Yesterday, there were two surprises.
First, when we went with friends to see The Forgotten Opera Company's "Don Giovanni", we learned that the Forgotten Opera Company had forgotten to tell us that their production had been postponed to November.
Second, when we went to Joe Theismann's Restaurant and Sports Bar for dinner (it was near the Alexandria VA venue of the opera-that-wasn't), and expected mediocre food at best, we had excellent, first-class salmon and trout.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Wiggins Ozark Camp (Part two of two) [6 cents]
I looked up Wiggins Ozark Camp on the web, and found only one entry, on a map of Lesterville MO, prepared by the federal agency, it shows, among many other things, the Wiggins Ozark Camp Dam. I think it is this dam that blocked the water in the man-made lower lake, and I think that there was a connection between the lake and the pool below. I have no idea what one would find there now.
I am trying to remember my activities at camp. You would think that would be easy, but it isn't. I remember two activities fairly vividly: horseback riding and Black River float trips. I remember the pool, but not really what I did there. I remember very little about being on the lake, and even less about the arts and crafts. I remember a lot of time talking to my fellow campers, and remember that one of the counsellors like to tell ghost stories, that to me were very scary. (Like the one where someone found a leg under their covers, and their hair turned white immediately).
Oh, yes, I remember the Sunday morning non-denominational religious services outside at a place with benches and a little stage. I remember we used to say the lord's prayer, which I of course refused to say, and I remember a discussion with Wiglet, where I told her that the service was not non-sectarian because they said the lord's prayer. She said that Jesus' name was not in the lord's prayer, so it was all right. I looked at her like she must be a little nuts, and said, but Jesus said the lord's prayer! It was a stand-off. I know they were trying to be non-sectarian. I would guess that the camp (like every camp, school, office, etc. that I have ever been in) wasa 1/3 Jewish or so, but the Wiggins taught in Kirkwood, and Kirkwood had nobody Jewish in it, I was sure of that, and therefore was as far away from my personal experience as Bangladesh (which of course did not exist at the time), so what did they know?
The horses were where I spent most of my time. I think we were pretty free to choose activities. I actually remember the horses better than the people. There was Misty, tan with a dark mane, Sunset, red with a blond mane, Red, all red, Dan and Charlie, both old and dappled white, Fire (who I thik looked like Red), and that is about as far as I can go. We rode, saddled and bridled the horses, fed them, kept them groomed, kept the stables sort of clean, and so forth. Although my experience on run-away Misty (reported earlier) was not confidence inspiring, I actually became a fairly good rider and was very comfortable on horses. We rode western, and had a lot of territory to traverse, including fields, trails, hills, valleys, creeks and everything else you could imagine. Even abandoned farms and roads. I think rides usually went one or two hours. We went back behind the barn, through another gate, passed the upper lake (which I think was natural) and then usually got our choice where we wanted to go. We walked, we trotted, we cantored. We never seemed to have an accident or get hurt. (One time, I did fall into a creek when my horse was drinking, and took a strange and unexpected turn, but it was a hot day, and all was well.)
I had mentioned in the last post that if you kept on the road past the camp, you were on your way to Johnson Shut-in State Park. This is still a state park, and was a place where the river (maybe the Black) pocketed so you could climb over rocks and see pools between the rocks where the water wound up, and could jump in and swim and so forth. Hard to explain (largely, because hard to remember). We would go there once in a while in the camp bus. On the way, we would see C.R. Burroughs.
Every term (that is, twice a summer), we would take an overnight (maybe two nights for the older kids) float trip down the Black River. Sort of lazy floats, where we would talk, swim, fish, cook food over open fires, and sleep in sleeping bags (no tents on the rock banks of the river. I think there were also some trips on the Current River, which had more flow to it, but I never went on them, and maybe there weren't any. We also went on canoe trips on the Black, and that was great fun, because of the easy rapids, and the deep pools. After doing the floats and canoe trips a few times, you got to know the river, and what to expect around the next bend. It was rare that we saw any other people on these trips. I am not sure what it would be like today.
After I stopped going to Wiggins, my horseback riding waw very sporadic. But as long as I was in St. Louis, I would go on Current, Black or White River canoe trips. It has been a long time, though.
I was thinking about my friend, Danny, and I thought maybe he was only there the first year I went. I am not sure. And maybe we discovered that we really weren't good friends when we were there, because I don't remember much about us together. I remember other kids, such as Harold, who was sort of a practical joker, much better. And David and Steve from Evansville. And Ron, who later had a nervous breakdown at Swarthmore and has not been the same since.
I do remember once walking by the lower lake with Danny, and he said something to me that, even as a 12 year old, or so, I thought too profound for my meager brain. He said, "Arthur, you know, when people meet us, they have no idea how smart we are. It's really great. We just don't look smart."
