Thursday, March 31, 2005

South Carolina Capitol Grounds

First, let it be said that the state capitol building in Columbia and the grounds around it are extremely attractive. Once I figure out how to upload photos, I will add on to this article.

We wandered the grounds (the building, recently remodeled, I am told, was closed), so we did not go inside.

The grounds take up a large city block (parking is underneath in an underground garage), and are green and flat. Large trees shade portions of it, and statuary not suprisingly has been placed throughout.

One of the statues, as you face the capitol from what I concluded was the east (I have no basis for that conclusion; it was just a feeling I had) is that of Strom Thurmond. It is an imposing bronze statute on a carved gray stone base. One one side, Thurmond's family members are listed. At first, this meant four children. But that was before Essie Mae.

That meant that Essie Mae's name had to be added to the list, which it was, and that the carved "four" needed to be changed to a carved "five". This was done was well, although the lettering for Essie Mae does not quite match the other lettering, and it looks as if they had to chip away the word "four" and the surrounding stone, and fill in the whole, letting it dry before carving the word "five". Unfortunately, the stone around "five" dried a slightly different color, so that the entire inscription looks a little sloppy and unfinished.

For those of you who remember the hoo-ha about the Confederate Flag flying atop the state capitol a few years ago, relax. It is gone. But not entirely. There is a monument to the veterans of the Confederate Army with the flag flying high above it. There is also a monument Confederate women "reared by the men of the Confederacy". We assume this means that the statue was reared (do they really mean "raised"? did they say "raised" and I remember it wrong?), and not the women.

The campus of the University of South Carolina is located right near the capitol and related buildings (downtown being on the other side of the government offices). An architecturally interesting campus of unique yellow stone design. There was an exhibit of photos and ephemera covering 200 years of the school, located on the library ground floor. It was not a fancy exhibit, but very interesting, even for someone who knows nothing about the school. Why, though, did they allow two typos in their printed descriptions of the photographs? (My friend in Columbia allowed that it might be for the same reason that I allow typos on my blog. Of course, no one reads my blog. But then again, it may be that no one reads these descriptions of the photos, either)

At any rate, the school was a white bastion (white, male bastion) until civil war times. Then it closed, because everyone was fighting. It opened after the war (having transformed itself from a school offering a classical liberal education to one preparing its students for the world of work) and, as Reconstruction began, was opened to blacks. Of course, as the blacks began to attend class, the whites dropped out, and the University of South Carolina became an all black school. When Reconstruction ended and President Hayes (Rutherford B Hayes, that is) pulled the army out of the state, the school was closed down again, opening a few years later once more a white, male bastion.

Although the first women entered USC in the late 19th century, up until World War I, there were never more than 25 enrolled women at any one time.

The school was segregated until the civil rights movement of the 1960s, but it was proudly pointed out that integration occurred without major battles as took place in some other parts of the South.

Now it appears to be a very active place, with a very diverse student body.

Y'all come.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Spring Training

Several years ago, Edie and I went to Houston. We went to see an exhibit of Impressionist art from the Hermitage, which was at the fine arts museum, and because we had never been there. We were pleasantly surprised at what a good tourist city Houston is: terrific, world-class museums, the Johnson Space Center, Galveston Island, very good food and a cousin we get to see very rarely. But the trip was flawed. Wanting to stay an an upscale hotel, we chose the St. Regis. It was very elegant, and well located for touring, but it sits very close to a train track at a grade crossing, and the blare of the train's sirens throughout the night kept us awake for most of the four nights we were in town. We wondered (still do) how the hotel manages, although a clerk told us that "some people don't seem to mind".

We vowed not to let that happen again.

But only about six months later, we found ourselves in the Theodore Roosevelt Badlands in Madera, North Dakota, staying at one of the spartan lodges run by the government. No sooner had we got to bed, but a familiar sound rang through the air, even louder and sharper than in Houston. This time, the grade crossing appeared to be only about 100 yards away from our first floor room. We left the next morning, moving to a very nice motel in Dickinson, ND, about 40 miles or so away.

We vowed again.

Yet here we were, earlier this week, at the central city Holiday Inn, in Columbia, South Carolina, when, to our surprise, throughout the night, the blare of a train at grade crossings woke (at least me) up. The first of our two nights there, from 3:30 a.m. until about 7 in the morning, I counted nine trains.

This got me thinking about other noisy disturbances at hotels that I have experienced, and it brought to mind the following:

1. Church bells. In Albuferia, Portugal, in 1972, where the church chimed hourly throughout the night and, because of the topography, my room was on an exact plane with the belfry, which was probably no more than one hundred feet away; I left the room at 3:30 to find another place. And in Erie, PA, where at least they did not start ringing on a Sunday morning until 6 a.m., but once they started the kept going, very deep and resonant sounds, every fifteen minutes. This was in September 1960.

2. Parties and night spots. I remember our first night in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, in 1977, when the hotel's night club sounded like it would never stop. And somewhere in Scotland, in 1978, when a wedding party was so loud that, like in Portugal, an alternative was required in the middle of the night.

3. Ship whistles. My advice is not to camp at the campsite opposite the port of Bremerhaven, in Germany (if it is still there); you will not sleep.

4. Noisy neighbors. Noises from the room next door can be all too common, from the raucus teenagers' party somewhere in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, to incessant and noisy lovemaking in San Juan, PR and Shepardstown, WV, to the noisy drunk in Leningrad, to the ubiquitous television viewers who turn the volume up far too high, to the man practicing his Torah portion over and over and over and over on a Friday night in White Plains, NY.

Will I ever recover from the sleep deprivation?

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

The Atlantic Times

I have just subscribed to the Atlantic Times.

I think you should, too.

It is free.

www.atlantic-times.com

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Book Report #3: A Shadow of Magnitude (Bad Name)

This book has about the worst name possible, don't you think? What does it mean? What could it be about?

Read on........

This book is about the Elgin Marbles, those pieces of the Parthanon which were transported to Britain early in the 19th Century and can now be found in the British Museum. It is a relatively quick read: 225 pages or so. It was published in the mid-1970s, and written by a Greek-American literature professor at Salem State College in Massachusetts, Theodore Vrettos.


So much for the formalities. The book is good, but not great. Good because it tells an absolutely fascinating story. Not great, because it leaves too many questions unanswered. It makes you want to read more on the topic: I assume that by now other books have been written with perhaps a little more character analysis. This book cites a compilation of letters, newspaper articles, and legal testimony. But it misses the emotional, psychological analysis of its subjects.

Having said this, this is quite a story. Lord Elgin (really, just a youngish Brit with some, but not enough money, and a weird disease that eats away his nose) is stationed as British envoy to the Ottoman Empire in Constantinople. His one goal is to take as many archeological artifacts as he can out of Greece, North Africa and Asia Minor, and he succeeds beyond even his expectations, through the active assistance of Greeks, Turks and Arabs.

But it is more than this. Look at the characters you run into: King George IV to be sure. But also, Napolean. Lord Nelson. Lady Hamilton. Lord Hamilton. Lord Byron. Lady Elgin. And many others. And none of them like each other (except of course for Lady Hamilton and Admiral Nelson).

Rivalry with the French. Battles with Napolean to win the hearts and minds of the Egptian people (and get control of Egyptian archeological cites). Pitting Greeks against Turks (why would Turks care of the Parthenon was destroyed?). Undeserved successes and equally undeserved failures.

Yes, with hard work, hard travel, and too little money, the marbles are taken off the Parthenon and transported to England. Of course, some of them sink off the Greek coast, but are rescued in shallow water and preserved. Others are diverted to France. Some linger on remote piers, no one realizing what they are. Some are buried in sand to avoid discovery.

The debate continues about whether this was theft and destruction of national patrimoney, or if the preservation of these marbles in the British Museum was the only way they could be protected from the enmity between Turks and Greeks in light of what would soon be the inevitable Greek battle for freedom from Turkish rule.

And, then there was Lord Byron, who was the first Englishman to not only feel deeply that the removal of these works of art was criminal, but who had the ability to publicize it through his poetry and capture the imagination of thousands of English, turning Elgin the hero into Elgin the scoundral.

As in all real life stories, nothing turns out well. Byron dies of an infectious disease. Elgin loses his fortune. Lady Elgin has an affair with a young English officer, leading to civil and criminal litigation that ruins their lives as well. Only the marbles last.

I read most of the book while on jury duty. It relates one more story that, until now, had totally evaded me.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Russia: 1975

I went to Russia in January 1975. This is a long time ago. But when I thought about the trip, I thought it was in 1972, and then I thought it was in 1974. But then I learned it was in 1975; how I learned, you will find out (not very exciting).

