15 hours ago
Saturday, March 19, 2005
P.S.
Finally, I’ll include a conversation that I overheard in the drugstore uptown. It demonstrates a certain level of independence that city kids reach early on, just because they don’t have to be chauffeured every time they leave the house. And you can send them on errands, as clearly this girl’s mom did, even though the girl was certainly no more than 7 or 8:
(into the cell phone) Okay, mom, I’m in the right place. Yes, I already got the soap…Which one?The multipack? What’s that? Oh, oh, I see. Mom, this is embarrassing! But I’m a kid! Kids don’t buy this stuff! Okay, okay – sure, I see them. Which color? Oh, I have to pay for this now. Okay…. (completes transaction, leaves store) Hey, I’m out already! I’m about to cross the street, can you see me? Hi mom! (waves up to window of apartment building, bounces across the street happily, bag of soap and xxx in hand.)
New York break: New Yorker gem
One flight equals one New Yorker. It is, perhaps, the nicest aspect of flying so frequently to the coast: I catch up with the longer stories.
And here is another point of deep satisfaction: when an expert in a field expresses a sentiment you have held but haven’t stated adequately, nor with any degree of credibility, given your ignorance of the subject matter.
I’m thinking of the wonderful article on the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas, who is proposing a radically unobtrusive (these days this means no big glass dome in front of, or inside a period piece) addition to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. Koolhaas understands the completely fascinating aspects of architecturally daring projects. And, rather than eliminating ones that are perhaps visually or politically jarring right now, he feels the need to highlight them. With that, he highlights (with respect) the audacity of some of the steps taken in the past.
That’s a cursory summary of a complicated position, but I especially want to quote it as applied to Stalinist and “communist” architecture. My sister and I have always felt that there is something riveting about the building projects dating to the 50s in Warsaw. The MDM Square, Latawiec – these are blocks that were visionary at the time (as was the political climate of postwar Poland; I’m not addressing its corruptness here, nor am I regarding it with any degree of nostalgia -- that's not the point). They expose the beauty of hope and even today, the forcefulness of their statement is, to me, astonishingly touching.
And so I read with great fascination in the New Yorker:
*My apologies for having to note the dates -- the links, as everything else about Blogger this week, are not working properly and so one has to scroll down to locate the posts. Not worth it, to be sure, except for the most diehard blog readers.
And here is another point of deep satisfaction: when an expert in a field expresses a sentiment you have held but haven’t stated adequately, nor with any degree of credibility, given your ignorance of the subject matter.
I’m thinking of the wonderful article on the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas, who is proposing a radically unobtrusive (these days this means no big glass dome in front of, or inside a period piece) addition to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. Koolhaas understands the completely fascinating aspects of architecturally daring projects. And, rather than eliminating ones that are perhaps visually or politically jarring right now, he feels the need to highlight them. With that, he highlights (with respect) the audacity of some of the steps taken in the past.
That’s a cursory summary of a complicated position, but I especially want to quote it as applied to Stalinist and “communist” architecture. My sister and I have always felt that there is something riveting about the building projects dating to the 50s in Warsaw. The MDM Square, Latawiec – these are blocks that were visionary at the time (as was the political climate of postwar Poland; I’m not addressing its corruptness here, nor am I regarding it with any degree of nostalgia -- that's not the point). They expose the beauty of hope and even today, the forcefulness of their statement is, to me, astonishingly touching.
And so I read with great fascination in the New Yorker:
[Koolhaas] expressed his ardor for "sixties and seventies Soviet architecture"For my own heartfelt defense (against attacks on aesthetic grounds) of the apartment buildings of the sixties and seventies, (coincidently?) noted on the drive from the Warsaw airport, look at my (December 7th*) post here, and of Stalinist-era architecture in Warsaw, my (December 13th*) post here.
as well. On the drive from the airport to downtown St. Petersburg, Koolhaas had
focused on a bleak row of dilapidated concrete apartment towers and swooned over
their "heartbreaking delicateness."
"Say something on those buildings’ behalf before they’re torn down," Piotrovsky [director of the Hermitage] said. "Nobody here defends that architecture."