This actually caused shivers to go down my spine. I had always thought myself to be pretty smart. Now I knew that I didn't look smart to other people and particularly, Danny, who knew me better than anyone else didn't think I appeared smart. And if I wasn't smart, what was I? And what was the purpose of being smart, if others didn't think you were smart?
Maybe this is when I decided Danny and I were not meant for each other.
I am trying to remember my activities at camp. You would think that would be easy, but it isn't. I remember two activities fairly vividly: horseback riding and Black River float trips. I remember the pool, but not really what I did there. I remember very little about being on the lake, and even less about the arts and crafts. I remember a lot of time talking to my fellow campers, and remember that one of the counsellors like to tell ghost stories, that to me were very scary. (Like the one where someone found a leg under their covers, and their hair turned white immediately).
Oh, yes, I remember the Sunday morning non-denominational religious services outside at a place with benches and a little stage. I remember we used to say the lord's prayer, which I of course refused to say, and I remember a discussion with Wiglet, where I told her that the service was not non-sectarian because they said the lord's prayer. She said that Jesus' name was not in the lord's prayer, so it was all right. I looked at her like she must be a little nuts, and said, but Jesus said the lord's prayer! It was a stand-off. I know they were trying to be non-sectarian. I would guess that the camp (like every camp, school, office, etc. that I have ever been in) wasa 1/3 Jewish or so, but the Wiggins taught in Kirkwood, and Kirkwood had nobody Jewish in it, I was sure of that, and therefore was as far away from my personal experience as Bangladesh (which of course did not exist at the time), so what did they know?
The horses were where I spent most of my time. I think we were pretty free to choose activities. I actually remember the horses better than the people. There was Misty, tan with a dark mane, Sunset, red with a blond mane, Red, all red, Dan and Charlie, both old and dappled white, Fire (who I thik looked like Red), and that is about as far as I can go. We rode, saddled and bridled the horses, fed them, kept them groomed, kept the stables sort of clean, and so forth. Although my experience on run-away Misty (reported earlier) was not confidence inspiring, I actually became a fairly good rider and was very comfortable on horses. We rode western, and had a lot of territory to traverse, including fields, trails, hills, valleys, creeks and everything else you could imagine. Even abandoned farms and roads. I think rides usually went one or two hours. We went back behind the barn, through another gate, passed the upper lake (which I think was natural) and then usually got our choice where we wanted to go. We walked, we trotted, we cantored. We never seemed to have an accident or get hurt. (One time, I did fall into a creek when my horse was drinking, and took a strange and unexpected turn, but it was a hot day, and all was well.)
I had mentioned in the last post that if you kept on the road past the camp, you were on your way to Johnson Shut-in State Park. This is still a state park, and was a place where the river (maybe the Black) pocketed so you could climb over rocks and see pools between the rocks where the water wound up, and could jump in and swim and so forth. Hard to explain (largely, because hard to remember). We would go there once in a while in the camp bus. On the way, we would see C.R. Burroughs.
Every term (that is, twice a summer), we would take an overnight (maybe two nights for the older kids) float trip down the Black River. Sort of lazy floats, where we would talk, swim, fish, cook food over open fires, and sleep in sleeping bags (no tents on the rock banks of the river. I think there were also some trips on the Current River, which had more flow to it, but I never went on them, and maybe there weren't any. We also went on canoe trips on the Black, and that was great fun, because of the easy rapids, and the deep pools. After doing the floats and canoe trips a few times, you got to know the river, and what to expect around the next bend. It was rare that we saw any other people on these trips. I am not sure what it would be like today.
After I stopped going to Wiggins, my horseback riding waw very sporadic. But as long as I was in St. Louis, I would go on Current, Black or White River canoe trips. It has been a long time, though.
I was thinking about my friend, Danny, and I thought maybe he was only there the first year I went. I am not sure. And maybe we discovered that we really weren't good friends when we were there, because I don't remember much about us together. I remember other kids, such as Harold, who was sort of a practical joker, much better. And David and Steve from Evansville. And Ron, who later had a nervous breakdown at Swarthmore and has not been the same since.
I do remember once walking by the lower lake with Danny, and he said something to me that, even as a 12 year old, or so, I thought too profound for my meager brain. He said, "Arthur, you know, when people meet us, they have no idea how smart we are. It's really great. We just don't look smart."
This actually caused shivers to go down my spine. I had always thought myself to be pretty smart. Now I knew that I didn't look smart to other people and particularly, Danny, who knew me better than anyone else didn't think I appeared smart. And if I wasn't smart, what was I? And what was the purpose of being smart, if others didn't think you were smart?
