s name again. [Head swells the full size of the pickle barrel at this point.]

The link didn’t work.

Oh, no problem, I’ll fix it – I must have been too excited to fully replicate it in that little blogger box.

Still not working.

I try to get at it in other ways – no luck.

Finally, I call the publication. I mean, how ridiculous to have a post about a nomination that appears to be not real.

I am told that someone put the page up too early, by a few weeks. Moreover, they have to remove at least one of the nominees because it appears, upon the full reading of the blog, that a post in it favored the distribution of narcotics. The publication did not want to align itself with blogs that favor the distribution of narcotics. [Wherein Ocean avoids the first cut and understands the glory felt by those who survive the hatchet at American Idol.]

In the end then, my pickle-barrel-size-swollen-head post quickly left Ocean, to be buried with other deletables. [A more modest post will appear here if and when an announcement of any nomination is really truly made and that announcements remains online for more than one hour.]

A post script about feeling foolish: making a fool of myself here on Ocean comes easily for me. I have a knack for it. However, announcing a coup that proved to be a non-coup is about as foolish as anything I’ve ever done. My penance: I am openly telling you all about my stupidity. Nothing like a little public humiliation to keep you level headed in the future.

I am embarking on a stage in my writing where my main concern is going to be the weather

A few punches this winter and I am ready to give it up. Not writing in general, but writing with any zest and spunk. I’m beaten. I don’t want to worry with each carefully worded opinion piece about who is going to make the villain out of me next. And so I wont write anything at all that in any way strays from a discussion of topics as bland as the weather until I regain my strength.

Someone recently said to me that my teasing had a bit too much bite to it. Maybe once upon a time, in the good old days where I actually dared tease. Right now I feel I have become like an old woman whose teeth have fallen out and she can’t afford replacements. I think Ocean has no bite at all and neither do I.

But what worries me is that I am losing my spark. I used to write with enthusiasm and passion and increasingly I write (here, elsewhere) with fear. I have become a stunned and stunted scared rabbit, less bold than the ones that are currently making an appearance in my backyard. A few jabs from just a couple of people will flip a day upside-down for me and so I avoid saying much of anything (in writing? in person?) more and more.

I am becoming a stepford blogger. Dowd would understand.

Offense taken

Read here about one person’s experience with taking photographs in an area of town that’s not known for its physical loveliness. It reminds me of the many times people have looked at my camera with suspicion and anger. Pictures of urban decay, of scenes that speak of poverty and hardship, these are especially difficult to take without offending those who inhabit those spaces.

But negative feelings at being the subject of someone’s artistic expression go beyond that. I have been screamed at by a French butcher who did not want his market stall filled with rabbits photographed, by a Polish peasant woman who virtually spat at my camera as I tried to take a picture of her table of highland wares, by a janitor in a school building in Warsaw and a vendor at a New York hot dog stand.

These days I ask and I don’t push it if people say no. But it invites a negative outcome more often than not. And always I walk away depleted, in the way one does when one has offended someone out of the blue, unintentionally, and gets slapped down publicly for it.

Let it not be said that posting pictures or words for that matter, is always a joyful experience.

In hot pursuit of arugula

Food is on my mind again. It’s the season for it. The pace of restaurant kitchens seems cool right now. Why did I completely let go of that world? When you’re prepping, nothing, nothing is as important as getting the flatleaf parsley exactly to the consistency you’re after. How many of us have the luxury of worrying about the size and texture of shredded parsley for a solid block of time each day?

I read in the news about L’Etoile (our infamous eating place that pays homage to the small, organic farmer), and about Charlie Trotter opening a place in New York and my mind wanders to plates piled high with artistically presented food. I’m inspired. I want to cook again.

The starting point: what should be the dish that draws you in so that you can’t wait for the next one and the next? Something zesty and totally spring-focused. Something that’ll bite at your tongue but wont quite leave you in pain. Arugula! How about creating an arugula frappuccino? Seems perfect, no? A frothy little mixture, warm, served in a cappuccino cup. Add a few other green vegetables to the base to tone down the pepperiness of arugula (onion? sweet spinach? zucchini?) and you’ve got yourself a hot start to a dreamy meal.

Except,

...there’s no arugula to be had in Madison. Whole Foods tells me they’ve been begging their California suppliers, with no luck. Copps doesn’t have it. [You might say that these days Copps is losing its produce advantage. Where are those bins of fresh baby lettuce (and arugula)? What happened to the organic fruit section? There is, according to me, currently no good reason at all to set foot in that store.] Magic Mill? So laid back, so sweet, so barren -- at least in terms of arugula.

At this point I am ready to call friends in far away places. I am possessed by an arugula craving. Nothing, no other green soup will do. Arugula or bust!

But reality forces me to acknowledge the shortcomings of living in a state with weather that is in a symbiotic relationship with the Siberian tundra. Or so it seems.

I’m tired of winter.

I drive to Brennan’s to pick up some fruit for the morning – I am not a Brennan’s fan especially, but minute for minute, it is the closest grocery store to my house and so once or twice a year I go there.

I get out, am reminded by the clerk that the place closes in five minutes, I throw him a dirty look -- as in, how dare you hurry me just so you can go home to your wife and kids on a Sunday evening!?? I look listlessly at the berries, walk around to the cashier and pass a stack of beautiful, fresh arugula.

arugula on my mind... 

You could almost feel the collective Republican breath held in anticipation of the final definitive answer to the question of will she or wont she?

Rice supporters I am sure were listening carefully this morning as the Sec of State faced off with Russert (on "Meet the Press") on the Q of whether or not she would run for the office of president in 2008.

Ann outlines the full exchange here. I, too, watched. I am not a Rice fan for any number of reasons, though I must say that I enjoy listening to her respond to pointed questions, since she understands subtlety and does not stumble when pressed for answers. For instance, her responses this morning to questions on how on earth anyone could possibly believe that Bolton is a wise choice for the position of Ambassador to the UN (really, if you can defend that one, you can defend anything, including a flat earth and a cheese moon) were nothing short of brilliant. You could almost think that she believed them herself, even though her subsequent comment perhaps signaled some degree of apprehension. “I look forward to having him come to Washington and communicate with me on a regular basis” I took to mean “I am going to watch this dude closely; it’s undignified to remind everyone of the obvious – that indeed, we are the only important member state in that butchered and beleaguered organization.”

But back to the presidential quandary. I have to admit that my short-term self-interest does cause me to favor a Rice run for office. If she is on the presidential ticket, I win a challenge and earn myself a dinner at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago.

It became clear to me that my chances of cashing in on the dinner plummeted today. But what also became abundantly clear was that she was side-stepping the issue of the presidency by focusing on the act of running for that office. Nothing that she said precluded her being on the ticket as the VP candidate. This, then, is her potential assent to power: through the VP doors, those same ones that have lead others straight into White House in the past. Russert was wrong to show her photos of past Secs of State who became presidents. He should have shown her photos of VPs who then made the leap into the Oval Office. It is not inconceivable that she sees herself as being one of them.

