Bill's Blither

2008-03-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

St. Paddy's at the Wood 'n Tap

One of the great things about being a protective paternal figure is that I am sought out for advice, comfort, guidance, friendship, or all of the above by the occasional sweet young thing. This usually leads to a long acquaintanceship and, once in a blue moon, a sexual connection. Even without the latter, these experiences are ego-satisfying on many levels to me and helpful, I hope, to the young lady involved. Monday night was a good example of how this type of relationship is supposed to work.

We arranged to meet at the Wood 'n Tap in Southington for dinner. I arrived early and chatted at the bar with a fortyish couple who were sharing an appetizer and a lot of beer. I regaled them (people say I'm a great regaler) with an account of my family excursion the previous weekend to "Magic Wings" (this is for some other post). The only reason I mention this here is that the conversation turned to my description of a young couple that I had seen there in which the female half (dressed in tight jeans) resembled a walking stick. Why modern young women feel that this look is attractive is beyond me, and this opinion was shared by the couple that I was talking with ( that woman was what we used to call "pleasingly plump", which I found pleasantly distracting). Her companion looked at least equally pleased, so I left them to their evenings dalliance.

At that point my dinner partner arrived; mid-twenties, tallish, very attractive, and definitely not a stick figure. She is one of those women who for some inexplicable reason is totally unconscious of both her own attractiveness and her effect on the opposite sex. This leads to a lack of sexual self-confidence (or maybe shyness) that obviate some possibilities that might be available were she to project a more aggressively confident manner. We had a discussion of this latent attribute over a drink.

We then, over dinner, went on to review her recent life decisions and her happiness with those results, and her unhappiness with her unsettled future. I gave her the advice that any person would from my prospective: (1) untangle yourself from your family, (2) figure out what you really want to do, and (3) do it. It is amazing how clear to me solutions to other people's problems are, especially those of beautiful young women. You might even say I've made it my chosen specialized field. This specialty includes gazing across the table into limpid eyes (didn't I tell you she had them?), which is a condition that I find moves the conversation right along. Results of the dinner appeared to be mutually satisfying.

The interesting thing about this whole shtick is that actual sex between us is not, and probably never will be, a part of our friendship. (I should be shot for saying that, as it goes against my philosophic bent). Although this SYT is a huge turn-on for me (and the world), I left the dinner perfectly content with the way things were, with no Machiavelian manoeuverings dancing in my brain. I credit this to the young lady herself, perhaps I've underestimated her sociosexual abilities. Wouldn't be the first time.

Later..

2008-03-07T19:37:00.000-08:00

Yojimbo

This week in my Western Cinema course we are studying Japanese "Westerns" (Directed by Kurasawa), which are actually Samurai movies which were later reinterpreted as Westerns. One of these is Yojimbo, later redone by Sergio Leone as one of his "spaghetti westerns". I originally saw Yojimbo over three decades ago, and the following is why it made an indelible impression.

In those days I was working my tail off as a young stockbroker in New Haven. For 3 or 4 nights a week I stayed at the office and made "cold calls" to attract clients (you could do that then because the public was actually being called by professionals rather than being bombarded by minimum-wage flunkies with no knowledge about the subject of their call, so a lot of people actually enjoyed being called). I quickly discovered however that dinner hour was a bad time to call, so that meant that on several week days I had to kill the hours from 5-7 PM. Since drinking was not an option (I had to stay somewhat sober to make calls), there was very little else to do at that hour in New Haven except go to the movies. The only theater open in the late afternoon was a little art theater which presented for my enjoyment risque European films and samples of a burgeoning art form...pornography (still relatively new to middle-class consumption).

I therefore became expert in several fascinating new (to me) sexual gymnastics and grew conversant with the new genre. I saw such classics as "Behind the Green Door" (Marilyn Chambers, the Ivory Soap girl, was magnificent) and the infamous "Deep Throat"(I've never seen so many men wearing raincoats, and in their laps yet). Then I saw an announcement that the following week the theater was playing "Yojimbo"

I assumed of course that this was some Japanese form of soft porn, complete with Geisha girls sinuously removing their obis. So in the theater I settled back in a semi-tumescent state, anticipating the imparting of fresh edification from my newly discovered movie genre.

But wait, here in this dark Western-style street was a dog trotting toward me with something in his mouth. Then, instead of being some sexual device of pleasurable enigmatic purpose, the object that the canine was carrying was.....a severed human hand. Now, the viewing of any severed body part is a shock to the system, but when one is expecting something prurient, it is downright mind-shattering.

After that experience, it took me several days before I could even think about sex. Trying to explain why to my wife was just too embarrassing. Now I can understand why women fake headaches. Of course whenever I see Yojimbo, all this comes back to me. Maybe the professor will let us see "Green Door" instead. (Marilyn really should have gotten an Oscar nomination. Hollywood politics, you know).

Later..

2008-03-04T19:16:00.000-08:00

Gone

As I advance deeper into this veil of tears, I realize that the memories that I possess will die when I exit. This could be tragic. On the other hand, many of the things that happened to me (or that I caused to happen) deserve to disappear permanently from this earth when I do.

One example of this is my music. I love to sing and play the piano. I even used to get paid for doing it because I'm a ham, love an audience, and can "sell" a song. My appeal, however, is definitely not to afficionados. My fingering is atrocious and I'm faking it most of the time. People like to listen for reasons which are unfathomable to me. My songwriting is the same, formulaic, banal, but somehow it catches the ear. It needs to be purged, and fortuately will be when I'm gone.

Another thing that will go is the memory of my treatment of women in my early years. The things I did and said for the sheer purpose of maneuvering a female into bed, the lies I told, the manipulations I pulled, all the ploys used by a predatory male. The tragedy is that the more vulnerable a woman was the more likely I was to succeed. Worse yet, I became so adept at leaving relationships that the "victims" actually felt good about the whole thing. I wasn't even honest enough to let them hate me as they should. All this will pass when I do, leaving only a fond memory, if anything at all.

It's strange that the human mind remembers vividly the mistakes and gaffes that we make and that no amount of effort will erase them. The compulsion to go back decades and try to fix the hurtful things we've done is overwhelming, but of course impossible. The good news is that as I move along in years I seem to be getting better at not repeating them. Women (of all ages, apparently) are still drawn to me without all the effort I used to put into it. I don't think that I'm really getting nicer, I've just got a better memory.

Later

2008-02-17T07:58:00.000-08:00

Academic Evangelism

When I was a child I was raised in two small towns, one in southern Illinois and one in northwestern Connecticut. In both cases there were fewer than 5 Jewish families, so I was subjected to the hegemony of the overwhelming Christian majority. Most of this was an unconscious process, the singing of Christmas carols in school (Christ wasn't MY Lord, in song or out) and the chanting of the Lord's Prayer before class every day. This erosive process did little damage to my self-esteem, as I considered then, and still do, that blind faith and rote learning are marks of intellectual weakness, although I couldn't have expressed that thought in elementary school.

This feeling was re-inforced watching my grandfather argue with the evangelistic Fundamentalists at the Elk's Club in Illinois. He was an intellectual well-versed in biblical study of both testaments, having been a Rabbi in Russia and being schooled in classical Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and of course English and Hebrew. Watching him destroy Fundamental arguments with multiple literal interpretations of the supposed Word of God (which Word in which language?) taught me a prime lesson; intelligence trumps faith in trying to understand the unknown, and the organized religions of the world are a very weak link in that process, with agendas of coercion and power outstripping pursuit of knowledge.

The problem is that dogmatic coercion extends not only to religious areas but also to academia. I've observed in my graduate studies in creative writing that the poorer teaching involves sets of "rules" that stifle creative thought. When judgment of excellence is based on conventional form rather than insightful thought, learning and creative ingenuity are both stifled in the same manner as theological theory is quashed by rigid Fundamentalism.

A good example of this is my class on "Slave Writing", which should have been a perfect fit for an old civil rights activist like me. The content of the course was fascinating, but the professor's application of her version of academic writing left me feeling stifled and inept. She insisted in examining a minute detail of weekly reading and applying restrictive methodology to the writing.
When I wrote my (of course brilliant) interpretations I was told I was being too broad, B minus. Aside from the fact that no other graduate professor gave alphabetical grades and that in none of my other classes had I received other than a Distinguished(A+) or a High Pass (B+ to A-), my conclusion was that the problem was the professors lack of perception, not my own. I felt that I had learned little in the class other than my reading. A sampling of my graduate school classmates revealed that they shared a similar low opinion of her methods.

I've found traces of this syndrome in other courses. Even excellent professors fall into the habit of relying on elitist and non-creative academic methodologies. A dogma developed by a few educators, whose agenda seems to consist mostly of techniques for exclusion of creative thinking, has a large dominion over the academic world, and in many cases has become the standard. Arise and be heard, you free thinkers. Break the binds of academic stultification.

Somehow that trumpet call doesn't match up with "We Shall Overcome".

Later

2008-02-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

Winter Semester

As you may have deduced by now, I love women. I am very appreciative of the fact that they come in all sorts of shapes, ages, and personalities. It's like Forest Gump's box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. The fact that I am old as Methuselah only broadens my range of appreciation: 50s look as good to me as 20s, 180s as good as 110s, uppity as good as yuppity. This brings me to my new box of Whitman's Samplers, my graduate class in Western Cinema.

It is unfortunate that we are merged with a course-related group of undergraduates. You have to throw the 18-21 year olds back in the water. Like baby trout, they don't have the capacity to defend themselves against mature anglers. They have wonderful instincts and look delicious, but they don't make much of a meal until they add enough life experience to their native brain power to be mentally, sexually, and socially companionable.

Fortunately, our class has such an outstanding array of pulchritude that it will keep me blissfully content through Spring. One sweet young thing, a twenty-something of breath-taking beauty, has twice rescued me from techno-disaster. Trying to learn the newly computerized library system, I fell hopelessly behind the instructor because I couldn't manipulate the rollers they provide on a lap-top (to substitute for a mouse). Reading my SOS body language, this angel-of-the-classroom reached over with swan-like grace and, with two flashing strokes of her delicate fingers brought me and my laptop right up to speed. I should have swept her away to Camelot immediately, but just in time I remembered that her boyfriend is a rather large fellow who works in law enforcement, so I kept my peace.

Not to be discouraged, however, I found more appropriate objects for my weekly fantasy. One woman, whom I would judge to be (but never mention) in her mid-40s, sat next to me while watching a required film in the library. By the end of the first scene I had mentally projected us to the local drive-in in the back seat of my GTO. I was just rounding third base when I remembered that drive-ins were obsolete and that, anyway, her spouse (or mine) would in all likelihood object to the procedings.

I fall in love about twice a week. This usually occurs when I become aware of a woman's high intelligence or exceptional talent. The current object of my pseudo-romantic fixation is aroud 50 years old and has almost as many neuroses as I do, but she would fit well into the afore-mentioned GTO (which I sold, unfortunately, in 1967).

I enjoy being Walter Mitty, regally scanning my class for objects of fascination. So many dreams, so little time. Beats the h-ll out of reality, though. When I convert some of this stuff to real life, you can't imagine the trouble I get into.

Later

2008-02-03T13:40:00.000-08:00

Sunday Brunch in New Haven

You'll find that this post is significantly different from my somewhat leering portrait of lunch at Giovanni's. This is because (1) my wife was there, (2) my wife's friends were there, and (3) in case you didn't get it the first time, my wife was there. My wife has an aversion to my acting like an adolescent, which is unfortunate in view of the fact that this is my usual behavior. For instance, when I throw popcorn in a movie I get a minorly violent slap on the back of my head. If at a party I inadvertantly brush my hand against a convenient luscious derriere (and leave it there for five or six minutes) I get the same sort of overreaction. The back of my head has a hollow spot from this mistreatment. So, as you can see, it behooves me to take some precautions in my wife's presence.

Meanwhile, back to the narrative. My wife had read a good review of a restaurant in New Haven, the Bella Rosa on Whalley Ave., which advertized a Sunday brunch. We gathered up our usual bruncheon companions, Peter and Nancy, and (me driving) headed to the Elm City (you"d think they'd rename the dam--d place after the elm bilght but no...). The drive was uneventful except for the following remarks from She Who Must Be Obeyed: (1) "Bill, try to drive on OUR side of the road", (2) "Bill, you didn't have room to pass that guy", and (3) "Bill, do you really think 75 is a safe speed?". With such pleasantries wafting to my ears the 30 minute drive only took 5 hours in Bill years.

We arrived at the restaurant and waited on the sidewalk for 15 minutes for a table (there were no reservations of course). The meal was, surprisingly, well worth the wait. The menu was varied and imaginative, the service excellent, and the ambience relaxed. The waitress was attentive without hovering and the maitress d' was smiley and helpfully efficient. The food was delicious, although the portions were so enormous that the % of obesity in the U.S. probably rose 5% by the end of the meal. When I mentioned this to the waitress she suggested that I could take some home, but what fun is that. When I looked down again I noticed that all my food must have evaporated or something. They didn't offer refills on entrees.

Peter and Nancy talked about their upcoming trip to South Africa, Kenya, Botswanna, at al. I was picturing a letter from Peter saying, "All's well. Nancy gored by a white rhino but it's fine. He had a short horn". I'm not sure where these bizaare thoughts come from, everyone knows white rhinos have long horns.

Anyway, I have to close now with the Super Bowl upcoming. Fortunately, I don't have to drive.

Later

2008-01-28T19:38:00.000-08:00

How Could We Have Been So Stupid?

I've just watched George Bush's State of the Union speech, and stared in amazement as he spun one politicalized lie after another while the Republican side roared approval of one failed policy after another while the Democrats looked on in stone-faced silence. Justifying the extension of a deadly and doomed war, cynically buying votes with a "stimulus" package which will stimulate nothing, re-introducing a "trickle-down" tax break for the very wealthy who will never spend their unearned good fortune, and crushing the privacy rights of citizens and aliens alike with heavy-booted government wire-taps. All this while we, the public, watch in silence.

I thought back to my first experience in politics, helping Jack Kennedy get elected. I, and all my college friends, had a clear, pure view of the absolute rightness of a man championing civil rights, national unity, and the value of intelligence in politics. Surrounding himself with educated thinkers instead of polical hacks, he created a government that resurrected a belief in American politics, leading us to the confidence that all obstacles could be overcome. Not by war but with a Peace Corps. Not with disrespect and cynicism, but with the firm extension of civil rights and unabating respect for personal liberties.

Then, disaster. Kennedy is assassinated. Martin Luther King is assassinated. Malcolm X is assassinated. Bobby Kennedy is assassinated. Watts burns. Johnson embroils us in an unneeded, endless war through lies and exaggerations (sound familiar?). Nixon continues the jingoistic hostilities demanding an impossible total victory before he brings the troops home (sound even more familiar?). Nixon tries to steal an election illegally (sound even more familiar? But unlike Bush, he didn't get away with it). Nixon resigns. Agnew resigns. The public ceases to expect honesty in politics. Carter proves gutless and ineffectual at both war and finance. Reagan leads us into a major economic disaster by tax-benefitting the rich (and those who think they're rich), then is transformed into some sort of saint after his death. Clinton runs the country splendidly and then can't keep his zipper shut. The religious Right continues to try to rearrange the constitution so that they can bully the rest of us out of our rights while pursuing an ideological agenda. Evangelism can't be the basis of the Constitution for gosh sakes, the darn thing was written mostly by Jefferson, a Deist who had not a syntilla of belief in Christianity.

Which brings us to the cynicism (and abject stupidity) of George Bush, the leader of our country. We allowed him to take office on a clearly flawed election swung by a state controlled by his BROTHER. (Jeb couldn't step aside while a thorough investigation was made on this crucial issue?). This is a man who despite a Yale degree can't pronounce the word "nuclear". He picks as vice-president a hatchet-man with riveted ties (financial and personal) to the defense industry, then we're somehow surprised that this VP collaberates in a scheme to start a war. He appoints an Attorney General who runs rough-shod over his obligation for fairness in judicial appointments. He keeps up the pretence of searching for nuclear weapons, a job that has as much chance of success as OJ finding the "real" killer. And we elected (sort of) this idiot TWICE. I guess we deserve what we got.

I was going to revert to my usual tools, irony, satire and humor, for this post, but that speech really ticked me off (could you tell?). Does he really expect Americans to continue to buy this hogwash? Are we that stupid? Apparently.

Later

2008-01-23T14:52:00.000-08:00

I Can't Help It, She's Just Annoying

I think I agree with about 78.7% of what Hillary Clinton says, which for me is a very high number. She's a liberal thinker, she keeps a reasonably open mind on social issues, and her economic views would have the government distribute money to trickle UP rather than the Reagonomic opposite (which ludicrous reasoning my insufferable acquaintances, who think that they're richer than they are, are always defending). My problem with Bill Clinton's wife is that she seems to have to concentrate to remember how to be a human being.

An example of this is back when her husband tripped and fell into the open mouth of Monika Lewinsky. Any woman confronted publicly with this flagrantly delicious situation would have whacked him upside the chops and told him (again publicly) that if he ever did it again she'd give him such a kick in the gonads that he'd feel it to the end of his second term. Women all over the country thought he'd gotten off easy and allowed Congress to persecute him instead. Alternatively, she could have said that she had given him permission to chase young women around the White House and all was forgiven. (On the other hand chasing is usually all right, it's catching that causes problems). The bottom line is she lost an opportunity to appear humanly female.

Now when I watch her she always appears to be carefully posed, never making an unstructured move. This kind of emotional control will inevitably lead to a build-up of internal steam that explodes like the altercation with Barack at the debate the other night. I almost expected her to flash her claws. I would have prefered that spewing of real emotion to the caterwalling that actually occured. Come on, Hill, break that facade and lets see what your gut reactions really look like.

That debacle left me totally annoyed. The candidates to whom I'd been most attracted looked about as presidential as Mike Tyson, AFTER prison. Come on, I can't vote for Huckabee, who defines himself by his evangelism (scary, we've already elected a man who calls this a "Christian country" and look where that got us, still fighting the Crusades against the Arabs). I can't vote for Mitt Romney, who's so conservative that his chauffeur takes three rights to make a left turn. McCain is only here because Noah pulled him out of the flood. Edwards is so bland that he needs vanilla to spice him up.

This leaves Hillary and Barack, and Hillary has been annoying the cr-p out of me.

Please, Barack, all I'm asking is for you not to shoot yourself in the foot for the next 10 months. And don't turn out to be annoying.

Later

2008-01-22T16:09:00.000-08:00

MLK Night Out

My brother called me yesterday to ask whether we should follow an impulse and go out to dinner and a "reading" at the Hartford Stage Company of David Beatty's work "Resurection". Dinner was terrific and I'll comment in a later post, but I want to talk about the show. Apparently a "reading" is the presentation of a play before it's cooked into its final form. The actors sit on bar stools and read from an open script, occasionally getting up and acting a little if they've memorized their lines for that portion of the play. We were told that the players had only a week or so to rehearse and memorize, which was ocasionally painfully obvious as stumbling and slurring occurred often.

The play was about the Black male experience in America, specifically the ghetto experience (none of these characters resembled Barack Obama, Bill Cosby, or Michael Jordan). The men ranged in age from 10 to 60 at ten year intervals. Beatty based these characters on an acticle he had read about the problems facing Black men, ascribing to each individual generic factors affecting (and afflicting) male Black society. For example, one man (a financially successful 50 year old) was gay and wouldn't leave the closet because he feared (1) rejection by his society's Evangelical church and (2) rejection by the Bishop of that church (his father). The Bishop (60 years old) was an obese diabetic addicted to Ho Hos (providing comic relief albeit representing a serious social problem). Also on stage (on chairs, actually) were a 40 year old health shop owner about to close his store for lack of community support, an ex-con who had HIV virus from needle sharing (and had infected his pregnant girlfriend), and a 20 year old just graduating high school late because of a misdiagnosis of dislexia, but nonetheless had become an honor student and was heading for Morehouse College.

The 10 year old boy, representing future generations of Black men, apparently died, then was "resurected" along with all the other characters in a rousing finale. When asked about this in a Q&A after the show, Beatty said that the boy didn't actually die and that this would be more evident when the finished play was performed. When I pointed out that this would take a re-write as a deep voice from the back of the theater (as part of the performance) SAID he died, Iwas told that "it was in the hearing" and that I had apparently not heard it right. It was the director who said this. My feeling was that it was the director who hadn't "heard" a lot of things right, but then what can you expect from an aging white guy directing a Black-themed play. Loses some credibility there.

I had one thing that caught in my craw. When the school kid was misdiagnosed as a "special ed " student, it was determined that in fact he was dyslexic, after which he of course became an honor student. My problem with that is that dyslexia as a ploy in educational plots has become more hackneyed than amnesia in a mystery novel. If the percentages of plot use held true in real life we'd be overrun with dyslexics and amnesiacs.

I'd give this almost-play a solid 7 1/2 out of 10. It goes next to Washington, D.C. and eventually to New York (maybe). Maybe with re-working (and a new director) it could be a 9.

My apologies to my reading audience for the lack of humor in this post. Next time I'll write about something really funny, like the presidential race (weren't those debates a riot?)...or the stock market.

Later

2008-01-20T09:02:00.000-08:00

Penultimate Football

This is absolutely the best football Sunday of the year, the one with the games just preceding the Super Bowl. There is no pressure to throw a party or go to one, just the pleasure of watching the best four teams in the game try to decimate each other. If that doesn't sate your latent sadistic instincts, these games will be played in excruciating cold environs (particularly Green Bay at night in sub-zero weather) which will make the crunching bodies sound (and feel) like concrete blocks knocking together. To get an idea of how this feels, put your hand in your sub-zero freezer and leave it there for a couple of hours while whacking it occasionally with a ruler. You say you'd never do that. Of course not . Stupidity that profound is reserved for the NFL, or maybe Jackass movies.

I, myself, am careful never to attend any of these events personally any more. Once, when I was only a few years out of college, my wife and I went with an alumnus friend and his wife to a Yale-Princeton game in November. After too much rum-laced coffee, my friend and I decided that stripping to the waist and screaming about the superiority of Bulldogs was a good idea. Our wives did not elect to join us in this endeavor, although several other alumni around us did. After about 15 minutes of this activity I noticed that my friend's skin was turning Smurf blue, as apparently was mine. Given this development and the fact that our efforts had not inspired the Elis on the field to any great heights, we reshirted and went home to nurse our resulting flus, pneumonia, etc, nevermore to repeat that semi-ecdesiastical display (at least not at football games).

Today I will make a fire in my fireplace, firmly place a beer in one hand and an olive flavored tostita chip in the other near the fake-cheese (really plastic) dip and fondly remember past stupidities. I'll watch multi-millionaire players subject themselves to arctic conditions and consider the Faustian ramifications of that. At no point will I be in temperatures of less than 70 degrees. My wife understands that these hours are sacrosanct, and will protect me from outside disturbances like "urgent" family or business phone calls. I can't imagine a heaven much better than this, except possibly with the presence of Michelle Pfeiffer, but that's a whole other blog.

Later..

2008-01-18T15:19:00.000-08:00

Long Time Gone

It doesn't take long in chronological time for a blog to expire as an effective communicating tool. I stopped blogging a year or so ago and I find most of my old contacts are long gone. I think that I can re-establish, but I'd rather continue in my old style and hope that I can pick up a new group of readers and writers.

For those of you unfamiliar with what I do here, you can either (1) stop reading now, (2) read some of the stuff I wrote previously, or (3) read on until you're either bored or hooked. I like to look around and comment on the ridiculous to sublime events conjured up by interaction with my workmates, classmates, and anyone else I pass along the way. Today I want to talk about my experience at Giovanni's Pizza, leaning to the sublime side.

The food at Giovanni's is surprisingly good, but no male goes there for the cuisine. The management has generously provided us with the most delectable array of pulchritude east of Hefner's mansion. I've been going there for years, but I limit myself to no more than once a month for the same reason I limit sugar intake, my body (and soul) can take it only in small doses. I don't know where they find these sirens in the backwaters of semi-rural Connecticut, but the supply seems to be unending. God seems to have created these luscious creatures for my viewing enjoyment , and I'm not going to turn up my nose at divine inspiration.

I usually go there with my friend David, who as a convinced right-wing advocate is diametrically opposed to me on most subjects but is in close allignment with my appreciation of the entertaining curvature on display. Our waitress for the day had obviously shrunk both her shirt and her jeans in the wash because there was considerable space between them, framing an adorable belly button (an innie, although she featured significant "outies" elsewhere). I suggested to David that we should measure the shirt-jeans gap to see if it set some kind of record that we could send in to Guinness, but he thought that she might take it amiss. I asked her if she was chilly, but apparently that was a non-factor in her attire planning. I myself felt no chill at all.

Another waitress leaned over the next table to reach some empty glasses, providing us with a spectacular posterior view. As she walked away I remarked to David, "Outstanding, more than memorable". David, more circumspect than I, replied "Shh, she's right behind you!" When I turned around, expecting to be chastized for my indiscrete remark, I was greeted with a knowing smile that almost melted my socks.

I love pizza.

Later

2007-03-03T19:28:00.000-08:00

Can You Collaborate?

For the last 2 weeks I've been reading some essays about collaborative methods in teaching, particularly teaching writing techniques. There has been a significant amount of research that has shown that people working in collaboration with their peers learn faster, more efficiently, and just plain better than those learning individually. Since this research has been done over a period of decades and the American system of education hasn't budged an inch in this direction we can conclude that either (1) the entrenched academic powers-that-be are stubbornly (or deliberately) ignorant of this research or (2) that they themselves don't or can't think collaborately. I spent 10 years sitting on a committee that reviewed educational grant proposals usually prepared by members of the upper echelon in the Connecticut state educational system and I can tell you from personal experience that these examples of abject arrogance couldn't have worked with Indira Gandhi or Henry Clay. Elitism abounds in the halls of academia and we need the equivalent of a palace coup to clean house and start over. Since educators are union protected and even the top echelons apparently can't be fired (and violence as social protest died after the '60s), we're stuck with this system permanently. I'm resigned, I wish they would too.