Maybe this is when I decided Danny and I were not meant for each other.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wiggins Ozark Camp (Part One of Two)
Many of you have been hounding me to write a little about Wiggins Ozark Camp, where I went for eight weeks for two summer, when I was about 12 and 13 (or so).
Wiggins Ozark Camp was located just outside of Lesterville, Missouri, population 164. My memory (all of this is from my memory) says that Lesterville is in Reynolds County, the county which adjoins Iron County, whose county seat is Ironton, about twenty miles away and the local big city. There were two other camps in the vicinity that kids from St. Louis attended, Taum Sauk and Zoe.
I am not sure how I go to Wiggins, except that my then best friend, Danny, went there, and I assume between my parents and his, this was a package deal. Danny was my best friend in 4th and 5th grade, before we moved from Clayton to Ladue. Then we drifted apart, and his mother died of leukemia (I think it was leukemia) and his father, Charles, whom everyone called Chili, closed their children's clothing store in Clayton, sold the house with the deep pile shag rugs, and moved with Danny and his sister(s) back to Texas, where he was from. I have no idea what happened to Danny.
I think Lesterville was about 3 hours southwest of St. Louis. The ride, on two lane highways, was a pretty one, but the highlight was stopping in Potosi for jellly donuts. How we discovered jelly donuts in Potosi, whether they really were the world's best jelly donuts, and whether anyone but us stopped there, I am not sure. But I reallly looked forward to the jelly donuts in Potosi.
After you drove though Lesterville (on the road that would take you to Johnson's Shut-In State Park), you saw a mailbox on the right by a dirt road, which said "C.R. Burroughs". Farmer Burroughs (who had no burros, and none that he wanted you to see) shared the entrance road with the camp. The road to the camp went back about, maybe half a mile or so, a typical one lane dirt road with a grass strip in the middle, and then you went through a wooden gate that at one time had been painted white.
The camp was not large, and it was pretty rustic, I think. There was the boys section and the girls section. The boys section had four cabins, each of which probably held about twenty boys. The cabins were The Guillotine, The Gallows, Grant's Tomb, and Lee's Tomb. I don't know if the girls cabins had equally evocative names; I think not.
When you drove into the camp, you saw a field in front of you and to the right, and a hillside rising to the left. In the field at the far end was the swimming pool. You drove by the pool up a hill, and you were in another open space. Here was the lower lake, which I think was a man made lake, with a small dock, and a lot of canoes. The hill still rose to the left. After you went past the lake the road split in three directions. To the right were the boys cabins. Straight ahead was another gate, in back of which was a larger field. To the immediate right was the building where you did arts and crafts (so to speak), and the horse barn was at the far end of the field. If you took the road to the left at the split, you would swing around and wind up at the top of the hill. There you would find the main lodge, which is where the camp offices were, and where we ate. In back of the main lodge were the girls' cabins.
That was the physical layout.
The camp was owned by Emil Wiggins (known as Wig) and his wife, known as Wiglet. Wig was a coach (teacher?) at Kirkwood High School, in suburban St. Louis; I don't know what Wiglet did. Wig was sort of a big guy, and Wiglet was probably about 4 foot 8 inches tall, and walked with a limp. Their daughter Sue was a counsellor; she was quite attractive. Jerry was my first counseller. He had very big muscles, and looked extraordinarily. Eventually, he married Sue and took over the camp. But now the camp is long gone. I don't know what happened to Sue and Jerry.
My assistant counseler was Steve, who somehow I knew, maybe. He did not have big muscles. He was sort of a stocky guy, and he liked to have his back rubbed. He decided that I should be the back rubber, something which I hated doing, but he was the boss, and I had to do that on a regular basis. I don't remember the other counselers. There was a guy whose last name might have been Schneider. He was mainly interested in the girls, I think. We had all sorts of stories about what happened on the counsellors' nights off. The campers got no nights off.
A lot of the kids came from St. Louis, but not everyone. I remember kids from Chicago, and from Evansville, Indiana. They were impressed because our St. Louis newspaper had daily comics in color. Even Chicago did not have that!
I remember getting the newspaper every day. (I don't think kids at camp today do that.). There were also no laundry facilities at camp, and we mailed our laundry home in metal laundry boxes every month. That really seems weird to me; it seemed equally weird to me then. I was always worried about running out of clothes, and about the laundry not coming. So, I think I wore the same clothes day after day after day.
The food was OK, I recall. Each meal was accompanied by different flavor "bug juice", which I think was cool aid. There was also milk, but I never liked milk. At home, I would drink chocolate milk (or Ovaltine) some times, but never white milk. Wiglet wanted to get me to eat milk, and one morning at breakfast she said to me: "If you don't want to drink milk, that is OK. I never drank milk when I was young and I turned out OK". That convinced me. Wiglet, who looked pretty old to me, and walked with this limp. If I did not drink milk, I would wind up like her. Her limp was due to not drinking milk. I started drinking milk.