*My apologies for having to note the dates -- the links, as everything else about Blogger this week, are not working properly and so one has to scroll down to locate the posts. Not worth it, to be sure, except for the most diehard blog readers.
New York break: on the day before the official appearance of spring I take my first run of 2005
Yesss! Good for you! You went jogging! Where?
Oh, in Central Park, of course.
And how was it? Running through those curvy hilly paths, early at the crack of dawn, must have been sublime!
I felt inadequate.
Oh! Don’t let it get to you! It was your first run of the year! Yes, you go to the gym, you walk for miles and miles, but this is different – running is a strain. You’ll pick up your speed, you’ll see. You probably felt a little like an engine without the proper grade of fuel, right? Like you were put-put-putting your way to the harbor while the ships and sailboats breezed by without so much as a glance. You have to understand that they’ve all been going to the Equinox where personal trainers had them develop the proper muscle groups for it. They probably work out for hours on end. You fit it into a busy schedule – don’t berate yourself, in a matter of weeks (okay, months maybe) you’ll be right up there with the fastest.
I felt inadequate because my old t-shirt was sticking out from under my old sweatshirt. They all wore snazzy jogging outfits.
Oh, in Central Park, of course.
And how was it? Running through those curvy hilly paths, early at the crack of dawn, must have been sublime!
I felt inadequate.
Oh! Don’t let it get to you! It was your first run of the year! Yes, you go to the gym, you walk for miles and miles, but this is different – running is a strain. You’ll pick up your speed, you’ll see. You probably felt a little like an engine without the proper grade of fuel, right? Like you were put-put-putting your way to the harbor while the ships and sailboats breezed by without so much as a glance. You have to understand that they’ve all been going to the Equinox where personal trainers had them develop the proper muscle groups for it. They probably work out for hours on end. You fit it into a busy schedule – don’t berate yourself, in a matter of weeks (okay, months maybe) you’ll be right up there with the fastest.
I felt inadequate because my old t-shirt was sticking out from under my old sweatshirt. They all wore snazzy jogging outfits.
Friday, March 18, 2005
New York break: three women and a plan
Plan number one was to go to the Fulton Street Fish Market at 2 a.m. Missed that one by dragging in too late last night. Plan number two was to go to the Flower Market at 5 a.m. Missed that one by… well, let’s just say that got missed as well (don’t look at me – I get up early). Plan number three was to make it to the South Street Seaport Museum on Fulton Street before noon. Missed that target time too!
On the other hand, couldn’t you argue that this little part of New York is more enjoyable in the afternoon sun anyway?
On the other hand, couldn’t you argue that this little part of New York is more enjoyable in the afternoon sun anyway?
New York break: the stress of city life
In Madison, I drive on automatic pilot. To change a route requires a mental exertion that I am not willing to hand over to the entire driving experience. I am not a big fan of driving all the time -- to work, to the store, etc. so it’s best for me to not think about the fact that I have to. Daily.
In New York, of course, it’s not all about wheels. That is indeed a relief. Except that now you are faced with endless possibilities of getting from point A to point B. It’s tense: from the minute you leave your place, you have to decide: left? right? And for how many blocks before you go up toward the next avenue?
I’ve always hated this, even when I lived here as a young kid. And there is remorse, too, because at times you realize you’ve made a bad choice. The block is especially dull – you have no window shopping opportunities, you pass by offensive places, shut down, barricaded, menacing. Next time, you say to yourself, next time I wont go this way.
And then through a confluence of factors, you find yourself on the same deserted block a few days later, hating yourself all over again.
It’s easier in Madison – no decisions, no self-loathing. Also no variation. Each drive to work is a repetition of the same route. To the grocery store – the same. Post office? Same. Gym? Same same same damn same.
In New York, of course, it’s not all about wheels. That is indeed a relief. Except that now you are faced with endless possibilities of getting from point A to point B. It’s tense: from the minute you leave your place, you have to decide: left? right? And for how many blocks before you go up toward the next avenue?
I’ve always hated this, even when I lived here as a young kid. And there is remorse, too, because at times you realize you’ve made a bad choice. The block is especially dull – you have no window shopping opportunities, you pass by offensive places, shut down, barricaded, menacing. Next time, you say to yourself, next time I wont go this way.