Could it be that within the next month the dollar will be worth 0.1 Euros?

Do you want to track my travel to Europe? Easy. Look at the table below and find the lowest points in the value of the dollar against the Euro (December, for example). Is the dollar sliding again? Must be time to plan another trip!

I am getting used to coming home and finding that a charge for a café au lait rang up $45 on my card. It has great amusement value, really it does.


source: Federal Reserve Bank of NY

Challenge: get those dangling-in-perpetuity little work projects done tonight!

Strategy: rent numerous videos* at Blockbuster, load them in and sit in the kitchen, half listening, simul-working.

Stage One: Go to Blockbuster, look for interesting videos. Find none. DVDs? Sure, but I may as well put the video player up for sale on ebay, because there are now only two videos for every thousand DVDs available for rent.

Stage Two: Play the video with the greatest potential: the Terminal. No! It’s all about the US government being mean to a poor traveler whose country (sounding, in accent, awfully like someplace in Eastern Europe) suddenly disintegrates while the traveler is in flight to the US. When I get to the point where he is eating saltines with mustard and ketchup for the second time in a row at the airport, I turn it off. Certainly no officials in the Office of Homeland Security would let a man under virtual house arrest subsist on saltines. Would they?

Stage Three: Play video that I have now watched maybe 865 times. Embarrassment prevents me from posting the title, it is THAT low brow. This is more like it! I can tune out (you don’t have to be a frequent viewer like me to move in and out of this story and still know exactly where the next scene is heading), or I can tune in. Abstract of paper is completed to the tune of La Vie on Rose as the precious Meg Ryan frolics in the vineyard of Southern France [yeah!].

Stage Four: Look at title of third movie and decide that it may well be even more low brow than the one about Meg Ryan in the vineyards. The title alone gives me pause: Ladykillers. Why would have I rented a movie called Ladykillers? After an afternoon with Sartre, she settled down for an evening with the Ladykillers. Beyond weird. But let me remind you: there are no videos out there anymore. It was either that or the Catwoman, for which Halle Berry got an award for the worst performance ever in a leading role. Of course I am going to pick the Ladykillers.

Stage Four, however, is interrupted as I receive phone call from Very Gloomy Person. That takes the spunk out the evening. Forget the Ladykillers for now. Out comes the blog, time to post. Will return to dangling-in-perpetuity projects next week-end.

* I did not rent DVDs because there is no DVD player anywhere near the kitchen. Question to mull over: why not move downstairs to where the DVD player resides, with stack of excellent DVDs instead of watching trashy videos in the kitchen? Answer: it didn't fit my image of how this evening should look.

Isn’t it like taking the apple from Newton’s outstretched hand?

For one reason or another I found myself reading a biography of Jean-Paul Sartre this afternoon*. I noticed that he was born in 1905. Given the fact that he had fallen in and out of favor with writers and philosphers, one has to wonder if 100 years later he'll be commemorated in any significant way. I did note that, among other events, the National Library in France has put together an exhibit of Sartre-nalia to honor him.

All this in itself would not be especially bloggable. The tone of Ocean has been such that my Sartre moment should feel oddly out of place here.

Enter the Net. Because once my Sartre Saturday inquisitiveness hit the keyboard, it was only seconds before I discovered an article in today’s Telegraph on the Sartre exhibition.

It appears that the French are worried about the message they would be sending by using a typical photo of Sartre. [To those who do not happen to have a latte and a biography of Sartre before them, the man was known for his habit of pushing through at least two packs of cigarettes a day, in addition to indulging a few sessions with a pipe and an occasional popping of amphetamines.] And so, to remain in compliance with strict laws banning any promotion of smoking, they airbrushed the cigarette out of Sartre’s mouth in the photo used to promote the exhibition.

This fascinating and grotesque, if you ask me, act, lead me to Net surf some more to see if anyone was commenting on this and sure enough, I hit bingo at boing boing. There, a note was posted by someone who points out that many a famous person has had a cigarette removed by an airbrush ex post facto for similar reasons (the list includes the Beatles, Jackson Pollock, James Dean and Paul Simon)

Not right! Ocean is all about clean air and environmental protection, but defacing history in this way seems plain wrong. Therefore, in my efforts to counterbalance such censorship, I am posting a photo of protest, to demonstrate Ocean’s commitment to truthful reporting.

* I have previously stated here that I find biographies about as irresistible as lattes. I know, It’s an odd comparison, but at the moment I have both in front of me.

the correct way to remember Sartre 

March in Madison: morning walk

snow caps 

white on gray 

So the custom hasn’t died…

I’ve lived in the States long enough now that sometimes I cannot tell if an old familiar Europeism has vanished from the continent by now, or whether it remains firmly in place.

This one apparently has survived (Chirac greeting IOC committee member, via bbc.com):



I have to say that I am quite comfortable jumping from one set of customs to another. And a man kissing the hand of a woman isn’t in itself so jarring as to make an outsider sit up and stare in disbelief. But when I returned to Poland (after six years in NY) as a young teen, I was utterly astonished to see my high school (boy) friends deftly kissing the hands of older women, including my mother, in greeting. Grown men in suits and ties, with hats quickly removed for the greeting – yes, fine. But my gawky classmates who still had some growing to do?? The ritual was fraught with tense moments for me even though I was a mere bystander to the entire event.

It did not help that my mother oftentimes did not cooperate. The norm is that the woman extends her hand in greeting. She would not. She’d start in on a brief verbal exchange (very brief, and only if circumstances placed her momentarily in the same physical space where my friends and I would be standing) while the poor boy would frantically keep his attention riveted to the moment when she would extend her hand, so that he’d be there to catch it. She rarely did and the moment would pass.

It was an overall good lesson in furthering a kid’s understanding of human nature: some people take pride in flaunting convention, some people are oblivious to it and some people are a combination of the two. Those in the latter category are a challenge, especially for a thirteen year old, who just wants that whole scene of parent-meeting-friend to pass as seamlessly, effortlessly as possible, so that parent likes friend and friend likes parent and you, there, in the middle, never have to worry about it again. The unkissed hand was like a bad omen, portending of rocky future friend-parent associations. Unfortunately, most often it proved to be a reliable indicator of exactly that.

March in Madison: looking out the window at night

signs of spring? not really...

The gloom factor

I am a baby-boomer. Our cohort has been variously described, but no one has yet given us this ancillary label which I do believe is apt: we are a generation of baby-anti-gloomers.

Are we unique in this way? Oh yes. I cannot even recall how many boomers have told me of parents who spread the message of anti-joy. What was it with that generation? Why does it want to instill caution in us, to the point where it seems that’s all it wants to instill? Be careful, don’t be happy! Sacrifice, don’t seek pleasure! Your body will age, your mind will atrophy! We are not happy in our lives, they tell us again and again, and neither should you expect to be, you naïve and innocent young one (this said to an almost 52-year old?), just you wait.