One day, I was sitting in my office when the man that sold us insurance came by and said hello. (I don't remember his name; I probably knew it then.) I asked him "what's new?", something I often ask people. He told me that he had just come from another customer (I don't think insurance salesmen have clients or patients, but maybe they do, or maybe they think they do), who was in the business of putting together travel groups. I told him that sounded interesting, and he told me that some times they had last minute cancellations and would allow people to join the groups at "fire sale" prices, if they could leave on short notice. I said to keep me in mind.

Two days later, he calls and says that they have a group going to the USSR for a week or so leaving in 72 hours. I said "I'll go" after he told me that the entire "fire sale" price would be about $300, and that would include air fare, hotels, food and touring. Even in 1975, that was a bargain. I had never been to Russia, although I had studied Russian and Russian history in college; I had kept putting off the trip, for reasons that must have had some psychological basis, although I have never quite figured out what it was.

Going to Russia in those days was much rarer than now, as you would expect. They were our cold war enemy. The Russian Jewish refusenik movement was just taking off. Everyone was suspicious of everyone else. So, it was a somewhat exotic trip.

You also needed a visa, and normally this took several weeks to process. With a lot of running around and some help from someone (I don't remember who, and wouldn't tell you if I remembered), the visa was in hand the day of the departure, and off I went, non-stop on Pan Am from Dulles to..........

And that's the problem. I can't remember if we flew to Moscow and then went to Leningrad, or if we flew to Leningrad and then went to Moscow. My memory is mixed; I remember flying out of both cities, and flying in to neither, for example. I am sure that did not happen.

At some point, I knew the answer to this question, and you have to admit that it is a very weird thing to forget. But I don't even remember when I forgot it. I did not even know that I forgot it until this week, when I tried to remember it. Which leads to several questions. What else have I forgotten that I have forgotten I have forgotten? And if I remember something, is it possible that, sometime previously, I had forgotten it? And if I can remember exactly when I forgot, and remember one second previous to that time, will I remember it?

At any rate, I have been puzzling about how to remember this very important fact in describing a trip. Last night, I figured out how I would find out. I remember I took slides (everyone used to take slides, then), and if I looked at the sequence of my slides, I would see what city I visited first. So this morning, I opened by slide cabinet, and took out my two boxes of Russian slides with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning. I would get what I most wished for.

Well, I must have been more naughty than nice last year, because one of my boxes was clearly marked Moscow, and one Leningrad, and there was no overlap, and no pictures of airports or train stations (something that probably was forbidden at that time: remind me to tell you the story of my adventure taking a picture of a military facility in East Berlin in 1962). So, I still do not remember. But you can be sure that, as soon as I do, I will post it on this blog well before I announce it elsewhere. You can count on that.

So, since I cannot give you a day by day description, I am going to stick to those things that (I bet you guessed) I remember. And those things that made an impression on me, and might be interesting to you in 2005, thirty years later.

I should also say that the group was a Georgetown University alumni group, but like many such groups, very few of my fellow travelers seemed to be Hoyas. I also remember very few of them (I don't remember if I even spoke to most of them, or they to me). There was one young woman on the group, who like me, spoke and read a little Russian (ok, so she spoke better than me; but I read better than she did), and because of these she and I took off a fair amount away from the group and did a little exploring. And, there was a woman who was, I think, a dentistry professor at Howard, who was travelling with her daughter (probably about 13); we all got along nicely, and they were often bus or meal companions. (By the way, if anyone reading this blog was on that trip, don't be shy; let me know)

So here is what I remember.

1. It was dark. In my memory, it was not really morning until about 9:30, and by 2:30, the lights had to go on.

2. It was cold. But no one seemed to mind. The streets outside were always busy with pedestrians, and they had outside vendors selling, yes, piroshki, but also ice cream (morozhonoe) which Muscovites at while strolling in below freezing weather.

3. People were well dressed. At least, they all had attractive winter coats, hats and gloves. I did not know this would be the case.

4. No one was smiling outside. (Was this my pre-trained brainwashed brain's reaction, or was it so?)

5. Absolutely everyone outside had a hat on.

6. You were not allowed to keep your coat or your hat when you went inside a building. Every building had enormous coat checking facilities, and you absolutely had to use them. In a restaurant, your coat did not go on the back of your chair. You could not carry your coat through a museum, etc.

7. The streets were very clean. This is because 70 year old overweight Russian women were brooming them down continually.

8. The buildings were all over heated with steam heat. So you went from 10 degree temperature to 75 degree temperature and back again all day long.

9. The architecture in Moscow was monumental in feel (heavy and bulky like I sometime think of Chicago; a city that means what it says); in Leningrad it was monumental in fact.

10. The food was horrible. No exceptions. There were no fruits or vegetables to be found, other than canned or jarred cabbage. The meat and fish was relatively inedible (and we were eating at the best places). What was good? The iced tea, the bread, and, oh yes, the ice cream.

11. When I ate with the group, it was either at the hotel (in special rooms; I am not sure that there was a public restaurant in the hotel), or at tourist restaurants. For example, there was an Armenian restaurant in Moscow, and there was a Georgian restaurant. We ate there. The food was no better than at the hotel. But there was "entertainment", required frivolity and cameraderie, and liquor.

12. You did see a lot of people at night on the street who looked like they had too much to drink. Staggering.

13. The subways worked well, but the escalators ran at what seemed to be twice American speed. That was a revelation, because in my experience every elevator operated at the same tempo, wherever you were. It had never occurred to me that it could ever be different. Has it to you?

14. There were stores in hotels called Beryozka, or something like that, where you could buy nice souvenirs. The trick to these stores: all "hard currency" (i.e., no rubles), and no Russians were allowed in.

15. In fact it was unclear to me whether or not normal Russians were allowed in the hotels at all. There were bars in the hotels, which looked like normal places, and there were some young Russians there, all of whom could speak English and who fraternized with the guests, but who were they? Did they have ulterior motives? Were they on an assignment? Were they freely able to mix with the hotel guests just because they wanted to? I never figured this out.

16. On each floor of the hotel, there was a woman at a desk near the elevator, who saw who was coming in and who was going out. The Russians seem to think this was normal. I assume they thought all hotels around the world had this. But what was there job? (It couldn't have been to keep out the unruly, as one night some drunk was yelling and pounding on every door threatening the guests in Russian, and no one seemed to stop him)

17. In the restaurants, they had paper napkins. Each of the napkins was cut in quarters. That is all you got.

18. There were some small stores, such as convenience stores. I think that all stores then were owned by the government. In these stores, there were no cash registers. The clerk tallied up the sale (very, very quickly, as if she knew what she was doing) on an abacus.

19. The people were surprisingly varied, not like most European countries then, when people were relatively homogeneous. It was more like America, with some exotic types, whom I assumed were all Uzbeks, although now I know they could have Kyrghiz, Tadjiks, Azerbaijani, or who knows whom? There were a lot of blond, blue eyed Russians, as well.

20. When you were in Russia, you clearly were not in America, but just as clearly, it did not have the feel of Europe. It was not like other Communist countries in which I had then been (Czechoslovakia and Hungary); they were clearly European. Russia was something else.

Those are my general impressions. Now some specific happenings:

Moscow

1. Red Square. Red Square is very impressive. In the snow, with the neon red stars on the steeples of the Kremlin. The Kremlin on one long side, with the tomb of Lenin in the middle. The extraordinarily appealing St. Basil's church with its many onion shaped domes. GUM, the pre-Communist, then Communist and now post-Communist department store/mall, and the Lenin Museum, in turn of the century decorated Russian red-brick architecture.

2. The Kremlin. I was surprised at the number and variety of buildings within the Kremlin walls. Having said this, I do not have great recollection of my time within the Kremlin. I remember driving in on a bus, but am not sure what we went to see. I remember seeing bells, and jewels. Is my memory correct?

3. The Lenin Museum. A real highlight, particularly if you knew Russian history and could speak Russian, because all of the exhibits were carefully described. Not only did it go through the entire background of the Russian revolution and Lenin's role in it, it had a lot of Lenin memorabilia, including clothes, glasses, and most fascinating, Lenin's office, with all furniture, etc. in place. The other interesting part of this exhibit, was an exhibit of pre-revolutionary Russia, which included ephemera about capitalistic Russia. Pictures of advertisements of merchants who no longer could possibly exist, and other paraphernalia, which in any non-Communist country looked very ordinary, but here, looked out of place, and were described in virtually salacious terms.