On a more positive note, one of the guys I've read (Bruffee) talked about an historic "human discourse", a conversation encompassing all human knowledge which has been going on internally and externally since the dawn of mankind. The idea is to tap into this through conversation and reflection and learn far more quickly than trying to learn by yourself. For me , this comes just in time. The world is producing things to learn faster than I can learn them and I'm falling further and further behind. A good example of this is my inability to cope with the advancing techniques of blogging. Maybe if this troglodite gets with other dinosaurs we can tap into a Bruffee-like discourse and save ourselves from drowning in the techno-ocean. I hope so, the tide's coming in.

Avast, see you....later.

2007-02-22T12:40:00.000-08:00

Me-a Novelist?

As an English Master's candidate with a concentration in creative writing, I have been invited to write a novel instead of a Master's thesis. Perfect, right? It's the reason I went to grad school in the first place: to hone and practice my creaky, web-covered writing skills.

Anent this (I love that word, it solves so many crossword puzzles) I saw in the Spring schedule a course called Modern Composition Techniques. Perfect again- should be just what I need. So I called the professor to make sure I had the right take on what the course would be like, and naturally she didn't call me back. I have since discovered that the not-calling-back part is a deeply imbedded part of her behavior pattern. (She denies this, of course). I really have come to like (and respect) this woman, but I've never been able to get her to return a call or e-mail.

So I walk into my first class like a lamb to slaughter and discover that this course is not about learning composition techniques, but rather about learning how to teach composition techniques. Worse yet, nearly everyone in the class was a school teacher and most were teaching- wait for it- composition techniques. On the plus side, almost all the students in the class are women (it is an education class, after all) and to a person (PC I am) are ineffably attractive (including the prof). This is an overweening factor (for me) so I've decided to gut it out and fantasize away when I get bored. So far, this has worked. By the way, the only other guy in the class is attractive too, I guess, but my fantasies don't tend in that direction.

The reading has been in the main excruciatingly boring. One guy spent 4 years disecting sentences to see if paragraphs by good writers had topic sentences (they don't, apparently). 4 women and the professor found this fascinating. "An Ontological Basis for a Modern Theory of the Composing Process" and "A Discourse-Centered Rhetoric of the Paragragh" are two of the other titles we were assigned. Could academe be more a satire of itself? Strolling through this Oz without color must have an upside, if I could only find a good witch to lead me down the road (or even just show me one yellow brick!).

Surprisingly, I've managed to choke down my sense of the ludicrosity of the subject minutia and am enjoying the course. We do write a lot and that's what I want out of my courses, and I'm developing a (scholarly) crush on the prof, which I tend to do with all really intelligent women. I'll keep all who are enthralled by all these events apprised.

Later.

2007-02-19T07:55:00.000-08:00

What a Feeling !

As some of you know, I stopped blogging a few months ago because recovering from my (second) knee replacement didn't allow me to sit at the computer for more than a few minutes or my knee would painfully "freeze" up. About a month and a half ago, however, I decided to start blogging again, and discovered to my dismay that I had to change my system from beta something to some other technojibberish. Naturally it's taken me all this time to dare to do this.

When I asked some of my blog friends (a term which I used advisedly for the reasons upcoming) for help I received shrieks of derisive laughter followed by sarcastic commentary re my technophobia. None of this was helpful for the purpose of getting me started again. I need either new friends or considerably more knowledge about this contraption I'm operating here. Note that I didn't use the term "new-fangled". The equipment's been here awhile, it's me who's not fangled enough.

Before advertising idiots screwed up the responses on my last blog, there were some interesting comments that I should address. First, to the lady who accused me of retreating before her confrontation concerning my remarks about undergraduates lowering the educational standard in graduate-level courses, I have two thoughts. One, I never retreat- I was probably getting ready to attack from the rear (of which she and I both have ample). Second, I took her remarks seriously enough to consult my "round table" group and other grad students and found that my negative opinions re undergrad academic motivation and maturity (I'd underline that last word if I knew how to underline) was fully shared. I can't completely convey the reasons for this to an undergrad because you have to be a grad student to have the maturity to understand them. I've always been good at circular reasoning- it's very convenient for winning arguments where logic doesn't have a prayer.

The other comment, concerning my abilities vis-a-vis James Joyce, moves me to point out two obvious differences in our talents. One , I'm not Irish and two, you can actually understand what I've written (occasionally). On the other hand similarities abound. For instance both of us had our hands whacked by misguided teachers at age 7. We could be twins.

Nice to be back, see you.... later.

2006-10-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

Cheese It-- It's the Dean

I haven't written for a month or so while I considered whether to write seriously or humorously about an incident that occured after my last post. It seems that a SYT was offended by my mentioning her (favorably, sort of ) on this blog. Instead of confronting me (she sat right next to me in class) she sent two of her friends (anonymously) to complain to the Dean of Students, saying that I made her "uneasy". This auguste personage bade me come post-haste to his office, threatening to "take it to a higher authority" (a bigger Dean?) if I didn't show.

I called my faculty advisor to find out what thunderbolts could strike me for non-compliance. She said that I could simply e-mail the guy my response, but since (1) I didn't know exactly to what I was responding and (2) it seemed gutless not to show up, I toddled over at the mandated time and timidly (for me) poked my nose into his office, followed by the rest of me.

At first I thought he was going to censor my blog, which would probably have caused a conflagration ending with me quitting Trinity's graduate program. Instead we had a non-confrontational discussion with me suggesting that the aforementioned young ladies come out of hiding (talk about gutless!) and actually discuss with ME (the actual author) what concerned them about the blog. The Dean agreed that that was a reasonable strategem and would suggest it to the SYTs . End of conferrence.

The upshot of all this is that I never heard from any of the "offended" parties. The girl in my class moved across the room, thereby depriving herself of the presence of the closest present-day facsimile to James Joyce she will ever meet. I'd apologize to someone if I knew what I was apologizing for (but I probably wouldn't mean it, and she'd know because I don't lie well to women). Meanwhile I have no intention of changing my blog, except to improve my writing and possibly impart more significant tidbits of wisdom from the catbird seat (with a nod to Red Barber).

In that vein, I should report that our little "Algonquin" group at the Bistro seems to have acquired a few more associate members (to accompany Brett, me , and the Dogg). On Tuesday, in addition to reading our attempts to imitate a monologue by Leopold Bloom, we had a discussion on whether modern young women's struggle to squeeze into one-size-too-small jeans was analogous to their ancestors debacles with girdles and corsets (initiated by my observing a well-stuffed example passing our table--it's never a good idea to pass too close to our table). We also had a lively discussion re the campus explosion of recently-dyed blondes. Rachel (new Algonquin associate) wanted to know whether I considered her lightly -tinted hair to be "blonde". I know better than to answer that question. I'd rather discuss something less controversial, like abortion or the Iraq War. Brett says I have the unique ability to piss off an entire room in less than 3 sentences. Three? I must be slipping.

Later.

2006-09-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

Back to School

Last week Trinity started its Fall semester and I went over to campus to buy my books and ogle the parade of pulchritude assembled (I firmly believe) entirely for my personal benefit. It was, fortunately, a warm day so nobody felt the need to overdress. I believe that I was the only person, male or female, not displaying my midriff, which is unfortunate for all because I have considerable midriff to display. Very popular with the girls (sorry, that's not PC but most of them ARE girls) are jean shorts cut very high (on the bottom) and very low (on the top). It's fascinating to watch the jean threads slowly unravel. It'd be great to follow one around with a stop-motion camera (like on Nova watching trees grow leaves) to watch the disintegration process proceed to its inevitable conclusion.

While I was exiting the book store, a sweet young thing minced up to me and simpered "Hey, Papa Bill, good to see you back. Will you be doing your ogling thing at the Bistro?". This took me somewhat aback, first because I was surprised to be recognized and second because I couldn't remember this attractive oglee-- or her considerable expanse of midriff. At my look of non-recognition she reminded me that I'd written about her on this blog as an exotic exception to the cookie-cutter blonde preppies that dominate the Trinity landscape. I told her to keep reading the blog and I'd mention her again, which I now have. Maybe I'll be rewarded with sexual favors for this, but I'm (relatively) pessimistic about it. You never know, though, the sun also rises.

My Joyce class was surprisingly interesting and fun, although there's a s--tload of reading to do. Most of the class consists of graduate students, but fortunately sitting perilously next to me was a co-ed senior with the aforementioned cutoffs and attendant midriff. She was friendly but non-invitational. Perhaps it was the several decade age difference. Some women are very fussy about that. The professor is a good guy, and appears to be pretty bright, but I doubt that anyone can make real sense out of "Finnigan's Wake". We'll see.

Brett and I were joined by the Swedish Goddess (Brett's words, but I heartily concur) at the Bistro before class. I was glad to see that she had lost none of her luster, and was sad to find out that she wasn't joining us for the Joyce class (she had a requirement course to fulfill). One good thing about being my age is that my appreciation for women of all ages remains unabated (the SG mourned her 40th last year). One thing about the Trinity graduate program is that there are so many brilliant women around, and beauty combined with a finely convoluted cerebullum makes my fantasy conflagrate. It's good to be alive and on campus.

Later.

2006-08-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Highway Bitch

Hah, gotcha. You thought this was going to be an expose on some piece of strange riding extramaritably on the back of my brother's bike. No -so sorry to disappoint- but this is just a bit of bitching on my part about my favorite peave : non-signalling a--holes who cut me off at ultra-high velocity, usually while exiting a highway.

This morning, as I was cruising up 91 at about 75 mph- in the exit-only right turn lane- this arrogant SOB in a yellow BMW cut across 2 lanes WITHOUT SIGNALLING, missing my front fender by 2 hairs on his pompous ass, and took the exit. Now I don't give a rat's posterior that he was speeding 'cause so was I, as well as 85% of the morning traffic on 91, but for God's sake let me know what the f--k you're doing. COMMUNICATE! 80 mph is a bad time to assume that I can read your mind.

I've told people I know at the State Police barracks that lane changes and high speed highway exiting without signalling is at least as dangerous as speeding, but while conceding the obvious correctness of my position (all my positions are by definition correct) they never enforce this law. I checked with the clerk of the Hartford Court and was told that as long as she could remember there had never been a ticket issued for that infraction.

On Rte. 9, a highway with at least 2 lanes in each direction, police started enforcing the law against passing on the right even if the person in the left lane is going 30 mph. They passed out 185 tickets in 2 days for this, over 900 in the following 30 days. Imagine the lives saved on that boondoggle. ( Needless to say, I was one of the lucky receivers of that particular miscarraige of the American Way- worse, I was on my way to my accountant to calculate my income tax). I've also been tagged for doing 30 in a 25 zone- this is excusable because it was the end of the month and the cop hadn't filled his quota yet. But guys going 85 and driving as if the word "signal" was Swahili for "never" apparently are made out of teflon.

And girls, don't think you're off this hook. It seems that 80% of women under the age of 30 are required to drive the smallest, brightest colored sports cars they can find at break-neck speed and to treat the highway like a theme park bumper car ride. Ladies, I know you can make your ideas known- I've seen you be VERY clear in communicating at the local pub- so why in hell can't you push that little signal lever in your car? It's easy, just pucker up and... oops, that's another scenario.

So am I right or am I right? No you can't answer (c) other. One of these days I'm gonna rent a Hummer with a snow plow attachment and clean up all those arrogant, non-signalling BMWs, Jags, Lexi, and free-wheeling sweet young things and make a huge metal pile right there on the side of 91. Love that road rage! Yaaaah!

Later.

2006-08-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

Why Am I Doing This?

In the last year and a half, I've made a bunch of life-changing decisions to make a place in my life for creative writing. I've entered a Masters program at Trinity College, written a few pretty good articles, and, of course, am writing this blog. Although I've definitely felt compelled to make all these alterations in my daily life, I couldn't really have told you why I have the compulsion. Until today.

It's not that I haven't written before. I've recounted in a previous post how I won a short story contest run by Playboy Magazine when at Yale, and published some stuff in the Evergreen Review around that time. I also included in that post my failed attempt to write a novel (perhaps the Great American one) while off in the Muir woods with my girlfriend. (I was sabotaged by raging hormones at that time). I've done some political speech-writing, written multitudinous work-related documents (for myself and virtually everyone else in my office), and penned a few newspaper articles. But none of that explains why there is suddenly a gap in my life that needs filling.

Today, however I read an essay in the NY Times Book Review section that jarred my somewhat somnolent mind into some insight. Maureen Freely, writing about the prosecution of writers in Turkey who have been criticizing their state's revisionist view of genuinely abhorrent historical events (ethnic cleansing, for example), came up with the following comment: "During the 70's, 80's, and 90's, so many writers, journalists, and scholars were imprisoned for their views that a prosecution became a badge of honor: if you had not yet angered the state, then perhaps you hadn't said anything of importance".

I immediately reacted (and related) strongly to that statement. I remembered how my emotional juices had flowed in the 60's , manning the ramparts in the battle against the government's attacks on civil liberties and the foisting of an unpopular war on the too-slowly awakening public. Sound familar? I want to reawaken my feelings about injustice. I want to remember how RIGHT I felt being shot at in Mississippi and dragged from the Admin building in Berkeley. I want to prick the balloon of the smug right-wing SOBs who think that things are just fine as they are ("let 'em eat cake" syndrome). I want to trash the Joe Lieberman's of the world who think that they have some secret knowledge (which they don't share) that justifies the horrific actions of the current administration, leading to the murdering of our troops trying to police a civil war that has not been stopped for hundreds of years. Enough, I think I've made my position clear.

So there it is. My mission is to expose harmful imbedded arrogance and pomposity in our society both on a macro scale (governmental), and a micro scale (my own social experiences). My weapons of choice are ironic humor and indignation, in roughly equal measure. My models range from Mark Twain to Will Rogers to Bart Simpson. If successful, I can bring some balance to my own life and maybe influence a few around me. My measure of the significance of what I write is whether what I say "angers the state" or at least ticks off the pompous and the arrogant.

You know , maybe I'd just like to tick a few of those people off, period.

Later.

2006-08-07T13:25:00.000-07:00

Long, Tall Women

As anyone who has read this blog knows, I am fascinated (obsessed?) by anyone without a y chromosome. So when my brother invited me to a Connecticut Sun (WNBA) basketball game, I left skid marks in accepting. Not only were there to be women in shorts panting sweatily up and down the court, but they were super-sized, on average 12% more female per person than I'm used to. Fantasy heaven. All I needed was my creative imagination and a step-stool.

As it turned out, it is politically incorrect to comment on the pulchritude on display. I was only supposed to notice their athletic ability and somehow not speculate (even silently) on the pleasureable havoc these young Amazons would wreak on my overmatched body in the boudoir. I therefore squelched these unseemly thoughts (sure I did) and forced myself to concentrate on the sports action. This proved unfortunate as unlike their male counterparts, these ladies couldn't seem to levitate more than six inches off the floor. Jump shots were more like the old one-handed pushes I remember from the early 1950's. Although some of the twisting back-handed drives were spectacular, the ball was released 6 inches BELOW the rim. Nearly all of these would have been blocked in a Division 3 men's game.

Nonetheless, the game was competitive and enjoyable. The Sun had an Australian player who dove for every loose ball and also was blonde and cute (oops, forget I said that part). They also had a player who was 7'2"(you can't blame me for the prurient thoughts I might have had here, I mean come ON). Unfortunately, "movement" was a foreign concept for this tree-top female, so she mainly stood in the center of play with her hands up. Fortunately, several players on the Los Angeles team inexplicably tried to shoot the ball exactly where the giantess had raised her hands, which led to many blocked shots. Again, nobody seemed to consider jumping as an alternative technique. Oh well.

Before the game, the cheerleaders, who call themselves a "dance team", were in the hallway outside the gate signing pictures of themselves. They were young and lovely and ludicrously cheerful. Their pantalooned costumes were definitely "Family Channel", any relation to the sexy velcro of the NBA a very distant thought. I've never seen such beautiful, sexless women. Their dance routine was similarly Disneyesque. Even their hip-wiggles looked like a fourth-grader imitating grown-ups. And once again any off-color comment was strictly verboten, a wolf-whistle would probably have gotten me ejected. They signed my picture on top of their images, and I noted that not one of them left their phone number or e-mail address. I think I need to lose 30 pounds and 30 years. Appealing to their intellect seemed doomed to be a failed strategy. Again, oh well.

A warning. If you go to one of these games, be prepared to stand in line if you want to eat dinner. However, my brother Rick and I found a bar fittingly named "Lucky's" which was nearly empty and had great subs. This will probably not work in the future as the place will be deluged by hordes of my readers, but give it a try anyway.

The best part of the night was the time I got to spend with Rick. My brother and I always see each other with tons of people, usually family, around. Several hours of one on one was terrific. He's really a great guy. More on that....

Later.

2006-07-31T14:39:00.000-07:00

Porn and Politics

Many of you will think it's a stretch to make the allegory that's upcoming, but that's because you obviously don't take your porn seriously enough, or your politics, or both. I know I do.

As I was surfing movie channels at around 11:00, I happened to alight upon a very peculiar bit of tape on TMC. It was clearly an attempt at pornography (you could tell by the way the two people were squishing away at each other), but then a startling thing happened: the MAN was faking an orgasm. Now, every male has spent a lifetime trying to figure out whether his female partner is genuinely throbbing in abject delight or, whether for love or money, merely pretending to do so. Come on, ladies, you've all done it at one time or other. Maybe your motive was charitable ("his ego would be soooo hurt"). Or maybe venal ("I REALLY want those shoes and the store closes in an hour"). Or maybe just exhaustion ("If HE had the kids all day he wouldn't have all this f--king energy"). Whatever, but with a female there is no physical evidence of the apparent eruption, only he said she said and a modicum of heaving and (occasionally) screaming.

On the other hand, a man in the same circumstance has no option but to be, as it were, genuine. All the moaning and groaning in the world cannot substitute for performance. We porn cognoscenti know that the REAL stuff (found behind the green curtain in any video place except Blockbuster) contains lengthy visual evidence of this fact. All men know that faking as they do on TMC is clearly impossible in real life and couldn't possibly induce the phony female reactions we are witnessing. It's a porn rip-off.

All this brings me to the current administration and Iraq. What?! you say. Patience, please.The analogy is actually almost perfect. First we went in with a heavy barrage of rocketry (remember "shock and awe"). This was clearly the loud moaning of foreplay. Then came the insertion of troops, very obviously penetration. Finally, the climax- Bush's declaration of victory. But wait a minute, the act has not ended in fulminating joy and triumph, but has continued unabated. Iraq is not impregnated with the seeds of Democracy, she is still heaving with unsatiated conflict. She cannot be fooled with a false climactic declaration of victory any more than viewers of TMC can be with a fake orgasm. Bad porn is very analogous to bad politics, neither leads to a satisfactory conclusion.

The real failure in Iraq , then, is the duplicitous nature of the Bush administration. When it came time for the climactic moment , he just didn't have the juice, so he faked it, and although it's taken some time, most of us have now figured him out. Where's Johnny Wadd when we really need him?

Later.

2006-07-17T20:08:00.000-07:00

Whitebread Wedding

Last Saturday I went to my daughter-in law's sister's wedding. This is actually a lie because my son is not married to his wonderful, beautiful partner of 11 years even though he and she are raising 3 kids and have been faithful to each other for longer than I ever managed. Why I care about this marriage thing is puzzling to my friends, but apparently I do.

Speaking of "I do", the wedding in the main went off well. The bride, Erica, looked properly gorgeous and radiant, the groom, Matt, looked substantial and responsible, and my daughter-in-law Nicole outshone everyone there except Kyly, my 6-year-old granddaughter, a regal and sparkling flower girl. However, because I cannot, like George, tell a lie on my blog (something about slamming into a cherry tree, I think), I must fess up to a few somewhat disturbing observations.

First, although the main event was held in a picturesque (meaning VERY old) Congregational Church, apparently the 18th century architect didn't include air-conditioning in his blueprint and nobody in the 220 years since thought that this improvement might be a good idea. God expressed his opinion of Congregationalists by sending down to us the hottest day of the summer. And I, like an idiot, was in a suit. Since almost everyone there was White and Anglo-Saxon, all the men were in suits, and sweltering. I'd love to find the man who came up with the concept of "suit", I have a hot poker I'd like him to meet.

My next problem was with the minister, or rather with her choice of wedding text. She seemed to believe that the ceremony was her chance to spew out her weekly allotment of fire and brimstone. She went into some graphic detail on what level of perdition the couple would find themselves if they broke the rules of behavior that she quoted from Paul in some letter or other. By the time they said their vows I think they were actually cowering at the altar. This whole mishigoss (that's Congregationalist slang) took forever as the minister rambled on for 45 minutes. Yeah, I timed it, you would too if your suit were soaking up several gallons of moisture.

On to the reception. On the way my wife found an enclosure in the invitation detailing the particulars of the romance between the bride and groom. Since it had taken over a decade for true romance to bloom, it took 20 minutes to read this novella. By the time we arrived at the reception I had way more information than I will ever need about those two. Worse yet, I know I'll hear it several times more at future family gatherings. It's enough to make me re-evaluate the whole romantic process. (Never, not me).

One more thing, you will remember that everyone there was WASP. This made the dancefloor a pathetic scene. It's been pointed out before, but it is a solid truth that White people CAN'T DANCE. And what's the deal that Caucasians are compelled to play YMCA at their weddings. Jews carry the couple around in the air in a chair, Russians kick out their feet squatting down doing the Kazatska (sp?), Germans kick up their legs while wearing lederhosen, but I'll never understand the mystique of jumping around while your body spells out the letters of an evangelical religious organization. YMCA-- I think I prefer the Chicken Dance.

I think I'll skip further commentary, although I should mention that the food was delicious and plentiful (the caterers were probably Jewish). I'm probably relegated to family outlaw status for what I've already written, anyway. It's a position with which I'm very familiar, having occupied it ever since I've had a family.

Here's to the bride and groom, may they muddle through their lives successfully, and end up smiling through it all.

Later.

2006-07-14T14:21:00.000-07:00

Write On, McDuff

Here I am again. For those of you who've missed me, thank you for your patience. For the rest of you, as I've told you before, you have no taste anyway.

I've been taking a graduate course in Rhetoric, required on the writing track for English Master's candidates at Trinity. The problem is that you have to read about 500 hours a week of involved explanatory and historical text on rhetorical subject matter, then write the equivalent of a James Joyce novel in an attempt to unravel the damn stuff. This is why no blogging (I haven't even been able to finish LAST term's paper).

I came away with two things from the course: (1) an apparent "Distinction" for a mark, and (2) once more a tremendous increase in respect for Trinity graduate students and faculty. As a Yale grad, I've spent most of my life feeling superior intellectually to all and sundry in my walk through life. If you've ever met an obnoxious Yalie (I qualify as such) you know what I'm talking about. Since I've been at Trinity I've discovered that there are some extremely brilliant people who have never attended an Ivy school and all of them are packed into my graduate program. I've also learned that creative talent can be found in amazing quantities in people who might have no intellectual aptitude elsewhere. One might ask why it has taken me this long to figure out these relatively obvious facts, to which I say that maybe MY perceptive aptitude lies elsewhere.

I have a ton of stuff bottled up from my month-and-a-half hiatus from my blog. Writing posts is such a cathartic experience for me that I've felt like a word-junkie without it. All this means is that you will hear from me soon and often.

See you----later.

2006-05-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

Blank Pages

Sorry for the delay between posts. I'm writing a 20 page paper about the undefeated 1869 Cincinnati Red Stockings. Really. I'll be done in a few days. See you then.

Later.

2006-05-07T06:25:00.000-07:00

Challenger Baseball

For over 30 years I have been involved in the coaching of children with special needs. I found to my considerable surprise that my patience level when doing this increased from my usual bare a tolerance to well above that of the average adult. I have created basketball and golf programs that I run through the auspices of the local Park and Rec office. These are low-impact programs that I started because of my belief that Special Olympics is philosophically much too competitive for the population being served, but that's a subject for another post. I spend far more time and effort with Challenger baseball.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Challenger programs were formed through Little League with the strong support of Nolan Ryan (yes, THAT Nolan Ryan) about 20 years ago. It is designed for children with special needs, and unlike Special Olympics includes children with only physical problems as well as those with mental challenges. Age range is school age, elementary through high school.

The program emphasizes success. A batter cannot strike out, he or she keeps swinging until a ball is hit fair. If thrown out, a runner continues to stay on the base reached. No score is kept, and if asked I always answer that it's a tie game. The coach (me) pitches to his own team, so that adjustments can be made for each individual batter. This also allows for batting instruction during each at bat.

Cheshire has a well-developed program. We are the second oldest Challenger organization in the state, this being our 18th year. Since we had no Little League team in our town, we received our own charter, which we maintain still, which gives us an independent status which has proved to be useful. We have three teams of 15 players, two for younger children and an older (teen-age) team that I manage. It was my idea 15 years ago to separate the older players in order to teach a more advanced program and team spirit.

For this team,(the Cheshire Challenger Red Sox) I help identify and recruit players, set up the schedule (12 games,7 on the road), prepare a roster, pass out uniforms, make sure everyone is properly equiped, check that the field is in shape, arrange for home-game pizza, and keep in regular touch with parents about their child's progress. This is in addition to actually coaching the kids and managing the games, including doing the pitching. Oh, I forgot, there's a Board meeting once a month from October through June. In all it takes approimately 300 hours a year.