And so we rebel. I was pedaling away at the gym with a friend at dawn today (fighting atrophy?). She is my age. What struck me was how sensibly cheerful she was in her reactions to my stories, and how much she believed that her own (grown) children should be able to search for the joy that she herself routinely finds. The woman is so damn happy, even at the times when life (and a parent) presses her to be exactly the opposite.

I want several bumper stickers for my car: The pursuit of pleasure is not a sin. Those who find life fantastically rewarding are not, by definition, hurting others. Looking forward to better times is better than looking backward at bad times. And so on. The anti-gloomers are forging a quiet revolution, ripping to shreds the signposts of gloom. You’re welcome, you young ones after us. We blaze endless trails for you – know how lucky you are that this is one of them!

The word of the year in 2004: blog. The word of the year in 2005: privatization

Americans are unconvinced about the need to privatize Social Security. Good. So am I. But catching the debate on privatization on the other side of the ocean really caused me to sigh (in a resigned life-is-tough-and-I-can’t-do-anything-about-it sort of way) because it says so much about the Poland of yesterday and the conflicted Poland of today. Here’s the story: Yesterday, Polish coal miners participated in a referendum on whether to privatize coal mines. 100,000 voted (75% of those eligible). 97% were opposed to privatization.

This does not surprise me: Of course they voted no! Coal mining under communism was a lucrative profession. You held on to your job, your salary was on the high end of the Polish scale and the mines remained opened, regardless of market pressures on the industry.

We are looking these days at a more conflicted Poland: a nation that says yes to market capitalism, on the condition that it does nothing to disturb the nobler aspects of Life As It Was Back Then.

In the meantime, those outside the industry are bitterly watching the vote come in and their reactions are less than magnanimous. I read in the News chat rooms: why should the miners remain privileged while the rest of us suffer the risks of an unstable market?! What a sick referendum! Why ask only them? The mines “belong” to all of us! We, the taxpayers*, should decide how they should be run.

Worry not, readers who think privatization is the way to go in all walks of life. The mines are doomed. Their transfer into private hands is already underway. The referendum is like a last little voice coming from these gloomy dark caves that were once as close to diamonds as anyone in Poland was likely to get. A few more jobs lost, a few more security blankets ripped from the hands of those who want to cling on, because for a (small? not so small?) number of them, it was better then, even as it is not so bad now, what with all the stores showing all those wonderful things that the employed can, every now and then, purchase. The tricky part is to remain employed**.

* this is fascinating since Polish taxes are new, low, and not evenly collected.
** Poland’s unemployment rose to 19.1% in December; it is significantly higher outside the major cities.

It just boggles my mind that a high ranking Polish government official is taking on Ikea for its sexist instructional pamphlets

There was a time when the mere mention of the word “feminism” in Poland would make people laugh. Did you know that American women are asking that sexist language be removed from school texts? Laughter. Hey, in the States, women are demanding that employers focus less on their appearance and more on their performance. Laughter. And so on.

So you could have knocked me over today when I read in the Polish paper that the Polish Minister for Social Affairs is spearheading the campaign to make Ikea redesign its pamphlets providing instruction on the assembly of furniture.

Why have we missed the boat on this one in the States? It seems that there are more than two thousand brochures with Ikea instructions and not one of them has a sketch of a woman doing the assembly. All guys. And the women in Poland are livid. [Why do I think that, after a day at work and an evening of housework and child care, it is indeed the women who are assembling tables and beds…]

The Minister herself states: I’m right there, putting the screws into the furniture, as are thousands of Polish women! [What did I say?] That’s how attitudes toward women are shaped, in these little ways – claims a representative to the Parliament. And I am sitting here reading and this time I’m the one chortling away. Because finally, issues of sexism are, to the Pole, no longer simply funny.

You just call out my name...

In demonstrating that he can say something nice about President Bush, Oscar writes: he was good to his friends.
I wonder if that’s true…Because I am going to guess that most of Bush's friends are not residents of Crawford Texas, it being a mere piece of lint on a map. Therefore, they are long distance friends. And in my experience, long distance friendships* suck.

Oh, I am asking for emails of protest here: my longdistance friends sustain me! We keep in touch!** We call each other when we are needy!

Yes, all that may be true (though disproportionately so among women, who appear to have a more expansive relational horizon than do men, especially over long stretches of time – at least that has been my experience). These friendships are curious, though, because availability appears to matter not at all. It becomes mostly about "knowing" that someone is there. A friendship conducted 99% in the imagination. How is it that it deserves to live under the same label as the proximate friend, the one who tracks your weeks and takes you out to dinner when you need to be taken out to dinner?

I received an email this morning from a long-distance friend. He writes: “I feel really bad about the way our friendship is going” and he then lists all the opportunities not taken, the broken contact (so that he knows little about my winter and I of his), the months of not writing.

Having moved an ocean away from very many very close friends, I have to say that over the decades, they become mere specs on the horizon – name entries in an address books, email writers upon occasion, a phone call maybe, and then loaded with some good days of intense love and camaraderie during the rare visit. Sustaining? Not in the everyday.

We need a new category for those who are away: they are, as the cliché would have it, our anchors. They may keep us from drifting away, from feeling displaced and lost. All fine and well. But let’s be honest: when we step out on the deck each morning, we don’t give them a second’s thought. We look to the left, to the right, never down below. We ignore them, they ignore us. Anchorships (an odd combination of terms, to be sure) are not friendships.

Maybe it’s easy if you have the resources to pull in your anchors on a regular basis and invite them for a week-end at the ranch. Maybe long distance friendship is much improved for the wealthy (must their lives be made easier in this respect as well?). Maybe Bush is, indeed a better friend than I am to my far away group and they are to me.

* Not the friends, mind you, I am writing about the friendships.
** My latest favorite from my long-distance friends: we read your blog! -- Thanks guys. That really makes me feel "connected," especially since, in the absence of you having any, I don't read yours.

I am not going to let go of this one so easily…

Yesterday I did get two wishes in the end for a “Happy Women’s Day:” one from a friend who was told to do it (“wish me a Happy Women’s Day already since no one else has!” – he obliged, probably somewhat terrified at my insistence) and the other from a friend who is plugged into a feminist network that supports the holiday on this side of the ocean.

Meanwhile, my sister writes this from Poland:

Women's Day is alive and well in this country. On March 7th already I noticed that a lot of men in Leclerc [a food store] were buying chocolates. Then yesterday, March 8th, you never saw so many people on the streets walking with flowers - those who just got them and those about to give them. Tulips mostly, all colors - yellow, orange, red, pink. A few roses here and there and some yellow jonquils. But not a sign of carnations. It looks like once the socialist Women's Day speeches are gone [this is a reference to the fact that the holiday was once much politicized and the government made a point of underscoring the role of women in building a socialist state], people get to enjoy this holiday. After all, can you really get annoyed if someone gives you flowers?