4. A Winter Swimming Pool. In one of the parks (perhaps in more than one), there was a large outdoor swimming pool, which was used all winter long. The water was warm, the steam billowed up from it, almost choking you and creating a strange fog. You started out inside and swam under a guard to get to the outside. Why could that not be done here, I said? (The steam heat here was undoubtedly from the same source that overheated all of the buildings. And there were no utility charges in Russia, just as there was no rent for apartments)

5. The Bolshoi Ballet. We did go to the Bolshoi. We did see Swan Lake. It was just fine. And the Bolshoi Theater was filled. All were not tourists. They looked prosperous. I wondered who they were.

6. The Circus. Yes, we went to the famous Moscow Circus. Guess what? It was a one ring circus, in a large but very plain buildings, with theatre in the round seating. There were all the normal circus acts, there were clowns, there were kids in the audience having a good time. But there was something else, and that was a clown skit that dealt with religion. The villain in the peace was a priest (an ugly clown), who came to the village where the innocent people lived (cute clowns) and tried to get them to go to church or some such thing. Then the hero-atheist-communist came (handsome clown) and chased (literally, and with sticks and things) the priest out of town, to the joy of the villagers. Talk about moralty being turned on its head. This was really fascinating. By the way, while the Bolshoi seemed to be catering to the elite and the tourists, the circus was clearly for the people.

7. My friend Edward. This is hard to describe, but on the first or second night, I went to Red Square with the Howard U. dental professor and her daughter. There had been a light snow, and the sqare was absolutely magical. We were walking across it, when this young kid (in his 20s) sort of sauntered up to us, and with his heel, in English, wrote in the snow: "Israel yes, USSR no". And then, quickly, he erased it.

Now this was during the heat of the Refusenik movement, when people were smuggling in prayerbooks at great risk, etc. No one knew where this would end, but it was clear that it was nothing to fool around with, but Edward was fooling around.

We began to talk. His English was pretty good. He was a university student, who planned on going to medical school, and then moving to the United States. There was no question but in his mind that this is what he was going to do. (At that time, even for Russian Jews, moving to the U.S. appeared a pipe dream). He and I corresponded for a short while after I returned, but I quickly lost touch, and have no idea what happened to him.

But he and I spent the next day or two together. He became my tour guide. And we did some very unusual things.

First, I knew that there was a large Jewish population in Moscow, but frankly, I could not identify it. It was not like in the U.S., where I can often see someone and decide they are Jewish. But in Moscow, to me, no one and everyone looked Jewish. Other than discounting the Uzbeks, I had no idea, and found this fascinating.

But Edward told me that he knew who was Jewish. He could tell. And he would show me, and did, by going up to people on the street and saying "you're Jewish, aren't you?) and when they said yes, as they always, did, he would introduce me as his friend from America. This seemed utterly crazy to me. No other Russian that I met even wanted to talk to Americans, and certainly relationships between Russian and American Jews were dangerous, but here was Edward ignoring all of this (and ignoring, as well, my worried looks and warnings).

He took me to many places where he hung out (where he went to school, went for coffee, etc.), but not to his home. (I imagined his parents would not understand).

At that time, there was a monthly magazine (sorry, name escapes me: I will think of it), which was published to show the great happiness and success of the Russian Jewish population. Of course, it was only a propaganda piece and nobody (and I mean nobody) took it seriously. But it was there, and we walked by an office building, which Edward told me contained the offices of the magazine. 'Interesting', I said, and of course, he said, 'Let's go see.", and before I knew it we were in the office of the magazine, and he was telling the receptionist that I was a tourist from the U.S. and a friend, and that I really thought that this was a great publication and I was a regular reader. I thought we were both dead.

The receptionist said "just a minute", and before I knew it, we were in the office of the editor, an old man in a fairly plush office, talking to him about the magazine and how important it was. I was happy that this conversation took about 5 minutes (of course, it was going on in Russian, so I was only a voyeur), and we were out on the street, with no one apparently following us.

We had lunch in a very fancy restaurant (fancier than the one in Leningrad, described below), and yes the matire d' was Jewish.

One last thing about Edward. We were in Dzerzhinski Square, and he pointed to a massive four story building, and told me that the top floor was the highest spot in all of Moscow. As Moscow had a number of Stalinist high rise buildings scattered around it, I was confused, and said "Huh?" So, he told me. He said that the building housed the headquarters of the KGB, and if you ever got to the top floor, you were going to see Siberia.

This was Edward.

Leningrad

1. Tsar Peter's Petrograd. Leningrad was beautiful. The classical buildings along the Neva, and the still mercantile sense of the shops and restaurants on Nevsky Prospekt (yet how different this street must be today). But if you go a little astray, you are in an absolute wasteland of drab, decrepit high rise residential buildings, and equally drab industrial facilities. Two separate worlds. And this is Leningrad: what could the rest of Russia be like. The other cities. The villages. And the endless rural tracts.

2. The Winter Palace; Home of the Romanovs. The green Winter Palace was just as it was supposed to be, as I guess was the Hermitage. But perhaps I was tired that day, because while the masterworks in the museum were clearly masterworks, the primitive nature of the museum itself was depressing to me, and I did not enjoy my visit. This was a surprise.

3. The Wooly Mammoth. On the other hand, I was absolutely fascinating by the Museum of Anthropology, which was also old fashioned (later the Rockefeller Museum in East Jerusalem and to an extent the Brooklyn Museum also struck me similarly; they all have the same feel), and had speciman after speciman lined up in wooden speciman cases. It was as if everything in the insect drawers in the Smithsonian were set out for view. And all of these examples of preservation and taxidermy were fascinating, but none more fascinating than the Siberian mammoth, dug out of the tundra almost 100 years before, with its fur and its tusks still in tact. This example of the now extinct, hairy, elephant-like mammal was, to me, beyond belief.

4. The Winter Swim Club. On Sunday morning, as the sun was coming up (it must have been close to 9), I wandered by myself from the hotel in the opposite direction from the city center, going up river. It was well below freezing, and, as it was in both Moscow and Leningrad, snow was on the ground. I was in an area of what appeared to be small warehouses lining the river bank. Nothing residential in sight and, because it was a Sunday morning, no people. Then I heard a rustling, and turned my head and had an apparation. I thought that I saw about a dozen people, men and women, younger and older, running from the river into an alley, in skimpy bathing suits, and nothing else. You can imagine what I thought! (In fact you can't, because I thought that I was not capable of thought, what I had seen made so little sense.) Well, I followed in the direction toward which they were (or would have been, had they been real) running, and their trail ended at a small metal building (almost like a large shed), on which was a simple sign (in Russian, of course), saying: Headquarters of the Leningrad Winter Swim Club. It takes all kinds.

5. There was a very famous book store on the Nevsky Prospekt that was still open, although now it was of course state run. But it was large (almost Barnes and Noble size). I wandered around it, thinking I was now really in old St. Petersburg. I bought two things, that I recall. A small Lenin poster (billions of those were for sale everywhere), which I brought home, but which somehow got waterlogged and ruined. And a four volume, paperback set called Historical Atlas of the USSR (again in Russian),which I still have.

6. My Russian speaking friend and I went out for lunch on our own one day (might have been the day of the bookstore) and ate at a Russian restaurant on Nesky Prospekt. This was the only real restaurant in Leningrad I went into, I believe. I also ate in some cafeterias (each, a stolovaya, I think), which were very plain and cheap.

At any rate, this day we went into a real restaurant, white tablecloths and all. In those days (maybe now), if you were two people, and there was a four person table with two empty seats, they sat you at it, and so we were put at a table with a woman about our own age, or maybe a few years older, and her son, which I guessed to be about 6. They were very friendly, spoke no English, and told us a bit about life in Leningrad. The woman had told us that her husband was in the Navy. It wasn't until then that it came out that we were American; she must have assumed we were English. Her son then said that his father was in America. Really, I said, where is he? He said in South Carolina. His mother clearly was shocked (probably, more accurate, she was scared) and without finishing her meal, took her son by the hand, got up and left the restaurant. At that time, we later learned, Russian submarines were trawling off the South Carolina coast.


Perhaps the most interesting thing about this experience (which would be very different today) was that here were two very large cities, filled with people, living what looked to be (on the street at least) normal lives. But there was a feeling of utter isolation. It was as if the world did not exist outside of Moscow. They could not get out; and few tourists came in. They were thousands of miles from the west, and separated by communist east Europe. It was just like being in a parallel universe. It is hard to describe the feeling, but it was pervasive.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Book Report #2 - "No Greater Glory"

I picked up a copy of Dan Kurzman's new book, "No Greater Glory: The Four Immortal Chaplains and the Sinking of the Dorchester in World War II", published by Random House in 2004.