Wiggins Ozark Camp was located just outside of Lesterville, Missouri, population 164. My memory (all of this is from my memory) says that Lesterville is in Reynolds County, the county which adjoins Iron County, whose county seat is Ironton, about twenty miles away and the local big city. There were two other camps in the vicinity that kids from St. Louis attended, Taum Sauk and Zoe.
I am not sure how I go to Wiggins, except that my then best friend, Danny, went there, and I assume between my parents and his, this was a package deal. Danny was my best friend in 4th and 5th grade, before we moved from Clayton to Ladue. Then we drifted apart, and his mother died of leukemia (I think it was leukemia) and his father, Charles, whom everyone called Chili, closed their children's clothing store in Clayton, sold the house with the deep pile shag rugs, and moved with Danny and his sister(s) back to Texas, where he was from. I have no idea what happened to Danny.
I think Lesterville was about 3 hours southwest of St. Louis. The ride, on two lane highways, was a pretty one, but the highlight was stopping in Potosi for jellly donuts. How we discovered jelly donuts in Potosi, whether they really were the world's best jelly donuts, and whether anyone but us stopped there, I am not sure. But I reallly looked forward to the jelly donuts in Potosi.
After you drove though Lesterville (on the road that would take you to Johnson's Shut-In State Park), you saw a mailbox on the right by a dirt road, which said "C.R. Burroughs". Farmer Burroughs (who had no burros, and none that he wanted you to see) shared the entrance road with the camp. The road to the camp went back about, maybe half a mile or so, a typical one lane dirt road with a grass strip in the middle, and then you went through a wooden gate that at one time had been painted white.
The camp was not large, and it was pretty rustic, I think. There was the boys section and the girls section. The boys section had four cabins, each of which probably held about twenty boys. The cabins were The Guillotine, The Gallows, Grant's Tomb, and Lee's Tomb. I don't know if the girls cabins had equally evocative names; I think not.
When you drove into the camp, you saw a field in front of you and to the right, and a hillside rising to the left. In the field at the far end was the swimming pool. You drove by the pool up a hill, and you were in another open space. Here was the lower lake, which I think was a man made lake, with a small dock, and a lot of canoes. The hill still rose to the left. After you went past the lake the road split in three directions. To the right were the boys cabins. Straight ahead was another gate, in back of which was a larger field. To the immediate right was the building where you did arts and crafts (so to speak), and the horse barn was at the far end of the field. If you took the road to the left at the split, you would swing around and wind up at the top of the hill. There you would find the main lodge, which is where the camp offices were, and where we ate. In back of the main lodge were the girls' cabins.
That was the physical layout.
The camp was owned by Emil Wiggins (known as Wig) and his wife, known as Wiglet. Wig was a coach (teacher?) at Kirkwood High School, in suburban St. Louis; I don't know what Wiglet did. Wig was sort of a big guy, and Wiglet was probably about 4 foot 8 inches tall, and walked with a limp. Their daughter Sue was a counsellor; she was quite attractive. Jerry was my first counseller. He had very big muscles, and looked extraordinarily. Eventually, he married Sue and took over the camp. But now the camp is long gone. I don't know what happened to Sue and Jerry.
My assistant counseler was Steve, who somehow I knew, maybe. He did not have big muscles. He was sort of a stocky guy, and he liked to have his back rubbed. He decided that I should be the back rubber, something which I hated doing, but he was the boss, and I had to do that on a regular basis. I don't remember the other counselers. There was a guy whose last name might have been Schneider. He was mainly interested in the girls, I think. We had all sorts of stories about what happened on the counsellors' nights off. The campers got no nights off.
A lot of the kids came from St. Louis, but not everyone. I remember kids from Chicago, and from Evansville, Indiana. They were impressed because our St. Louis newspaper had daily comics in color. Even Chicago did not have that!
I remember getting the newspaper every day. (I don't think kids at camp today do that.). There were also no laundry facilities at camp, and we mailed our laundry home in metal laundry boxes every month. That really seems weird to me; it seemed equally weird to me then. I was always worried about running out of clothes, and about the laundry not coming. So, I think I wore the same clothes day after day after day.
The food was OK, I recall. Each meal was accompanied by different flavor "bug juice", which I think was cool aid. There was also milk, but I never liked milk. At home, I would drink chocolate milk (or Ovaltine) some times, but never white milk. Wiglet wanted to get me to eat milk, and one morning at breakfast she said to me: "If you don't want to drink milk, that is OK. I never drank milk when I was young and I turned out OK". That convinced me. Wiglet, who looked pretty old to me, and walked with this limp. If I did not drink milk, I would wind up like her. Her limp was due to not drinking milk. I started drinking milk.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Did I Hear it Right? [2 cents]
I turned on Fox News tonight for the first time (maybe) and it sounded to me that their motto is now:
"Fair, unbalanced and at the speed of lies"
Is that correct?