It sounds quite wonderful to me. Can we perhaps just once in a while be the importers of social custom instead of always sending our own abroad?

I suppose he can have the “bunny” part, though it hardly seems appropriate to call a former president a bunny...

I heard Bush Sr. refer to Clinton yesterday as the Energizer Bunny. Now, I do not mind that a former president promotes a certain brand of battery – after all, former Olympians are all about plugging brands and they get good money for it. Bush was doing this for free, demonstrating his enduring diplomatic panache. A man with the UN written all over his forehead. [Possibly there are some Bush – Energizer connections, but none that I am aware of.]

But I do mind the Energizer Bunny tag being brandished without care or deliberation. I have always wanted to appropriate the label as my own! I am the original bounce-back kid, the one with stamina and grit, Polish peasant stock pumps through my veins as it had for generations before me. I’m the one with ENERGY. I haven’t much to brag about, but this descriptor truly ought to be mine.

As for Clinton? The man is playing golf to raise money. It’s noble, it’s grand, but it’s also golf. And with respect to his health stamina, what can I say, he’s got the time to embark on a full scale fitness program! I have to squeeze things in. He’s 58 and basically out of a job. I’m fully employed and teaching overtime.

Can we share the label? No! If I share it, it will be with someone I find (energy-wise) inspiring. Someone who sleeps even less than I do and appears at peace with this, someone who does not play the guitar at night because of tiredness, but instead, learns a new language and builds a telescope strong enough to detect the Galilean moons around Jupiter. Or, I’ll share it with my grandmother. She’s no longer living and she never finished even grade school, so the telescope-building is not workable, but she had stamina! And grit! And heart. There's a true Energizer Bunny for you.

You’ve changed, my mother told me a few years back…

And I don’t think she meant in a good way. Perhaps she detected some ossification of traits she had wished would go away. Or, she suddenly saw parallels between the adult (more than just adult by now!) daughter and other adult members of the family she wasn’t especially fond of at the time. Quite likely.

I saw hope in that statement. For after all, doesn’t it mean we are capable of change? Regardless of how others judge the direction of it, isn’t it a sign that, with a little twitching, we can actually steer ourselves in a desirable (in our view) direction?

Last night proved that my mom was wrong and so my bubble of hope for a different, better me popped, making puddles of wistful thinking about how I could some day be a person who actually does what she sets out to do.

Because last night, I did what I had done for years and years back in high school, when I was, I thought, less “mature” and “disciplined.” What I did was simple: I stretched out on the floor, leaned against the foot of the couch, took out my guitar and played my Russian ballads. With some Polish odes thrown in. For hours I was there, with my guitar, letting that plunk and warble flow.

Sorry, mom. Once a guitar-playing wallower always a guitar-playing wallower. All that self-improvement I put aside in high school in favor of this rather fainéant activity? It was never meant to be. Some people industriously apply themselves to mastering the next level of whatever intellectual task or project they have undertaken in life and I think nothing of letting three hours slip humming about the sadness of never seeing Alexander Sergeiev Pushkin*, only to move slowly, wistfully into a poetic little tribute to summer.**

(with apologies for the roughness of my translations)

* What was once, will never return, it’s pointless to feel anguished about it,
Every era has its order, its beauty,
And yet I am saddened, that in this doorway, Pushkin will never appear,
I so crave, if only for a short moment, to sit down over a cognac with him.
(from the Russian poet, Bulat Okudzawa)

** Grasshoppers ran before me in a gallop
From underneath their hooves, flowers burst into bloom
Frogs in ponds lit fires of sound
In the sky the moon set flames of light to stars…
(the imagery in this song is Polish through and through)

A ja tobie chcialbym dac, troche inne kwiaty..

Lyrics to a Polish song... they mean: me, I would like to give you slightly different flowers... Why is this in my head? Why am I playing this record right now (yes, it’s a record, scratches and all)? Because, as I wrote on the week-end, today is Woman’s Day, widely celebrated in Poland with gifts of flowers (oh, that ubiquitous red carnation!). March 8th is irrelevant in this country. No flowers for me, unless I pick some up myself. Or bring up this photo from a Madison summer market. For all of us who would enjoy seeing these on our kitchen tables/counters today:

On March 8th (because just about everyone likes getting flowers), for you. 

A new thread: the ragged life of a blogger

When I post something, even with anonymity, about someone who reads Ocean, I am filled with trepidation and anxiety. Not the sort that leads me to worry: what if I got it all wrong? I am smug enough to think that I did not get it all wrong – at least not from my own perspective here, behind the screen at Ocean. But what if they think I got it all wrong? What if they think that the light I cast on them is more like a menacing, mystical shadow, a malefic caricature of how they would have described themselves, or the event?

If you send a book to press, there is no going back. An author is not obligated to post an erratum with the second printing (assuming that the revelations are so fascinating that the masses are entertained and there is a second printing) – something to the effect: “the incident described on p. 145 does not in any way indicate that I indeed find Mary’s ratatouille tasteless. I do not.”

But in the blog, it’s different. I have had the occasional email from friends, family members, colleagues – ranging from mild annoyance to outrage at posts that have appeared on Ocean. From: I don’t remember it being that way, to you take that God damn post down or else! Once, only once, did I cower and oblige.

Since I’m not a ranter, the likelihood of offense is small. You’d think. So why is it that I sweat it out each time I hit publish?

An hour over chili

The bowl of chili is hot, the corn bread straight from the oven, the salad crisp and full of cut up fresh vegetables. The talk falls to Paris. And then to Poland. And to the generations that lived before us there. The ones that endured the shifting borders, who, rather than feeling displaced, developed a fierce allegiance to the concept of nationhood. And to those living there now, willingly (for the most part) falling into step with the EU even though, at some level at least, it must run counter to the concept of nationalism (maybe it's time). And those to the west of Poland, those who tampered with the border and on whose economy Poland now depends.

And about somewhat shabby hotels with relics from the past, tied to that past, trying to keep pace with the demands placed on them by people like us, with our computers and finicky demands for freshness and crispness (I have them too). And about stores filled with merchandise, proudly displayed, in excess of what any family (except for a handful) can afford. About the crowds filling a square that has café tables spilling over one another, so that there’s hardly room for the pigeons (which may be a good thing, if you ask me).

And now I am drifting back, scanning the place, noting the stalls of flowers – so many flowers! Who are the recipients of all these flowers? And the trumpeter is out doing his hourly number at the top of the tallest of the two church towers…

So you’re really coming to visit this spring? -- I ask.
Yes, wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Typing on your laptop and watching the texts of Marcel and Leo appear on the screen

In a New Yorker tribute to Hunter S. Thompson, it was stated that Thompson’s “true model and hero was F. Scott Fitzgerald. He used to type out pages from “The Great Gatsby,” just to get the feeling, he said, of what it was like to write that way.”