The story may not be as well known as it once was. The Dorchester, a pleasure liner converted into a troop carrier, was torpedoed by a German submarine, while on its way to Greenland in February, 1943. On board were four chaplains, two Protestant, one Catholic and one Jewish. The majority of the crew perished, although many crew members were saved by use of overcrowded life boats. The four chaplains went down with the ship, ministering to the others, helping them cope with the tragedy, assisting them leaving the ship, giving up their own life jackets and gloves, saying prayers, and standing, arms linked one to another as the ship went down. A story of devotion, and of four men who overcame religious and denominational differences to serve a higher purpose.

The story is even more interesting to me because the rabbi, Alexander Goode, was married to a woman named Theresa Flax. Theresa's mother was the sister of singer Al Jolson, and therefore the first cousin of my father. I believe this made Theresa my second cousin (if my reckoning is correct). Theresa Flax Goode Kaplan (whom I had an opportunity to meet, but never did) lived on Willard Avenue in Chevy Chase; she died just a year or two ago. I believe she was in her upper 80s.

The book is a one night book, unless you are going to study every word. But this does not mean it to be less worthwhile. It is a study of the background and character of these four men (interesting in and of itself), gives a little information on how the war was being fought in the North Atlantic, and through interviews with survivors, tells of life on the Dorchester on its way from St. John's, Newfoundland, to Greenland, and the chaos of the hit, the sinking and the rescue.

And, from long time journalist and author Kurzman, it is an easy and fluid read.

Although I own a few other books by Kurzman, I do not think that I have read any. But his range of writing is broad: Biographies of Yitzhak Rabin and David Ben Gurion, the 1948 Arab-Israeli War, the Spanish Civil War, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, Hiroshima, Japan, the Dominican Republic, Bhopal and the San Francisco Earthquake.

The copy I bought, at Second Story Books in Washington, was signed as follows: "To Senator John Kerry, a great war hero and the next president of the United States. With warmest wishes, Dan Kurzman". How did this book, published in 2004, in pristine condition, inscribed in this manner, get on the bookshelves of a second hand book store? Did Kerry ever receive it? Who knows?

Thursday, March 17, 2005

"In the Russian Tradition" - Exhibit Review #1

I was in Moscow the first and only time in the winter of 1974 (see article entitled "Russia - 1974", coming soon to your favorite blog). Among the many places I went in Moscow was the Tretyakov Gallery, a large art museum about which I had no prior knowledge. I remember that the Tretyakov was in a part of the city rather distant that most other tourist sites, that the building was large and imposing, but that I was not overly impressed. For the Tretyakov was not only a Russian art museum, it was a museum of Russian art. This distinguished it from museums like the Hermitage, with its super-world class impressionist collection. The Tretyakov, as my memory has it, meant large canvases, outdoor scenes, and social realism. I walked quickly through that part of the museum that I took any time to explore, and was just as happy to leave.

The Smithsonian International Gallery at the Ripley Center (OK, bloggers, how many of you have heard of that one?) is finishing this weekend staging a three month exhibit called "In the Russian Tradition - a Historic [should it have been "an historic"?] Collection of 20th Century Russian Paintings". The paintings all came from the Tretyakov and from a rather new museum in Minneapolis, The Museum of Modern Art.

I had learned of the existence of the exhibit when I took a Smithsonian Resident Associates class at the Ripley Center recently, and wanted to get back to see it more closely before it closed on March 20. So, at lunch time, a metro'd to the Smithsonian stop to take a quick look at the paintings.

It was quite an exhibit. Although I did not count the paintings, I would guess that there were forty to fifty of them and, yes, most of them were quite large. And to say that they were all examples of 20th century Russian art was not quite correct; a more accurate description would have been "A Century of Russian Art: 1880-1980".

I thought that they did vary in quality, although the high quality paintings outdid those which I felt somewhat inferior. The styles were quite varied, more than I would have assumed. And many of them used extraordinary colors, and in particular numerous shades of bright and deep red.

I don't think that I had heard of any of the artists. Whether any have paintings in American museums (other than those from Minneapolis, which appeared to largely be on loan from private American collections), I do not know.

But here is a sampling of what I considered the highlights.

The oldest paintings seemed to be two portraits by Ilya Repin. One of V. V. Stason, described as an art critic, a man in his fifties, with clear skin, intelligent looking eyes and a full beared, dressed in conservative business attire, painted from mid-chest up. The other of L. Merci d'Arjanto, described as a pianist, lounging on a chaise, in a fluffy white dress, her reddish hair in a short, mature style. Both were, what I would call classic portraits. They could have as easily been French, as Russian. They were painted around 1880.

They were followed by two paintings from just after the turn of the century. One, also a portrait, by Valentin Serov, was a full length portrait of a young boy, maybe six or seven, whose rosy cheeks and round face and curly brown hair clearly portrayed his individual personality. According to the accompanying notes, the subject's mother thought it wonderful.

The other, by Filipp Malyanin, was described as one of a number of paintings of Russian village types, which apparently provide a glimpse of life in these small communities at this time, which is difficult to find elsewhere. This portrait, called Village Girl, shows a full length portrait of a young woman, dressed in a full length skirt and long sleeve blouse, but with deep reds and an impressionistic background that almost makes it look Spanish.

Nikolai Fechin's portrait of his wife is more of a late impressionistic piece, painted in 1901. This is the first time this portrait has ever been shown, as he and his wife separated shortly after it was completed, and he defaced the painting by putting large bars over her face. The painting survived somehow, and was cleaned and touched up, to show it as it was originally meant to be.

Around the same time, the flagship of the show, a very large canvass called Bathing of the Red Horse by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin, was painted. A very large red-brown horse being ridden by a nude young man (perhaps a teenager) with a few other horses and similar riders in a pool of water behind. A striking painting of striking simplicity and color, meant apparently to demonstrate the coming troubles as the new century was getting its start.

Yes, there was social realism amongst those paintings dated after the death of Lenin. Logging on the Vetluga River, again with reds predominating, shows a young woman working on the river, her head in a blue scarf, painted in 1964 by Eduard G. Bragovski. A striking still life called Soviet Canned Food, showing filled cans and jars (oh, the bounty of it all), painted in 1939 by Boris Yakovlev. Potato Picking by Zinaida Kovaleska.

But there was also classicism, a la Picasso in Russian bathhouse, a grouping of nude women in a classical and not quite cubist style by Zinaida Serebryakova. And a more formal classicism, of a young man and his pregnant wife by Dimitri Zhilinski.

And there was cubism, in the form of Tower Gate, New Jersualem, a melage of Russian style buildings part realist and part cubist, painted by Aristarkh Lentulov in 1917, and a still life by Vasili Rozhdestuensko, which could have been a Braque, but with green tones like Cezanne.

There were the snow scenes, and the nature scenes, the dancer, and the urban scapes, including Igor Popov's Our Courtyard, an updated version of a Jan Steen painting of Dutch city life, Vladimir Stozharov's Novgorod, Yaroslav Monastery, a 1972 painting of a style found in the American southwest, with shape dominating the single colored buildings, with grass or ground in front, and a blue sky behind (here with fleecy clouds). And a bright painting of an urban monastery in suburban Moscow, with yellows predominating.

The show was extremely enjoyable, well laid out, although the rooms were kept dark with focus on individual paintings in an attempt (sometimes successful) to avoid glare off the, often, heavy oils on the paintings.

There was a catalog, and it showed each of the paintings and gave each a full page treatment. but, as is the case too often with these catalogs, the colors and resolution cannot compare with the originals, so that, except as an aide to memory, they sure don't bring you the real thing. Their danger is that, if you look at the catalog too long, the paintings as represented there will probably take over from the originals in your mind.

This show does not seem to be travelling, and it is too late to see it now. My only suggestion is: next time you are in Moscow, go to the Tretyakov. In 2005, it sure looks a lot better than it seemed to me 30 years ago.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Eureka!! Social Security Solved

So, I don't understand why social security reform is so difficult.

The administration says that, at some point, social security will run out of money. This is primarily a demographic question. More people retiring and living longer, and fewer young people in the workforce.

It is also, they say, a question of return on investment. The social security investments in government paper yield considerably less than the yield obtained by stock market investments.

The solution, says the government, is to permit individuals to invest a portion of what would be their social security payments in one or more of a selected group of mutual funds, giving individuals some control over the investments and increasing their return. Some people (fewer than a majority, apparently) support this plan; others are convinced that it is step number one in the dismantling of the entire social security system.

So, I say, why not the following:

No private accounts. Continue a system of a combination of taxpayer and employer contributions to the social security system.

But rather than have the government invest all of these funds in low yield investments, let the government invest a portion in stock owning mutual funds, just as is suggested to be permitted for individuals under the president's proposal.