In case this sounds like complaining, it's actually more like bragging. I volunteer to teach these kids because I love it and seem (unbelievably) to have virtually unlimited patience to do it. Also I'm good at it. The children respond very positively and am always surprised at how much they improve each year. The parents are also surprised (sometimes shocked) at how their kids develop skills considerably beyond their expectations. I found these parents to be (unlike typical Little League parents) helpful and appreciative.

Another aspect of the program is the emphasis placed on team morale and esprit de corps. I teach the players to be demonstatively supportive of their teammates and NEVER to make negative remarks or boo the other team. At the end of the season, the Red Sox are a team that is proud of themselves and their accomplishments. For most of the players, this is their only experience with team play, and it's important to me that they come away with a positive attitude.

Sometimes, of course, I get a little carried away. Yesterday I pitched 2 games with a pulled muscle in my rehabilitating leg (my wife is NOT happy with me, and my physical therapist will be even less so). But I wouldn't trade the feeling I get from helping these kids for a month with Charlize Theron. (I don't know about TWO months, but then it hasn't been offered,yet).

Later.

2006-05-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

Dining Alone

As I was driving home from work today, I listened to Eric Casillias (sp.) on ESPN radio blithering on about his dislike (fear?) of eating alone in a restaurant. I've also heard many women echo that same aversion, so I decided to spend some time musing about this phenomenon here on my blog.

What would spark this solo dining phobia (monorestaurantitis)? I thought at first that entering the large restaurant doors might be a metaphorical return to the womb. Should there then be a negative correlation between people suffering from this syndrome and those with an Edipus Complex? Is the maternal connection too strong to allow the average person to eat comfortably without the assistance of a companion? It's definitely food for thought (pun unintended).

Another possibility is waiterphobia (maitrephobie,en Francais), the confusion of your server's persona with that of a circus clown (by whom nearly everyone is terrified from early childhood on). I dismissed this theory since it has been my experience that clown-like attributes are far more likely to be found in my dinner companions than my waiter- which would make it actually preferable to dine unaccompanied. My apologies to a lifetime of dining companions, but in your hearts you know it's true.

Another character trait of people who hate to dine alone is that they are under the mistaken impression that other restaurant patrons are watching them. Not only do they feel that they're being observed, but that somehow judgment is being passed. They hear the silent unasked question "Why is he/she eating alone? Isn't she/he good enough to rate a companion?". I'd like to point out that that question would never arise if you were looking at, say, Charlize Theron. So if you suffer from this syndrome, you either have an inferiority complex (in which case it doesn't matter whether people are talking, you still need a shrink) or you are actually as unattractive and boring as you think, in which case people are probably passing the judgments you were worrying about and you still need that shrink. If you're looking for a solution to this quandry, you'll have to try another blog.

I myself love to eat alone. I can ogle to my heart's content. I can strike up conversations with complete strangers (one of my favorite pastimes). I can crack ice without my wife glaring at me. I can overtip the cute waitress and fantasize that she'll follow me out the door, possibly to Bermuda. I can tell Atkins to go to hell and munch non-guiltily on pecan pie (I love pecan pie more than dinner companions, except for Charlize Theron))

But most of all I like to dine alone for one overriding reason-- I REALLY love the company.

Later.

2006-04-23T07:11:00.000-07:00

Disillusion- Harmful Flaws In My Childhood

Most people feel that the fostering of "harmless" myths in an American child's upbringing, such as the presentation of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny , and the Tooth Fairy as real entities, does little damage. This opinion prevails despite furious, and ultimately humiliating, defenses of these cherished icons in virtually every school playground by innocent, naive children against the forces of evil doubting cynics. The fact that the cynics will inevitably,over time, win this battle is devastating to a child's ego and erodes confidence in the parental guidance that misinformed him in the first place. It sets up a syndrome similar to the first Norse Edda, where the best that can be expected in life is that you die in battle to win the right to join the Aesir in an Armeggedon-like fight against the evil Titans, which you know you are destined to LOSE. It was cold in Norseland with no central heating, so a philosophy of doom and despair was inevitable. Not so here in the USA, so maybe we should give our kids a break with a little more early honesty.

In my own childhood I had a more personal experience with disillusionment. As a first and second grader I was a loyal fan of the "Howdy Doody Show". Howdy and his friends were mostly marionettes, with characters such as Mr. Bluster and Princess Summerfallwinterspring (with whom I was deeply infatuated, wooden though she might be). Other characters included real people like Buffalo Bob Smith and Clarabel the Clown. (By the way, Clarabel was played by Bob Keeshan, who later became the adored Captain Kangaroo. As Clarabel his function was to spray seltzer water on characters he didn't like throughout the show, which made the audience shriek with laughter).The small audience, all children from 3 to 8, sat in what was called the Peanut Gallery, which was panned frequently by the camera to give the kids a piece of their 15 minutes of fame.

My mother surprised me and my sister with tickets to the show (I was 8, my sister 3). I sat with the "big kids" in the upper rows of seats, my sister down below where the children could be supervised by parents just off-camera. The show started and Buffalo Bob came out and started talking. Then Howdy came out onto an adjoining stage and I received the first in a series of shocks. I had expected the to see people above him pulling his strings, but I was completely taken aback when his words were spoken by Buffalo Bob. Smith made no attempt to keep his lips from moving since the camera was not on him. He also had no ability to throw his voice, he only changed accent and inflection with each character. He was the voice of ALL the characters, EVEN THE PRINCESS. I was devastated. My true love was a man. That would have disturbed me at any time in my life, but as a 3rd grader I was a basket case.

On the way home, my mother and sister were chatting about the show. From a lower seat angle my sister couldn't see Bob Smith's lips, apparently, and excitedly was questioning my mother about how the marionettes could talk. As I listened to my mother lie about the"magic" wooden figures, I felt almost physically the dropping away of my confidence in her honesty (a character trait of which my mother professed a great deal of personal pride). Never underestimate the perspicacity of your children, especially in matters of alleged truthful guidance. I don't remember ever believing any unsupported remark my mother made from that day on.

The moral of this narrative is "watch what you say to your kids". The afore-mentioned Bunny and Xmas Elf are good examples. Watch what you say about a personal God also, Pascal's Gambit was all that kept me from atheism during my teen-age (lifelong?) rebellion. In our society, kids are force fed on disillusionment, doomed to disappointment in discovering the untruth of the myths their parents tell them.

By the way, if anybody has a personal disillusionment story, I'd be interested in listening.

Later.

2006-04-16T07:37:00.000-07:00

I Almost Civilized Myself

Those of you following along know that starting last Monday I'd resolved to experiment with a full week of enforced "civility". This I defined for myself as (1) no uncivil confrontations (we're talking verbal here), (2) no ironic or sarcastic ripostes to the ongoing idiotic blither surrounding my average day, (3) teeth-gnashing "niceness" to the endless parade of conformist prigs spouting or exhibiting their concept of proper social behavior, and, finally,(4) no ever-present sexual innuendo.

I almost made it.

I listened to guys in my brokerage office asserting that the reason for poverty was that poor people were lazy. An acquaintance told me that teens watching off-color or violent TV and movies was the direct cause of juvenile crime. I heard a person say that Rush Limbaugh was the greatest philosopher of our time. An idiot opined to me that Creationism should be taught as a science in our high school, and gave as a reason that all his friends agreed with him.

I listened and made no negative sound. I smiled a lot and uttered not one discouraging word. Several people I knew asked if I were feeling OK. I was right about women. Females were solicitous about the disappearance of my usual confrontational personality, but the attendant sexual attraction disappeared along with the lack of innuendo. In short, I had become your average run-of -the-mill BORE. I could feel the forces of ironic incivility bubbling inside, desperately seeking freedom. Finally, on Saturday, an incident occurred.

I was in Stop and Shop. The cute but ditzy check-out girl asked if I wanted to donate a dollar to the Jimmy Fund. She then informed me of the good things that it did, including giving support to the "Dean Farber" fund and "St. Juke's" hospital. I couldn't resist. I engaged this sweet young thing in a lengthy discussion on (1) how the good Dean found the time to run his university and still put out his line of dishes (Farberware) and (2) how the lovable Saint was so adored by teens that they named the musical Box after him. I did this, of course, with a completely straight face and the SYT nodded very seriously in agreement with my comments.

On my way home, my wife berated me for picking on the young (albeit unknowing) victim of my sarcasm. I admit that it was a ridiculously unfair thing to do, but something inside me felt this little evil jolt of pleasure. I probably would have let that little fish off the hook if I weren't feeling ironically deprived.

My wife, a very civil person (at least to the untrained eye) wants me to try another week, informing me that lack of confrontation makes HER life less stressful (especially if family and friends are involved). There is no way I could do this again. They didn't call it the Civil War for nothing. I've returned to the familiarity of my abrasive, confrontational, innuendo-spewing, ironic, UNCIVIL lifestyle and I'm never abandoning it again. In the words of Fast Eddie Felson--I"M BACK.

Later.

2006-04-11T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hallucinagens and Me-- Is My Brain As Fried As it Feels

I happened to mention back a post or two that I had imbibed a non-legal mind-warping substance called "ecstacy". A commentor pseudonamed "ariola" asked for some elaboration, so here it is.

Some historical background is helpful to this narrative. I had experimented with mind-altering drugs in San Francisco in the mid 1960s, relying on the sage advice of Timothy Leary and others who told me I would expand my mind in the process. Some grad students that I knew cooked up little pills of peyote which gave me a really strange dream experience. People at several of the parties I attended (consisting mainly of law students) passed out LSD tabs which gave me a very weird view of the world for a few hours. I took a young lady who could best be described as a lovely hip flower child to see "Fantasia" during which we "expanded" with some LSD-loaded sugar cubes, a truly remarkable experience. I also had explosive sex on qualudes, but I don't know if that counts as hallucenagenic.

I stopped this behavior when an ex girlfriend had a bad trip at a party in Sausalito. I took her to a hospital where they kept her a few days but were clueless in knowing how to treat her. Four days later she was institutionalized and sent back to St. Louis. After that, I stopped taking hallucenagens (unless you count marijuana, which I don't).

Roll the script forward nearly 40 years. My wife went on a business trip for several days to San Antonio. I mentioned my temporary bachelorhood to a young girl I knew, who suggested that I join her and her boyfriend who were going to a "rave". I had never spent an evening in that manner, and showing my usual impeccable judgment agreed that this would be a fine way to pass the time. I should point out that at the time I hadn't the slightest idea what "rave" meant.

I was told that these parties were fairly well organized, having the requisite disc jockey playing obnoxiously loud music. The location changed week-to-week to avoid official interruption. Maybe 200 people were there, all much younger than I. It cost $20 to walk in. There was no ID check. I saw people drinking beer but nothing stronger.

At that point my friend pressed two small pills in my hand and told me that they would greatly enhance my enjoyment of the evening. I hesitated very briefly, mentally repeated my life mantra "what the hell", and popped them down. Within minutes I was feeling energized, with a warm fuzzy reaction to everybody and everything in my immediate universe. I was told later that I danced all over the floor, but I don't remember that part. I felt an overwhelming feeling of friendship toward everyone around me, particularly women, but it was a sensual not a sexual attraction. I was not alone in this reaction. Lots of hugs and kisses, no sex. Strangely, though, it was a very satisfying experience. A few hours later I was driven home on cloud nine, and woke up the next morning with no hangover or even tiredness.

In retrospect, I was stupid. Would I do it again, given no negative consequences? Probably not. I gave in to an impulse and was lucky to come away unscathed. If I could feel that good without the physical and mental risk, though, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Later.

2006-04-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

Can I Exist As a Civilized Entity

I recently made a comment on bluegirl's blog which stated that a male in our society described as "civil", or worse yet "nice", has difficulty succeeding in the modern version of the sexual sweepstakes. This drew a round of protest from some females, including my personal idolette of femininity, the intrepid blue herself. For that reason, I'm going to try a personality makeover and live, at least for a week or so, as a "civilized" man.

Anyone who knows me, or at least has read this blog, knows how difficult this is going to be. I have lived my life thus far as the quintessential wise-ass, lampooning society and conventional mores and morality with what some consider to be outrageous words and (gasp) behavior. I've always delighted in poking fun at conventional "civilized" behavior and more specifically those who practice it.For some indeterminable reason, this personal presentation on my part has what appears to be a minor aphrodsiacal effect on the opposite sex. I know this because women have always been unreasonably drawn to me, and there's no other logical explanation. This attraction has continued even though I'm too old, too married, and carry too much avoirdupois to account for it.

My friend Brett and his friend Rdogg, observing the reaction of an undergrad student with whom I had a brief chat, surmised that it was my "attitude" and an air of self-confidence. I think it has more to do with my lifestyle of civil disobedience (oh why has that disappeared as a political tool?) and social irreverence, which women pick up as a huge blip on their radar.

Nonetheless, I'm going to go a week as a "civil" human being. No wise-ass remarks, no sarcastic put-downs (even when deserved), and polite conventional response to all situations. I'll then report back on the reactions of people to this (especially females). Maybe I'll learn something.

On a completely different note, a comment on my last post asked for more explication of my experience with the drug "ecstacy". I've done this in a previous narrative a few months ago, but I'll be glad to recount in more detail next time.

Later.

2006-04-05T15:48:00.000-07:00

Drivin' Around

Now that my new knee works well enough to operate a vehicle, I get to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes--driving about town pretending I'm doing vital errands but really just bopping around running into various denisens of my suburban environs. Since I've been out of commission for awhile, I've noticed an increased awareness of my surroundings. Food tastes delicious. I'm finding significance in the creakings of my house. Women's perfumes smell sumptuous, and all female bodies and visages have taken on an allure that I don't remember their having pre-operation.

An example of this heightened sensitivity and appreciation occurred at the library. Unfortunately, Cheshire does not hire it's librarians from the Sport's Illustrated swimsuit issue. Usually it's easy for me to concentrate on picking out books because on Bo Derek's scale of 10 these ladies are, even optimistically, mired in minus territory. Today, however, one glance behind the counter and I had a pant's tent of major proportion. (It's probably too much information, as my friend Brett always tells me, to mention that I was travelling commando today). Anyway, I'm sure these were the same damsels that I see regularly at my bibliotech, but vive le petit difference. Maybe it's the vicidin.

Then I went to Marshall's to get a back pack book bag. (It's hard to get up the steps to class with books and a cane, which I'll need for another week or two). At the counter, a Sweet Young Thing suggested I try the truffles that they had on sale. After determining that truffles were all that was on the menu today, I broke down my non-existent will power and bought some. Back at the car I opened a wrapper and popped one in my mouth. Ecstacy! I've actually had ecstacy at a Rave once and I swear it didn't taste this good. If I were a female in a romance novel I'd have ripped my bodice and swooned. I had to put the rest of the truffles in the back seat so that I could drive home.

Sight, smell, taste, hearing, touch (you don't get to hear my experience on this last sense,I don't do XXX ratings on my blog) I just hope I don't come down off this post-op high. Maybe the surgeon put me in a permanently altered state, or maybe it just feels so good to stop hurting. Either way, until I stop feeling this way, I'm gonna keep drivin'.

Later.

2006-04-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm Back

As many of you seem to have noticed (thank you), I've been away from my blog for a while. A few asked why (and where) on my blog, many more asked by E-mail, and many more by phone. The short answer is that in a fit of uncalculated masochism I hired one of that army of highly-paid practitioners of human butchery known as osteopathic surgeons to replace my knee-- steel for bone.

It's now three weeks later and I find that I can now sit comfortably (sort of) at my computer and blog. I probably could have done this sooner, but constant dull pain does nothing to enhance my sense of humor without which my writing would just bore you to tears (me, too). My physical therapy girls tell me I tolerate pain amazingly well and that my level of recovery is way ahead of normal expectation. The problem with that fact is that the reward for doing well in PT is that the therapist increases her expectations and demands until the pain level makes you holler "uncle" ("uncle being a euphemism for expletives I never thought I'd use in front of the fair sex).

My therapists are both attractive and charming, butter having to work overtime to melt in their mouths. Belying this is a cruel streak of remarkable proportion. After they put me through the tortures of hell, they smile and tell me how great I'm doing and how good all this is for my new knee. I remain unconvinced.

The new issue of "Hartford Magazine" (April) features me in their lead article, with a half-page picture yet. I haven't seen it. If any of you are brave enough to actually want to risk looking at me (I've been known to turn people to stone at one glance), this is your chance. Costs $3.95, though.

Lots more to say, but

Later

2006-03-05T15:25:00.000-08:00

What "Weaker" Sex?

When I was a fledgling young American male I bought wholeheartedly into the female-propagated myth that somehow women, those "delicate flowers" of humankind, were in some unexplained way the "weaker" sex. As a teenager I (very politely) opened their doors, handed them out of cars, carried books, picked up whatever was dropped, and in general escorted them throu life like a tugboat guiding a liner into a harbor. I did this because (1) my grandmother told me to and (2) I thought somehow I'd be rewarded with sexual favors (I WAS a teenager, remember). I had an experience, however, that disabused me of the fictitious concept of female frailty, which I will now painfully share.

I was 17, driving along with very little on my mind (I do that a lot) when I saw an attractive young girl in a convertible pulled over to the side of the road. This was a great situation, my fantasy went, I'd save the fair damsel and with any luck she'd reward me with the afore-mentioned sexual favors. I pulled in several feet behind her car and watched her open her trunk. To my great surprise, this 115 pound bit of fluff effortlessly picked up her huge spare tire with one hand and lifted it up in the air and onto the ground next to her car. She just as easily snatched up an oversized jack and with the same "frail" one hand reached down and set it up under the car.

Then she noticed me standing there, and an amazing transformation took place. She suddenly became the picture of helplessness. The tire, which she had previously blithely moved with one hand, could now not be budged with with both hands and with all her weight behind the effort.

"Sir," she said coyly, "Could you please help me? I've never changed a tire before." As I remember, she didn't actually bat her eyes, but it was close.

And, just like that, I got it. Female frailty was not a myth, it was a CONSPIRACY with we males totally involved, and I was about to enter into it. I looked at her long legs (cut-offs, don't you just love 'em) and her well-filled T-shirt, and said, "Of course I'll help. Let me just get this (oof) tire. Don't want you to get your pretty self all sweaty and dirty."

That damn tire must have weighed 60 pounds, I got grease all over me, and of course I never came close to getting favors, sexual or otherwise, from the sweet young thing.(Good samaritans rarely get laid). I did, however, learn a very valuable lesson about the strength of a woman. So when my wife asks me to open a peanut jar, or move the couch, or carry in the groceries, I don't ever hesitate. I know that she and the rest of the alien species with whom we males share this planet has more power (of all kinds) in her pinkie than I do in my whole body. I've never tested it, but I'll bet that any one of them could pound me into smithereens. Every once in a while, they let their guard slip and I get a small glimpse of their awesome force.

But I'm going to continue the conspiracy-you know why?...... because sometimes you could get sexual favors.

Later.

2006-03-01T17:32:00.000-08:00

The Dreaded "C" Procedure

In case some of you were wondering where I've been the last few days, I have a horrific tale to relate. I've been subjected to the worst homophobic nightmare that a straight red-blooded American male can imagine. The very word sends terror into the heart of testosterone-dominated chauvanistic protective reflexes. That word is COLONOSCOPY.

The thought of some quack wielding a tool that can best be described as a plumber's snake with a camera stuck to it and shoving it deep into my body through a forbidden orifice in the name of medical science strikes me as the kind of insanity only found in mad scientist movies. The fact that the "benefit" of this torture is the early detection of cancer raises for me the question "what is the unbeneficial result?"--leprosy? They call this a "procedure", the definition of which is "a step forward". This didn't seem like progress to me, actually I felt that I was lying on the track watching the approaching locomotive.

To compound this disastrous situation, I was told to eat nothing but tasteless jello and liquids the day before the event, and nothing until my scheduled time on C-Day. Meanwhile, I had to take some Fleet stuff that drained me of all life-giving sustenance and kept me (like a felon's ankle bracelet) from moving more than 30 feet from the nearest john until thoroughly evacuated. Any shred of dignity was thereby banished from my system along with everything else.

On C-Day, a relatively benign-looking individual identified himself as my colonoscopy (that word, that word) physician. He didn't appear to be Dr. Mengele until he started telling me some of the things that could go wrong, like my dying after he accidently ripped up my colon or his leaving enough air in my body to cause excruciating pain for an indefinite period of time. THEN he hands me a waiver to sign. As I was about to call in the Marines, or maybe the Mossad, someone squirted a Mickey into my IV and I went out like a light.

I woke up later feeling fine but ravenously hungry. Luckily the nurse stayed far enough away so that I couldn't gnaw on her arm. I was told that they had found only one polyp, and that looked benign but would be tested. That polyp meant that I had to redo the procedure in 3 years instead of five. I have never felt such blind hatred for an innocent piece of flesh.

We stopped at Home Town Buffet where I ate them into a quarterly deficit. Other than some soreness in a delicate part of my body I had apparently escaped unscathed. I'll tell you this though, I'm never having a Brokeback Mountain experience no matter what Capote said.

Later.

2006-02-22T14:56:00.000-08:00

Aunt Fannie, Me, and the Cops

This is another tale with the continuing theme of me doing NOTHING WRONG and ending up in deep trouble. As usual, the Fates have conspired to have me in the right place at the wrong time and nonchalantly lowered the boom--again.

My wife's Aunt Fannie died at age 98, and I was dutifully fulfilling my marital obligation (not THAT obligation,dummy) by driving her to NY for the funeral. First a bunch of people attempted to lift the old lady to sainthood by recounting her good deeds (she had to have SOME in 98 years) and glossing over her dictatorial reign over her children (and my wife) for the first 3/4 of her life. In her later years she doted on her grandchildren and various semi-strangers, possibly in unadmitted atonement. ( I, as one of the few inner circle people willing to point out her bullying tactics, played mainly the role of family outlaw who committed the unforgivable sin of removing my wife to Connecticut, away from this woman's influence). I should point out in fairness here that she was a talented and somewhat ruthless businesswoman, who was successful and wealthy. At the service I restrained myslf from making any negative remarks.( "Liar, liar, pants on fire" doesn't have the right funerial cache) and then it was time to drive to Long Island for the burial.

I dutifully offered a ride to two nice women, my wife's cousin-in-law and an older cousin for whom Barbara had worked in her teens (whose husband, by the way, created the interrobang). I lined up behind the hearse and 3 limosines, several cars pulled in behind me, and off we went. Aside from the car behind me banging into my rear bumper on 96th street, (which I graciously waved off) things proceded peacefully until we reached the Triboro Bridge.

At the toll booth disaster struck. The hearse and limosines drove through in the EZ-Pass lane and I blithely followed, assuming some arrangement had been made for the rest of us to pass through the toll. Bad assumption. I realized this as the (fortunately soft-materialed) gate came crashing down on my windshield. A cop materialized out of nowhere and yelled "Pull over". I did, and the following discussion (?) ensued:

Cop: "Show me your license and registration."
Me:(pointing)" But, officer, I was in that funeral process..."
Cop: "Not my problem, now give me your license and registration."
Me: "But I don't know the way to the..."
Cop: "Again, not my problem. Hand me your license."
Me: "But..."
Cop: "The next words out of your mouth better be yes, sir and those better be the only words I hear from now on"
At this point it registered that my wife's fingernails were tearing a hole in my arm.
Me: "Yes, sir". (I'm not completely stupid).
I should point out that the cop was at the most 21 years old and I doubt if he was shaving yet. I think that if I punched him out like I wanted to, he (and his uniformed friend watching) would have beaten the snot out of me, and my wife would have helped them.
Cop: "I'm not gonna give you a ticket, but you gotta pay me the toll."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the required 4 singles and two quarters and held them out to him.
Cop: "Those bills are a mess. Flatten them out before you give 'em to me."
I almost lost it, but my wife's nails and the 2 women in the back seat kept me quasi-sane. I paid him and drove off, thereby avoiding being the first person in history to get a ticket while driving in a funeral procession.

For those of you who are concerned, we found the cemetery. The funeral home had given us written directions (a fact which I'd forgotten) in case we got lost. Actually, I raced to the cemetery and somehow beat the procession there. Lucky us, we got to stand out in the cold longer than anybody else.

So, once again, trying to be a nice husband and helpful family member I end up in the soup. If I could just remember to be the rotten SOB that Aunt Fannie thought I was, I'd probably stay out of trouble. I should have dropped my wife off at the funeral and had a few pops at one of the watering holes on 3rd Avenue. Then I would never have been anywhere near that dumb-ass cop.

There is no justice.

Later.

2006-02-17T14:27:00.000-08:00

Strange Things Are Happening

I've just finished an interesting account on Colleen's blog about a guy named Carl whom she feels acted in a somewhat bizarre manner by routinely walking around barefoot in the snow. I got to thinking, however, that strange behavior is in the eye of the beholder and often makes perfect sense to the performer of the deed in question. here are a few personal examples:

(1) I was three. My grandmother's garage door had been left open and George (who was supposed to watch me) was doing something in the back yard. In the garage were a variety of different colored paint cans and some brushes. I thought the plain white garage was boring-looking and proceeded to redecorate it nicely with multiple hues. George returned. He seemed upset, possibly angry, with my exterior decorating choices. See, made sense to me, seemed strange to George.

(2) I was 14. There was on the New Milford green an olive-drab World War 11 Sherman tank displayed on a slab of concrete. This vulgar demonstration of militarism must have offended my sense of propriety, or maybe once againI just didn't like the boring color (see above). So some like-minded friends and I stayed up very late one night, snuck out, and painted the tank a very rosy pink. The next day several people seemed quite disturbed over the incident. They may have been in the American Legion, or maybe just didn't appreciate the feng shui. I overheard someone speculating on how strange the whole event was. Conversely, it made perfect sense to me.