I tried it this week-end. Aim big, I told myself, staring with total admiration at two favorite classics – one of Tolstoy, the other by Proust. Did I feel flooded with greatness as I set out to do this? No, I felt like their secretary. I felt like I was going to be admonished for using the wrong language by both and that Proust would invariably call out to his mother and tell her to fire me. Tolstoy would be more forgiving, I’m sure. Didn’t I read somewhere that he was scorned and rejected by friends and by women while at the university (his bushy eyebrows and full lips making him feel terribly self-conscious about his looks)? Surely he, the dispirited and disinterested academic that he was, would understand why this typist wasn’t doing justice to his Anna K.

Maybe the problem was that I did not use an inkwell and pen. I’m familiar with those. We actually used them in my first grade class back in Poland (that’s how old I am – or, how behind the times Poland was). Or maybe I should have selected a female author. Maybe I’ll rub nicotine stains on my fingers and stick rocks in my coat pocket and hack away at the Waves when a slow day next comes around. But honestly, I just don't see how I could ever, even momentarily, take ownership of someone else's text. Thompson's imaginative stretch (or audacious presumptuousness?) must have been far greater than mine.

The last trolleybus

The title of the previous post made me think of the hours upon hours of my youth spent on guitar playing. If someone were to ask – and how did you waste your high school years? I’d have to answer “staring into space, strumming my guitar and wallowing.” My guitar playing, which thrived at a self-taught level of not good but not god-awful either, is possibly not something I want to brag about in public.

And yet…

I was in love with the ballads, mostly those of the Russian, Bulat Okudzawa.

He was a poet (in the 1950s and 60s) and he used music to add even more lyricism to the beauty of the Russian verse. The lines are laced with what my friend here has once referred to as the typical Eastern European angst: living in the shadow of World War II, Okudzawa wrote mournful poems (filled with innuendo) about the brutality of war, about loss, about displacement.

I should remember to pick up my guitar at times when the Maiden of Nuremberg threatens repeatedly to close the lid on my insides with her sharp spikes. This song would be at the top of the list of wallowing-in-angst song moments:

the Last Trolleybus (crudely translated by me)

And when it is impossible to float against the tide
Impossible to pull out of despair
A blue trolleybus takes me away from here.
A blue trolleybus,
the last one.

My midnight ferry, you sail through the night
Not caring whether it is deep, whether it is shallow,
You collect all of us who are hitting rock-bottom,
From the boulevards,
The fallen ones.

Oh, open your doors: a passerby, a guest,
I know that for those sinking through the night --
Someone from your passengers, from your crew
Will get up
Will help them.

Many a time I fled with them from despair
I felt their shoulder against mine…
And yet, really, there is sense in silence
There’s goodness
In silence.

A release for the downtrodden, your doors beckon
Moscow is like a swollen river,
And the pain that has made itself felt from morning
Leaves off
By morning-time.

Chipper little piece of writing, isn't it? To be savored and deployed as needed, accompanied by the strum of a few minor chords.

Killing me softly with my own words

As I read through yet another stack of Law School Admissions files, I am struck by how neatly I can group candidate statements into three: those with passion, those with adversity, those wishing they had one or the other.

What would I write were I applying someplace now? I’m not one to dig into chapters from the past laced with drama (in the “I almost lost everything” sense, even though I did, several times). Then would it be the positive, up-beat statement about passion and commitment? Not likely. I noticed separately, in another writing project that is under way for me, that I do not like writing about the achingly benign character traits that push toward good behavior and excellence. Lost and displaced – I’m fine with that. Well-adjusted and pushing ahead in life – I just can’t embrace it on paper (maybe not in real life either). And so my statement would, most likely, fall flat and sound like it was ripped off the Internet or something.

In other words, were I applying now, most likely I would be placed on hold, with a post-it inside (I put numerous post-its myself into files) saying: appears to lack ambition, passion, no adversity, nothing stands out.

121 days left (before departure, but not mine)

Two people experience a loss. They recover their sanity and their cheer in the course of a road trip. They decide that road trips are the way to go. And so they plan to set out, for a year, traveling randomly around the country, 121 days from today. [This is my terse summary – don’t neglect clicking onto the travelers’ own version, planted in their sidebar.]

I have blogrolling to thank for the various blog connections that I have made this week-end – all inclined toward the story telling that I love so much. I cannot end this day without urging you to check this one as well: home sweet road. It’s like a book that you can’t put down, only you read it backwards, in the way that happens with blogs.

More on learning languages

Isn’t it funny that a chapter on the Polish language should itself make use of a term in a way that is incorrect in that given context! A reader reminds me that “steep learning curve” (as in: Polish has a steep learning curve) is so often used to mean "hard to learn" whereas it actually implies just the opposite.

Ah well, it could be that “steep learning curve” will eventually become so standard in its misuse that it will replace the technical term (with its original source in engineering).

And speaking of incorrect meaning, I thought of still another delicious aspect of the Polish language: it makes use of sounds that Americans simply cannot reproduce. For example, the “sz” letter combination creates a harsh version of an English “sh.” Now, if you say the simple word “prosze” in Polish, you are saying (depending on the inflexion and context) either “here you are” or “take this please” or “what would you like” or “you’re welcome” or “what did you say?” All those meanings in one word!

But I can guarantee that the list of meanings does not include “pig.” Yet, the English speaking person invariably pronounces it as “pro-sh-eh.” Thus, in an attempt at courtesy, they are telling the listener “Pig! You pig! You rotten hog in a pig sty!” It’s quite funny to the impartial observer.

Bingo!

An morning walk on a sunny day revealed this:

only one small patch so far, but it's enough to make you grin. 

Learning languages

I was just reading a book about the Polish language. Why, you might ask? Don’t I know it already? Oh yes, sure, of course. But I had this curiosity about what it is that I know. For example, these heretofore unknown to me truths emerged:

* Linguistic associations rank Polish as belonging to the group of ten most difficult languages in the world.
* In addition to the difficulties of the language itself (all those consonants! A simple word like wzbronione seems to cause English speaking people great pain, and they totally fall apart when faced with a little nothing, like szczerze), understanding is further confounded by the fact that meaning often changes depending on inflexion, pronunciation and emphasis. [I love the example given: in Polish, when you say “Iran attack Iraq” it can mean either that Iran attacked Iraq, or vice versa, depending on the context.]
* Polish has seven characters that exist in no other alphabet.
* Polish has seven cases, two numbers and three genders and an adjective qualifying a noun must agree in all three respects OR ELSE!
* And finally, this is said of it: Polish has a steep learning curve.

I have no idea what they mean – it took me no time at all to pick it up. A babe could do it.