And then through a confluence of factors, you find yourself on the same deserted block a few days later, hating yourself all over again.
It’s easier in Madison – no decisions, no self-loathing. Also no variation. Each drive to work is a repetition of the same route. To the grocery store – the same. Post office? Same. Gym? Same same same damn same.
New York break: O’Leary’s? O’Reilly’s? Oh yes!
The night is young! an energized person tells me (she herself is not all that old, so why am I listening to her?) as my cab pulls into New York late in the evening. Come with me and we’ll join a New York crowd of shamrock-seekers. I oblige.
Morningside Heights (upper Westside, around Columbia) is not, demographically speaking, a good place to look for crowds with “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”-type t-shirts. In fact, the green motif, highly visible in the trimmings and decorations of the Irish Bar we stumbled upon, was not much in evidence among the patrons. It was the kind of place, also, where most people were drinking by the glass instead of by the pitcher – a welcome change from, say, State Street partying (although one might challenge my statements here, as I know next to nothing about Madison’s State Street bar scene).
Three women, sitting at a bar, is also an interesting situation, except when one of them so clearly is more than the combined age of the other two (yes, I did get called “mums” by one of the patrons, but the conversation sort of begged for it). If I had had any trepidations, they proved to be unwarranted. I would say that by the time we left (near closing?), the entire crowd (including the three of us) was pleasantly sober (-ish). Perhaps it’s because New Yorkers worry obsessively about keeping the numbers under control. You know, it’s the East Coast weight obsession.
Morningside Heights (upper Westside, around Columbia) is not, demographically speaking, a good place to look for crowds with “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”-type t-shirts. In fact, the green motif, highly visible in the trimmings and decorations of the Irish Bar we stumbled upon, was not much in evidence among the patrons. It was the kind of place, also, where most people were drinking by the glass instead of by the pitcher – a welcome change from, say, State Street partying (although one might challenge my statements here, as I know next to nothing about Madison’s State Street bar scene).
Three women, sitting at a bar, is also an interesting situation, except when one of them so clearly is more than the combined age of the other two (yes, I did get called “mums” by one of the patrons, but the conversation sort of begged for it). If I had had any trepidations, they proved to be unwarranted. I would say that by the time we left (near closing?), the entire crowd (including the three of us) was pleasantly sober (-ish). Perhaps it’s because New Yorkers worry obsessively about keeping the numbers under control. You know, it’s the East Coast weight obsession.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
New York break: Notes en route
Standing in front of the Business School, waiting (and waiting, and waiting) for my cab this afternoon, I encountered, separately, four people (it was a long wait):
1. a colleague on her way to the garage beneath the Business School (most law school profs park there) – we chatted, it was pleasant;
2. a neighbor who teaches at the Bus. School (he was hurrying to a meeting), and who, with the highest level of pity at my plight (a very real possibility of a missed flight) said this to me: “take my car and leave it at the airport, then call and tell me where it is – I’ll get it later” (saint! but at that moment the cab came ---“you should never worry with Union – we’ll never let you down!” yeah, cool, save that for the next rider; it was about as credible as his next comment ---“you didn’t have to lift that suitcase in, I was about to get out and help you…” and finally ---“I don’t have any change – sorry…” Keep it and stuff it, buddy);
3. a blog reader (“do you remember, we met once… I wrote you in Poland…”);
4. and finally, a woman who smiled at me, though I am certain I have never seen her before. Even so, this chance encounter may significantly alter the course of my life. Picture this: she’s dressed in a long woolen coat (too warm for today, I think) of a stunning deep blue-navy color. Her hair is yellow – the kind I suppose a literary type from a previous century would have called “flaxen,” but I associate with Scandinavian women, ones who maybe picked up an outlier gene (from an unexpected past dalliance between their Swedish relative and an interloper Pole?) that passed down a bit of a honeyed tone.
That honeyed flaxen hair against the royal blue coat was so irresistible (yellow against blue) that I seriously thought of calling my man Jason (who loves to talk about hair color, being rather an expert at changing it for people), right then and there, telling him we need to make some changes during my next visit.