(3) I was 18, a freshman at Yale. A group of us were playing a nice game of strip poker, when someone decided we needed to go out to get some fresh air. The problems in doing this were multiple, (a) the 9 of us (5 guys, 4 girls) had little or no clothing on, (b) it was November, (c) we were on the 4th floor and our path was a foot-wide ledge circling the building, and finally (d) the Shubert had just let out and the theater-goers looking up at us were definitely overly curious (like it was any of their business). Still, it seemed like a perfectly sensible decision at the time. The police and Dean Whiteman disagreed. I heard a policeman, shaking his head, describe us as "weird kids". I say chacon a son gout. That's what makes horse racing.

So I suggest we give Weird Carl (of the frozen feet) a pass on his behavior. Maybe his feet get hot easily. Maybe he's allergic to leather. Maybe he's making snow angels from the bottom up. I don't know, but as the optimistic old joke goes , "with all this sh-t around, there must be a pony here somewhere".

Later.

2006-02-15T15:06:00.000-08:00

My Man Cheney, or It's Hard To Imagine a Bigger Dick

I've just finished reading the Huffington Post article revealing the apparently scandalous assignation between Dick Cheney and our Ambassador to Switzerland, Pamela Willeford. It seems that part of the motivation for the cover-up of the Whittington shooting may have been the fact that the hunting party consisted only of Cheney, Whittington, and two women not their wifes, Willeford and Katherine Armstrong. Prior to being whisked away by the Secret Service, Pamela told police that she was standing next to our noble VP when he let loose his misdirected salvo, and is therefore the only actual eye-witness except the victim and Cheney. Armstrong was in the car (not "hunting", if that's what shooting people is called vice-presidentially). Aside from some attempts to obfuscate the fact that there had been some alcohol consumed by the shooters, she was an innocent (maybe) bystander.

What I can't figure out is, where is the official inquest? A man was shot. He has already suffered a heart attack as a result of the shooting, and could conceivably die. At the very least there was negligence, possibly criminal, involved. If there was alcohol imbibed, and it contributed to the "accident", there are possible grounds for a felony indictment. The doctor minimized the seriousness of the injuries until the heart attack forced it into the open. The whole thing stinks like hell, even and especially born-again hell. I hate the arrogance as much as the unstated lies.

I couldn't care less whom Dick Cheney screws, as long as it isn't me or the Nation. I leave the sub-rosa relationship with the Ambassador to Dick, his wife, and maybe the Almighty which this administration keeps mixing in with their politics ( although I don't think the Big Guy gives a rat's ass about any of it). My problem is , why does our VP get to be above the law? If you or I went off, chugged down a few, and then shot somebody, you damn better believe we'd be spending some of our leisure time in the pokey until somebody figured out what actually happened. Big Dick, on the other hand, has stated that his position in life exempts him from even responding to questions about his behavior, criminal or not. Is that a born-again thing or a vice-presidential thing? Then again, does it matter? He's a Big Dick either way. How the hell do we elect these guys?

Later.

2006-02-13T15:15:00.000-08:00

Suburban Utopia

Ever since our office moved to Glastonbury, I've felt like I'm working in Lake Woebegone without the Scandinavians. Everyone, adults and children both, projects the attitude of being "better than average". Not obviously (that would be below average) but subtly and relentlessly.

Friendliness and slightly supercillious helpfulness abound unendingly. If you have some difficulty, count on some ubiquitous smiling samaritan to offer a hand. If one more person comes up to me and says, smarmily "Can I help you, sir?", I'm going to scream until their ears break.

All the woman are blonde, pink-cheeked and pretty (not beautiful, that would be intimidating). They all smile, friendly but not inviting, not aloof but a little removed. They meet your eye as you pass on the street and smile, but the smile passes right through you. I never felt frozen, just a little chilled. I keep wondering where the guy with the cookie-cutter lives (probably in Stepford), or maybe the look is learned at Glastonbury High and polished after marriage.

Everybody is a little rich, upper-middle but not upper-upper. Even the air is New England WASPy. Calvin would have felt justified, because everyone acts as if they're bound for Heaven. The air of slight, but never overt, superiority pervades everywhere. I've never felt so....Jewish.

And where do they hide all the people of color? Mike the bartender is not only the only Black man I've met, he's the only one I've SEEN. Maybe they could find some successful Black lawyers and doctors to fit the town mold. They better be Congregationalists. though.

I just figured out why those white cars were out to get me, I wasn't driving a Lexus. Maybe I could make 'em believe my Mazda is a loaner. Or I could learn to fit in better. I just can't get that icy friendly smile down, though.

Later.

2006-02-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

Golden Gloves

At my last graduate class, one of my fellow classmates announced that he'd bought a piece of a boxer (human, not dog) and that he had some free ducats to next Saturday's bout. The fighter is contending for an obscure championship (Junior Bantamweight division of a three-letter organization I am unfamiliar with). He weighs 112 pounds, which I can match with the heft of my left arm and give change. If he wins, however, he becomes a top ten ranked boxer and will then fight for much higher prize money, and much more return on my classmate's investment.

Now I haven't been to a prize fight in over 35 years, and I'm not basically a violent man unless somebody insults my wife, my politics, or the Red Sox, but I am an egocentric, somewhat exhibitionistic SOB. These character traits got me into a lot of trouble in my youth, and my obtaining these boxing tickets reminded me of a prime bit of stupidity from that era.

I was 16 years old and spending a vacation in southern Illinois with my very permissive grandmother. A group of us found an ad announcing preliminary bouts to determine a local representative to the Golden Gloves in St Louis (or Chicago, maybe). Since one of our little band was a cute brunette who had previously not given me the time of day, I decided to impress her her by bragging about my non-existent boxing prowess and declaring my entry into this contest.

Short term, this was good thinking. The young lady in question acknowledged my right to be in her presence and life was great, until I had to make good on my brag. How bad could it be, right?

I went to the local gym and had one of the gym-rats show me how to throw a jab and learned a little about footwork. Now totally prepared, I bought a helmet, gloves, trunks,a reinforced jockstrap and a mouthguard. Send me in , coach, I'm ready.

On the day of my first match, I was nervous. The little brunette was there with some of my friends (one of whom had provided the fake ID to prove I was 18, an entry requirement). My opponent was as nervous as I and even less experienced, if that were possible. When the bell rang, I ran to the middle of the ring and swung as hard as I could, unbelievably connecting somewhere on his jaw. I kept swinging until the ref stopped the fight. I had made the biggest mistake in my life, I advanced to the next match.

I then fought a black guy who beat me up unmercifully for three rounds but the obviously biased ref (who was also the judge) awarded me the win. Totally unfair, but this was Mark Twain country in the '50s. Next came Armeggedon.

The guy's nickname was Philley. He was left-handed and very fast. By winning twice I had unfortunately reached an opponent with a lot of skill and training. When the bell rang, I tried to throw my famous, newly-learned left jab. By the time I brought it back in, I'd been hit at least 15 times. I didn't think anyone could hit that hard. Fortunately, I don't remember anything after that first flurry. My friends told me later that I lasted 40 seconds, but I'm just as glad the last 30 have been erased from my memory. None of my facial bones were broken, but all of them felt that way.

I'd like to tell you this all had a happy ending, but no chance. The young lady told me (correctly) that I was stupid to get in the ring and that I deserved what I got. Unsurprisingly that ended our non-burgeoning relationship. I'd also like to tell you that this taught me a lesson about shooting my mouth off about things I know nothing about, but you all know that to be a gross untruth. Bottom line, it was just a bad idea. You've probably guessed that I've had a few of those.

Later.

2006-02-08T14:14:00.000-08:00

Vignettes of the Week

This has been an interesting week, with a lot of Seinfeldishly small events combining to make my cup bubble over.

(1) My grandaughter Kyly, age 5 (almost 6, she states proudly), presented me with a home-made Valentine. " Kyly", I said, "We have another important holiday to celebrate. My birthday is the day before Valentine's Day. I'll give you a special prize if you can tell me how old I'll be." She thought for a minute, her face scrunched up in concentration. Finally she asked, "Papa, how old are you NOW ?" She then brilliantly added one to the unfortunately astronomically high answer and claimed her prize. Einstein must have started like this.

(2) Preparatory to my upcoming operation, I've been asked to give two pints of my blood in case a transfusion is needed. I received an official form instructing me to start taking iron pills a week before they suck out my blood. This form further advised me to take Metamusil to offset the effects of the iron pills. Now, I'm willing to endure the pain of knee surgery, the phobia of watching a blood-thirsty phlebotomist gleefully depleting my vital fluids, the excruciating pain of rehab, but I'm damned if I'm going to admit to being old enough for Metamusil. So I went and bought out the stock of prune juice at Stop 'n Shop instead. F--k 'em, anyway.

(3) Remember the Yankee fan who wanted to show me her NYY tattoos? If you recall I turned down the offer. Well, today Mike the bartender (a witness to the conversation) weighed in with his opinion that I'd risen considerably in his esteem by my refusal to view the sullied flesh. His quote, "No one else has had the guts to tell that woman to keep her shirt in her pants." Either he admired my rudeness or he's a Red Sox fan.

(4) I've had a casual, COMPLETELY INNOCENT relationship with a young faculty wife. This has consisted of meeting in the late afternoon before class for coffee or a quick bite (of FOOD, you idiots). Yesterday I received an E-mail saying that we couldn't meet because her husband was jealous. I've dealt with jealous husbands before (running as fast as I can is the best course of action, I've found), but never from a position of absolute innocence. Maybe I should be flattered, the guy's at least two decades younger than I am. Or outraged ("how could you THINK that I ....."). And how come I'm always in trouble for NO REASON ?

As I said, it's been an interesting week of non-events.

I'm not sure that I want something significant to happen, I can't seem to find the time.

Later.

2006-02-06T16:06:00.000-08:00

Navel Battles

I've just finished reading Colleen's blog on which there is pictured an enthusiastic young woman with her navel peeking out. I don't quite understand the latest fascination with the female midriff, so I'm going to give you my observations and then hope some of you can explain to me what I'm missing..

First of all, navels are funny looking, and to me sort of anti-erotic. Even assuming it resides in an area that doesn't unattractively bulge (which in America today is a large assumption with the average female dress size ranging between 12 and 14), the shape is at best an object of humor, not titillation. Poets have raved about the curve of a lip, a bosom, or a derriere (think of Jennifer Lopez...poetically please), but who I ask you has ever swooned at the swirl of a navel. The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders famously expose their navels, but there's not a red-blooded male alive who's staring at their tummies. When I look at new-style outfits with low-slung pants and high-cut tops, I'm looking at the edges not the middle (waiting for a drop or rise that unfortunately never comes- I keep on hoping, though).

Also, women's body parts that men look at tend to be functionally erotic (see last paragraph for examples). I haven't found a woman yet who has whispered in my ear, "Baby, drive me crazy, blow in my navel". A belly-button's practical use ends when we part from our mothers at birth, the exception being to bring gales of laughter from my grandkids by puffing on it to make a flatulent sound. This is what I'm thinking about looking at a woman's navel, hardly behind closed doors thoughts.

Maybe there's a whole world of navel fettishers that has somehow passed me by. If so, someone clue me in. If not, ladies, pull down your shirts, and expose something more interesting. It was so much more fun in the "burn your bra" era.

Later.

2006-02-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

Dancin'

It has just dawned on me that one of the benefits of my upcoming knee surgery is that I will be able to dance again. Not that I was ever Fred Astaire on the dance floor ( I'm much taller than he is ) but I was always..um.. enthusiastic in my attempts at terpsichorian performance. My partners would probably complain that the effort was on their part to keep their tootsies from being mashed, but this never dampened my conspicuously over-zealous flailing and stomping, especially if I heard a song like "Shout" boom out over the floor.

All this has an involved history. I couldn't have arrived at this pinnacle of smoothness and grace without arduous training. This started at age 7 when my mother began her relentless attacks on my masculinity by enrolling me in a tap-dance class.

An effeminate guy named Donnie and I were the only males among the 20 or so hoofers in the class. I was issued shiny patent-leather shoes with clickety metal taps on them and learned dances called the Waltz Clog and the Buck and Swing while little girls constantly giggled at me. Excruciating.

Recital time. I was forced to go on stage with seven simpering young females, dressed in tails, a top hat and a cane. I was so nervous that I peed my fortunately black pants. Apparently our performance was, however, spectacular enough to send the crowd of 200 relatives into a minor delirium. This reaction did not prevent me from being scarred for life by the experience. I did, though, manage to control my overwhelming urge to bash the unguous Donnie in the head with my cane. It was the first experience in my 7 years at attaining a measure of self-control.

My mother's next attempt at emasculation through the medium of dance was to enroll me in Mr. Allingham's Ballroom Dance class. This lasted through 6th and 7th grade. Mr. Allingham had a male child he called Muffin (need I say more). Aside: Muffin maintained that moniker all the way into adulthood, and became an accountant.

Ballroom dancing included the Waltz, the Foxtrot, the Lindy-hop, the Cha-Cha, the Mambo, and the Rhumba, none of which did I perfect to Mr. Alligham's satisfaction. Picture pairs of sweaty,pimply-faced adolescents pressed up against each other and told to act graceful. The only thing I remember accomplishing was the art of concealing a hard-on from my partners. Tricky, especially when dancing with Sherry, a mammalially over-extended young miss who had discovered sex years before the rest of us. I had no chance, of course, but she provided many sweet lubicatory dreams.

My dancing in college (this had nothing to do with my mother) was like a precursor to Patrick Swayze, without the rhythm or urbane smoothness. I met my later-to-be-two-year-sweetheart Taffy at a Mixer (remember those?). I attempted a "seductive" move by inserting my leg between hers and twisting her into a Dip. She responded predictably, breaking into hysterical laughter at my fumbling effort (you know, it's not coincidental that "hyster" is derived from the feminine). I've always wondered why my greatest successes with women occur when I've mortifyingly embarrassed myself.

My last dancing disaster occurred when my wife was on a business trip and I let myself be dragged off by a too-young lady to what she called an "underground" Rave. In a moment of non-lucidity I was persuaded to experiment with a tablet she later identified as "ecstacy". I remember feeling really good, but I don't recall anything at all about dancing. Since I was by a considerable margin the oldest person there, my efforts did not go unnoticed by the other folks on hand. I was told later that I was possessed of amazing energy and, of course, enthusiasm. Peculiarly, no-one mentioned skill or talent. It seems that Ecstacy is a lousy stimulant for short term memory, which may be fortunate for my embarrassment quotient, assuming I have one.

So after I get bionicized, knee-wise, look out world. Fred, Ginger, Gene, Cyd, even Mikhail, be prepared to be eclipsed. As you can see, I'm a finished product.

Later.

2006-01-30T16:14:00.000-08:00

Vinnie's

Saturday night my wife and I traveled to Old Saybrook to join another couple (the Ryans) for dinner. They live in Rhode Island, so we consult Connecticut Magazine to find places sort of half-way between us for interesting places to dine. Hugh is one of my oldest friends and very intelligent (even though you'll find his picture listed in Wikipedia under Right Wing). Judy, his wife, a school principal, is also extremely bright. It certainly doesn't hurt my evening's enjoyment that even at our less-than-youthful stage of life she can easily measure up to the term "eye-candy".

We decided to try Vinnie's, the majorly-upgraded successor to the old Saybrook Fish House. Vin Baker, the 7 foot ex-NBA center, had purchased the place and poured a lot of money into it. The results are surprisingly effective, a nice ambience lending a warm comfort, and the nice touch of a 500 gallon tropical fish tank emphasizing the nautical flavor. The food was excellent. Pricier than the preceding establishment, but well worth it. I had a tasty choppino, and the others had a Thai seafood stew. Well-presented and delicious.

Hugh and I then got down to the important part of the evening, solving the world's major problems from completely opposing viewpoints. Without these solutions it is doubtful the world can survive, so we take these discussions very seriously. We are very mature about our disagreements, never resorting to violence and keeping the decibles of our voices under the sonic boom level (barely). "Yer mama" is seldom heard. Our wives gave all this the attention they thought it deserved, ignoring us completely and burying their heads in an album of baby pictures which Judy had brought along. Sometimes I get a really Rodney Dangerfield feeling around these women.

The discussion centered around the definition of "marriage", which Hugh felt required a monogamous heterosexual couple. You can imagine my reaction. Hugh cited dictionary definitions, I countered with a more realistic (my word) practical view. When Hugh said that he had no objections to "civil unions" with full civil rights as long as they needn't be sanctioned by the Church (please note carefully the capitalization), I felt no further need to argue logically. Logic and the Church have never been bedfellows.

By this time 3 hours had gone by and the manager pointedly cleared off our glasses to hustle us out before the next seating. I tried a light remark but he had NO sense of humor.

One last thing, I looked into the kitchen and to my surprise saw Vin Baker, in gym shorts, supervising the chefs. It was a funny scene, he towered over the staff by more than a foot. 7 feet is VERY tall when your not looking at a basketball court.

Eat well, drink well, and be hearty, tomorrow may never come.

Later.

2006-01-29T07:31:00.000-08:00

Shouldn't I Be More Depressed?

I just watched Nancy Giles (what a stone FOX) on CBS Sunday Morning doing an article which reported that a scientist, supported by a recent survey, found that Jan. 23 was the most depressing day of the year. She then went on to pooh-pooh all surveys and that one in particular. It made me think, though, that there's a lot to be depressed about out there.

Politcally, the current administration seems to have no handle on anything except that on which they have the WRONG handle. They invented a phony excuse to fight a war (nuclear weapons) which they blamed on bad intelligence (more like no intelligence). Now they (notice I don't say "we", our country supports none of this horse-patootie) insist on getting a bunch of people killed fighting a non-war, manipulating rather than mediating an impossible conflict. I try to avoid thinking about it , hoping maybe it'll go away, but it doesn't.

When I was drafted into military service years ago, I decided to be a patriot and suppress my outspoken anti-war feelings and be, as they say, "the best I could be " in the military. I worked hard, became an officer (OCS), and actually shot and killed the "enemy" while being shot at myself. All this was significantly opposed to my beliefs, but curiouslyI was somewhat proud of my Army record until recently. It has become conspicuously clear that our military has evolved into a totally corrupt, amoral mechanism. Torture was something the bad guys did, and unlike the romanticized actions of Jack on "24", it's really ,really wrong, people. Torture hurts everyone,even the torturers.

The crushing blow for me was the recent discovery that Arab women were being imprisoned to coerce their husbands to surrender. I can't imagine a more heinous "military" program. No wonder the opposition is kidnapping newswomen to force us to release these female prisoners (they can do this, they're the bad guys). And where is the Commander -in-Chief in all this? Probably off gathering "bad intelligence". Does the buck ever stop at the Teflon W?

I should also be depressed at the sky-rocketing price of oil. Surprise, surprise, we elect two oil men and the price goes up. The solution, apparently, is not to put on a rush program to find alternative power, or to build refineries which would process a wider variety of fossil fuels, but to dig up our natural parks ASAP. Surprise, surprise. Not so much if you ask the Holmsian question, "Qui bono?".

So should I be more depressed? Nah, I'm an optimistic kind of guy. I'm way past depressed. I"m pissed off.

Later.

2006-01-27T15:20:00.000-08:00

New Semester, Same Old Thoughts

Thursday night, must be class time. Once again, I'm hanging and ogling at the Bistro and naturally Brett walks in for our weekly pulchritude peek. He thinks our class, "History of Sports in America", is somewhere it isn't, so I get his logistics straight. I do this a lot.

Brie walked in, looking gorgeous as ever, with a cute blonde in tow. Liz turned out to be a veteran hockey player who played forward for the Trinity Bantams. The women's game must be different from the hockey I know because she looked like she had all her teeth. (Have you ever seen a male hockey player smile? It's what started the expression "holey moley"). Liz's breezy blonde good looks were a fine complement to Brie's brunette magnetic charm. I looked around for a hot redhead(then we'd have Charley's Angels) but (alas) none appeared. So we went off to class.

Clearly Professor Goldstein's class is NOT the gut course I was hoping for. He chairs the History department at the U. of Hartford. A five page, prose written "lesson plan" is required, plus a twenty page term paper. Plus a lot of reading of academe-style books with tons of 4 syllable words. 7 members of my blogging class are here, and a number of others who obviously know how to write. I'm looking for heated discussions on a reasonably high plane, which I've never had when the subject is sports. Most of those ended with "yer mama", particularly if the other person was a Yankee fan.

Sidebar: when we all introduced ourselves, a tiny, kinda cute lady across from me announced that she was the School's assistant girl's hockey coach. Aside from the fact that she looked barely old enough to be an undergraduate, she had a very feminine, somewhat delicate appearance. After my barely controlled double-take, I concluded that if all female hockey players are as attractive as the two I've met, I've missed way too many hockey games. Note to self: correct that next year.

Off to read about sports. Homework, you know. Life is tough.

Later.

2006-01-24T14:59:00.000-08:00

Upcoming Pain

Due to abusing my body most of my life (not that way you idiots, I'm talking about sports and stuff) I need to get my knees replaced. My doctor tells me that the new joint can bear my weight the day after surgery, and that my re-hab can take a relatively short time depending on how much effort I will exert and how much pain I can take. My intention is to set the world record for fastest re-hab by a not-to-be-ignored blogger.

I've had knee surgery twice before (they let me keep my old knees those times). My orthopedic guy at that time told me to use crutches for 2 weeks and re-hab for 2 to 4 more. I walked unaided into his office a week later, and after he tested me, was told that the rest of the re-hab was optional. I had a similar experience when a disc was removed from my back, one week and I was ready to rumble.

The reason for the quickness of these recoveries is my seeming lack of susceptibility to pain. My wife's explanation for this ("no sense, no feeling") appears to me to be a bit simplistic and certainly skewed, and how would she know anyway after only a few decades. My daughter points out that pain coming out of a trauma (re-hab) is much more tolerable than that going in. Maybe.

My point of view is that physical pain is ephemeral, while emotional pain seems to last forever. I can take a great deal of bodily pain while barely flinching because I know that at some point relatively soon it's going to stop. When my mother died when I was 32, when my daughter got leukemia at 2 years old, when my best friend committed suicide, when my brother-in-law dropped dead of a heart attack at age 36, these things HURT, and the pain will never completely be gone. On the other hand, physical pain, no matter how excruciating, can be handled by just waiting a few minutes, or some other definable time period. Piece of cake.

That's the reason Colleen's "Looseleafnotes" is so effective. It's been years since her brothers died, but she still feels the pain and makes us feel it. What's a few weeks of re-hab compared to that?

On March 10 I become the bionic man. Hmmm, I wonder what other parts they can replace with steel? Nah, not enough steel around.

Later.

2006-01-23T14:21:00.000-08:00

Lucky Pierre

This is a variation on the on the age-old joke that goes like this, sorta:
Lucky Pierre says to his friend, "I write beautiful anti-war blogs. Do they call me Pierre the peace blogger? Non. I write great serio-comic anecdote blogs. Do they call me Pierre the diary writer? Non. But I write ONE TIME about sex......". Call me Lucky.

I seem to have a penchant for saying things in conversation that cause my listeners to do double and triple takes. This is usually not a ploy, I just say what's on the top of my mind and people look at me strangely. I guess the same thing happens when I write a blog. My problem is figuring out whether strange is , in Martha-speak, a good thing.

For instance, in college I developed what I called the "theory of beneficience". In this concept I expounded on my conviction that any woman with whom I had sex significantly benefitted from the experience. My roommates, after having that triple-take reaction aforementioned, pointed cynically to the series of relationship disasters I had left in my wake. I replied that disasters are in the eye of the beholder, and proceded blithely on to my next shipwreck, clinging somewhat stubbornly to my Theory. To this day I insist that the basic conclusions of this hypothesis are correct, although I still seem to get those strange looks whenever I defend it.

The reaction to my last blog where I innocently declared that sexual freedom is a good thing is me getting in trouble again for no good reason. Blue girl had to defend herself from nasty misinterpretation (I promise I touched nothing but my keypad, although I LOVE mesh stockings). Nile was "taken aback" by my conversational wanderings, but that's OK, I have a pretty broad back. Two anonymous posts implied (stated, actually) that I was a nothing but a (gasp) philanderer. (But, Grandma, wasn't I the best philanderer I know how to be?).

I keep asking myself, "Doesn't anybody have fun anymore?". Maybe I should stop having some fun myself, it seems to be upsetting people, and I have to care about that or I'll never be allowed to vote Republican.

Later.

2006-01-20T17:44:00.000-08:00

Fidelity, The Chief Cause of Divorce

Last night at the Tap, four of us got into a discussion about sex (how surprising). This conversation started as a comment on the ease with which I had gotten onto the topic with two girls at the bar earlier in a failed attempt to fix my friend Brett up for a one-nighter. Either girl, I think, would have entertained the idea, but Brett got side-tracked wandering off on some Puritanical rant which sunk the boat before it left the harbor. ( Nobody there cared if he respected himself in the morning). Even he admits he talks too much on occasion, and this was definitely one of those occasions.

By the way, Elin, who joined us later, offered the opinion that strange women are willing to engage in remarkably intimate and revelatory conversations with me because I'm non-threatening as a potential sexual target. If so, I'm willing to wear that brand of sheep's clothing as long as it keeps working.

Meanwhile, back to our sex discussion, which somehow turned to the subject of sexual fidelity, in or out of marriage. I pointed out that countless surveys show that between 75% and 85% of men, and 65% to 75% of women, haved engaged in sexual activity outside of their marriage, which many claim has led to ridiclously high current divorce rate.

It is my contention that infidelity doesn't cause divorce, but rather the unreasonable expectation of a monogamous ideal in a species which has clearly demonstrated no ability to live up to it. Robert Heinlein wrote some great sci-fi depicting utopian societies without the marital stresses that the monogamous ideal imposes. The expectation of fidelity leads to jealousy, possessiveness, suspicion and eventually betrayal. As an accepted practice, infidelity would lose a lot of it's forbidden allure. It's similar to legalizing marijuana, taking away the illicit nature of the transaction makes it easier on all concerned, and might even lessen the occurance by making it not so daringly attractive.