And it’s not as if English doesn’t present its own challenges. As a new kid on the English-speaking block, I had to come to terms with the fact that English has sixteen verb tenses. You truly are insane! Why do you need all those verb tenses? In Polish, we only have three: past, present, future. Why muck around with all the absurd had beens and will have hads? Perhaps you should stop trying to simplify the tax code and concentrate instead (since you clearly want to make English the universal language) on getting rid of 13 of the tenses. You’ll do some three billion people an enormous favor.

One child left behind

I know, I'm now engaged in the mutual blogrolling thing and so you can find him on my list here, on the left, but if you’re not a roll clicker, then at least click here in this post. You just have to read this guy. Blogging, to me, has always been all about picking up little bits from a day (or from the past, or from one's mind) and writing short little stories around them. His are phenomenally well done.

Are we gonna let de-elevator bring us down, Oh, no let’s go! Let’s go crazy, Let’s go nuts!

The last time I felt that engaged with dancing was on a field trip, in a Polish youth hostel, with my new classmates (I had just that year come back from the States), when I was fourteen. That day was marked by significant bridge-building for me. It’s as if I was desperate to hang onto my fading American ways. I danced as if my life really did depend on it. It was so new to be dancing in this way in Poland, in the spring of 1967. I felt like I’d been all wound up and then someone pressed the “go” button.

So what explains last night? I am not one of those people who lives to dance, who cannot say no to an evening of movin’ to the beat. Fine, yes, my foot twitches to the sound of music, but it stops there. With few exceptions (all in the last year, actually), I don’t normally get up and dance for significant number of hours, without pause, without catching my breath.

It had to be the coming of spring. Or my thinking so much lately about Poland and that period where I was more Polish again than American (and which am I now?). It must be that the hostess created the right conditions. Yeah, that’s it! The dance space, people drifting in and out, in the way that people drift in and out of your life in general – engaged, then off at the sidelines, partnering you then letting go, standing back as you continue to do your thing.

When did I finally stop? At some point, well after midnight. I was all danced out. Like at the hostel in Poland, something inside you says – okay, that was good, now it’s time to put it aside and move on to the next day.

A full plethora of sensual and intellectual activity

I recently told someone that it’s not all in how things look. One scene tells many stories on many levels. Still, our eyes have become so efficient, what with all the corrective lenses and laser surgeries, that we are happy-happy to under-use just about every other sense and processing device available to us.

Maybe nature intended us to use our vision less over time, so that we would appreciate the world more fully. Maybe our eyes were meant to fade, as our brains wisened up. Maybe over time touching and smelling were to rekindle within us feelings of comfort and serenity. Maybe. In light of these majestic possibilities I think training our other senses and experiential devices is very much in order. No need to immediately read Plato or search for fields of lavender. All you have to do is open a brand new container of Illy espresso, dark roast, fine grind. Visually? Take a look below: not much. But oh, that rush of coffee aroma! And what intellectual component follows cracking open that lid? Writing a post about it. [Not that easy, believe me.]

what's in a can... 

Where Ocean yet again endorses the polite and the thoughtful

Last Sunday I stopped by a house with two little boys. One of the things I miss tons about having little ones under foot is that I don’t have many opportunities to browse through children’s books anymore. In the way I can’t resist lattes now, I once could not resist picking up books, and more books, and even more books for my own little ones. And so now I jump at excuses to go to places where there are little kids who would not mind an extra book on the shelf. To entice them into the project I’ll throw in a piece of chocolate, especially when I am told that a particular kid is a chocoholic. One has to promote good taste for desserts at an early age.

And it is perfectly wonderful to then pick up in the mail a note like the one below! I know, it’s ridiculously hard sometimes to get the kid to slow down long enough to write something down, but know that the effort is worth it. It is SO NICE to receive this, especially because one knows that it required more effort for an 8 year old to do it.

Thanks, Evan. Also for generously including your three-year old brother so that he’d look good too!

how often do you get this kind of treat stuck in among the bills? 

Cup half full: what a great set of days! Cup half empty: it’s warmer in South Dakota.

I’m with the half full this week-end. Who cares about South Dakota!*

True, I found no snow drops yet and walking through Owen Woods was like navigating a slippery river bed. But at least it wasn’t muddy! And the birds – where do birds hang out in the winter? Suddenly they are everywhere. Too shy yet to be photographed. But so wonderful to listen to. Sun’s out. Life’s better than good.

*all in jest – no emails please!

The one sign of color: a birdhouse. How pretty! 

Like foaming champagne... 

Water, snow, ice and sunshine. So slippery. So nice. 

Oh may I squire you round the meads And pick you posies gay?---'Twill do no harm to take my arm.'You may, young man, you may.' *

In planning my May trip to Poland, I have been jumping around my preferred Polish sites, checking up on what people are gossiping about these days. One of my favorites is the news daily, Gazeta Wyborcza. There is a “forum” on the front page where a question is raised by a reader and others weigh in with brief answers and opinions.

Today’s forum really made me smile because I imagined how differently the thread may have proceeded had the same question appeared in a Madison paper. Let me do a translation. [Background info: in Poland, March 8th has always been celebrated as “Women’s Day,” with flowers and special recognition being given to…women. But as so many of customs and holidays have been revamped under western (aka American) influence, questions are starting to crop up as to whether the time has come to put this holiday to rest.] Here, then, is today’s little discussion (I’ve omitted some repetitive comments to save space):

Q: Each year in my mind a dilemma arises: should I give flowers or not? Will she get miffed at me? At times it’s best to forget that it’s THAT day again and at other times, dear God, you better not forget! Will someone finally settle this one?

A1: I can’t think of a single instance where a woman receiving flowers would have gotten miffed!

A2: And not only on March 8th :-)

A3: Oh, I know of some! :-))))

A4: In my opinion, give, give and give more flowers! I think that most women like getting flowers…Anyway, our culture demands that we behave well and treat this as a special day. What would we do without the beautiful gender?

A5: I’m not giving. Why? Because my sister and my women friends have already reminded me that March 8th is coming up and that’s why they’ll get nothing… I’m not going to give anything because it is expected of me. I’ll give a flower or a whole bouquet on one day, maybe everyday, but it has to be my decision.

A6: So I gather that presents and birthday wishes and holiday greetings you give out also when you feel like it, not when the calendar demands it. You should be congratulated on your good manners and self-satisfaction.

A7: What would we do without the beautiful gender? Live normally at last!

A8: Why don’t you instead give her chocolates …or a kiss…

A9: So stupid to even ponder this…Doesn’t a woman in today’s world deserve just a smidgen of gratitude? She’s supposed to only slave away at work, in the home? Unfortunately, I have never received a flower without any occasion and neither has any woman that I know of…

A10: You deserve not only a smidgen but whole lot of our gratitude. We’re just jealous. See – the men are on your side, even on the Internet!

A11: Let’s please not make an issue of this! March 8th has always been Women’s Day and we have always received flowers and presents! And it was nice! We can’t count on getting anything on other days. We go to work, we leave work, we get groceries, we cook dinner… I await March 8th!