There is nothing sacrosanct about low yield investments, and if the government can provide a better return on social security by investing in mutual funds, so be it. There is nothing lost here from the privitization proposal (except the ephemeral opportunity to pick an investment vehicle from an approved list). And, the danger of the dismantling of social security vanishes.

If the government is correct, the return (the level of social security payments on retirement) will increase significantly. Of course, the government may be wrong, and the market driven investments may engender yields below those of the government securities. In this cas,e the government should simply guarantee to the taxpayers that their beneifts will in no case be less than that which they would have received had all of their investments been in government securities. If the government really believes that its projections are accurate, this is in fact a guarantee without risk.

On the other hand, if the investments in the mutual funds truly prosper, the social security benefits will be much higher. If the government so desires, it can cap the benefits for an individual at a pre-determined level, and use the rest to plow back into the system. Benefits themselves will be calculated for individuals based upon the timing of their investments and their retirement. Computers can do wonders.

Is there a flaw here? I am not sure that there is.

Eureka!! I have fixed the system. George Bush, hang your head in shame.

Grigory Sokolov

I have to admit that, before 6:30 this morning, I do not recall knowing who Grigory Sokolov is. So, thanks to my wife for setting the alarm clock at 6, and thanks to the University of the District of Columbia for allowing its TV station to air Classic Arts Showcase, when not airing university-directed shows.

Sokolov is a Russian born pianist. He is 56, but he looks 15 years older. I saw him play two pieces by Couperin, and am sorry to say that I did not concentrate on exactly what they were (it was 6 a.m., after all). The video was recorded at a Paris recital, given in 2002.

Sokolov was extraordinary in both technique and musicality. Nothing more to be said. It was exciting watching and listening to him, the way it had been exciting for me to watch or hear Sviatislav Richter.

In the old days, I kept up on classical performers, but the old days ended about 25 years ago, so I don't know any more about Sokolov than I do about The Doors, or U-2.

This is one old interest that I wish I had retained.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Washington St. Patrick's Day Parade 2005

It was a beautiful day on the Mall. The temperature was only in the high 40s, but the sun was out, and while you needed a coat, it was definitely not a scarf and gloves day.

So why was the mall so empty?

Usually, any Sunday on the mall is busy, and if it isn't raining, snowing or freezing, it is usually very busy. Today, things seemed rather quiet. My wife thought it might be because people were home watching March Madness basketball. Perhaps. Or perhaps because today was the day of the Washington St. Patrick's Day parade, people stayed away for fear of the crowds. At any rate, it was a mystery.

I was on the mall because I was attending a Smithsonian class, but between noon and 1:30, I had a chance to watch the parade. And, it seemed to me that I was one of the few to do so (there were people along the parade route, including families, and a disproportionate number of them wearing green jackets or sweatshirts, but they were hardly ever more than one deep, and in many places, they were stacked up zero deep, which is not very deep at all).

But the parade was sorta fun, and clearly nothing to be frightened away from.

When I say the parade was sorta fun, I really mean it was funny, and only sorta parade. Let me explain.

I think I saw at least 3/4 of it. But I only saw four bands. Three were high school bands (one from Jacksonville FL, and one from somewhere in NJ I remember - I wasn't taking notes) and a college band from VMI. They were all in uniform with baton twirlers and all that, but it sure wasn't like a Cherry Blossom or Inauguration Day parade with all states represented.

You would expect the Ancient Order of the Hibernians to march, and they did. And there was a VFW group of veterans of the Battle of the Bulge. There were maybe ten of them. They must be in their 80s. They were all very thin, so it looked like they had done a good job winning the Battle of the Bulge.

Then there were floats, if you could call them that. Mainly flatbed trucks with green ribbons, balloons and crepe paper. The Washington Irish did not show their artistic talents on this parade. Whose floats were they? Well, the Dubliner Pub had a float, although when I saw it, it had not yet begun to move, and it was unclear who would be on it, or what they would be doing. And it was right behind the Fado Irish Pub float, which was beginning to move and had a young Irish drinking song band, the Scythians, who were pretty good, and a strange looking guy, who was older and dressed like an out of place leprechan perched on a pedestal, who moved with the music and mouthed words (not the words to the songs, which I don't think he knew, just words). Made you want to go to Fado Irish Pub (I think it is near the Capitol, right?), but not on a night when the old leprechaun was there. That's it for pubs.

There was one more alcoholic float. It dealt with hard liquor only. If there was a beer float, it came early and I missed it. This alcoholic float was sponsored by Washington Wholesalers, Inc. (I guess they wholesale alcoholic beverages). It had signs for Jamison Irish Wisky, Bushmill's, and Bailey's Irish Cream. So who do you put on a hard liquor float? I recall seeing two adults, and about ten kids, all under the age of eight. True.

The only other float I remember was from the Washington Rowing Club. I couldn't quite figure out if they were Irish, or what they had to do with St. Patrick. My wife said that they were there because they drank. Probably so. (You would think from all of this that my wife was there by my side, but she wasn't. She just has great Irish intuition, I guess.)

I saw no horses in this parade. I did see dogs. There was the Washington Irish Wolfhound Society, and I counted 23 Irish Wolfhounds, who were a pleasure to watch. These dogs looked like they could all be friends of mine if I made the first approach. What surprised me is that they ignored each other. Not one of them seemed the least big excited to see another Irish Wolfhound. I think if I were an Irish Wolfhound, I would like to talk to others about the Ould Sod, or something like that. Watching them, it occurred to me that maybe they don't know that they are all Irish Wolfhounds. Or maybe they left Ireland in times of famine and shortage, and just didn't want to be reminded. By the way, do you think that there are Irish wolves?

But these were not the only dogs. There was a pickup truck with a sign that said Greenbelt Dog Obedience School and a toy poodle being held by the lady driving the truck. Why wasn't she arrested for reckless endangerment? It was followed by a motley (and I mean motley) assortment of 20+ dogs and their masters, marching in precision. Why they were in the parade was really beyond me. Nothing Irish about them that I could see. And, if I were the school, and these were the most handsome dogs I could show, I don't think I would want to join a parade. If I ever get a dog, I am joining the Irish Wolfhound Society, and keeping the hell out of Greenbelt.

Then there were the D.C. police on their motorcycles with sidecars, riding around in circles. It did not give one great comfort to see this, particularly as they seemed to be having fun. Ditto the Shriners, who are great for the kids with their hospitals (I mean really great), but who ride around in these little mini-dodgem cars, with their knees above their heads.

Then, there were the cars, mainly Thunderbird convertibles, and one old souped up Mercedes convertible. Not very exciting. Nice cars, but not very exciting. But then, something even odder. The Zip-cars in the parade, a Mini, a VW convertible, and a bigger car. Why were they there?

Three beauty queens in open cars. Miss Virginia of the USA, Miss Maryland Teenager, and Miss America of the Galaxy. They were each wearing identical tiaras and smiles.

Rogers Plumbing had its truck in the parade. There was green shamrock attached to each side. Looking at the truck, you could read their address and phone number, in case you ever needed a plumber. How did Rogers get in the parade?

And, to top off this wonderful St. Patrick's Day parade, there were two different marching groups of Falon Gong supporters. Perhaps in Chinese, the words Saint Patrick have another meaning. They looked very out of place, not only because they were not Irish, but because they were dressed in ORANGE. Luckily, the IRA was not participating this year in Washington, because I think that these Orangemen would never have made it to the end of the line.

The best things about the parade? The weather, followed by the wolfhounds, and the bulge battlers. Next the bands (marching and Irish). Last, the Chinese.

But, it was very low key, and therefore OK.

Next year, come on down and watch. Or better yet, if you put something green on your bicycle, they may make you grand marshall.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

hapc.blogspot wins Unanimity Award

This blog has won the 2005 Unanimity Award as the best blogspot in the country, based on a poll of its regular readers, and 100% support for hapc.blagspot as the best.

Thank you, Michelle and Hannah.

The Washington Nationals #1

I want very much to be a Washington Nationals fan.

But here we are, halfway through spring training, and I have not seen or heard a game, and do not have the ability to name even one member of the team. I do know that Frank Robinson is the manager. But that is not very much to know, considering all of the hype of baseball coming back to Washington after more than thirty years.

Of course, when I first moved to Washington, in October 1969, the Senators were still here (or rather, they were back). Then they left. I was never a Senators fan, probably did not even know who the manager was, never went to a game. In 1972, when the Senators left, I think I was too excited about the coming of Metro to notice they were leaving. In fact, no one noticed, as I recall. We all learned about the next spring, when the section of the sports page dealing with the Senators was left blank.

And in the interim, I have continued follow baseball, after a fashion. That is, when the Cardinals were doing well, I followed baseball. When they weren't, I paid no attention whatsoever.