Before you accuse me of being a self-serving lecher, let me simply confess to it. I admired Clinton's creative response to his accusers that BJs don't count as sex, ergo he wasn't unfaithful. He was a great president in my opinion, but unfortunately even he couldn't sell that one. Just think of the wonderful sense of freedom we'd have if NOTHING sexual counted. Then we'd have to feel guilt about more important things, like not treating our spouses and partners with the kindness and consideration they deserve. Watch what would happen to the divorce rate in THAT kind of society.

It might also lighten the stranglehold organized religion (which uses control of sexual instincts as a rigid keystone) holds on our lives, and we could stop killing people in it's name. Make love, and lots of it, not war. Gee, that sounds familiar.

Later.

2006-01-18T20:04:00.000-08:00

What's Really Bothering Me....

Earlier tonight I posted a comment on Colleen's blog concerning the inevitability of righteous protest becoming violent when arrogantly ignored. It all seems so familiar, the parallel between Viet Nam and Iraq. A good ole boy Texas president (Bush or Johnson, the political affiliation is unimportant except to politicians) inventing excuses to escalate a long-standing religious dispute in which we have no stake into a full-blown war. The creating of a boogieman for the American public to hate (Saddam Hussein or Ho Chi Minh). The false raising of a spectre supposedly threatening national security (invisible nuclear weapons now, Russian and Chinese hegemony then). Claiming unwon victories as American men keep dying. Staying on too long trying to achieve victory in an unwinnable bloody ethnic battle that's been raging for hundreds of years and will probably continue for hundreds more. Ignoring the growing public protest, insisting on a "win with honor". Haven't we been here before? Can't we learn from our history, or, as the famous quote goes, are we doomed to repeat it?

Having lived through it then, I think that it's inevitable that there will be another Kent State. People like a younger me will get their heads bashed in at a riot gone out of control like Berkeley or maybe Watts. Underground movements like SDS will start because in an almost incomprehensible display of arrogance the voice of a growing majority of the populance is being ignored by those in power. Check the airwaves for "unpatriotic", possibly illegal, broadcasts- that's where it will begin.

Can this be avoided? Maybe , if the government is more responsive. This is obviously impossible with the current administration, and if we vote in another Nixon-type in '08 the parallel will be complete. How can we be so stupid as to keep putting these clowns in office? Don't we ever learn?

So that's what's troubling me ,cousin. I think the public is fed up with this war and they're not gonna take it much longer. Just remember to hunker down when it hits the fan.

Later.

2006-01-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

Self-Confidence, Guilt, and the Lack of Same

I am continually shocked when intelligent , attractive, talented , and insightful people have a lesser opinion of themselves than my view of them. Not only do they demonstrate a completely unwarranted lack of self-confidence, they then feel guilty for not living up to the abilities they claim they don't have. I, on the other hand, choose to feel unwarranted brazen over-confidence because (1) it makes me act more proactively and (2) I only feel guilty for the things I've done, rather than those I haven't. Don't worry, this still leaves me with plenty of guilt. My feeling is that you should swing at the ball as hard as you can, just in case you actually hit it.

My thoughts have drifted (there's always a good deal of drift in my thinking) in this direction today becuase of a post I've just read on Nileblog . I happen to be acquainted with the author, who describes herself as "average". This woman is about as "average" as Catherine Deneuve (assuming Catherine to be as smart as her character portrayals). Her creative ability and her insight are clearly demonstrated on her blog. You can trust my judgment as a master ogler that she aced Attractiveness 101. She also has a quality in her personality that makes her instantly likable.From where, ones wonders, comes insecurity in such a gifted individual?

Also, GUILT. Whoever heard of Swedish guilt? Have you ever read about a guilty Viking? Did the Valkyries feel guilty as they cold-bloodedly snatched up dead battlefield heroes onto their shields? If for no other reason than ethnic tradition, Nile, and all other Norsepersons, should immediately abandon all their feelings of guilt.There, see how much better you feel?

Another very bright, beautiful, and talented person who somehow excels in guilt and self-depreciation is my wife. For all of her life, people have praised her beauty and intelligence. First, her father, then her friends (of both genders), and for 38 years I have done so. At her job (which she loves), she shows a combination of persistance and innovation which has led to continual success giving rise to grateful kudos from her co-workers and her boss. Despite this, she downgrades her sparkling record and pooh-poohs her obvious talents, you would think that she was (excuse the expletive) "average". Unthinkable.

And GUILT. In her mind , my wife is responsible for the ruination of (1) our children, (2) her work projects, (3) me. The fact that our children feel happy and loved, that she is praised and promoted at work, and that we have a long and successful marriage(that even I have been unable to screw up) doen't seem to alleviate her guilt. One saving grace, she IS Jewish, and therefore possibly to be forgiven

One last bad example for my blog is Brett. He sort of fits because he is certainly bright and good-looking and if you read the linked blog you'll find plenty of self-deprecation and guilt. This is fun to read but I feel that a certain ironic literary license is being taken. He gets too much positive feedback from women to feel as terrible about himself as he occasionally professes. Guilt? Well, maybe that could be justified.

Enough said. I'm still as perplexed about this as when I started. Why does nobody seem surprised?

Later.

2006-01-12T15:42:00.000-08:00

1-12-2006

What I Don't Know, and Can It Hurt Me

A friend of mine posted on her blog a Polish poem which contained this thought: ( Life is the only way ) to keep on not knowing something important. I have devoted a considerable portion of my life to ignorance of many vital things, but not knowing about a subject has never kept me from talking about it, so here goes.

The first topic I will tackle is God. Clearly nobody knows anything about Him (or Her, or It, depending on your perpective). Despite this, many people claim that books were written (or inspired, or dictated) by Him., that they actually have seen Him, and that He visited Earth, possibly in human form. Hundreds of millions of people have died because of relatively small differences of opinion about His nature, His appearance, or even His existence. There are skirmishes all over the world because one group objects to the thoughts and beliefs of another, when really they are only arguing about different means of approach to the same end. I will now end all this conflict with 6 words: DON'T PANIC, LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

It should be enough (dayenu) to simply look around and enjoy what we've been given. You can't see the wind except by watching the branches move, and so you can see (and maybe know) God by observing, learning about, and above all REVELING IN the universe into which we fit so well. Why should it matter if other people don't agree with your observations. Think about my 6 words (DP,LWEA) and all will be well. See, it's sometimes a lot better for you NOT to know about something. By the way, I'm NOT a religious nut , just someone thoroughly convinced of his own ignorance.

Now that I've solved that tiny problem, I'll move on to another easy issue: abortion. I think the issue is simple, when does a potential human morph from a female body part to a baby person. Some people think that this phenemenon starts when the sperm meets the egg. My problem with this reasoning is that then why not take it one step further to the sexual thought prior to conception, which would make me the greatest destroyer of human life since Ghenghis Kahn. My own feeling is that when the baby can survive without the mother, it's a human being . Until then, it's a part of the mother's body, and it's her right to make any decisions concerning it. Certainly no one with a Y chromosome should have any say in the matter, which includes me. (and is the opinion, apparently, of about 75% of the world's women).Remember my motto, guys, DP,LWEA.

See how easy. Next topic: Love. I used to think that there was some limit to the love I would find in my life, but as I grow older I realize that this is an area of infinite expansion.Is there just one true love for your life. Maybe, if you're really unlucky. Me, I've got a wife , 3 kids , and 5 grandkids just for starters. Every time I think I feel as much as I can for a loved one , something tremendously happy or tragic occurs and the limits increase exponentially.My family, even my friends, demonstrate this to me axiomatically every day. The greatest gift I've received in my life is the inability to reach, or even conceive of, this limit. It allows me to relax into the DP part of my mantra.

Ignorance has been, as you can see, the guiding light of my life, and continues to serve me in good stead, just ask anybody.

Later.

2006-01-11T15:14:00.000-08:00

The Art of Ogling

Many years ago, in a society far, far away from the present, the 4 Lads (or maybe the 4 Aces}made a record (remember those) titled "Standing on the Corner". This musical manifesto extolled the pure, unadulterated joy that men get from the simple observation of females passing through their range of vision. If done properly , this notice will put a spring in the step of said females, or at least evoke a secretive smile. If done incorrectly, this act (sometimes called "ogling") may have unfortunate results, such as a nasty remark, a sneer, or (worst case) a physical reaction such as (gasp) a slap.

Thus ogling may be elevated to an art form under proper circumstances. This takes many years of diligent practice and attention, which yours truly has gladly endured in order to share these artistic principles with you here.

You must remember at all times that there is a very subtle difference between an interested complimentary glance and an obnoxious stare. You can accomplish the former by keeping your mind-set in affectionate and pleasant mode, not set in prurient thought (plenty of time for that later, in your fond memories). Also, and this is the most difficult thing for the neophyte ogler, you must NEVER mentally undress a lady when ogling her. Control is nearly impossible when you do this, and hardly ever goes unnoticed by the oglee., then the afore-mentioned slap is an inevitability.

Ogling in crowded areas yields the best results (crowded with WOMEN, you idiot). I personally find that the more beatiful women I see in a day, the happier I am. I also find that the more I look, the more beautiful they appear. Obviously, the more women, the more ogling targets, and the better chance to perfect your technique I strongly recommend the following sequence: (1) gain eye contact, (2) smile (NOT with intent- amicably, but not quite innocently), (3) hold eye contact a brief, significant moment, (4) glance reluctantly away. This last is important, because to glance away too quickly could be construed as uncomplimentary by the oglee.

You can tell that your ogling is a success if the oglee has these reactions, (1)giggles, (2) a blatant stare back, (3)slipping you her phone number, (4) an "accidental" brush as she passes, (5)a pleased smile. If you receive any or all of these responses, contact me and I'll send you instructions explaining how to proceed to the next level.

You have sucessfully passed the reading portion of this lesson. Be very careful, however, in applying your new knowledge in practice. I, myself, as a tenth level ogler, usually wear an eye patch to cut my glance intensity in half. Otherwise, women have been known to start removing clothing at twenty-foot distances. For this reason' I've been banned from a half-dozen formerly reputable Hartford restaurants. Ogling is not a toy, and must be used carefully, and only by mature adults. This warning is mandated by the AOA. (the O is for Ogler's, dummy)

Thanks for wasting your evening here.

Later.

2006-01-08T07:41:00.000-08:00

1-8-2006

The Water in Glastonbury

I am assuming, since you are reading my blog, that you are a person of taste and intelligence. I also assume that you take a sceptical view of social generalizations and myths, such as "urban legends". This story may alter that view.

The narrative begins as Dave the Conservative (DC from here on) and I decided on Friday to explore our new work environs in Glastonbury for a lunch spot. DC is a good reference for this narrative because as a conservative his approach to life is far more literal than mine (although not more literary). He is definitvely NOT a myth adherent. As an aside, I should add that I have a few good friends who are political conservatives. They are not intrinsically bad people, it's just that, like our President, they've been given faulty intelligence leading to erroneous conclusions.

Anyway, we were referred to Wang's, a Chinese restaurant whose good reputation proved to be well-deserved. In the parking lot afterward, however, a string of bizarre events began that shook my faith in rational existence.

I would like to restate here my previous admission that I can be a very aggressive driver. To clarify, I am an aggressive OFFENSIVE driver, but an observant and somewhat careful DEFENSIVE driver. This is important to the narrative, and to my current and future survival.

As I backed out of my parking space at the restaurant, I noticed a small white sports car pulling out of a lower lot heading toward me. He had plenty of room, but something made me hit my brake. Although he could clearly see me, instead of slowing to avoid me he accelerated, leaving rubber and missing me by inches.DC jerked around and said, "What the hell was that?". I shrugged.

Seconds later, leaving the lot, I stopped to take a left (north) on Main Street. A white van roared past me heading south. As I pulled out , the van banged a screeching Uey behind me. He raced past me on my right (there was only one lane) narrowly missing my rear fender as he passed. Onward and upward.

The traffic slowed to a crawl, and a turn lane opened up on my left. Suddenly a white Ford pick-up came shooting up that left lane, passed a bunch of cars, and instead of turning barreled straight through the light and cut back into my lane, risking life and limb to gain a few spaces in line. At that point, DC said to me, "It must be something in the water".

One last incident. As I approached the left turn light signal to enter our building complex, it was turning amber but there was plenty of time to make the turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw coming toward me a white sedan, going too fast to stop. I once again slammed on my brake, and inevitably he sped through the (red) light. Both DC and I would have had no chance in the ensuing crash.

Now, I am not a believer in driving myths. I scoff at people who say women can't drive. When I lived out West I never believed, as my friends insisted, that Asians were dangerous behind the wheel. I even think that, against all statistics, most teens drive safely. But I'll tell you this, people, BEWARE WHITE CARS IN GLASTONBURY. You may laugh, but remember, they ignored Cassandra, too.

Later.

2006-01-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

1-5-2006

A Woman of Stature

Last night, while eating a little and talking a lot with Brett at Arch Street Tavern in another failed attempt to regather a few of our blogging classmates, governor Jody Rell walked in. She had a small entourage of women power brokers, including her (somewhat tarnished) Chief of Staff, sitting at the next table to ours. We could overhear some of the conversation, but tuned out to keep from a fatal attack of boredom. She's a nominally good polititian, but a very mediocre conversationalist. She is obviously not the titular woman of this blog.

That woman arrived as a part of Brett's entourage. I knew her previously from two venues; (1) the night our class met at the Wooden Tap and, much more significantly, as (2) the infamous Librarian of Brett's blog
There were 4 reasonably intelligent and unreasonably voluble men at the table , but with little apparent effort she controlled the tenor of the evening. Brett is clearly (and justifiably) smitten with this lass, as it seems were we all within 15 minutes of her arrival.

A physical description is necessary to the narrative at this point. The Librarian is averagely tall, has autumnally red hair and Irish good looks, including that delightful creamy skin that women of Eire naturally possess.She would never, in the words of Irving Berlin, be snapped by photographers for the rotogravure, but exudes a subtle sexuality that draws you inextricably toward her. This attraction increases the longer you're in her presence, and because of the lack of blatant intention, it makes for comfort and humor rather than sexual tension. Jane Austen, not Henry Miller, and just as caustic.

The evening was replete with an overdose of ribaldry (I don't think I personally crossed the line more than 5 or 6 times, and always reined in by guess who?). Bad off-color jokes mixed with occasional bits of honest humor and even some personal revelation strung out the evening pleasantly. The Librarian flirted gently with the guy across from her (not R-Dogg but D from NB), but she kept a careful eye on our hero Brett, making sure he was included. Masterful subtlety, complete control of the environment. I can't think of a time I was more impressed by the use of feminine wiles. I tried to rattle her with a suggestive remark as we left, but she deftly parried with a well-delivered nose wrinkle. Unbeatable.

If I ever delude myself into thinking that women are not the far superior gender, I'll think back to last night and rapidly rethink. A more devastating display of the advantage a woman has when she uses her personality combined with pulchritude I have rarely witnessed, and I loved every bit of it.

Later.

2006-01-01T06:38:00.000-08:00

1-1-2006
New Year's, and how did I ever get here?

When I was younger, I never thought I'd reach my current life stage. I had several pretty good reasons to feel that way. First , I led, and still lead, a life-style in which I take a lot of physical and mental chances. I like driving a la Mario Andretti, walking alone at the edge of steep cliffs, and flirting with women who have 275 pound gorillas for boy friends. When I was in my 20s, I experimented with many hallucenagenic substances, joined a jump club, tried hang-gliding, and flirted with attached women ( I think their partners were smaller then, maybe 250). When drafted, I managed to get myself involved in covert action that nearly got me killed. Then I became a stock broker, and so now everybody wants me killed..

In addition to all this, both of my biological parents died in their early 50s of cancer and diabetes, respectively, so my genetic make-up was less than promising. I figured on a relatively short life span, so why not live it to the hilt? My wife , a somewhat cautious soul, observed in horror my shenanigans, particularly behind the wheel. ( in 1986, I drove my brand new Mercedes at over 180 mph at 10:00 pm down I-91, buried that speedometer, I did).

With the year 2000 as my previously considered maximum life expectancy, I find myself living on borrowed time (at least in my mind). As Groucho Marx once said, "I'm too old to die young". This being the case, why am I suddenly more cautious. My New Year's Eve is a good example. Instead of going down to Time's Square or getting roaring drunk at a party and stupidly driving home, my wife and I went to see "The Producers". We then came back and she cooked me a great cioppino (red, not white). The most exciting thing I did all night was have 3 MacAllan single malts (my limit is usually 2, I get soused much quicker than I used to). I'll leave out the part where I was on the phone for 2 hours acting in the role of psychologist , lawyer, cartographer, ( and, of course, father) to my kids. My wife fell asleep watching TV ( I guess I'm not the turn on I once was), and, though I woke her up for a midnight kiss, she didn't remember it this morning. Some idiot MC on Channel 4 and I welcomed in 2006 together.

It's not that I don't still take some chances. I still drive too fast, and I still flirt with inappropriate women (why do they all have such huge boyfriends?). I blog, and how dangerous is that? I'm now the oldest grad student (matriculated, no less) at Trinity College, which could definitely kill me. And I write, which I hope is lucky for you. But somehow the arrival of my 5th grandchild (over a year ago) seems to have slowed me down. I wonder why.

Later.

2005-12-30T15:28:00.000-08:00

12-30-2005

BORA TAGGED ME (see, I wrote a title like I promised)

Bora (Coturnix) plays a game on his site (sciencepolitics.blogspot.com) in which he "tags" some people (?) to fill in a bunch of categories involving personal choices. I'm apparently "it" today, so here goes:

Four jobs I've had in my life- Rod man for a surveyor (you have to dig those damn monument holes), Fuller Brush Man (ring 100 housewives doors a day and you'll learn what "desperate" really means), Polical speech writer( one guy I wrote for ended up face down in SF Bay, it's OK nowadays, though, he was a liberal), Stock broker, from which I need an occasional break, which is why I write)
Four movies I could watch over and over- 1000 Clowns (too bad Robards died), American President (shhh, I'm a liberal), High Fidelity (Cusack's a genius), and of course, Casablanca
Four places I've lived- Carbondale, IL, New Milford, CT, San Francisco, CA (during the flower-child days), Worms, Germany (no, I'm not old enough to know Martin Luther personally, but I could use a good Diet)
Four TV shows I love to watch- Numbers ( to get in touch with my nerd side), Arrested Development (it's the only way to feel good about my upbringing), Lost (because I am, usually), and Grey's Anatomy (the female interns are HOT).
Four places I've been on vacation- Cancun, mexico (where I lost a golf ball in an iguana hole, you get a free lift, if you dare to reach in), Amalfi, Italy (only married a year, then, I played no golf) , Aspen, CO ( I climbed to the upper lake at Maroon Bells- gorgeous), Disney World (took kids, then grandkids), I also went to Mardi Gras, but I can't remember a thing after Pete's)
Four websites I visit daily- I check on my classmates- nileblog.blogspot, thescreaminmemey.blogspot, takethisdotcom.blogspot, and of course, brettevans.blogspot. If you're wondering why I don't just link you to them, my ancient computer doesn't seem to want to let me.
Four of my favorite foods- porcupine meatballs, javanese sate ( I first had it at Trader Vic's, now long gone- if you couldn't score after sharing those humongous tropical drinks you're a eunich), chicken mole, and corned beef hash (for breakfast)- also anything extremely caloric.
Four places I'd rather be- Roaring Fork River Valley (they still have cattle drives down Main Street), Lake Garda, Italy, Studio 54 (in 1977), in Michelle Pfeiffer's bedroom (by personal invitation)
Four albums I can't live without- Tom Lehrer (If you can remember him, you're too damn old), Ella's Greatest HIts, Julie London ( the sexiest voice in recorded history), and , inevitably Patsy Cline

Now that I've proved myself to be a man of impeccable taste, Bora, help me find the memeing of life.

Oops, forgot to "tag" . I tag Brett,
Patti,
Coleen,
Joal

Later.

2005-12-29T14:11:00.000-08:00

12-29-2005

Tonight I was going to start putting bold headlines on my posts, when I realized that I didn't have the slightest idea what I was going to write. This makes it very difficult to create a headline. I could just write the post and go back and put a title on it, but that feels like cheating. So those of you anxiously awaiting headlines will have to bide patiently until my next post- or not, if you want to be snotty about it.

My office is moving across the river to Glastonbury. The distance is only 3 miles, but the effort is exponential, mentally as well as physically. We've been at our current location for fourteen years, and you can't begin to calculate the massive amount of useless (precious?) junk that I've amassed in my relatively small office. I know it breaks some Newtonian Law, but the pile of stuff I threw out had a larger volume than the office itself.

Some of the treasures with which I was forced to part caused me wrenching, soul-searing sorrow. My prized putting machine , with which I have beaten Palmer, Nicklaus, and even Woods- out the door. My toy coconut from the top of the falls of Ocho Rios- gone. Framed sheet music of such topical artists as Al Jolson and the Andrews sisters- packed and sent home. (It has been dictated that the new office have pristinely bare walls). The same fate has befallen my 50-some-odd placques for various volunteer and civic achievements, even business rewards. I also had to take home a framed advertisement picturing the first car I ever drove, a 1947 Dodge- what a car, 11 years old when I got it (the car, not me). Files of clients who've died, many misty memories as I threw them away. Peanuts from 1996 at the bottom of a drawer, 3 bottles of expired aspirin, a gift fountain pen with real ink (no ballpoint), 12 mugs of varying degrees of memoir significance, a whale-shaped letter opener from Maui, 6 broken-toothed combs, a Sherlock Holmes pipe from when I used to smoke- the list is endless.

I'm sure I'll function just fine in my antiseptic new office (did I mention that only plastic plants are allowed). But please allow me this brief nostalgic moment. Maybe, though, like the unobserved falling tree in the forest, my unobserved memoirs call the existence of my last 14 years in my office into question. With no echoing memories on the walls, was I ever there?

I guess I did find something to write about. I probably could have done the whole thing about my '47 Dodge. Maybe I will, soon. If your lucky, you'll get a headline.

Later.

2005-12-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

12-26-2005

Christmas at my sister's was the usual chaotic happening. Given the diverse personalities of the attendees, the comparison to a poorly scripted Chevy Chase holiday movie is inevitable. 17 related people, some directly, some obscurely, some an amalgamous combination of both. Inevitable chaos.

It started with my daughter Amanda sitting down on a couch occupied by an ancient dachshound. This animal is 5 years older than Methuselah and has "nipped at" (my sisters euphemism for bitten) an incalculable number of innocent victims in her dotage. Naturally , Amanda had a small hunk taken off her hand, post-which my sister in total denial of events told her she'd only been "nipped". I put a bandage on the bleeding "nip", figured the dog was probably up-to-date with her shots and the day proceeded.

There were 7 children present (from 1 to 11), this not counting we "adults" who have yet to leave adolescence. Aside from the usual competition for adult attention, I only counted 6 reportable incidents (none to the cops, we're discrete in our family). Here's an example or two. My grandson Fin (3 years old) fell on the walk on the way in. He very tearfully reported to me (1) that his Daddy had pushed him (perception, not fact) and (2) that his Mommy had "not caught him" as he fell, and (3) that I should do something about (1) and (2). Further investigation revealed that no one was within 15 feet of Fin when he fell, so the action I took was to kiss the booboo on his knee and point him toward the amazing stack of presents under the tree. This apparently was the correct solution.

Azra (1 year old), having never seen a fireplace fire, decided it was probably a very sparkly TV set and rushed headlong to touch it. Her mother grabbed her inches away from screaming conflagration. Routine for Azra, a very curious individual and possibly the most interesting person at the party, but an attention grabbing event nonetheless.

Henry, my sister's husband, is a really nice guy but definitely not a sports fan. Thus it has been my fate to be exiled from the NFL and NBA on Christmas Day for the rest of my life. Discussion of sports is also tabu, the topic, when broached, being shunted aside by my sister, my brother-in law, and even my wife in solid phalanx against us sports Phillistines. My suffering will be rewarded in some Christmas-inspired afterlife, although with my luck this well-deserved Nirvana is probably non-existent. (Anyway, can there be a Christmas Nirvana?)

A drop-by of 2 adult children of my sister's neighbors brightened my afternoon. Eleanor used to send me postcards as she backpacked alone through the Nicaraguan jungles. Unfortunately, she's now rather prosaically teaching 4th grade in Oakland, CA., a life short of vicarious thrill inspiration. She's thinking about a life change, though, like me exploring a new path with a graduate degree in some field other than her current metier. Again unfortunately, she hasn't decided which field. None of my suggestions (surprise!) made an impression.

Her sister Abby, a merger specialist lawyer (could a job be more button-down?) has recently moved with her husband to the DC area, renting an oddly shaped (12x30, 3 floors) town house in Georgetown. She, 5 months pregnant, looks more beautiful than I've ever seen her (and she was always very attractive). She's frustrated with the exorbitant price of real estate in Washington but otherwise is terrifically happy with her life. Made my day.

Since some of the people were vegetarians, all the food dishes but one (some Xmas ham) were non-meat. I myself am a two-fisted, blood and guts non-PC carnivore. When I finished the meal, I felt like running out and hunter-gathering something that moved and devouring it whole. Luckily , my wife made a trifle for desert, so I stowed my excess virility and concentrated on building an humongous sugar high. Succeeded in same.

In the interest of brevity, I'll skip the voracious attack on the present pile and the ensuing display of conspicuous consumption on the part of all concerned. It's good to discover , once again, that the true meaning of Christmas and Chanukah has been correctly identified in thousands of TV commercials and that we're sending our children the appropriate seasonal message.As Tom Lerher composed "Hark the Herald Tribune sings, advertising wondrous things". It's an old sweet song.