They need something catchier. Like......"Fox News. You can trust us to guard your chicken coop."
"Fair, unbalanced and at the speed of lies"
Is that correct?
They need something catchier. Like......"Fox News. You can trust us to guard your chicken coop."
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Question for the Ethicist
I go into a used book store in a small town. I have not been in the town or book store before and may not ever be there again. But I might be.
The book store is not fancy. It has a large selection of comic books, and a very mediocre selection of normal hard back books.
The book store has one person working there. She and her husband have owned the store for 17 years. It is their retirement business. The community they live in is not what you would call an upscale community, but it is in an area where there are a large number of wealthy people with weekend homes.
The books are priced on the first inside page. Most are priced in the $3 to $5 range. If they had any expensively priced books, I did not see them. They certainly do not stock rare items.
I found a book that I decided to buy for $5. On my way out, I saw another book that had always interested me, but a European statesman that I respected. The book was about 40 years old; the author died about 35 years ago. I pulled the book out and looked at it more carefully, and discovered - to my absolute surprise - that it was signed by the author in 1966, when he was about 85 years old. There was no question but that the signature was genuine.
I knew the book was valuable. I looked for the price. And, this turned out to be the only book that I saw in the store that did not have a price on it.
I took the two books to the proprietor and told her that I wanted to buy them, but that the one did not have a price on it. I did not tell her about the signature, or my assumption of value. She said: "It doesn't happen often, but sometimes my husband misses pricing a book." She looked at the book (I would say "fairly carefully") to see if she could find a marked price. One of the pages she opened to was the page with the signature. She said: "How about $3?" I said fine, paid by $8 plus tax and left.
Is what I did ethical? Should I have actually called her attention to the signature, and told her that this was a very hard signature to find, etc.?
I got home, and looked the book up on the internet (www.abebooks.com) to see if there were any signed copies available. There was one for sale, for $2900.00.
Does this very high price change anything in the answer to the question as to whether or not I did the right thing?
Should I do something different now?
The book store is not fancy. It has a large selection of comic books, and a very mediocre selection of normal hard back books.
The book store has one person working there. She and her husband have owned the store for 17 years. It is their retirement business. The community they live in is not what you would call an upscale community, but it is in an area where there are a large number of wealthy people with weekend homes.
The books are priced on the first inside page. Most are priced in the $3 to $5 range. If they had any expensively priced books, I did not see them. They certainly do not stock rare items.
I found a book that I decided to buy for $5. On my way out, I saw another book that had always interested me, but a European statesman that I respected. The book was about 40 years old; the author died about 35 years ago. I pulled the book out and looked at it more carefully, and discovered - to my absolute surprise - that it was signed by the author in 1966, when he was about 85 years old. There was no question but that the signature was genuine.
I knew the book was valuable. I looked for the price. And, this turned out to be the only book that I saw in the store that did not have a price on it.
I took the two books to the proprietor and told her that I wanted to buy them, but that the one did not have a price on it. I did not tell her about the signature, or my assumption of value. She said: "It doesn't happen often, but sometimes my husband misses pricing a book." She looked at the book (I would say "fairly carefully") to see if she could find a marked price. One of the pages she opened to was the page with the signature. She said: "How about $3?" I said fine, paid by $8 plus tax and left.
Is what I did ethical? Should I have actually called her attention to the signature, and told her that this was a very hard signature to find, etc.?
I got home, and looked the book up on the internet (www.abebooks.com) to see if there were any signed copies available. There was one for sale, for $2900.00.
Does this very high price change anything in the answer to the question as to whether or not I did the right thing?
Should I do something different now?
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Zips Up Your Mouth
I know that I have written about my upscale dry cleaners, Zips, before, but there is so much to say. I have previously expressed wonder at the efficiency of the Spanish speaking staff, in dealing with their English speaking clientele. I have wondered how they do it. Could it be the work of their hacienda overseer, the 300 pound Anglo?
Today, I got to Zips as they were opening, and Anglo was my customer service representative. I thought I would get an answer to my question. And I did. The answer is that the credit must lie elsewhere.
I do not know very much about Anglo, except that his medical history is apparent from even a brief encounter. At some time in his past, Anglo had a personalitiectomy. And a very successful one, for every single aspect of his personality was totally obliterated. And with it, his ability to speak English, a language that he must have learned as a child because he betrays no accent whatsoever.