A12: My husband doesn’t observe Women’s Day. But my work colleagues do and I get flowers from them…I take from this that I am more of a woman to strange men than to my husband. A wife is an institution – someone to do the laundry, to take care of HIS sick mother. From such small things [no flowers] begins the end of love as one as felt it on the wedding day.

A13, 14, 15, etc: (from the vast majority:) Give the flowers! We love them! Yes, please continue to give flowers, on this day, on other days! Long live March 8th!

* A.E.Housman

Don’t Mess With Martha

I rushed home tonight so that I could catch the news and watch Martha Stewart reenter the real world of her $xxx million home

Why do I mention this? Because I have less than zero interest in the woman and her empire (even if I think a few of her decorating ideas, from what I’ve seen in grocery-line flipping through her magazine, are kind of pretty). And yet I thought – this will be interesting.

It wasn’t. She got out, went outside and walked around her $xxx million yard. Big deal. What was I thinking??

But I did listen to the news reporters – from WSJ columnists to major network anchors – speculating endlessly if she will use the period of her imprisonment auspiciously to boost her image and prop up her ambitious new ventures. Her walk through the garden was analyzed to death: is she smiling to purposefully ingratiate herself to the public? Was she tugging at lemons to draw attention, perhaps, to yellow-toned products? Maybe it’s because there wasn’t much of a story in her return and so we had to listen to an invented drama. Or maybe we just cannot forgive her for being so damn successful at selling an image. Why the hell can’t she trip up already? This Polish-American woman just cannot take failure, can she? One tough woman. The t-shirt says it all:

Where Ocean gives women invaluable dating and mating advice

Stay away from guys whose index finger is stubby and short!

I am so glad that someone has finally figured out how to assess the behaviors of a potential dating subject. Before, all we had was conversation. Sure, we could google people, even track down their criminal records, but personality-wise – clueless. Everyone knows that men (and women, but someone else can write a post on that) display their best behaviors, not at all indicative of their true nature, when hunting down their loved one.

Science comes to the rescue at last, providing invaluable information for women who are about to be swept off their feet. In the hand that opens the door for her, she will find the “key to aggression.” A recent study (described in a BBC article here) reveals that finger length will tell her a lot about the man of her sweet dreams.

Let me summarize the three findings and then you can decide for yourself if he is worth it:

The shorter the index finger is compared to the ring finger, the more boisterous he will be.
Men with more “feminine” finger lengths may be more prone to depression.
A longer ring finger may indicate that he is one fertile dude.

The researchers tell us that unfortunately, finger length tells us nothing about male neuroticism. Why they should think that this, above all else, is something we need to know at the outset is beyond me, but I’ll pass that piece of information along in case aggression, fertility and depression are irrelevant and you only care about the degree of neuroticism in your future mate. The finger studies will tell you nothing. You’re back to conversation on that one.

When in Poland, chase down the Americans, of course.

In the course of my frequent travels to Poland, it had never once struck me to look up Americans living there. Sometimes, when American friends would be traveling through Europe at the same time that I was, we would meet there, which in itself was amusing. We’d not meet a heck of a lot in the States, but once in Europe, it was a must! But never have I actually sought out other Americans once I crossed the ocean. What causes me to do this now (during my forthcming May trip)? There are American bloggers living in Poland, both of them teaching English to Poles (find them on my new, fancy blogroll!). One can never say no to a blogger. It’s as if you have been meeting these people all the months of posting and reading and enjoying their written company, it follows that you would want to see them once you’re within a hundred miles of where they live.

I am working the permutations of the American and Polish descriptors to death: I know American Americans, Polish Poles, Americans with Polish heritage, Americans from Poland (me), and now I’m adding the category of Americans living in Poland with Polish spouses who will soon be residing in America. What’s missing? The person who lives in Poland having once lived in America. Oh – wait, that’s my sister! I’m covered on all fronts.

Blogroll up and ...tripping

Yes, I finally posted sidebar links to favorite blogs.
No, it was not as easy as I thought it would be.
Yes, it took a lot of time.
No, it's not working perfectly.
Yes, I emailed those with troubled and troubling URL's asking what the buzz was.
No, I do not intend to fix the two one defective links tonight. [UPDATE: they're fixed.]
Yes, I'll add others. Please, go easy on me. This was hard enough.
No, I do not pretend to be facile with HTML. I don't even know what it stands for. Hateful Technological Manipulative Disorder? I don't care that the letters do not match.
Yes, that's all I have to say about this for now.

I would not be one of THEM if I did not write a comment about the hot topic of the day

There is much discussion currently in our Law School about Internet use in the classroom. I’ll permit a reasoned guess as to how the troops appear to be aligning themselves. You are correct! Most faculty (of those who have bothered to post on this) favor placing some limits on Internet use (in the name of etiquette and pedagogy) and most (though not all) students favor leaving this to their own judgment.

I am in the collegial minority – I have gobs to say about etiquette and not a whole lot on the matter of how pedagogy is affected by Internet surfing. Because, in truth, I do not know that much about pedagogy, except what I see students responding well to, as evidenced by their class participation, attendance, exam performance and course evals. I trusted them with fashioning their own learning styles before and I am ready to let them judge now how they wish to listen and learn. [My guess is that the educational professionals (the school teachers) who these days clutter school rooms with visuals, know what they’re doing. By comparison, our Law School walls are bare. Clutter on the screen may be an antidote for some students whose eyes glaze over when they have to look at just ME.]

On the matter of etiquette, I feel myself to be on firmer ground. I am an etiquette buff. Some people are fastidiously precise with putting on make up in the morning, some iron their sheets and towels, still others use actual shoe polish on their shoes instead of spitting on a rag and wiping off the mud. Me, I like etiquette. I like polite, I like courtesy, I like good manners and good behaviors. I just like all that stuff that paves the way for pleasant, cordial relations. It makes life so much easier to proceed with respect. And so, I am convinced that rules of laptop ettiquette should appear in every spot on earth where laptops are permitted (these would include no porn, no distracting visuals, nothing that may be intrusive, rude, inappropriate, etc.).

As for me, up there in the front of the room, at some point there will be a student who will come to class with an iPod in one ear and a laptop under her arm and she will take off her glasses and close her eyes and snore and the snore will flutter the newspaper where she has been doing the crossword to the floor and that, most certainly, will be a distraction for me. At that moment I say take that piece of technology and find yourself another rest station. But it hasn’t happened yet. From my vantage point, students appear to be decent and polite. Especially when they understand that they are being graded by the prof who is watching them every single minute of class time.

Bewitching

Since I have lived in this house (17 years this summer), I have never had a backyard neighbor. The house on the adjacent lot stands empty, neglected. Upon occasion one can talk oneself into seeing lights at night there, shadows on the blue snow, moving images and shapes, signs of life, but not really, because, unless one is under a martini haze, there is no life there. The house is truly deserted.