Scrooge here, signing off. Bah...you know the rest.

Later.

2005-12-25T08:08:00.001-08:00

12-25-2005

Finally, I get a break from various crises, an opportunity to sit down, organize my thoughts, and as John Cameron Swayze used to say "be an eye-witness to the happenings that made history" (at least MY history).

The first crisis began with a phone call from my brother telling me that our 89-year-old father was in the Mayo Clinic hospital (in Scottsdale, AZ) having had either a heart attack or a stroke. 24 hours and some frantic phone calling revealed that neither event had occured, that he had gotten a really bad flu and the attendant infection and pneumonia had made him temporarily delusional and disoriented. When his wife tried to get him to a doctor (I still don't know why an ambulance wasn,t called immediately), he fell and couldn't be moved. My father is over 6 feet tall and weighs (he says) 220 plus (I think significantly plus). Since even with a neighbor's help he could not be moved, they finally called an ambulance, who took him to the hospital.

We pick up the story the next day when I called him at the the hospital. He told me (1)he was feeling very weak, (2) that they wouldn't feed him (he had an IV in), and (3) that the hospital was inefficient, the nurses inferior, and they kept forgetting to bring his medicine. I should mention at this point that my father was for 10 years a hospital administrator. He is also chronically pessimistic.

After a long series of cardiac tests and various brain wave tests, heart failure and stroke were ruled out. My father then told me how unhappy he was with hospital procedure ("I'm just a number here") and how things would improve greatly when he got to re-hab, at which he was supposed to stay at least 10 days to get back his strength and mobility.

He arrived at re-hab and informed me (1)that he was feeling weak, (2) that the food was lousy, and (3)that the re-hab was inefficient, the nurses inferior, and that they kept forgetting to bring his medicine. Then he told me how much better things had been at the hospital. He then told me he wanted to go home, which was a bad idea because by this time his wife had the flu also and can't take care of him. At this point I leave this crisis and take you to another.

My daughter has flown out this week from Colorado and is staying here with me because her adoptive sister is having difficulties with her pregnancy and needs her support. I will untangle our family relationships later, but suffice it to say that my daughter is my daughter and her sister is not. Her sister had preeclampsia and the baby had to be C-sectioned in the 34th week. All week Ericka , my daughter went to Stamford Hospital to help out her sister and her sister's husband. After various crises , the baby was born yesterday (what a great title idea). Mother's fine, baby a surprisingly large 4 lbs 11 oz, 8 APGAR. Crisis over.

I got up at 5 this morning to drive my daughter to the airport so that she could be home by noon to spend Christmas and Chanukah with her children, my wonderful grandkids Ruby and Lucy. I love my daughter. I wish I could have all her crises for her.

Throughout all of this , I've been packing up my office which is re-locating after 15 years. I'm somewhat of a packrat and throwing away a ton of useless stuff has been excruciating for me. Crisis? Maybe. Feels like it to me.

God, because He occasionally feels like testing mortals like Job and me, has conspired to put the Christian and Jewish December holidays on the same day this year. So in the middle of all these events, my wife and I wrapped 27 (count 'em) presents yesterday. This out of a total of 50 plus that we're actually giving. The American economy can never fail as long as I'm in it.

Enough. Later.

2005-12-19T14:59:00.000-08:00

12-19-2005

This blog is dedicated to my classmate Holly.

One thing that was undeniable in our study of blogs is the cathartic effect of the blogging process. All of us discovered significant personal things about each other through our writings even though we spent only a few hours in personal contact. This process is continuing, for me at least, reading the blogs of my classmates who have continued writing. Last Saturday's post by Holly brought me to tears. Here's why.

32 years ago, when my daughter was 2, she was diagnosed with leukemia, which we thought was a death sentence. Medical science had a break-through, but the process was flawed. Amanda was cured of leukemia, but was overdozed with chemotherapy and radiation which left her brain-damaged, " mentally retarded" was the term used. My beautiful, gifted two-year-old was left with an IQ of less than 70. When she was 5, we had her tested at Gengris Center and were told that she would never read or write and they predicted that she would end up eventually in a group home with a very limited existence.Thesignificantly underestimated my daughter's strength of character, and ours.

One of the most difficult adjustments that a parent has to make in this situation is the loss of the "Dream". When a child is born, every mother and father has shining hopes for huge successes in the child's unlimited future. This rosy scenario comes crashing down when a disaster like ours occurs. Many marriages don't survive , as one partner or the other slips into denial, depression, guilt ,anger, or abuse (substance or physical). Some people, however, find the love and the strength to help their child succed in the world, and when the child does, the rewards to the soul are tremendous.

Getting the proper support from the school sysem is a major frustration. Lack of funds, mediocre teaching , and unknowledgeale administrations makes every forward step like slogging through a swamp. Constant vigilance and interactive participation is a must for parent's of "special needs" kids. It's hard to make the system work, but when it does , the results are extremely satisfying.

Gengris was wrong. Amanda, through incredible personal effort, can read and write a little. She is able to live in her own apartment with some daily assistance from an agency (which we chose after some failures). She works in a sheltered workplace, and that combined with her entitlements makes her financially independent, a fact of which she is fiercely proud. At 34 she has a social life and a good relationship with her family. In short, she is happy with her life.

Raising Amanda, after a gut-wrenching start, has had a really beneficial effect on our life also. My wife, originally a school teacher, made the experience into a career, being employed as an educational consultant (and parent contact) at the Special Education Resource Center. I have initiated special needs programs in 5 different sports, and still coach 3 annually. I find a patience there that doesn't exist for me anywhere else.

This is to you, Holly. I'm 20 years down the line from where you are now . My daughter, like yours, makes astounding (to me) insightful remarks out of the blue, making connections that I thought were impossible for her. I wish you all the joy in the world with your daughter. Never underestimate her.

Later.

2005-12-15T17:03:00.000-08:00

12-15-2005

Brett and I were the only two blogging class alums to show up at the Bistro, which led to an hour and a half discussion of the following topics:
(a) Brett's current dating life
(b) my former dating life
(c) my appreciation of the attractiveness of Asian women (of which several examples were present), which Brett doesn't fully share
(d) how the women in our class (Holly, Elin, Erin, Patty, Jen, and Brie) were collectively and individually more beautiful than those we were observing at the moment
(e) that only 6 members of our class were keeping up their blogs, although we have hopes for a return of a few blogs now that papers are finished
(f) that the calibre of pulchritude had diminished at the Bistro because (1) many had already gone home and (2) too many clothes are worn in winter- ( I wonder what the Bistro's equivalent looks like now at, say, the University of Alabama
(g) adoption, and abortion, with me providing anecdotal coverage of the subject
(h) fidelity, it's cause and cure
(i) military life and Joal

Noteworthy for it's lack of mention was any discussion of blogging, politics, or religion. After a while Brett got bored and we decided to leave. I'm surprised that the conversation lasted as long as it did. No booze , no women, an hour and a half is about the limit for 2 guys talking.

Later

2005-12-14T14:22:00.000-08:00

12-14-2005

Tonight I have the honor of an invitation to the thesbian debut of my grandson Fin. He is , for those of you not following along, a very brave 3 years old. My wife has come down with a bad cold, so I am attending this monumental event stag. A night out alone would ordinarily lead to preliminary flights of bacchanalian fantasy in which I get drunk or stoned, then am sexually accosted by Michelle Pfeiffer simply because she can't help herself. However, even my over-active libidinous imagination can't do much with a bunch of harassed-looking young women frantically trying to organize their recalcitrant toddlers into the "performance" of this holiday extraviganza. I think the best I can hope for is Harold Lloyd-esque comedy-on-the-brink-of-disaster. If it's funny enough , I'll tell you- later.

2005-12-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

12-12-2005

On Saturday night there was an incident near the Trinity campus. 4 young men climbed out of their car and jumped a student walking alone. The attack occurred almost exactly where I had left off my classmate 2 nights earlier. This whole business scares the hell out of me.What I want to know is, why doesn't it scare anyone else? We're sitting on a powder keg at the college, and people are, through apathy and arrogance, inadvertantly throwing matches.

We get letters from the university president when a student is robbed or attacked, but no comment when incidents of racial profiling happen almost daily on or near the campus. Students complain about the "bad neighborhood" surrounding the school (by which they mean Black or Latino), but nobody volunteers to personally help solve the problem with some positive interaction. Town-gown relations have never been worse. How about accepting more local kids into the school? How about dreaming up some way to have social contact with your neighbors right outside your gates? Trinity students are rumored locally to be arrogant , preppy, and superior-acting. Guess what, people, some rumors are self-fulfilling.

I have vivid memories of the Watts riots in the '60s. I was stupid enough to drive down to LA from San Francisco to see for my own eyes what was going on. Unlike Watts, when our neighborhood goes up in flames, we'll go with it. The apathy of the school, and especially the students, to the problem is maddening to me. This is the second time I've warned about the wolf (the first time didn't even draw a comment), and he's getting hungrier.

Later- I hope.

2005-12-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

12-12-2005

Yesterday was the 3rd birthday of my grandson Arefin. As is usual in our family, Fin was showered with a conspicuous outpouring of gifts that the Magi couldn't duplicate. The theme, of course, was anything mechanical and mobile. Fin loves trucks, trains, cars, and things he can ride on. The wonderful part of all this is that he deserves all of it. He is, I say with familial pride, the prototypical "great kid". Although endowed with all the natural unceasing heedless motion of a male child (his sisters float through life, Fin barges), he has a sweetness and kind nature that blows us all away. When he arrived at our house and saw the piles of presents, his eyes lit up like Hannukah lights and he rushed to tear open the wrappings. I gently held him back (not easy) and told him he would have to wait for his party guests to arrive before he could open his presents. My heart ached to watch the effort it took for this little person to respond to my adult restriction on his properly childish excitement.My Fin came through like a champ, though, and waited patiently (sort of) for his just rewards. God, I love that kid.

Another amazing and gratifying event was the creative effort that went into the baking of the birthday cake. This was the joint production of Fin's parents, Nicole and Greg (my son). The cake, naturally, was in the shape of a car, a combination of chocolate and vanilla layers surrounding a creamy ICE CREAM base, with Reese's chunks for wheels and intricate combinations of icing to design the car. I could taste peanut butter, chocolate, butterscotch, vanilla, and maybe, I think, coffee.Absolutely delicious. Fin was ecstatic. We showered Nicole with deserved praise, which she deflected to Greg. He, apparently, was the concept guy, she the artisan. Best cake I've ever had, hands down.

One last party memory: the outstanding behavior of my granddaughter Kyly. Kyly's whole life is a dramatic performance, and she fights ferociously with her brother for the attention of her favorite audience-her parents and grandparents. On this day however, acting with a maturity far beyond her 5 years of life experience, she stepped down from her perennial stage and graciously deferred the spotlight to her brother. I'm so damn proud of her I could bust.

I could go on about the party, about how great it was to have my family around for such a joyful occasion. Also about how great it is to have such variety in my life, contrasting my Thursday night's observation (and participation, somewhat, I admit) in the Hartford bar scene with Saturday's family party. Now, my wife and I are off to dine with some old friends adding to our exploration of Sunday Brunches around the state. More on that-later.

2005-12-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

12-09-2005

It's blizzarding out my window, which is forcing me to play hooky from work and recuperate from last night's "end of class" festivities. A full evening it was, complete with a little nostalgia, a little mauldlin sentimentality, and some immature excesses on my part- all in all a satisfying night.

The evening started with Brett and me meeting before class at the Bistro, mostly for some serious discussion about the merits of campus life and, far more importantly, the merits of the outstanding display of pulchritude available for our critical observation. Brett, who is 26 and single, and I, who am neither, nonetheless share amazingly similar views on this subject. For example, a sweet, young thing passed by evoking very little reaction from either of us, Brett because she wasn't attractive enough and me because she wasn't old enough. But as she passed, both of us snapped our necks around simultaneously so hard we'll probably need traction.This SYT's posterior made Jennifer Lopez's look like Twiggy. When she passed by again I briefly swapped pleasantries with her. Her friendly response surprised Brett, whose technique is to make eye contact and then ignore his target (prey?). I don't know why this works, but it does, a lot.

At that point , Elin showed up, followed soon after by Patti and Joal. Elin, who is very attractive and intelligent (notice the word order of my description) can really crack the whip with a sarcastic comment. She dragged out this particular weapon from her arsenal when she discovered what Brett and I had been doing. For the sake of my ego, I'm omitting her comments, but she did ask us to point out the young lady in question. It didn't clarify the matter, the SYT was sitting down.

Class was anticlimactic. We had come to a realization that we had been part of something special but no one came up with a spectacular finale, so we decided to do the next best thing- take the action to a local tavern and drink a lot. One thing though, I got really feel-good goodbye hugs from Jen and Brie. I got a nice handshake from John, too but it just wasn't the same. I'm resigning myself to a permanent hetero bias.

After class, a bunch of us repaired to the Arch Street Tavern for some libation and sentimentality, from whence, I believe, comes the term "crying in your beer". To liven the proceedings, I proposed a well-deserved toast to Colin, who had earlier made the analogy of himself to a lion-tamer in this class. I am blogger, hear me roar! I think Colin surprised even himself with the effectiveness of his teaching. Maybe that feeling of experimentation was a factor in the success of the course.

I then had an inspiration. I called aside the barmaid who was serving us (cute, sassy, working her way to a Finance BA at UConn). I asked her to walk up subtly behind Brett's chair, breathe into his ear, and murmur loudly "I love English Majors". I then told everybody (except Brett) what was going to happen. Diana the barmaid was a natural ham, so the gag went well. OK, it's a lot funnier after 4 beers.

Lots more happened, but due to privacy issues and the Patriot Act I'm stopping here.Later.

2005-12-06T15:51:00.000-08:00

12-05-2005

The TV had "Holiday Inn" on just before I started this- as if I didn't feel maudlin and overly sentimental enough from my topic alone. What I want to talk about is the way I feel about our blogging class, the people in it, and the fact that something really special is coming to a close.

I knew nothing about blogging before this class, I barely knew the word. Moreover, as you have discovered, I'm generationally challenged about anything involved with the technology of the computer world. To my surprise, however, I found that I was not alone in being intimadated by the concept of blogging. All of us had difficulty, in some way or another, in adapting to the world of the blogosphere. Some were nervous about the lack of privacy, and concerned about reader interaction. Some wrote stilted, formal blogs at first, worried about expressing private thoughts in a public medium. Some, like me, struggled with the mechanics of the damn thing.

The interesting thing is not that we managed to learn a great deal about blogging, but that in the process we somehow became a close-knit unit. I found that, through reading each other's blogs, talking to one another in class and privately, and, most of all, learning about each other through the unique experience of interpersonal blog commentary, we somehow arrived at a position of mutual respect and surprising closeness. I wound up feeling grateful to have had the opportunity to share the phenomenon of these last few months with my classmates and I'm very sad to have it end.

There are several unforgettable memories that I will take from these Thursday nights. Elin gesturing passionately to make a point. Dave methodically arguing his position by the numbers. Erin breaking through her personal shyness with some brilliant blog comments. Brie, combining youth, beauty, and talent- who of us wouldn't want her future? Joe, always effective with emotionally charged remarks, and Eric refuting them deadpan. Jen, my seat neighbor, focused to a fault on her life's goals, but absolutely brilliant in flexible thought in her blog. John, always helpful (to me particularly) and cogent in his blog critique. Jeff, my musical buddy lightening up the procedings. Matt, in denial of the personal revelations of his blog writing. Patti, with her angst in toward the blogging process. Holly, lighting up the room with her enthusiasm and optimism. Joal, the future marine, he'll never know 'til he gets there.Chris, a brilliant mind in the process of self-discovery. And me, how can I be expected to stick to one topic when there's such a lot to explore?

And , of course, there's Brett. As you can see, it takes a whole new paragraph to describe his effect on the class. He was the first of us to realize the cathartic nature of the blogging medium, and by far the best in exploiting it. He took us down the personal odyssey of his (dating) life, leaving images most of us won't forget. I'm not sure whether Brett was made for the blogosphere or vice-versa, but they are a perfect and inevitable fit.

I was going to link each name mentioned to the appropriate blogsite, but I realized that some privacy issues were involved in naming the authors of some blogs. Nuts, and I wanted to show off my new-found linking skill.

Before I leave this blog, I need to point out that none of this experience would have been possible without the deft hand of Colin guiding our path. This was a new, previously untried teaching medium with a lot of serious groundbreaking required. I, personally, am very grateful for having the luck to be part of this brave new world, and I think we all thank Colin for making it a huge success., Yes,guys, I probably am sucking up, but that doesn't mean I don't mean it.

No one will be surprised that I could go on forever about how I feel toward my classmates. I've been blown over by the talent , intelligence, empathy, and all-round good will that I found. I know that because most of us are Master's candidates in English we will probably meet again in other classes, and I hope we all keep blogging and stay in touch thatway, but I can't shake the feeling that after Thursday night something will be gone from our lives that is irreplaceable.I hope not.

Later.

2005-12-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

12-02-2005

Man, do I feel stupid. As every one of you already knew, the linking process is ridiculously easy to anyone but a technophobe such as myself. Once you conquer your fear of somehow breaking the equipment and actually making an attempt, everything just falls into place. This experience brought me a "deja vu" of the first time I had sex. I remember having that same feeling that I might break the equipment somehow(hers, mine,maybe...I don't know). In fact, that same parallel has held in my mind throughout this bloggong class.

The chief reason for this feeling is that I sometimes have the impression that I'm here, as I was then, under false pretenses. My debut into the world of sex was on a double date with my friend Jimmy Medlin, who was 2 years older than I (17-15). Naturally, I lied about my age by 3 years, which gave the false impression to my partner ( a relatively, to me, experienced 17 year old) that I was far more accomplished and sophisticated than I was in actuality. In the 1950's, nice girls "made out", but somewhere short of her "fate worse than death" would pant out the magic word "stop" and any seld-respecting young swain would, indeed, stop. On this night, however, cramped uncomfortably in Jimmy's back seat, I waited in vain for that magic word. As things progressed, I became more and more anxious that as I sailed into uncharted territory, my pathetic lack of experience would become glaringly evident, and that this sweet young thing would hold me up to ridicule forever. Fortunately for my sexual ego, and to my eternal gratitude, my kind partner took things in hand (figuratively, you dolts) and things progressed to what was apparently a very satisfactory conclusion (at least that's what she said).I hope wherever she is today all good things are happening.

Anyway, this "fish-out-of-water" syndrome, and the attendant fear of embarrassment, has echoed in my mind on many occasions during this blogging class. I do not belong to the computer generation. As I have related in class, there was no TV in my town until I was 9 years old. I look around me and realize that I need to study and learn many of the things that are second nature to my classmates. I feel like I'm in the back seat of that car so many years ago, with the people around me expecting me to have much more knowledge and/or experience, at least in the area of computers and the cyberworld, than I could possibly have amassed. It's reverse aging. The older you are less you know.

Brett,of course, will be very pleased to see that there are, and have been, areas where I am definitely NOT self-confident, although if asked I'd probably lie about that.

Later.

2005-12-02T15:55:00.000-08:00

12-02-2005

Since Brett took the time to bring me kicking and screaming into the 21st century by demonstrating how to llink to another blog, he gets the dubious honor of being my first link connection. I followed instructions, now I'll post this and see if it works.

2005-11-27T09:58:00.000-08:00

11-27-2005

The main reason I'm writing this is to keep from working on my term paper. I'm in avoidance mode (1)because I haven't written a major theme paper in 40 years, (2) because I'm intrinsically lazy, (3) because I know already what I'm going to say so the actual writing feels like a boring rehash, and (4) I think I have writer's cramp. Since 4 is the direct result of 1, 2, and 3, and since I've rejected the solution of pouring Ben-Gay in my ear, I think I'll work through it with a little homework blither.

Reading comments on Aldon's "Blogging Alone" post on Orient Lodge yielded a real gem. Colleen Redman, who blogs at "looseleafnotes.com" wrote this incisive and revealing thought regarding her goals in blogging: "One is to create a time capsule of my life...and the time and place it is set in. Another is to build readership and as a contact place for my book.Also, it is a very social thing for an introvert like me who can only take physical outings in small doses." Not only does this describe a large percentage of bloggers (except for the book part), but it also jibes with some of my paper's discussion of blogger's motives. This quote goes directly into my theme. See, this blog has already accomplished more than avoidance.

Maybe I'll delay a few more days and proceed directly to panic. This mode guarantees action but it may lessen the quality a tad. Or not.

Later.

2005-11-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

11-23-2005

One of the problems I have with anger is that I never know where to direct it . If I aim it at myself (where it usually belongs), I don't get rid of it, I just get madder. If I direct it (inappropriately or not) at someone else, I merely feel guilty for not taking personal responsibility. Guilt is easier to handle than anger, so guess what I do. I'm constantly amazed that people put up with me.Some don't, but unbelievably only a few.

What I'm currently angry about is blowing up yesterday's blog before I published or saved it. I had an electrical problem which I tried to fix by flipping the switch on my fuse box which wiped out a post I'd worked on achingly for 2 hours. Would someone please step up and take responsibility for this act of stupidity. It's way too dumb to have been my fault. My wife refuses to share the blame (just because she had nothing to do with it-she's clearly missing the point). I could threaten divorce, but since I've done that (silently) 10,328 times in the last 38 years, I believe that tactic will probably will not succeed. She may be on to me.

My missing blog concerned my distrust of women with whom I haven't had sex. I bet THAT got your attention! It was inspired by my vicarious reminiscing while reading of the blog of a young friend of mine, who shall be unnamed here.The post was "R" rated, which means you couldn't understand it unless accompanied by a 17-year-old. I'll try it again when I'm in the right frame of mind. It was really good . You don't know what you missed.

Later,soon.

2005-11-20T12:43:00.000-08:00

11-20-2005

I think the chief obstacle to my becoming a great writer is that the disasters in my life are too prosaic. It's not that they're not big enough, or cataclysmic enough, or even complicated enough, it's just that the solutions don't involve the type of aesthetic thought process that makes for great literature. My life is too involved to be Seinfeld, but not contorted enough to be Tolstoy.

Cancer is a perfect example. EVERYBODY gets cancer. I've had it twice, once in a rather large melanoma and more recently (5 months ago) diagnosed in a malignant lymph node. This should have led to terrific tragic drama, with all my family and friends wringing their hands over me and my courageous fight against the forces of the Pale Horse. But no, the surgeon said that the melanoma wasn't deep enough to worry about. After my lymph node operation, my oncologist had the nerve to tell me that although my bone marrow held a few malignant cells, they were of avery slow growth variety and I probably wouldn't be affected for 15 or 20 years, if ever. No treatment, no sympathetic beautiful women weeping at my candle-lit bedside, no DRAMA, not even pathos.
How can great prose come from that?

Technology, also, has robbed me of heroic death. 6 years ago, I was diagnosed with secondary-type diabetes. My biologic father had died of diabetic complications at age 53 many years ago. This could have led to a variety of tragic consequences: blindness, loss of extremities, even death. These potential results are naturally hard on the body, what a great stimulation for tragic and moving prose. But , once again I'm denied this literary benefit. Science has invented Glucophage. I take a couple of pills a day and poof, no tragedy. For 6 years my glucose number has actually remained below average. My limbs are intact, my eyes have somehow IMPROVED, I can't catch a break.

I've been told by some that this kind of thinking, especially if spoken aloud, will arouse the wrath of the gods for my hubris. My wife, among these "some", runs out of the room covering her ears when I go off on a rant like this. Maybe, he says slyly, if I can't have tragedy I can at least foment melodrama.

I'm off to play in traffic. See if anybody here can figure out why I love high-risk activity. Toughto figure, huh? Later.

2005-11-16T19:01:00.000-08:00

11-16-2005

IT"S NOT MY FAULT! This mantra for the current American political regime, and possibly for the whole GenX, is my not so original substitute for "the dog ate my homework". It turns out that I can't download "quicktime" because my computer and it's software were purchased in the Stone Age (1999). I told my wife over a month ago that we needed a new computer, but for gender reasons we haven't bought one. I say "gender" for the following reason (see next paragraph) which also delineates why this predicament is NOT MY FAULT.

People like me (i.e- those of us with a y chromosome) have spent less than 6.5 minutes in our entire lives thinking about shopping, particularly COMPARISON shopping. If I want a new computer, I walk into a store, say Circuit City, tell the guy there what I want, and load it into my trunk.3 minutes,tops. If I had done that, my vblog homework would have been routine.

But noooo. I chose to consult my wife,(a person without a y) whose first reaction was "we should wait for the after-Thanksgiving sales". I could sense disaster looming. Her second reaction was "let me check with the girls at the office". (not a y among "em). This was followed by "research" (she could have cured cancer with all the work she put in).Finally, she went through 75 or so back issues of "Consumer Reports". None of this has led to anything approaching a purchase, only a multitude of questions (Apple or Microsoft? Laptop or PC?) I shoulda just bought the damn thing and came home with "Surprise, honey!". That's never worked before, however, and I might want to have sex again before I die.

This is not to say that women cannot buy on impulse. Shoes (except sneakers), skirts, ice cream, make-up, and sometimes cheese-its fall into the instant decision category. I strongly advise any male not to accompany a woman if she is buying (1)groceries with coupons, (2)any appliance but particularly refrigerators, (3)jewelry of any kind, (4)eye-glasses, and ,of course (5)computers. I watched a woman (of about 40) in CVS take 35 minutes trying to choose a pair of vanity glasses, I asked her if she were deciding on wrap-arounds to match her motorcycle, but I think she failed to see the humor. Sometimes people look at me very strangely. I should carry a camera.