But his vocabulary is limited, and odd. He certainly does attempt to converse with his customers. Each of his conversations appear to run a pattern: a Greeting, a Question, and a Salutation.
1. The Greeting.
He has forgotten words like "hello" or "good morning", and uses instead a simple monosyllabic word: "Next". He speaks without emotion. I respond as flatly as I can: "Thank you, and next to you as well."
2. The Question.
In order to demonstrate his interest in you, he asks a question which I assume is meant to be something like: "And what do you feel like doing today?" A very nice, homey question, don't you think?
Of course, these are not his words. Again, he simplifies. "Starch", he asks. You see that I did not put a ? after his question. This is because his voice does not rise at the end of "starch". It is as if he just hangs the word out there in front of you. But you know it is a question because, when he asks it, he raises the index finger on his left hand about 3/4 of an inch and holds it over his register/computer keyboard, until you answer. If you give him what he considers an appropriate answer, the finger is gently lowered.
When asked "Starch" this morning, I responded: "Yes, it is really a fine day for starch, isn't it?" This did not appear to satisfy him. His finger did not move for a split instance. But then it lowered. I had a hard time reading his face (which hadn't changed a bit since "Next"), but I guess once he thought about my response, it was OK.
3. The Salutation.
This is the one part of his conversation that actually varies. Today, he said: "Twelve ninety-two". I responded "Twelve ninety-two." He repeated "Twelve ninety-two".
As I was coming home, I thought to myself. Maybe I was wrong about the personalitiectomy. And about his Anglo ancestry. Maybe he is an alien, who had a humanectomy. It is possible, but if this is in fact what happened, the operation was not a success.
Today, I got to Zips as they were opening, and Anglo was my customer service representative. I thought I would get an answer to my question. And I did. The answer is that the credit must lie elsewhere.
I do not know very much about Anglo, except that his medical history is apparent from even a brief encounter. At some time in his past, Anglo had a personalitiectomy. And a very successful one, for every single aspect of his personality was totally obliterated. And with it, his ability to speak English, a language that he must have learned as a child because he betrays no accent whatsoever.
But his vocabulary is limited, and odd. He certainly does attempt to converse with his customers. Each of his conversations appear to run a pattern: a Greeting, a Question, and a Salutation.
1. The Greeting.
He has forgotten words like "hello" or "good morning", and uses instead a simple monosyllabic word: "Next". He speaks without emotion. I respond as flatly as I can: "Thank you, and next to you as well."
2. The Question.
In order to demonstrate his interest in you, he asks a question which I assume is meant to be something like: "And what do you feel like doing today?" A very nice, homey question, don't you think?
Of course, these are not his words. Again, he simplifies. "Starch", he asks. You see that I did not put a ? after his question. This is because his voice does not rise at the end of "starch". It is as if he just hangs the word out there in front of you. But you know it is a question because, when he asks it, he raises the index finger on his left hand about 3/4 of an inch and holds it over his register/computer keyboard, until you answer. If you give him what he considers an appropriate answer, the finger is gently lowered.
When asked "Starch" this morning, I responded: "Yes, it is really a fine day for starch, isn't it?" This did not appear to satisfy him. His finger did not move for a split instance. But then it lowered. I had a hard time reading his face (which hadn't changed a bit since "Next"), but I guess once he thought about my response, it was OK.
3. The Salutation.
This is the one part of his conversation that actually varies. Today, he said: "Twelve ninety-two". I responded "Twelve ninety-two." He repeated "Twelve ninety-two".
As I was coming home, I thought to myself. Maybe I was wrong about the personalitiectomy. And about his Anglo ancestry. Maybe he is an alien, who had a humanectomy. It is possible, but if this is in fact what happened, the operation was not a success.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Woody Allen at Theater J [3 cents]
Theater J ended its 2004-2005 season with two Woody Allen one-act plays, Central Park West and Riverside Drive.
Riverside Drive has a terrific character, Fred, who is a homeless intellectual loon, who knows everything about everything, but gets information zapped to him by the Empire State Building, and senses all sorts of conspiracies focusing on his vary existence. The rest of Riverside Drive, with Jim the writer who is having an affair with Barbara, who tries to blackmail him when he breaks it off, is too typically Woody Allen to hold my interest. Of course, Fred is probably really Jim's other self, doing the things Jim wishes he could do, and thinking the things Jim is afraid to sink, but when, to keep Barbara from blackmailing Jim, Fred simply throws her into the Hudson ("in twenty minutes, she'll be in the Atlantic Ocean, but if the Hudson flowed the other way, in twenty minutes she would be in Poughkeepsie". Or is it Tarrytown?), it is a bit too much for Jim.
Or is it?