In the morning, of course, it is obvious that any noises or dancing shadows from the night were all in one’s head. Add a pinkish orange morning tint to the scene and you’ll have a house that is truly bewitching, if not bewitched. I’m looking at it now as I work away at the kitchen table. So tranquil, so pretty! So deserted.

morning light, the "witches' house." 

A Madison March morning

So, you, dear reader from a southern state, you wanted to see the way spring makes its way to our doorstep here in Wisconsin? Alright. A photo from this morning:

Backyard steps. (Were you expecting crocuses? On March 3rd? In Madison?) 

You never know: that person riding the subway with me in NYC? She may well be a former student of mine.

One of the fantastic things about teaching is, of course, that sooner or later, the student is done with your classes. By that I mean that they move on. I have already rhapsodized about keeping connected to those who that stay in town. Over the years, as their numbers swell, they fill the firms around Madison and you get to the point where you never know (especially if you are like me and have a problem keeping a name to a face) when you are going to be passing each other on the street. I feel like inevitably there will come a day when someone will come up to me and do one of those “Moonstruck” numbers of spitting at my feet or slapping me down for something that I said or did that irritated them back in 1989. To date, they have been more gracious than that, but you never know.

Those that go away typically are gone for good. Occasionally they will email, but that conversation usually fizzles after one round of “how’s it going?” I love the updates, but absent a more current mutual stomping ground, we simply don’t have the time to take things further than that.

Enter the world of blogs. Yesterday I heard from one of my students of many, many years back. She had discovered Ocean a while ago and, probably in the spirit of “if she can do it, it can't be that hard,” her NYCbeauty blog was born. She had always been a clever and audacious writer. She now joins the ranks of others around town and out in the world who have taken up this hobby and are producing some of the funniest, punchiest posts out there. Check out her introduction to her blog. It’ll make you chuckle for sure.

It is unbelievably sunny and bright outside. I am absolutely thrilled to be getting back to a writing project I let slide last month. I am greatly looking forward to munching dried organic white peaches that I picked up in SF. I just booked a flight to Poland in May. Pictures of crocuses are about to make an appearance on this blog.

There. Ocean is all about balance.

I am inviting Larry Summers to our next blogger dinner

I noted earlier that last Wednesday, a game was hatched between Bozzo and Oscar. Basically the goal was to outsmart (in a mechanical way) the ecosystem link count by mutual link-adoration. Freese joined within hours and as of yesterday, they appear to have succeeded in pushing the blogs toward link stardom. B,O,F: Are you doing some harmonic belching yet in celebration of your achievement?

And the girls? Why weren’t we playing? Some words the capture for me the spirit of their game: “silly,” “competitive and pointless” “doesn’t go to the relational aspects of blogging.” It seems clear that I refuse to play with blogs in the way that these three are doing. I can just imagine what Larry Summers would say.

A post on how Ocean inspires young attorneys to engage in the august, the exemplary, the most noble of pursuits

A wee part of me had always hoped that Ocean would entertain, yes, of course, but occasionally also maybe elevate and inspire – to travel, to learn about Poland, to be forgiving of human foibles, to write and pursue one’s artistic streak… I get all choked just writing about the possibilities.

I was, therefore, gratified to learn that one wonderful former student who has recently entered the ranks of the legal profession has taken to blogging. Moreover, he is an Ocean reader and I can tell that I have indeed inspired. Read about it here and here.

UPDATE ON BOZZO LINKS: After my earlier run in with the Maiden of Nuremburg, I did not have it in me to work on the Ocean sidebar last night. I will get to it by tomorrow, for sure!

Is Ocean joining the ranks of Very Strange Blogs?

I noticed that the side bar with a blogroll is up and running! But….are you saying that the only blog you read is that of Bozzo?
What makes you think that?

Take a look: it’s all about Bozzo
Bozzo rules. Actually I should go ahead and change that. Bozzo & Lee rule.

Who is Lee?
Lee is in on the partnership. You know: There are two Bozzos and then two Lees in the household.

I see. How delicate.
No, you don’t understand. It’s all one family and always has been. And they rule.

Obviously they rule your blog. Again, have you looked at your sidebar lately?
Looked at it! I created it! Actually, big Bozzo created it. Hence this moment of Bozzo stardom. The blogroll is all about Bozzo. At least for the next hour or so.

Big Bozzo. Suddenly you’re writing about size. So…crude.
My eating companions tonight included a big Bozzo and a little Bozzo. And a Lee. Look – the last time I had such a roll of bad days (weeks? months?) was decades ago where I said to those within spittin’ distance (that would be my immediate family): get me out of this funk! I need to go to Canada! They knew not to tinker with that one. We went to Canada. But times have changed. Everyone’s going to Canada these (post election) days. It doesn’t provide the exotic relief it once did. All is not lost, however. So long as I have advice from afar (thank you), a reader for my text (thank you) and Bozzo, Bozzo, Lee and Lee cooking me up spaghetti and meatballs, I’ll be okay. Here, before I get to work on my Bozzo sidebar (by tomorrow, this post will totally not make sense, as all but one of the Bozzos will be erased), admire the photo of one of my Bozzo hosts for the evening:

my dinner host let me know: utensils are passé.
 

March came in demonstrating that if things are rocky rocky at the outset, they can get even worse!

I would be remiss not to blog about the 11th hour today (it is the one that immediately follows my teaching). It could be that, if I spent a day at a spa doing total body relaxation, I may let my mind reach for memories of worse work hours, but I would be hard pressed to do so.

Hard pressed, Exactly. I would say that this hour, and therefore this day could provide nice competition in terms of evil and torture with what once was endured by a person locked in the Maiden of Nuremburg, an ancient contraption looking, to the best of my web searching efforts, something like this:


Oh, not threatening enough? The Maiden of Nuremburg is described thus (and please read it carefully because the highlighted by me phrases quite nicely replicate my 11th hour of today):

This instrument has four main features, whose wickedness … deserve to be analyzed. The inside of the sarcophagus was fitted with spikes designed to pierce different parts of the body, but miss the vital organs, so that the victim was kept alive, in an upright position. Its second feature is that the victims were kept in an extremely confined space to increase their suffering.Its third feature was that the device could be opened and closed without letting the victim, who had been pierced from the front and the back, get away. Its fourth feature was that the container was so thick that no shrieks and moaning could be heard from outside unless the doors were opened. When the sarcophagus doors were shut again, the spikes pierced exactly the same parts of the body as before, and thus no relief was ever possible.

Spiky wickedness, with targeted suffering, no chance of getting away, no relief in sight. Exactly!

Where Ocean strives to encourage feelings of empathy among those living south of us:

March 1st:

Temp outside: 15 degrees F
Windchill: something like 5 degrees F
Snowcover: more than it was on the day I decided to forego shoveling thinking it would all melt before my eyes imminently.