When a woman talks about changing her hair entirely (I’d already discussed going short again, but Jason balked: he loves the idea of a 50+ person with long hair, occasionally done up in a pony tail; one doesn’t challenge Jason), you suspect that something’s up. She is redefining herself in some way.
Am I? I’m thinking about it. For the time being, I put aside thoughts of hair and concentrated on giving permission for my cabbie to zip through yellow lights so that I could catch my flight. I did. I am en route LGA as I type this.
1. a colleague on her way to the garage beneath the Business School (most law school profs park there) – we chatted, it was pleasant;
2. a neighbor who teaches at the Bus. School (he was hurrying to a meeting), and who, with the highest level of pity at my plight (a very real possibility of a missed flight) said this to me: “take my car and leave it at the airport, then call and tell me where it is – I’ll get it later” (saint! but at that moment the cab came ---“you should never worry with Union – we’ll never let you down!” yeah, cool, save that for the next rider; it was about as credible as his next comment ---“you didn’t have to lift that suitcase in, I was about to get out and help you…” and finally ---“I don’t have any change – sorry…” Keep it and stuff it, buddy);
3. a blog reader (“do you remember, we met once… I wrote you in Poland…”);
4. and finally, a woman who smiled at me, though I am certain I have never seen her before. Even so, this chance encounter may significantly alter the course of my life. Picture this: she’s dressed in a long woolen coat (too warm for today, I think) of a stunning deep blue-navy color. Her hair is yellow – the kind I suppose a literary type from a previous century would have called “flaxen,” but I associate with Scandinavian women, ones who maybe picked up an outlier gene (from an unexpected past dalliance between their Swedish relative and an interloper Pole?) that passed down a bit of a honeyed tone.
That honeyed flaxen hair against the royal blue coat was so irresistible (yellow against blue) that I seriously thought of calling my man Jason (who loves to talk about hair color, being rather an expert at changing it for people), right then and there, telling him we need to make some changes during my next visit.
When a woman talks about changing her hair entirely (I’d already discussed going short again, but Jason balked: he loves the idea of a 50+ person with long hair, occasionally done up in a pony tail; one doesn’t challenge Jason), you suspect that something’s up. She is redefining herself in some way.
Am I? I’m thinking about it. For the time being, I put aside thoughts of hair and concentrated on giving permission for my cabbie to zip through yellow lights so that I could catch my flight. I did. I am en route LGA as I type this.
Heading into a storm
Class is done. Another hour and I’ll be New York-bound. Or snow-bound. Because as far as I can tell, a winter storm and I will be chasing each other around the Midwest before I finally get closer to the coast. My immediate thought – if I get stranded, at least it wont be like Aurora, Colorado.
But actually I’ve been mulling over a different kind of storm – the one that leads you to create something that roughly can be cast into the domain of “art.” A blogger over at Home Sweet Road writes this about her painting: “My art has always come from darkness.” She muses if she will be able to sustain that quality of painting, now that she has hit a period of tranquility, happiness even.
Will I be reassuring if I write and tell her this: not to worry! People who have lived through a powerful tempest (or two. or three…) never shake it at the core. There is something nicely permanent about that level of sadness which is juicy fuel for all of us who use it to produce the next painting, or chapter in a book. Sweet bedfellows – despair and creativity, egging each other on. They make happiness look soppy and dull.
But actually I’ve been mulling over a different kind of storm – the one that leads you to create something that roughly can be cast into the domain of “art.” A blogger over at Home Sweet Road writes this about her painting: “My art has always come from darkness.” She muses if she will be able to sustain that quality of painting, now that she has hit a period of tranquility, happiness even.
Will I be reassuring if I write and tell her this: not to worry! People who have lived through a powerful tempest (or two. or three…) never shake it at the core. There is something nicely permanent about that level of sadness which is juicy fuel for all of us who use it to produce the next painting, or chapter in a book. Sweet bedfellows – despair and creativity, egging each other on. They make happiness look soppy and dull.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
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.
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]
* 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…
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…
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, March 14, 2005
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
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.
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.
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.
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
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
Saturday, March 12, 2005
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 11, 2005
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!
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.
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.
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