But now I have a new home team, and I would like to support my new home team. What's my problem?

First, because I never paid attention to the Expos, I had no idea who was on the Expos roster. I didn't even pay attention to the Expos last year, when it was perfectly clear that there was somewhat of a chance, possibly, more or less, depending on the day, that they would move to Washington.

Why is that? There were a number of reasons. First, because it was not clear they were coming, why waste my energy on a team that could have landed in Las Vegas, or Portland, or Newport News, or San Juan.

Now I never took San Juan seriously. If the team didn't play well in French, why would Spanish be an improvement. Besides, history shows that young Caribbean men become baseball players to come north, not to stay home. I also didn't take Newport News (or was it Norfolk, or Portsmouth, or Virginia Beach, or Chesapeake?) seriously. We get in a war, and the entire fan base is shipped to Tripoli. And I knew they would never go to Portland. One scheduler screw-up, sending the team to Maine instead of Oregon (or is it Oregon instead of Maine?), and the league would never recover.

In fact, however, I thought Las Vegas was a better market than Washington. A large and growing local population, and untold numbers of visitors from the home city of every visiting team. Games would never get rained out. And there are plenty of places to go after the game, after all. I thought the only thing that would be confusing would be the schedule changes necessitated by another team in the Pacific time zone. And I even considered the possible names of a Vegas team. The Las Vegas Slots. The Las Vegas Crupiers (this would build on their French Canadian heritage; they could be called "The Cru"). The Las Vegas Showgirls.

And then I did not want to be gleeful about taking the team from Montreal. I remember when the Browns were hi-jacked to Baltimore. It was awful, and made worse by the ecstacy shown by Baltimoreans and their lack of concern of the feelings of Browns' fans (OK, so there were just five or six of them, but that should have made it easier for Baltimore to make nice.). In fact, the relocation of the Browns to Baltimore have permanently tainted that city. What if Washington turned into another Baltimore? (You gotta admit it's a weird place. A city whose primary fame comes from its crab cakes, and whose Jewish population contains the highest percentage of orthodox in the country.)

And then, there's the question of the team's name. I think that the Nationals were just the wrong choice.

Here you gotta give it to Baltimore. They really know their names. The Baltimore Orioles - the state bird. The Baltimore Colts - Pimlico. The Baltimore Ravens - Edgar Allan Poe. Even the old Baltimore Bullets (name another city that you are as likely to get shot at).

But the Washington Nationals? OK, so they didn't want to use the Senators again (but even the curse of the Bambino has been broken!). In fact, "Senators" is a great sounding word. It connotes power, the upper body, stability evidenced by six year terms. They could have done worse. In fact, come to think of it, they did.

"Nationals" is a bad-sounding word. I do not think an "sh" sound belongs in a team name. Think about it. The St. Louis Carshinals. The New York Yanshees. The Boston Red Shox. The Los Angeles Doshers. "Sh" does not work. But that is just the start.

What are we trying to get across by calling the team the Nationals? It is a National team, and not a local team? No, and in fact this sends the wrong message. Is it because it is in the National League? I don't think so. The name lacks meaning. At least, it lacks discernable meaning.

And its nickname will be the Nats. That is really awful. It doesn't sound right, for one thing, and it will one day be spelled not n-a-t-s, but g-n-a-t-s. Who is gonna be afraid of a bunch of Gnats? And, isn't the concept of Gnats shagging flies in the outfield a little mind blowing?

Or, putting the dreaded "sh" sound together with the silent "g", we have the Washington Gnashers: "Here they are, folks, the Washington Nationals, gnashing their teeth".

I did not care for the other debated choice, the Grays (the name of the old Negro league team), any better, again because the name just does not have the right ring to it. What a colorful team Washington has: the Grays. (Can I ask a follow up question? Sure. Ok. In the olden days, why did they call a black team, the Grays? Were they trying to hide something? "Our town is post-racial. No blacks. No whites. No young people, either. Just us grays.")

If they wanted to stick with a Congressional name, and were afraid of the Senators, I think they could have used Congress-speak, and named the team after "the other body". The Washington Other Bodies, informally called the Wobs, the Wobbies, the Wobos, or even better, the Washington Wobbers.

My own favorite was the Potomacs. The Macs. The Big Macs. I thought that they could get some corporate sponsorship out of that one.

Or how about a one-word name (the first in the league), the Washingtonians, a/k/a the Tonys. Wouldn't you think Mayor Williams would have gone for that one? I can see the logo now: a sillouette of Tony Williams in black with a red, white and blue bow tie.

Or, if we support regional ecumenicism, why not drop the name Washington altogether, and call the team the Beltway Bandits? (If Anaheim can have the Mighty Ducks, we can have the Banditos, si?)

I just don't think that Washington knows how to do names. The Redskins is an OK name. The Washington Redskins sounds pretty good. I know that there is a recurring debate (amonst the same 4 or 5 people) about whether the name is politically correct. (And how about the Cleveland Indians? Or the whole state of Indiana, for crying out loud?)

But I do not think that a Redskin refers to an American Indian. I have met some American Indians, but none of them have red skins (except when they stay out in the sun too long, which come to think of it, many of them might). Their skin is more ruddy than red. If the team were named the Washington Ruddyskins, I can see that there would be some question as to propriety, but Redskins just does not bother me (except that there is a good argument that a team's name should be more Atkins-friendly).

And look at basketball. When they had to change the name of the Bullets (I also never understoood why that change was needed), they went to the Wizards. That was just terrible. The thing about wizards is that they wear wizard hats. A wizard without a wizard hat is no t a wizard. But if the average player is eight feet tall, why does he have to wear a wizard's hat? A wizard's hat has only one purpose. To make a short wizard look tall. There are no short Wizards.

I thought it was obvious that the basketball team should have been named the Washington Monuments. No question. I heard that that name had been under discussion, but not chosen, because it was "not available". It was owned by someone else.

Huh? How can the name Washington Monuments be owned by someone? Do you believe that? I hadn't realized that a name like that could be owned. But now that I have found that out, I am going right into action. I have decided to get trademark protection for the name "The National Gallery of Art". I am going to use it (perhaps even rename this blog). In any event, the royalties are going to keep me solvent during my retirement. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

Another problem is that the Nationals have no owner. They are owned by (ta-da) Major League Baseball. They have been moved here, and now MLB is first searching for someone to buy the team. And that could be anyone. They could wind up owned by the Gotti family. "The Washington Mafiosi". Or by the von Trapp singers. "The Washington Yodelers". Or even by Martha Stewart. "The Washington Lifestyles"

Teams are identified with their owners. There are owners like Abe Pollin, whom everyone loves and their are owners like Dan Snyder and Peter Angelos, whom everyone hates. And then there are even owners like Ted Leonsis, whom everyone thought they loved, until one day everyone realized that they hated him. But until there is an owner that you can deify or satanize, you just can't become a fan of a team.

And finally, there is television. As of now, the owner (i.e., Major League Baseball) has not worked out a television contract for the Gnats. So, spring training is not being seen on local TV. Maybe there will be something in place by the season opener (30 days away), but then again maybe not. We know of nothing in the immediate offing.

My point of reference here are the Washington Capitals. I used to follow the Caps religiously, but this year, if you haven't noticed, there is no television contract for the Caps. Consequently, I have not watched one game. It is as if the season had been called off.

I don't think I am alone in my predicament. I do think (and know you will agree) that I have thought out the reasons better than most.

In the meantime, in a weak moment of patriotic fervor, my office has purchased four seats for each game. We asked our staff of 25 or so to select dates. Maybe there is one family (with a rabid baseball fan as a son) who has expressed interest in the Nats as Nats. Other than that, people want to get tickets to see the Cardinals, the Yankees, the Mets and the Pirates when they come to town. If the team had an owner, a better name, and a television contract, I think things would be different.

I really want to be a fan of the Washington Nationals. But I am not finding it to be easy.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Recent Biographies

I have been inundated with messages of appreciation from readers for my Clemenceau review, and I wish I could thank every one of you. Unfortunately, that would be impossible. I would have no time to eat or sleep.

But, I thought you might be interested in knowing what other biographies I have recently read. Let me know if you wish more detailed reviews of any of these books, and I will see what I can do.

I have read, over the past few months, a fair number of interesting biographies and memoirs. Here goes.

Until you read a biography of Churchill, it is impossible to realize the unique combination of human and superhuman traits in him. The biography that I read was by Roy Jenkins. It is interesting that Jenkins has been a major English politician over decades and decades, while writing scholarly book after book, as well as serving as Chancellor of Oxford. Just like his subject Churchill, who was basically a writer and journalist, starting with his coverage of the Boer War in South Africa, and including his multi-volume History of the English People, and History of World War II, while he was saving Britain and western civilization, and giving vent to his many idiosyncracies.