Central Park West, written about ten years ago, is about adultery, and naivite, and insincere profestations of love. Here is everything I liked about Central Park West:
And there you have it.
Riverside Drive has a terrific character, Fred, who is a homeless intellectual loon, who knows everything about everything, but gets information zapped to him by the Empire State Building, and senses all sorts of conspiracies focusing on his vary existence. The rest of Riverside Drive, with Jim the writer who is having an affair with Barbara, who tries to blackmail him when he breaks it off, is too typically Woody Allen to hold my interest. Of course, Fred is probably really Jim's other self, doing the things Jim wishes he could do, and thinking the things Jim is afraid to sink, but when, to keep Barbara from blackmailing Jim, Fred simply throws her into the Hudson ("in twenty minutes, she'll be in the Atlantic Ocean, but if the Hudson flowed the other way, in twenty minutes she would be in Poughkeepsie". Or is it Tarrytown?), it is a bit too much for Jim.
Or is it?
Central Park West, written about ten years ago, is about adultery, and naivite, and insincere profestations of love. Here is everything I liked about Central Park West:
And there you have it.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
First Baseball Game [2 cents]
My wife and I took two second graders to their first baseball game last night. They are students at the school where my wife works. Their parents paid for the privilege at the school PTA auction in the spring.
They came wearing their red Nats caps, and each with full size fielder's mitts. They were not only convinced that a foul ball in our direction was a strong possibility, but that - if it came - they (standing probably no more than 4 feet tall) would undoubtedly snag it. They ate their hot dogs and their cotton candy. They didn't quite finish their lemonade.
They were very interested in the game and, at first, told me that they watched baseball games and understood the rules. They were interested in the scoreboard, and what all the numbers meant.
I quickly learned, though, there were some things they did not know. Like what a strike was, or a ball, or an out, or an inning. After convincing me he knew the game, one of the boys said: "How do you get points in baseball?", and the other said: "Is there a half-time?"
But when I told them that something good happened, they cheered. And when something bad happened, they retained their equanimity.
The highlight of the game? The "surprise" fireworks at the end, after the Nats beat the Rockies, 4-0. "Did you see that? Fireworks! Right over there."
They came wearing their red Nats caps, and each with full size fielder's mitts. They were not only convinced that a foul ball in our direction was a strong possibility, but that - if it came - they (standing probably no more than 4 feet tall) would undoubtedly snag it. They ate their hot dogs and their cotton candy. They didn't quite finish their lemonade.
They were very interested in the game and, at first, told me that they watched baseball games and understood the rules. They were interested in the scoreboard, and what all the numbers meant.
I quickly learned, though, there were some things they did not know. Like what a strike was, or a ball, or an out, or an inning. After convincing me he knew the game, one of the boys said: "How do you get points in baseball?", and the other said: "Is there a half-time?"
But when I told them that something good happened, they cheered. And when something bad happened, they retained their equanimity.
The highlight of the game? The "surprise" fireworks at the end, after the Nats beat the Rockies, 4-0. "Did you see that? Fireworks! Right over there."
Monday, July 18, 2005
Two Quick Book Notes
First, I finished Father/Land, Frederick Kempe's tracing of his German family's roots, and his trying to understand post-war Germany and Germans. I did not enjoy the book. Found it a bit too anecdotal, and thought the writing plebian. Some interesting parallels between West and East Germans (but all German books focus on that these days) and moderately interesting stories of cousins and uncles and the like. But I don't think I gained a lot.
I also read a very different book, Jamaica Kincaid's Autobiography of my Mother. Kincaid can really write; she is a poetic writer, and the book is short enough that you don't get tired of the style, and don't get to the point (which would come) where you feel it contrived. On the other hand, this novel (not an autobiography), told in the first person by a girl growing up in odd family circumstances on the island of Domenica, starts of PG-13, and about half way through becomes X-rated. I did not really expect that. Does it add to the story? Perhaps, because it becomes the story, but I felt it was laid on a bit heavy.
Still, I would like to look at other things she has written to see how similar, or different, they are.
I also read a very different book, Jamaica Kincaid's Autobiography of my Mother. Kincaid can really write; she is a poetic writer, and the book is short enough that you don't get tired of the style, and don't get to the point (which would come) where you feel it contrived. On the other hand, this novel (not an autobiography), told in the first person by a girl growing up in odd family circumstances on the island of Domenica, starts of PG-13, and about half way through becomes X-rated. I did not really expect that. Does it add to the story? Perhaps, because it becomes the story, but I felt it was laid on a bit heavy.
Still, I would like to look at other things she has written to see how similar, or different, they are.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Winslow Homer at the National Gallery [2 cents]
I think will only be there a week or so. Three sizeable rooms. Water colors, a few oils and some etchings. The Civil War, New England, the sea, travels.