Last night I saw my brother for the first time in 17 years. Went pretty well, I thought. That's a story for another time. Later

2005-11-14T16:09:00.000-08:00

11-14-2005

OK, I give up. HELP. I can't make the Vblogs V. When I click where it says "click here to view video" I get this Q-looking thing that freezes me up. I noticed that of the half-dozen classmate blogs that I looked at tonight only Brett has a Vblog comment and that only very briefly. When I went to the blog he suggested, I couldn't make that "V" either.Somebody please either comment or E-mail me and get me out of the mire.

2005-11-11T10:56:00.000-08:00

11-11-2005

What a day! Yesterday was one of the biggest roller-coasters I've ever ridden. In the morning I was in a state of traumatic shock. A blood test had strongly indicated that my 3-year-old grandson Fin had multiple myeloma, a semi-rare form of cancer, and was being taken to Yale-New haven for further tests and diagnosis. I was having flashbacks from 30 years ago when my daughter had a disasterous bout with leukemia, which she survived but the treatment left her with brain damage. I was fighting a black cloud of despair, trying to function at work with a mountain on my back. Then, at about 10:30, my son called from the hospital. "They think he's just got a bad viral infection", he said. Shakespeare never wrote more beautiful words. A surge of joy went through me such that I have felt maybe twice in my life. The room went Wizard of Oz, from black and white to radiant technicolor. I spent the rest of the day on a high like I was on halucigens.

Fortunately, fate had provided appropriate vehicles for my spectacular mood. I had a dinner date with a new friend who I knew would share my mood, to be followed by an evening at the Wood 'N Tap, where we were conveniently scheduled to have class. Perfect.

Dinner went as expected. There's nothing like a warm, attractive, friendly female to enhance a good mood. Then on to the Tap.

I arrived an hour before class. The bar was crowded with young people , mostly in their 20's and 30's. My classmate Brett was at a raised table with maybe 10 stools around it. These were filled with a group of teachers from the school where Brett teaches, and some young women who worked at a local newspaper. Brett, who is in his mid-twenties and single, was seated next to one of the most attractive women I may have ever seen. None the less, he was looking around the room for some amorphous female with whom he'd made very vague plans. She never showed, occasioning a lot of good-natured (?) razzing of Brett about his imaginary friend. When I asked him later why he would look anywhere else with the outstanding example of feminine pulchritude sitting 3 feet from him, he told me that he would never date anyone from work. Foolish, to my mind. Lots of boats, few close-trimmed yachts. This one parted the waters beautifully.

Meanwhile, I was carrying my euphoric mood well into the evening. I love women. As I've gotten older, I find my appreciation expanding. I think at this point that all women are beautiful in one way or another. But by even the most rigorous standards, the distaff side at the Tap last night was genuinely gorgeous. In addition, the ones I was lucky enough to talk with were also intelligent with great senses of humor.

A good example of this was Marie, a raven-haired beauty who promised she'd read my blog if I mentioned her in it (what a great way to increase my blog audience). I'm honored here to do so. Lovely woman, a treat to look at, more so to talk with. Thanks for your company. Another charmer was Kerry, whose sharp wit and sardonic world view really brightened my evening. Yet another beauty, whose name unfortunately I can't recall, spent her time taking photographs, mostly close-ups of drink glasses. Odd, but somehow appealing. Time for class.

For the last 2 weeks, McE has really brought his A game. Maybe it was my mood, but the discussion really crackled. I didn't even get chopped down as much as usual. Actually I probably did, I was just feeling too good to care.

After class, seven or eight of us went back to the bar to do some shots. After only one round, reality set in and we decided to just carry on conversationally, sobering up to drive home. Big shock, McE the Private Soul brought in his date. Very pleasant surprise- pretty, bright, up-beat, funny. She really added to the evening, and to my respect for McE.

One last thing, Brett, Joe, Eric, Ellen, and John have all mentioned that leaving commens on the blogs we read is the best way to expand my participation in the blogosphere. So be it. Watch out world .Here I come.

Enough. Later.

2005-11-08T23:43:00.000-08:00

11-08-2005

Religious blogs. Arguing about religion is one of the great American pastimes, along with sex and politics. They all have in common the fact that there are few definitive answers to the questions posed, and those questions are so universally asked and not answered, that everyone who wants to can declare himself an expert without fear of a definitive contradiction. All that should be desired in this circumstance is to keep an open mind and try to assess the questions fairly, considering carefully all points of view. In religious blogs, this last is a rarity, possibly an impossibility.

Not that it's impossible to have a reasonable discussion on religious truths, even with a person unshakable in his faith and even if those beliefs contradict your own. Every 6 months I sit down to a 2 or 3 hour discussion with my friend, Reverend Norman Swensen. The good Reverend is a Christian fundamentalist of the first order, and an extremely effective evangelist for his Church. He specializes in helping dwindling congregations recover their faith (and numbers) and, I hear, is very good at it. Yet, though his thoughts are dogmatic (to me), his mind processes are not.He listens carefully to new concepts and incorporates them into the fabric of his faith. It's a joy for me to kick around the various conundrums facing todays theology. I look forward eagerly to our semi-annual meetings.

Emphatically not so was my overall reaction to this weeks blogs. "Anvil Free"(www.anvilfree.com) was a perfect example of idiocentric arrogance and oversimplification. Imagine, taking the "Four Noble Truths of Buddhism" and dismissing them with simplified TV sound bites consolidated into a few paragraphs. Like the extreme political bloogers, John Ruse assumes the agreement of his readership with his point of view, and thu doesn't feel compelled to cogently argue his position. This is a bad habit of most idiologues. My friend Swensen could argue rings around this guy.

The "Bad Christian" blog (www.badchristian.com) was a lot more fun.He takes an ironic and somewhat iconoclastic view of the Christian faith. His blog on the Christian preoccupation with bad language washysterically funny, especially in his riposte of rival blogs objecting to his impiety. His jousting with "Jade" was classic, showing the effectiveness of the post by evoking her bombastic response. By far my favorite blog of the week.

"They Will Know Us By Our T-Shirts"(www.christianretail.com), written by a seminary student (Ben), was in my view a failed satirical attempt. Part of my dissatisfaction was my lack of interest in the chosen content. (also he's too whiny). He complains about a movie distribution I Don't Care About, books IDCA, internal church policies IDCA, and blogs IDCA.Tempest in a teacup. The only redeeming feature was political, not religious, when he pokes fun at Bush's "No Child Left Behind" policy. I spent 10 years on the state Dept. of Ed's CSPD committee and , like Ben know this policy is doomed without severe modification.

"Doxoblogy"(www.doxoblogy.blogspot.com) is to be read only if you are a devout Christian who needs his faith hammered in. I had enough of that as the only Jew at a Catholic school for four years.

I'm waiting for a blog from my friend to show these guys what religious faith is really all about.

Later.

2005-11-06T09:54:00.000-08:00

11-06-2005

I'll get to my comments on religious blogs down below somewhere, but we're sitting on a powderkeg and this situation needs to be addressed.

Three hours after my last blog bewailing (again) the prevalence of white-dominated PREP culture at Trinity, ABC television news ran a commentary on racial profiling at our school. In the '60s and '70s, this would have fomented a voiciferous rally against the campus and local police, strongly protesting the fact that OUR school could be associated with such heinous practices. In these days of Reagan-Bush majority dominated social smugness, there is not a peep from the student body. Some of this stems from the fact that diversity at Trinity is a concept that seems to have bounced off the glass ceiling of our admissions policies (my evidence of this is simple observation). Another possible explanation is the confortable apathy of a generation permeated by a conservative political philosophy that believes in a "silent majority" and a "moral majority", neither of which exist.

My reaction to all this is "watch out". You'll never see it coming. While it is highly unlikely that there will be any action taken on campus, look around you. Our neighbors on all sides are not nearly as complacent or accepting as you of the social norm. If I were a black or latino living in the vicinity of Trinity and I saw instances of racial profiling, I'd be damn mad and I sure wouldn't take it any more. It's time for us,as students, to go farther than being (McE's words) "observant scribes" and take a more active role.

If not, you can see the results in today's AP article by John Leicester on the snowballing unrest in France. The Frence are smug bastards insisting on social conformity of their immigrant population(sound familiar?). The French didn't see it coming either.

Come on, classmates. Let me hear from you. Opinions,anyone?

Yes ,I have read the damn religious blogs. Will comment.Later.

2005-11-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

11-04-2005

Free at last! No post on McE requiring thought or response. No comments on my last blog that need my attention, although I should thank Brett and Aldon for their very helpful links. By the way, I don't think Bora was being condescending, with him that's a character trait. My lack of technical expertise doesn't need defending, I wear it like a badge (or maybe in this medium a purple heart). I think many bloggers use tech pyrotechnics to cover up a lack of creative writing talent. I think this is particularly true of anyone so devoid of literary judgment to criticize my blog. Imagine.

Because I promised a sweet, young thing (aren't they all?) that I would, I'm providing here a follow-up to my earlier description of Trinity as a "Stepford campus" . My conclusion had been that everybody dressed similarly, had the same hair style, even the same voice intonations. Everybody looked so damn neat, clean, and preppy I wanted to throw my coffee on somebody to see if he was coated with teflon.

So.....I sat myself down at the Bistro to try a rethink, hoping that fall garb would bring out some individuality. No such luck. The guys all wore jeans (spanking clean of course) or long shorts , sneakers or some kind of flip-flop or Berkenstock, plus tee, golf shirt or botton-down. But , with almost no exception, the dress code screams PREP. The girls are slightly more creative in their style choices. Some, thin to the point of emaciation, wear jeans a size too small. Healthier looking girls hide their curves with baggier jeans or sweats. Why is that, I wonder? When did curves ceased to be sexy and the anorexic look become the ideal? It's a world I never made , that's for sure. Even given a slight degree of style difference (some girls wore short skirts and slippers or flats) ,the overpowering influence is still PREP. By the way , other than office staff I haven't seen a woman (or girl) in heels on campus. I'm a guy , so I have no clue about that. I missed the meeting where all the women got together and decided, "OK, no heels on campus this semester". Actually, I think I miss a lot of meetings.

Before I leave this blog, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that the SYT mentioned earlier was an outstanding exception to my complaint about our endemic campus drabness. Standing out like swans among pigeons, she and her friend cut a palpable swath through the crowd as they proceded to their table. She was wearing a very au courant outfit featuring a spaghetti-strapped tank top. I asked her if she were a fashion major(do they have those here?). She said no, art history. Disappointing, still creative but as an observer. Still , lucky for the art department.

I'm looking forward to matching Rusty Nail shots with Brett at our next class. What, you say, that's not the deal. One can always hope, however.

Later.

2005-11-02T15:18:00.000-08:00

11-2-2005

Forbes Magazine has as it's cover article on the Nov. 14 issue "The Attack of the Blogs". To make sure you don't miss the bias of this "balanced" view, the introductory sub-headline reads "Web logs are the prized platform of an online lynch mob spouting liberty but spewing lies , libel, and invective. Their potent allies in this pursuit include Google and Yahoo."

The poster child that Daniel Lyons uses for "victim" in his article is Gregory Halpern, whose company, Circle Group Holdings, was hyped from $2 to $8.50 per share.
Halpern did this by posting pictures of himself online with famous people , including Steve Forbes. He was then "victimized" by a blogger who, with some allies, attacked Circle Group with a mixture of accurate and inaccurate "information" , resulting in the stock dropping below $1 per share and wiping out Halpern's instant $90 million dollar fortune. I could sympathize with his plight, except that (1) it seems unlikely that if the company had any real, measurable value sophisticated investors would not recognize it and run the stock back up after the false blogs were exposed and (2)Halpern's response to the attack was to hire "Financial Wire"(Gayle Essary) to blog back, not on facts but on a very personal level. So much for the high road.

The article contained several interesting tidbits, however. Steven Downs, an executive at Ingersoll-Rand, complained,"A blogger can make any statement, about anybody, and you can't control it". Downs found this to be a "difficult thing". I think it's the whole point of a democratic system. You're living in America, Downs.

Lyons, the article's writer, has a slew of suggestions for fighting back against bloggers. These iclude "build a blog swarm", "bash back", "attack the host (service provider)", and "sue the blogger". Don't you just love it when a idealist takes the high road?

The following piece of information is in the article: "The anonymous assault has a long tradition in American political discourse, recognized by a U.S. Supreme Court ruling in McIntyre v. Ohio Elections Commission in 1995 and in a recent decision by the Delaware Supreme Court refusing to force an Internet service provider to disclose who called a small-town politician inept" (aren't they all?) None of the hyperbolic examples of abuse of this right given by Lyons would make any thinking person doubt these decisions.

Google says it's real aim is to "let users embrace the Web as a medium of self-expression". Good for Google, except I wish that precept were a little less self-serving.

On the last page of the article is a short chronology of blogs. I found fascinating thefact that there were only 23 "Web logs" in Dec. 1998 and 20 million now ,according to Technorati. The more I read this article , the further right it slants, and the more flaws I see in Lyons' reasoning. I hate this work, but we really need to talk about it.

I can't find the article at the Forbes website or anywhere online. If anybody can, please post a comment. I'll bring it to class.

Later.

2005-10-30T07:52:00.000-08:00

10-30-2005

I'm glad that we're reading blogs of "political persuasion" this week because I've really been confused about Patric Fitzgerald's apparent hesitation in widening the indictments against Liddy and, worse, at least temporarily leaving Rove untouched. Peter Daou's report on "Salon" does a great job on this topic, on which I'd like to comment.

Although Salon presents points of view from both sides of the political chasm (it's developing into far more than an "aisle"), Daou reveals his own bias with a snide but apt query about Yale's inflated marking system's allowing Bush to achieve a C+ average and how 39% of Americans could be hoodwinked into thinking this poster child for deception and narrow thinking is doing a good presidential job. Nonetheless, I was routed to two opposing articles which clarified the Libby business for me.

Marty Aussenberg's article "Fitz's Knuckleball" was the most helpful. Aussenberg himself is a lawyer formerly employed by the SEC, which gives him insight into federal court procedures. He believes that these are merely preliminary indictments, a "shot across the bow" of the ship of state. He points out that Fitzgerald set up factual predicates for violations of the
Espionage Act, which was unnecessary for the filing of withholding infomation and obstruction charges. He further indicates that Libby's indictment can be expanded to more serious cahrges later, and that all that has been done in Rove is postpone, not bury. Aussenberg thinks that Fitgerald's real reason for the method of filing the indictments, to include the espionage predicates, is to warn the White House that he has the "real goods" and will be back for more. To use the baseball analogy forming the humorous undertone of some of the article (I always love that part), Fitzgerald didn't swing for a "home run" because he's "corking up his bat" for his next time up.

As seems to be the case in the blogs we've read, the opposing article from the right is much weaker. Surber's stance seems not to present information, but merely to take a position trivializing the charges. He treats the lack of immediate indictment as vindication of Rove and Libby's innocence, without any speculation on possible further developments. The writing has no depth, and provides no fair comparison to Aussenberg. Perhaps this evalution is my own bias surfacing.

Another reason I'm glad to reach this week is that I think we're going to get a fully involved McE. It's clear that he's really involved in the so-called "Public Debate" so maybe we get some blood-and guts, a little fire in this weeks class.. Later

2005-10-25T14:50:00.000-07:00

10-25-2005

The subject of tonight's blither is doctors. I currently employ a general practician, an endochronologist, an oncologist, a surgeon, a dermatologist, and a couple of osteo guys. If I could find half an ounce of common sense among them I'd consider myself lucky.

The main problem seems to be in their income level. Like Tevye in "Fiddler" we tend to ascribe wisdom to people who are rich. I can tell you after years as a stock broker that there is absolutely no correlation between wealth and intelligence. Unlike most of the rest of the world, US citizens are willing to shell out obscene amounts of money for medical opinions, no matter how idiotic they are, if the opinionator is an MD. Most physicians have been forced, through specialization, to concentrate on one tiny area of learning to the exclusion of all others, which makes his thinking on any other subject less than mediocre. Nonetheless, because he's paid a lot of money for giving an opinion, any opinion, he's somehow validated even outside his medical field. Even if he starts out as a reasonable guy, it's easy under these social circumstances to slip into a morass of supercillious assininity. Poor them. Poor us . Poor healthcare system.

The narrowness in the view of the American doctor leads him to consider only his aspect of a patient's case, sort of like the three blind men describing an elephant. A great example of this was my endocronologist pontificating his recommendation that I do a lot of walking for exercise. Had he either (1)listened to me or (2) read my charts, he would have discovered a series of operations on my knees, a condition of osteoarthritis that has left me with no cartilage in either one,
and a failed series of knee injections attempting to correct the problem. I had previously told this stellar example of medical education that I was finally going to give in and have two knee replacements. To this the response, less than two weeks later, "I really think it would be a good idea for you to do a lot of walking". Idiotic blither. On the other hand, he seems to know a lot about endocronology.

My oncologist's office has a phone system which makes it virtually impossible to talk to a any human being, much less the doctor himself. When I brought this to his attention, he told me it was "inappropriate" for me to want to communicate with him. Unsurprisingly, the turnover in his admin staff is about three times that of McDonalds.

Believe me , Icould go on endlessly on this subject, but you wouldn't listen. I don't have an MD.
Later.

2005-10-23T16:19:00.000-07:00

10-23-2005

I have just finished reading the "republicofdogs" blog referrenced in McE's last dictum. Since I clearly fall into the category of "old school" activist I am currently feeling underappreciated for our achievements in the '60's and a little pissed off at a 31-year-old whose generation sits around spilling ink, not blood, and lets a bunch of good old boy conservatives run our country into the ground.

First, lets consider the word "activist"as it applies to present-day liberal-progressives. Strict definition would denote that some "action", preferably physical, would actually be taken at some point.Apparently,this interpretation of the word doesn't apply to "new school" thinking. In the early 60's, when faced with the obviously illegal, immoral, and unethical institutional perpetration of racist policies in the deep South, a bunch of us,mostly college kids, charged down to Mississippi to remedy the situation by trying to register black voters. We certainly understood the risk of personal injury, even death. Most of us were either shot at, harassed by the local police, beaten up, or at the very least threatened by idiots wearing sheets. The upshot of all this is that a few hundred of us changed a policy of institutionalized racism that had stood for over 300 years. Tell me what's "old school " about that.

Further, I got my head bashed in at Berkeley in 1965 protesting unfair educational practices and a war that the vast majority of people under 30 knew was immoral and ,worse yet, impossible to win. You will note that we were physically opposing these policies, being dragged away by police, not gently, from our positions in front of the admin office, not from the vantage of a safe, comfortable blogspot as our supposed liberal firebrands do today. By the way, the governor of California at the time of the riots , Ronald Reagan, was made to look like a total imbicile during interviews then. It would behoove those of you revisionists who want to deify this man to revisit tapes of that time. You'd be embarrassed.Also, by the way, Mario Savio, the chief organizer of the riots and a very strong anti-war voice, was drafted a few weeks after,along with several of his close associates (I was one). None of us , to my knowledge, ran to Canada. Oppositionists, not traitors.

The point of all this is that I agree that there is a distinction between "old school" and "new school" liberal activists. I wish I still had the energy to man the barricades, because no one from the "new school" has the guts to do anything more than blog away at windmills while our personal freedoms are being whittled down by a bunch of politicos whose main rationale seems to be "aw, shucks" followed by "amen".

This blog has gotten too freaking long. I don't want to be accused of "Mannioning". If you think this subject irritated me, wait 'til you hear what my view is on what these troglodites have done to the separation of church and state. Later.

2005-10-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

10-21-2005

I was told today how to do a link to another blog. Since I just left a comment on coffeerhetoric I'll try a link now. Well, that didn't work . It would have been good (for me ,anyway) to take some class time and learn blogging techniques. Meanwhile, I'll try to find some one who knows what they're doing and then, dammit, I'm gonna link forever.

Hey, guys , wasn't she great. Our visit with the "coffee lady" was, to my mind, nothing short of spectacular. After listening endlessly the week before to those boring technogeeks (who's one redeeming feature seems to be that they share McE's political views), she was like iced tea in August. We were in the presence of greatness, ladies and gents. And the great thing is, she doesn't even know it. If I get nothing more from this class, I'll still feel satisfied.

It's time for me to make a semi-public apology to my classmates for screwing up their names. I have at various times calles Brett " Eric", Eric "Joe", Joe "Brett", and last night I misnamed my guitar playing buddy "Eric", whom he doesn't resemble in the least. I could ignore this obvious descent into quasi-senility if I didn't also call Ellen "Erin" and vice-versa. The final blow was calling Jennifer, who has been in the chair next to me all semester, "Jessica". The guys will forgive me, thinking I was either drunk or stoned, but when the day comes when I can't keep straight the names of attractive, intelligent women, I may need to hang 'em up. Lord, don't let this be the day!

Seriously, sorry, guys. Enough. Later.

2005-10-19T16:00:00.001-07:00

10-19-2005

www.xiaxview.com took me by very pleasant surprise. I thought at first thought I would be caught up in another "insult narrative", but unlike the snide nastiness of "Three Bulls" there exists in Xia a little -girl desire to be liked, which is actually kind of obnoxiously charming. Clearly, she is interested in shocking her readers-anyone who describes her menstral blood as "baby pink with light gold glitter" is swimming strongly against the main stream. But her satirical view lacks the vicious bite and nihilistic social position taken by "Bulls"-like blogs. She wants you to visit and appreciate other "Asian" blogspots, so she presents herself as cutely obnoxious. Humor through hyper-exaggeration is a terrific ironic ploy-- painting (and picturing) herself as a princess goddess whose hair sheds snowflakes rather than our mortal dandruff. By the way, I chose willful suspension of disbelief and went with acceptance of her persona as real. It did my heart good to indulge in some lustful yearning. Damn, where did the last 30 years go?

A commentator on Lance Mannion's described it as "often erudite, never oppressive". This succinct analysis cathes the blog perfectly. The writing is smooth, literate ,and incisive. The parallel drawn between Oliver Reed"s interpretation of Bill Sykes and Athos is brilliant. Even considering the lack of heavy duty content, this is impressive stuff.It points out by example the mediocrity of a lot of bloggers that we have read.

Speaking of exceptional lyrical writing, I don't know how I completely missed the subtlety of "Coffee Rhetoric" my first time through. Maybe you don't fall in love at first glance. She hands you her heart on her sleeve, and evokes every protective male instinct in existence (and apparently a few female ones, also). This through a veneer of sarcastic toughness that's heartbreaking. Until she writes it ,this world is missing a great novelist.

Bringing cohesion to an analysis of blog-writing is difficult because of the lack of uniformity in blog types. Most blogs I have readattempt some form of iconoclasm, either through shocking language, unusual content, or the striving for a unique authorial voice. I am excepting here "informational blogs" which may not be true blogs at all because of their impersonality. The fact that there is no censoring authority save personal conscience encourages this style. Adding to this is the technocrati origins of blogging which leads some bloggers to separate themselves from mainstream writing through technospeak, which encodes the writing generationally. Blogging is for some definitively and chauvanistically Gen-X, and when I see it I get pissed off. I get the same feeling watching people mumble Hebrew at a synagogue, which nobody, including the mumbler, understands.

Enough, I'm blithering, which I guess is the point.

2005-10-19T16:00:00.000-07:00

2005-10-18T15:57:00.000-07:00

10-18-2005

It has been mentioned by you, not so gentle readers, that I don't post often enough on my blog. I'm sure this less than auspicious behavior has also, maybe more significantly, been noted by our noble leader ,McE. Before I begin my commentary on this week's theme, I'm going to indulge in a minor rant which will explain this unfortunate phenomenon, and with a little luck will even segue into my blog comment.

Somewhere in the last 5 years, I have evolved into the thankless position of Family Patriarch. I'm not entirely sure how this happened. It's possible I magically got older, had a bunch of kids and grandkids, and outlived all the other authority symbols in the family while I wasn't paying attention. Patriarch is not a paying position. In fact, it's extremely expensive in terms of both time and money. I usually love being the center of attention, but being the focal point and psychological,emotional, ethical, and financial touchstone for all the multitudinous solutions of my family's problems is tremondously time-consuming. Not that anyone actually pays attention to my opinion on whatever problem has arisen, but endless discussion seems to be required and apparently I always need to be consulted (especially about the financial solutions). My son, in a touching burst of honesty after a heated discussion (aren't they all?) called me his "rock". My daughter called me nearly every day from Colorado for months to help her through her divorce. My grandkids come flying across the room and leap into my arms every time I see them. Maybe Patriarch isn't such a bad job, but it really eats into my blogging time.

This , of course, segues smoothly into my favorite blog this week "By Neddy Jingo". Finally , someone who is of a "certain age" and doesn't feel compelled to new aged technicized slang into every sentence. Also his taste in music is appropriately passe. I agree with McE that Neddy is clearly striving for a more literary effort than most blogs we've read, despite his "doth protest too much" response to his discovery of that comment and our class's interest in him. "Dog Bows to the Elephant" is an obvious, and successful, attempt to elevate his style. Even his self-deprecating denial of his own awareness of his literary style is transparently ingenuous. Nonetheless, I gotta love a guy who refers to us as "Colin's Kids".

"Three Bulls" , a self-defined "insult narrative " is a good example of several writing tendencies found in a number of blogs. First, he uses language and concepts designed only for their shock value. He uses terms esoteric to Gen-Xers and bloggeeks, an attempt at satire that runs past satirical and slides all the way into bullying meanness. I didn't even like his choice of content. I can't imagine giving a rat's ass about Sharon Osborne or, for that matter, Iron Maiden. In the words of Studs Lonigan, it's a world I never made.

McE says "I don't know who this is" about "Humblelizard Dairyland". Who would care?