Jenkins has written massive biographies of a multitude of political and literary personages. Were they all 800 pages, like his Churchill biography? I don't know. But, what is even more amazing, is that Jenkins wrote his Churchill biography, when he was already in his 80s. (Roy Jenkins, Churchill: A Biography, Plume (Penguin), New York 2002)

And, of course, remember the Churchill comparison with Clemenceau, another politician/journalist/author, and, in his case, the embodiment of France, as Churchill was of England.

But I also read the second volume of Edmund Morris's prize winning biography of Theodore Roosevelt, which started with the death of McKinley, and Teddy's ascension to the presidency. Roosevelt was another man, whose strengths and pecadillos both seem super human. After reading Morris' book, I turned to a biography of Edith Kermit Roosevelt, Teddy's second wife, written by, of all people, Morris' wife, Sylvia Jukes Morris. (Sylvia Jukes Morris, Edith Kermit Roosevelt: Portrait of a First Lady, Modern Library Paperback, New York 2001, originally published 1980) Her biography is as much the story of Theodore as of Edith, and paints not a conflicting, but a complementary picture of the president. What is interesting is that Sylvia wrote her book almost twenty years before Edmund wrote his. Did Sylvia influence Edmund in his subject matter? Perhaps. Sylvia's biography is quite well written; but Edmund's prose is superior.

All biographies are not well written, and not about world famous people. I read Wayne Brown's "Edna Manley: the Private Years 1900-1938", the story of the wife of Jamaica's first prime minister, Norman Manley and mother of its fourth, Michael Manley. Edna Manley was a first class sculptor, and their story is one of a mixed race marriage, when such were almost unknown. The story was interesting, and the pictures of Manley's works inspiring. The writing was pedestrian and my guess is that the author was not originally planning on stopping in 1938, but just got tired. But had I not picked up and read the book, think of the stories I would have missed. On the other hand, had the book continued, I am not certain that I would have. (Wayne Brown, Edna Manley: the Private Years 1900-1938, Andre Deutsch, London 1975)

As some books appear pedestrian, others appear extraordinary. Such as Amos Oz's new memoir, A Tale of Love and Darkness, which is the story of much of Jewish settlement in Palestine and Israel, as it is an autobiography of author and journalist Oz. (Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness, Harcourt, New York, 2004). I know many people who have already read this book. Everyone raves about it. It is not to be missed.

I also read an interesting biography of Theodor Herzl, which gave him a very human "boy next door" persona, by Desmond Stewart. I do not think it is one of the more widely read biographies of Herzl, and I recommend it highly (Desmond Stewart, Theodor Herzl, Doubleday, New York 1974)

One more recent biography was worth reading. That is T. J. Stiles' biography of Jesse James. (T.J. Stiles, Jesse James: Last Rebel of the Civil War, Knopf, New York 1996) Jesse James as outlaw, to be sure, and not a very sympathetic character. But also Jesse James as a Confederate soldier, and southern patriot. As a participant in the Missouri-Kansas border wars. As a symbol of the Confederacy and of the vanquished Confederates, an immediate and lasting folk hero.

I also did not know much (other than the obvious) about recent Indian history. I knew a little about Ghandi, but about the Nehrus. I read a volume by Prime Minister Nehru's sister, which is a family biography, and was just fascinating. The Indians and the English, the Hindus and the Moslems. A peaceful revolution based on universal brotherhood, followed by a split based on religious persuasion and extraordinary cruelness and violence. Like Clemenceau, Roosevelt, and Churchill, both Ghandi and Nehru were bigger than life. (Krishna Nehru Hutheesing, We Nehrus, Holt Rinehart Winston, New York 1967) Very much worth reading.

And there were a few I found to be klinkers (klinkers or klunkers? is there a distinction?). The most disappointing perhaps was the memoirs of Bob Schieffer, CBS newsman (Bob Schieffer, This Just In: What I Couldn't Tell You on TV, Berkeley, New York 2003). I had great hopes (based I am sad to say on Don Imus' review). Then I saw that Schieffer, in his book, thanks Imus for giving him the encouragement to write the book. Something amiss, I thought. And the book did not keep my interest for more than 20 pages or so. I gave up.

And finally, I could not get beyond five or six pages of Bernard Kerik's The Lost Son. Remember Kerik, the NYC police commissioner who was Bush's Homeland Security secretary nominee for about 3 minutes? His book appeared to me to be worth 3 minutes, as well.

All of these books (with the exception of the last two, but - who knows - maybe if I picked up the last two again, I would think about them differently) are worthy subjects of future articles on this blog. Let me know what you want to hear about.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Book Report 1: "Clemenceau and the Third Republic"

So, now and then I read a book that no one else has read for 50 years, if ever. So what?

This time it was "Clemenceau and the Third Republic" by Hampden Jackson (who he?), published by Macmillan in 1948 as part of a series called "Teach Yourself History". The book is about 4 x 6, 250 pages, and has the feel of a Modern Library book.

I wanted to know more about Georges Clemenceau. I just knew that he was the French representative at the Treat of Versailles ending World War I, and had a very imposing mustache. I thought there must be more to the story than that.

Clemenceau came from the Vendee (don't ask me; look it up in your atlas), where he landed family was none too wealthy, living in less than luxury, but his father, grandfather, etc. were trained physicians, freethinkers (meaning atheists), outspoken iconoclasts and eccentric individualists. Clemenceau too took on all of these traits as he grew.

He went to Paris for medical training, apparently a dedicated student but also spending time with other young French "Radicals", many of whom had before them important political careers. Rather than become a practitioner decided to go to America, to see the country most influenced by the French revolution, whose ideals he championed. He lived in the United States at the time of the civil war for four years, writing and lecturing, and meeting the woman who was to become his wife.

Shortly after their return to France, France and Prussia fought a war, one of the results of which was the overthrow of Louis Napolean and the creation of the French Third Republic. Suddenly it seemed that the ideals of the French revolution of 75 years before might be put into effect and, what was more, some of Clemenceau's friends were the politicians who were to be in charge.

He became more interested in local politics, becoming the mayor of Monmartre (still a separate city, not yet incorporated into Paris), and then a member of Paris Council, and finally of parliament. In parliament, he kept to his independent and outspoken ways, making some friends and probably more enemies. He learned quickly he was more at home as a critic than as a legislator. And the government of the time gave him much reason for criticism (think the financial scandals of the French company that was to have built the Panama Canal; think the Dreyfus case), and thus the basis for widespread notariety.

In 1906, for the first time, he agreed to take on a cabinet ministry, becoming Minister for Home Affairs. He was 65 at the time. His first task was to deal with a sudden, and expanding, coal mining strike. The radical Clemenceau, the man of the people, would have been expected to come down full on the side of the striking miners, but he did not. Instead, he orchestrated a settlement that gave each side something and reopened the mines. In this regard he was successful, but his means led to suspicions about his motives, and whether he was still holding the views he had previously maintained in the support of "the people".

For the next decade or so, he was in and out of government, depending on how the winds were blowing, and whom he offended. When he was not in government, he was writing, both books and newspaper columns. In 1914, when war broke out, the 73 year old Clemenceau wrote in "L'Homme Libre", "And now to arms! Everyone's chance will come: not a child on our soil but will have his part in the gigantic battle. To die is nothing; we must conquer."

In 1917, Clemenceau was called back to government, this time to form a government as premier. And he stayed in control throughout the remainder of the war, and then took control of the peace negotiations which he chaired because they were sited in France.

The peace negotiations were fascinating. From the perspective of the author, Clemenceau divided the tasks of the assembly into three: determining appropriate settlement terms and selling them to the conference delegates, convincing the defeated Germany and other defeated countries to sign, and selling the peace terms to the European parliaments and United States Congress that had to ratify them.

Clemenceau, now in his upper seventies, represented France by himself, keeping France's ministers and parliament often in the dark as to what he was doing. He took very strong positions at the start: heavy reparations on Germany, reconfiguration of German borders, giving the Saarland, and Alsace/Lorraine to France for example, and looking for the creation of an independent occupied country between France and the west bank of the Rhine. This was in line with the thinking of most of the French people.

But it is not what Wilson or Lloyd George had in mind, and Clemenceau compromised with them on a number of principals to create peace terms that all could agree on. The result was, yes, a treaty, for better or for worse as it turned out. But, for Clemenceau, he wound up in a lose/lose situation. His countrymen thought that he had gone soft; his allies thought that he was too vituperative and too tough.

After the treaty was signed, Clemenceau went into retirement. He lived another 10 years, dying just short of 90. He was no longer a factor in French politics, but in French memory. He started as an anti-government radical, when in power he took power into his own hands, continuing his distrust in government. He acted alone, and he died alone.

Jackson compares him to Churchill, which seems quite an apt description, from the biography he has written.

Is the book worth reading? Yes, if you find the subject interesting. But unless you borrow it from me, will you ever find the book?

How accurate is my synopsis. I would guess 80%. Not too bad, for a blog, right?

I was interested in the quote above at the start of the war: French jingoism. Particularly in connection with a chapter in another book I have recently written, "The Pity of it All" by Amos Elon, which tells the story of Jews in Germany from 1743-1933. Another book I highly recommend and one you can find, since it was written in 2003.

Chapter 9 of that book, called "War Fever" tells of the feelings in Germany at the start of the first world war. Equally enthusiastic. As if the war would save a society which had lost its way.

If I get the time, I will do an article on that topic. Enthusiasm at the start of World War I, as if the countries of Europe were embarking on a picnic, which will be oh, so much fun. Why was that? And what, if anything, does it mean for us?

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Gone With the Wind #1

According to today's Washington Post, in an article about Ethiopian emigrees returning to Ethiopia, in a paragraph about art and literature in Ethiopia, "While imprisoned from 1977 to 1987 for running a student movement, Nobiy Mekonnen, now editor of the newspaper Addis Admas, gained international honors for translating the entire text of "Gone With the Wind" on 3,000 torn cigarette packets."

This raises any number of questions, none of which I am going to ask.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Saturday morning

I decided to watch television this morning. Rather unusual, but I thought I should know what is available, so I turned on channel 4 (WRC-TV), the NBC affiliate in Washington, at 8:30, and watched until about 10:30, when I left the house.

At 8:30, I turned on the Saturday morning Today show, which either is not supposed to be a news show, or falls so far short of the mark, it really should be embarrassed. Now, I don't know what happened on this show before 8:30, but the last half hour was completely devoid of information. I missed the first sentence at 8:30 sharp, so I know that the two hosts are Lester and Campbell, but am not sure what their last names are. They seem adequate hosts, if only they had adequate material.

The first order of business of the half hour was local weather, given by Chuck Bell, who did a very good job and who I saw repeatedly between 8:30 and 10. I think he was a substitute.

After the weather, we went back to Campbell and right into a long feature on container gardening. Pick a big container, but if you live in a little apartment, it should not be too big. Use good soil. Use fertilizer. Use something to enable to water to be held at the bottom. The guest was P. Allen Smith, of a company called P. Allen Smith Container Gardening, Inc. He must be a regular, because he was told it was always nice to have you back. He recommended mixing species in a pot, with a spreading plant, a vertical plant and a bushy plant, all with color.

We then had eight (!!!) commercials in a row: Sears, Cottonelle, Ocean Spray, Mutual of Omaha, Jif, Discover Card, Payless, and Lending Tree.

Then Lester spoke to Suze Orman, the financial whiz (give me a break), who has just written a book for twenty-somethings on money management and whose tv show tonight on CNBC was being touted. So this (like P. Allen Smith) was really an advertisement. Anyway, Orman advised young employed individuals not to use cash advance cards, because the interest rates are too high, and hope that they maximized school loans, because the rates are low. She said to get a relatively low interest credit card and not to be afraid to use it for your needs (which included groceries and wardrobe), but not to take your friends to dinner. She said that 401K plans at the office should only be used to the extent there is an employer match; as soon as you reach the match, put your money elsewhere, where it is more accessible. I think some of this advice is questionable. But what do I know?

Then four more commercials (Chesapeake Club crabs, Freddie Mac Foundation, H.R. Block and Payless Shoes), followed by Campbell and a young woman named Suze (that is two Suze's) Yalof Schwartz, who is a fashion editor at Glamour Magazine (another commercial), who had five or six models showing that bright colors were important. Their clothes were OK, but each model was a walking advertisement for J. Crew, Coach, Gap, Mizrachi-Target, Express, DKNY and TBI.

Followed by six commercials (International Delight -- could not quite tell what this was; seemed to take the place of coffee and make you really happy), Van de Kamp frozen fish, Olay, Lamisil (the best for nail fungus - but watch those side effects), Flash to check your blood sugar level, and Restatis for dry eye - did they really say that the biggest side effect was a "brain sensation"?).

Then, the shoe was over.

After two more commercials (Next Day Blinds and Verizon DSL), the 9:00 local news show started, with Shannon Bream and Eun Yang. This show, as opposed to Today, was primarily a new show, and worth watching.

It stated with Chuck Bell and the weather again, and then over the first ten minutes or so, reported a number of stories, well and succint. A cab driver was killed on South Dakota Ave., SE, two people were shot in SE D.C., Cordozo High School may or may not be open Monday after the second mercury clean up, an Italian journalist was released after a month captivity in Iraq and shot by Americans on her way home, four U.S. soldiers were killed in Anwar province, 125 soldiers came back to Ft. Meade after 13 months in Iraq, and potholes are being repaired. This was pretty good. And was followed by Wally Bruckner with sports, which was also well done, with stories about the Wizards' loss, NFL signings, the upcoming Nats-Orioles game, and women's ACC basketball. So for ten or no minutes, there was commercial free news.

Then a 5 commercial break: FreddieMac Foundation, AAMCO, Target, Chilean Fruit at Giant, and an advertisement for employment opportunities at Channel 4.

Then two quick stories, done with network video feeds: the pope's health and Martha Stewart's first day home.

Then back to ads, this time for the Ellen Degeneris show, Haverty's (a furniture store I never heard of), Empire Carpet, Ruby Tuesday, E.P. Henry (swimming pools), and Bob Evans sausages.

There was then a rather long, probably too long, feature on mailmen picking up food for delivery to food banks, with the USPS Washington district manager being interiewed, and then a more complete weather forecast, and another sports report, with some duplication and some new. The Wizards story was more complete, and a story of the Ford Doral gold tournament (coincidentally, being telecast for 3 hours in channel 4 that afternoon).

Just before 9:30, a large number of ads: for upcoming shows (Full Court Press and Chris Matthews), a Cheaspeake Bay environmental organization, Hechts, SONA (Laser hair removal), Housevalues.com, and the Washington Post.

The news was re-run, with updates, at 9:30. The cab driver murder, Cordozo H.S. mercury, the Italian journalist. Then the weather again, followed by a report on an 88 year old accused of molesting a 13 year old in Virginia, and a report on the status of the still-closed Club U Street. Then a story on a double shooting in Landover, which seems like it could have been the same shooting describing earlier as a D.C. shooting. But, this was not made clear.

Then stories on the missing 9 year old in Florida and was her grandfather involved, and the Blake murder trial and the Michael Jackson trial, followed by five commercials: NBC's The Contender, Re/Max, Sears Optical, Bath Fitter, and Express Homebuyers.

Then the much too early St. Patrick's Day parade in Alexandria (with footage of what must have been a previous year), and Arch Campbell's movie reviews: from good to bad - Million dollar Baby, the Aviator, Schultze, Be Cool, Gunner Palace, Mad Black, Housing of Flying Dragons, the Jacket, Constantine, the Pacifier.

Ads for It's Academic (the next show), Verizon DSL, Toyota, a carpet company called America Now (why not?), and Hour Eyes.

There was then a brief, and weird, feature on Yahoo cell phone games. It was certainly not time sensitive. Unclear why it was there. Then again weather and again sports (this time mainly repeat stories), and then a "good bye", followed by six more ads: E.P. Henry (repeat), Macy's, Empire Carpet (repeat), Chilean Fruit (repeat), Sona (repeat) and the McLaughlin Group.

Then, at 10:00 P.M., one of the 44th year shows of It's Academic, where Georgetown Day came in first, LaPlata second, and Oakton High last.

This is where I signed off. There were two shows coming up for young children, Kenny the Shark, and Tutenstein, and two shows for somewhat older kids (I think), Trading Spaces and Endurance: Hawaii, each of which seem to be adult show take-offs.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Friday night

We had halibut. And mushrooms. And greens. And red peppers. And poppy seed challah.

Some people had squash and polenta. I did not.

I did have one half of a baked apple. It was hot.

Then I had a cup of coffee and created a blog.

Did I thank my daughter Hannah for helping me with this blog? If I didn't, one day I will. But now, I have to go to sleep.

Blogs are a lot of fun. I wish I had more.

Sincerely yours,

Show-Me.

By the way, you who are my friends, can call me Show.

Blog Entry #1

Thanks to my daughter Hannah for her invaluable assistance in helping me create my blog.

She did this out of the goodness of her heart, without any ulterior motive (I pay her car insurance.)

This is my blog.