Tomorrow, about "Lance Mannion", "Xiaxview", and "Coffee Rhetoric" (man, did I ever underrate her the first time through, she is terrific)

2005-10-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

10-12-2005

On my way home I popped in a disc and listened as Billie Holliday tore my heart out with "Lover Man". While wondering how some skanky woman from 50 years ago could move me like that, I had a small epiphany (strange, considering I'm 2 hours away from my Yom Kippur fast--epiphany, small e). This revelatory flash was that Connecticut, while it's debatable whether it has a
an "author's voice" to it's blogs, clearly has no "lyric" or "melodic" voice. This state has absolutely no musical heritage. "California, Here I Come", Deep In The Heart Of Texas, "Carry Me Back To Old Virginia", "My Old Kentucky Home", "Missouri Waltz", "Tennessee Waltz", but no Connecticut anything-- waltz, foxtrot, or even a shag (only Carolignians can shag, or would want to).

Seriously, is it possible that our lack of a definitive musical culture affects our state's creative product, including blogging? When I visited Savannah, Johnny Mercer's presence was almost palpable. When in New Orleans (pre-Katrina) ,Dixieland permeated the atmosphere. I believe the lack of musical effect on a region is as important an influence as the presence of one. We are living in a non-melodious void, and it shows in our somewhat emotionally removed cultural aspect. Even our singers distance themselves from the state, Martina McBride sings with a Southern accent, and don't even bring up Michael Bolton, (who would?)

Enough,already. I have to go starve myself for 24 hours. Does God care ? I'm too chicken and/or too superstitious to risk finding out.

2005-10-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

10-11-2005

The article on local blogging in the Connecticut section of the NY Times on Sunday (which for some reason I receive on Saturday) really ticked me off. Talk about damning with faint praise! I am finally beginning to appreciate the vastness of the scope of the bloggosphere and the incipient power therein.I felt the article trivialized the medium, implying by it's lack of scope and narrowness of vision, combined with the minor subject matter of most of the blogs covered, by implication reducing the field to a faddish realm populated by a few idiosyncratic denisens. We're much more than a fad. Today, the bloggosphere, tomorrow........man, do I ever get carried away.

2005-10-10T15:45:00.000-07:00

10-10-2005

Today we attack the musical question "does Connecticut have a definitive sense of place, and do local blogs reflect that?". To end the suspense, my answer to the first half of that query is yes, and to the second half, maybe.

I have lived for extended lengths of time in 4 places in my life, and have found each to have unique and quantifiable aspects of geographical beauty, political and religious dynamic, and a difficult to define social ethos. Southern Illinois, also known as "Little Egypt" or Mark Twain country,was, in the late '40's and early '50's, an unabashedly racially segregated domain, committed to agriculture both culturally and conversationally. Fundamental religion permeated any "philosophical" discussion. At 12 years old I was asked seriously by a friend who had found out that I was Jewish "where were my horns?".

San Francisco in the '60's was everything you've read. Hallucinagenic drugs were considered a must at parties, anti-war politics and civl rights rallies, flower-power, beat-nik clothing, very liberal social values, tolerance of virtually anything. You can never find a time machine when you need one.

Germany in the late '60's was a culture shock. On one hand , there was the subliminal guilt of middle -class German's concerning Hitler (everybody fought on the Eastern Front, and only against Russians). There was a dichotomy in the German attitude toward me, a Jew but also an American Army officer. All buildings in small German Rhineland towns, like Worms where we lived, were by law narrowly limited in architectural design, making everything look uniform like a Grimm fairy tale.I think this constant visual bombardment affected social attitude, encouraging the herd instinct. Most of the economic concerns centered around the wine crop, as did most of the celebrations. Hard to believe those guys fought world wars.

With this as a backdrop, it is easy to find the definitive aspects in my Connecticut surroundings. My later childhood was spent in a very small town "nestled in the foothills of the Berkshires" of the western sector of the state. I now live in the larger bedroom suburb of Cheshire. My love of our state's rural natural beauty fills me with a somewhat uncharacteristic simple chauvanism. For that reason, my favorite blog this week, far and away, was Connecticut Windows on the Natural World. It displays, rather sentimentally, beautiful areas and where to find them. I take day-long "excursions" with two of my grandchildren to many of the places mentioned. I have spent literally hundreds of hours on top of the Meriden cliffs pictured on the blog. You can see the Sound on a clear day, and from the other side of the ridge you can see all the way to Hartford. This bucolic splendor is , I believe, uniquely Connecticut.

Connecticut can also be politically and culturally defined, and it shows in some of the blogs we read. First of all, the state by and large leans politically left. This makes the conservative side peculiarly restrained and intellectualized, William Buckley, never Billy Graham. In fact, on "Connecticut Conservative" right-wing religious positions don't seem to exist, as they certainly would in a neo-con blog from the South or Midwest. Like rightists everywhere, however, he seems to concentrate on deconstructing (McE's word, better than bashing, I guess ) leftists like Dodd and Lieberman but finds little to say in support of Shays and Johnson.

This brings me to "Orient Lodge". Aldon hayes apparently feels so confident of the support of his liberal audience that he doesn't have to say anything more about a candidate than that he , or his wife the State Rep, "likes" him because he's a "great guy", a permeating phrase on the blog. I understand he may visit this week. Is he fair game, or do we have to be nice?

The speculation on "Ex-Donkey Blog" (quoting a conservative) that Harry Reid's backing of Harriet Miers is a Machiavellian attempt to set the Right against her is a fun thought, and I found that quotes like that made the blog interesting. However there is a certain restraint to the blog, and to all the blogs cited on " Connecticut Weblogs" that shows careful editing. Very "Connecticut".I also liked "Tchotches" speculation that Miers is either a red herring or a Trojan horse, possibly being appointed to be Borked. By the way, anant our discussion about Tushnet, Mary Bishop of Tchotchkes is not Jewish, yet names her blog a Yiddish idiom. My need to win arguments gets me in sooooo much trouble.

One last thought, I hated "Total Mind Blow". Not professionally done. No "message". Not much of a blog.

By the way, for the half-dozen of my so-called friends who have called to rag me about blogging at work, the time you're seeing at the end of my blogs is not accurate. It just means I don't know how to set the clock on my computer. Or set up a link, by the way, which I intend to discover this week.

2005-10-05T15:24:00.000-07:00

10-05-05

At last all is revealed. I now know how to get a high pass (which I apparently need to continue my studies here) from McE. First, I have to participate in class discussion. This is a totally unfair requirement for a shrinking violet such as myself, and to think I was considering allowing someone else to share my weekly classroom monologue. Secondly, I need to demonstrate that I read the blogs that are assigned each week by commenting (briefly) on them in my blog. I should like to point out here the absolute stupidity of taking this course and then not doing the course reading, but then I guess we have to have some objective standards in education. Maybe some Mastery Tests, then we could get government funding.

In a moment, I will incisively comment on my adventures this week in blogville. But first, I'd like to list my motives for this course. (1)I'd like to definitively learn what constitutes a blog.(2)I'd like guidance in selecting interesting blogs to read, and listen to my classmate's commentary on same. (3)I'd like to create a blog myself for my own pleasure and develop some writing skills.(4)I'd like to get a high pass from McE. Unfortunately for my scholastic future, my order of interest is 3, 2, 1, 4, but I'm sure student desperation will set in later in the term

The following is for demonstration purposes only. My favorite "credentialed" blogger by far aws the first one that I read, James Wolcott. I like the fact that he provides lots of interesting background for his commentary , even though some of the items (for me) fall into the category of arcana. For instance, I really liked all the somewhat slanted info on the Kurd's de facto independence movement, and I've been following the Hollinger case(I am, after all, a stock broker). On the other hand ,I had no idea who Valerie Phlame is, and now that I do, I don't care. I like Wolcott's taste in entertainment , like CSI (the original) and Law and Order (although anyone who's been as unfairly treated by the Federal court system as I has serious reservations about L&O). And his comments on Harriet Miers' nomination, "crony" rather than conservative, are right on. I gues we should expect good taste (and grammar) from a Vanity Fair editor.

I was already familiar with Eric Alterman, having seen many quotes from "Altercation" in the Wall Street Journal. I've also had many 4 hour arguments with my friend Hugh Ryan (who was con way before neo) about media bent, and I used quotes from Alterman's "What Liberal Media " to make my points. He does tend to oversimplify,such as making sure to label each blogger he quotes as "liberal", "moderate" or "radical right". Oh well, Brooklyn College. Was that supercillious? For God , for Country, for Brooklyn College. It just doesn't have that ring.

Sorry, sometimes I get bored doing this stuff.

Roger Ailes is too damn full of himself . (I should talk). I found it interesting finding Wolcott on his enemies list. Did I miss something? I did like some of his anti-bigotry ironies, though. Some of the web slang went way over my head, or under my age bracket. What in hell is "Schadenfreude"?

Wonkette is terifically funny, albeit a little too self-conscious in her raunchy off-color satire. Some of it was like watching slapstick comedy, you know it's way over the top, but you can't help laughing. Thanks, Wonkette, I needed that after two days of bitter diatribe.

In general, I found these "credentialed" bloggers to be more celebrated than good, sardonic rather than satirical. That's a broad stroke with obvious exceptions, but it's my blog and my opininion.

It's much more fun to blog my world view than to comment on other blogs, but if I must.....

2005-10-02T09:31:00.000-07:00

10-02-2005

Sunday morning, late. I've been playing the piano and singing a little. As always, this impromptu concert is performed in tacit understanding for my wife, who is puttering in the kitchen. Some classic pop, some ballads, some show tunes, a little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll. I play with some emotion, so my wife knows I still love her after all these years. I know she'll find an excuse to make contact at some point . Sure enough, in she comes with a question, where does "From This Day On" come from. I answer "Brigadoon" and she, having shown she loves me, goes back into the kitchen. You can see part of my formula for a long marriage. Romance- comes and goes. Fidelity- overrated. But putting a little schmaltz in your music to your woman lasts a long time, maybe forever. Love, on all levels, is much easier now than in angst-ridden youth.

As is self-evident, my operation and hospital debacle was reasonably concluded,and I've been assured that my current resemblance to Herman Munster is temporary. This result was accomplished not through bravery on my part (see last blog) but with a good surgeon and timely administration of vicodin. Although vicodin is not LSD or pehote (ah, my '60s), it does blow a goodly amount of wind under your wings. It's no damn fun getting high legally, I discovered, or maybe I'm just over that particular hill.

Today's hospital is insurance-run, with very little regard for patient amenities, witness that I was boote out the day after surgery. A second casualty of the system is food. For dinner I was served a bowl of broth that somebody whispered "beef" over, along with a cup of tea which was either green or brown depending on which angle you viewed it. The finale was a cup of jello of indeterminent flavor, at least I couldn't determine it. My breakfast, I was told , was a dietary upgrade. This consisted of some tasteless scrambled eggs (saltless and pepperless), some strained oatmeal (I now know what they do with my re-cycled cardboard), and coffee, which I'm saving for my friend Dave's boat to get the barnacles off. Yet another systemic loss is those lovely, helpful, smiley nymphets we used to call candy-stripers. Nowadays the volunteers are all 75 years or older. A pathetic scene was this poor 90 pound septuarian forced by some arcane insurance law to push me (at 230 pounds) out of the hospital in a wheelchair. We almost lost her when the wheels got stuck at the elevator door.

Enough rant. I survived, as did the hospital. There was some doubt as to the latter. It's rumored that I'm a somewhat difficult patient. I'll save my bitching about anonymous bloggers 'til next time.

2005-09-29T05:32:00.000-07:00

9-29-2005
Another mainstream blogging referrence- Rory on "Gilmore Girls" discussing her blogs with her Yalie friends. What, you say, is a chauvanistically porcine reprobate such as myself doing watching "Gilmore Girls"? Getting in touch with my oft-neglected feminine side? Maybe trying to find stages of latency that I missed as I rushed through puberty. I hardened into a fairly rigid heterosexuality (unintentional pun) very early on, and sometimes I feel I might have missed something.

The main topic for today is "fear". What brings this to my mind is (1)that I'm having my throat slit open today and (2) some class discussion that irked me way back during Week II. Firstly, My operation (thyroid) looks a lot more dangerous than it is, even though if I could somehow stay awake during anesthesia and wield the scalpel myself I'd probably feel better about it (control, I love it!). The second area I will discuss is my lack of patience for bloggers who "fear" the risk of self-exposure to the point of insisting on maintaining anonymity on their blog. More later, although this may tick off some of my classmates.

For some reason, I have never never felt the kind of personalized fear that I've seen in people around me. I've never feared personal pain , bodily injury, or even death for that matter. This has caused me to miss some life experiences, such as carnival ride "thrills" and shivering deliciously at horror movies. It has also led to some behavior which might be considered less than prudent, such as voluntarily jumping out of a perfectly safe flying vehicle into 2000 feet of air with only a piece of silk on my back between me and a gory landing. This personality trait (defect?) has gotten me arrested for driving my new GTO 150 mph plus on a Nevada flats straightaway and ,20 years later, going even faster in my new Mercedes turbo on,God help, I-91 here in Connecticut. This behavior has been mistaken for bravery. As an army officer on a semi-covert mission in Macedonia I kept cool when an opposing courrier military bodyguard drew his weapon on my superior officer , I being the only one there with the presence of mind to shoot him. Guilt, Ifelt -fear, not. I was praised for my "bravery". Wrong. Brave can't exist without fear.

What does scare the bejeezus out of me is projected empathetic fear for the people around me . My pathologically protective streak extends to my wife, my kids , my grandkids, my friends, my extended family,and (I'm told) to approximately a third of the world's population. I have to stop, I'm late for the hospital. I'll finish later.

2005-09-26T14:28:00.000-07:00

9-26-2005
Public awareness of blogging and bloggers is rapidly rising. On "The West Wing" last night, the presidential candidate was introduced to one of his staffers designated a "blogging consultant" with no further explanation, clearly assuming that the TV audience knew what blogging is. I wish I did.

I read today's Huffington Post, which says right at the top that it's a blog. I'm not so sure. What it is is a collection of articles and anecdotes evidencing a running diatribe against the Bush-Cheney administration and all right wing political and philosophical spokespeople. This is hardly surprising with Arianna Huffington' name on the heading. She's such a California Zsa Zsa. All this acerbic, unbalanced ranting keeps moving my basically liberal life view farther right. I agree that we have an administration characterized by mediocrity, rigidity, and frighteningly poor decision-making. I just wish our side would combat this with logic and reason, or better yet concrete action, rather than tilting at windmills. What good does it do to call the windmill names?

This is not, however, why this is not a blog. Huffington simply does not meet many of the criteria that we have established (maybe) for qualification as a blog. This is not a "personal opinion", it's a collection of personal opinions. There is no insight into an "authorial voice", merely a cacophany of diffuse sound, unified only by herd instinct. Also it's lacking in the kind of self-correcting interactivity, which might save it from tilting all the way to inanity. A meme could never start from this , there's no hope of credibility. Platonic dialogue? Not even a distant wisp.

McE's use of terms like "riff" and referrences to famous pop composers like Gershwin made a personal connection for me between music (both creating and listening) and blogging. To understand this , I need to give a brief history of my musical experience.

At age 12, I was sent to Danbury to take lessons (piano) from Emil Buzaid, a Big Band musician who had played for 15 years with Xavier Cugat. You can see him in old movies if you can take your eyes off of Abbe Lane. Emil realized that my pubescent interest in girls and my more developed fascination with a variety of sports was not going to leave me time to run scales all day and immerse myself in Mozart and Brahms. He therefore decided to take advantage of my above-average "ear" and teach me chord theory, to understand and create the nuances of harmonies that permeate and enhance modern day pop music. Thus, I play music with little skill but a great deal of sound cohesion. My piano is an 88 string guitar. I bought a "fake book" when I was 12(illegal, then) which gives you the chord, the lyric, and the melody and allows you to "fake it " from there. Soon thereafter, I began playing in a pick-up band, and wrote a song which actually became popular. Iplayed professionally (sort of -anyway I got paid). To this day I spend many hours
a week playing and writing music.
So why is that like blogging? 'Cause it's the same process. First, they are both individual creative processes, with a decidedly personal "authorial" voice. Secondly, I'm always aware of , and playing to, an audience I'm trying to make feel and react, even if I'm playing or writing by myself. Third, I always intend my work to be interactive, in music searching for my audience to join in or at least applaud, and I guess I hope for the same when I write a blog.
The advantage of playing music this way is that even if I play a song a hundred times I'll never play it the same way twice. This forces my mind to continuously create new combinations and thoughts, the way a good blog should sound . Personal, individual, thought-provoking,emotionally reactive and productive.

Enough again. Later.

2005-09-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

9-24-2005

There is something I found very disturbing about Mignon Chang's blog "Mignon's Mazemind. On the surface, it's an examination of life by a very bright 17-year-old peering at a brave new world of self-discovery. Despite a tendancy toward insecure overintensity and naive romanticism, which would be expected in a young person, their exists in the blog a kind of desperate optimism that time is on her side, that if she continues her considered examination of the world both she and the world will proceed in mild amazement to some kind of betterment.
Under this apparent quasi-rosiness, however, there are several worrisome undercurrents. What does she mean by " I found a new will to live " in her "about me"? Why did she write on adark background,especially in light of her comments in her last blog about the negative effect "bold colors" and "cheap prints" have on her?(morecomfortable in dark places?) Most unsettling is the July 30 blog about "Pedophiles". Unlike her other writing, this blog is reported flatly, unemotionally, with no personal comment other thant to introduce it as "shocking news". Combine that with her comment that her "worst torture" would be "to be rendered "completely powerless" and it certainly woundn't be a long stretch to at least speculate that this child has been abused. Perhaps I've been reading too much Kellerman and Andrew Vachss, but I think a case can be made.

Eric(from class) brought to my attention the Trinity President's letter on ridicule of students who don't conform to conventional hair styles and dress. As I said in my Email to Eric, even though my ironic rant on our Stepford campus was clearly intended as humor, you don't have to go far to get from attitude to abuse. What is truly amazing to find myself with my finger inadvertantly on the pulse of campus activity. I'm so damn insightful.....

One last apology to Jason Kottke, whom I continuously referred to as "Jason Kottle" in my last blog. I decided not to go back and edit it, so that it will serve as a reminder to slow my eyes down when reading. Evelyn Wood practices make me sloppy. I read the blog for nearly 2 hours and still read the guy's name wrong. You've gotta have sight to have insight. Perhaps the last sentence of my previous paragraph might be a mild overstatement.
Onward and upward.

2005-09-21T16:25:00.000-07:00

9-21-2005
Before I begin my blog critique, I'd like to make a few observations about our campus. In the paeolithic age when I was an undergraduate (at an all-male school), we lived in comfortable squalor; longish ,unwashed hair (we showered, on occasion, if we thought a female might wander in), unshaved or with a two-day growth, wrinkled shirt, any-old pants. When I went to law school in San Francisco, it was flower-power time, even longer hair and general scruffiness, which somehow equated with radical life-style, Timothy Leary, and intellectuality. Clean and neat meant straight and gererally non-thinking.
But now I look around me and I'm in Stepford! Everybody looks neat and trim, emphatically preppy. Ogling co-eds who don't seem to sweat, ever, even coming off a ball field, is immensely unsatisfying. I guess I'm more a Henry Miller lecher than a Scott Fitzgerald, I like a little raunch in my life -both scholastic and sexual. I feel like walking around messing up everybody's hair.
Enough of this, but it does segue into one last thought I had about "dooce". Heather B.>Armstrong is clearly influenced by her super-straight Mormon environment. She wants to kick over the traces and be outrageous, but she does it in a way that is somehow well within the bounds of social convention, coming off "bitchy" but not a bitch. By the way, Salt Lake City is 76% Mormon and Utah as a whole tops 70%(a s c. Stengel says,"you could look it up"). You can't live there and not re-act in some way to that fact. I believe there are a multitude of young women in the American middle class, with values to match, who suffer from "Thelma and Louise" syndrome and identify readily with Ms. Armstrong, rebelling mentally but leading quiet, conforming lives. Desperate housewives- in Utah, maybe, propelling this blogspot close to the top of the popularity chart.
Finally to Jason Kottle. By his own description, his blog is about "everything and nothing", a Seinfeld of a blog. I really enjoyed his taste in choosing the quirky little items. I also liked his style of presenting common sense thinking resulting in somewhat bizarre, or at least alternative-style, solutions to common problems. In doing so, he definitely assumes the intelligence of his readers, which is a relief to some of us who are fed up with being bludgeoned with the obvious. As an example, the article from the New Yorker suggesting driving up the cost of gas(and gas taxes) to eventually curtail the American public's ridiculous overconsumption of fossil fuels is on it's face outrageous, but with a little thought there may be a kernel of common sense in the idea. J. Kottle is all about sense, common or other wise, and I spent some very enjoyable time reading his blog-especially the section on the AIGA conference.
Enough. Later.

2005-09-20T15:12:00.000-07:00

9-20-2005
As you can see by the date, I've taken some time to "cook" our latest discussions and read, re-read, and try to make sense of "Daily Kos", "Jason Kottle", and some other popular blogs. First, however, a brief comment- even though I've spent a great deal of time with supposedly brilliant people, including those at Yale, a sub-rosa Army think tank, Mensa meetings(really a waste!),and Mario Savio and our Berkeley crew, etc., etc., I was terrifically impressed with the minds gathered in #115. Not a dull pencil in the box, this is going to be fun!
Daily Kos. After re-reading his biography in the context of our discussions, it seems clear that his military background is a key, possibly decisive, factor in the organization of his blog. He entered the army at the age of 17, learning at a very early stage that the chaotic adult world could be effectively controlled "by the numbers". Although his extremely liberal viewpoint is a severe break from military thought, his blog is textbook military tactics. He rigidly controls his "army" of critiquers and limits the field of "combat" to areas which are his own strengths and objectives.
Since this is (I hope) a blog, I am inserting a bit of personal referrence to support my (above comments. Uncle Sam decided to appropriate my services immediately after I participated in what our government deemed inappropriate activity in the Bay Area in 1965. After many demeaning and frustrating experiences (known euphemistically as military training) I was declared an officer and a gentleman ( I had experience at being neither) and spent a year helping to write sections of the European War Plan. Thus my credentials as a military tactician. I can also empathize with Markos Moulitsas from having gone, at least somewhat, through his experience in reverse, moving from the radical left of an SDS cell to bayonet training in Army Basic. Like Kos , I hated my Army brainwashing but I never forgot it, and have used it to occasional great advantage.
One further comment on Daily Kos. His pounding on the same note has seemingly made him popular on both sides of the political spectrum, from the left to manically praise, from the right to just as frenetically scream criticism(remember McE's comment about Rush Limbaugh's obsession with the site). However, atonality in politics as well as music eventually becomes just a drone. I prefer more harmonic chording in my listening.
Lastly, this discussion should have polarized our little group, but there were no screams of pain from the dissident right. Amazingly, I find myself , while standing on the far left of my brokerage firm, being pushed(forced?) into positions far more Midwest Red than make me comfortable in class discussion. Is this academia, McE, the class, or senility? Will find out.
Ive blithered on too long. Jason Kottle tomorrow. Later.

2005-09-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

2005-09-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

2005-09-14T13:41:00.000-07:00

2005-09-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

9-14-2005
My eyes are blearily meeting on the bridge of my nose after reading other people's ideas, musings, and rants for several hours. My initial amazed thought is wondering how the human race has survived this long. The self-doubt, paranoia, anger, contempt, fear, and out-right viciousness I'm finding in a large percentage of bloggers is downright scary. The exceptions, however, may make the whole process at least edifying, and possibly even worthwhile.
McE suggested looking at Technorati's Top100 Blogs. Since for class purposes this equates to an edict from Delphi, I have reluctantly complied ('reluctantly" only because I have never taken direction well, especially from those in authority). As a brief aside, I point out that this personality characteristic has caused me considerable difficulty in life, but also has led to a great deal of fun, including a satisfying anti-establishment stint in SDS and screaming at (then) Governor Ronald Reagan from atop a Volkswagen at the Berkeley riots. But, once again, I digress.
In TT100 Blogs several things made an impression. In cartoonist Dan Clowe's interview, his comment in reply to the question "How do I know I want to be a cartoonist?" was "if you can't not do it, that's when you should do it ". This describes exactly my motivation to be in this program and concentrate on writing more. It really hit a perfect chord.
I found the contrast between the ultra-liberal world view expressed on Daily Kos and the opposing ultra-rightist links suggested by Glenn Reynolds on Instapundit really hysterically funny. It makes you wonder what history will make of all this 200 years from now. Guess it depends on the historian, or what administration is in power.
Of all the blogs I read on Technorati I thought the stories on "Drew Curtis" were the most illuminating, not so much the articles themselves but the comments from the peanut gallery. The combination of ignorance and bias on display was spectacular. More on that aspect of my blogging experience later.
My fingers are weary. Onward and upward! Later.
.

2005-09-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

Absolutely unbelievable ! I've set up this blogsite solo, no IT guy, no friendly, wifely, or kidly guidance. Fellow office workers are struck dumb by this unprecedented event. No matter that I can usually be found in the OED under technophobe, but also no-one has ever underestimated my ability to screw up a computer program. Shock waves are radiating from the computer. They're recalibrating the Richter scale.
Which brings up an interesting question: am I really happier in the Computer Age? Now that I can reach out and touch someone virtually instantly, I am continually reminded that touching slowly was a lot more fun. For instance, virtual sex may be a lot less strenuous (or sweaty) than the low-tech method, but my preference remains the latter. But I digress.
Our assignment from our esteemed professor, hereafter referred to as McE for condensation purposes (not condescension, we leave that to faculty), is to read a bunch of blogs so that I'll have some idea of how to write one. This, of course, makes the assumption that my ego will allow me to actually learn from experience. Many people, including my wife and 76% of the people who know me have some scepticism on this possibility. Well, off to read. Later.