You are probably most familiar with some of his seascapes and with his engravings that appeared in Harper's Magazine a hundred and fifty years ago. What you miss is his terrific ability to use light and color. That really surprised me.
What you get, and expect to see, is his ability to set the scene, so that you know you are looking at what he saw. His topics are all real, and sometimes quite mundane. but he does not drift off into make believe lands, or biblical allegory. You see a sky, ground or see, and some people doing things. Period.
Also, he is one of those artists whose work is best viewed from an appropriate viewing distance. For me that would be, more or less, ten to fifteen feet away. This is when each of the works looks the best. As you move closer, the detail fades, and you realize that what you thought was extraordinary detail was not so at all, and only appears to be so, as you move back. As someone with no artistic ability, I cannot conceive of this. How do you know, when you are painting that something which does not look very good to you from the distance between painter and easel, will look good from a further distance in a gallery or a living room? This requires some pretty complex thinkings process, it seems to me.
Can it therefore be that, in fact, painting is really more of a science than an art?
You are probably most familiar with some of his seascapes and with his engravings that appeared in Harper's Magazine a hundred and fifty years ago. What you miss is his terrific ability to use light and color. That really surprised me.
What you get, and expect to see, is his ability to set the scene, so that you know you are looking at what he saw. His topics are all real, and sometimes quite mundane. but he does not drift off into make believe lands, or biblical allegory. You see a sky, ground or see, and some people doing things. Period.
Also, he is one of those artists whose work is best viewed from an appropriate viewing distance. For me that would be, more or less, ten to fifteen feet away. This is when each of the works looks the best. As you move closer, the detail fades, and you realize that what you thought was extraordinary detail was not so at all, and only appears to be so, as you move back. As someone with no artistic ability, I cannot conceive of this. How do you know, when you are painting that something which does not look very good to you from the distance between painter and easel, will look good from a further distance in a gallery or a living room? This requires some pretty complex thinkings process, it seems to me.
Can it therefore be that, in fact, painting is really more of a science than an art?
Speaking of Religion
I am not sure that I was, but here goes:
Yesterday, I was in a conversation that turned to airports, and people who have airports named after them, and so forth. I said something like "except for Ben Gurion, the only other one may be LaGuardia". My answer wasn't taken seriously, so I had to explain that the secret of La Guardia's political success in New York City was his Italian father and his Jewish mother.
That led to a further conversation about how I know who is or isn't Jewish (which I really don't know, and don't spend that much time worrying about), and I said: "It's easy. I believe that everyone is presumed Jewish unless proven Christian." Isn't that the American way?
That's true. That is what I think (today), and this is my logic.
First, to me being Jewish, does not mean being orthodox, or necessarily observant. In this belief, I am obviously mainstream, but I begin to divert from mainstream because, as people grow ultra-observant, I believe they can lose their Jewishness. Now, this is contrarian, I know, because most people believe if you live the Hasidic life, you are (whether this is deemed admirable or appropriate or not) deemed to live a more Jewish life. I choose to define Judaism differently, so I do not accept this view.
Second, what is Jewish to me? Well, you have to identify as Jewish, and you have to at least sort of maybe believe in a God who an intervene in human affairs, or at least be sympathetic to you when you feel down, and you have to assume that that God wants to you do good things in your life. That's it. Oh, yes, and you can't be Christian.
Third, to be Christian, by my definition, you have to believe in the Jewish God to a stronger degree that someone who is Jewish. Because, you have to believe that the Jewish God sent Jesus, his son, to earth, and allowed or led him to die as a human sacrifice, to permit you to absolve yourself of your sins and attain eternal life.
So, how many people meet this definition of Christian? (I know you don't know the answer; neither do I) Perhaps those "born again" or fundamentalist do (of course some just pretend they do, or only do a few days a week, etc.). But my guess is that most do not.
So, if they are not, what are they? Well, they are not Jews for Jesus, because Jews for Jesus (if they are serious) are Christian, and not within my definition of Jewish. They are, on the other hand, by and large, Christians for Judaism, whether they know it or not. Because, except for identifying themselves as Jewish, they meet my definition.
Given half a chance, I would assume that large numbers of them would recognize this and proclaim themselves Jewish Christians, or just Jewish, but they are not permitted to by the Jewish establishment, which has set up its own rules and regulations (to which I have little sympathy). So, they are stuck pretending to be, and even thinking themselves to be, Christian, where in fact their belief system is much more Jewish (by my definition of Jewish) than Christian (by my definition of Christian).
Would the world be a better place if everyone adopted my definitions? I think the answer is clearly affirmative on that one.
Is this gonna happen? Not in your lifetime. And the trends are going in the wrong direction. (And this does not even begin to deal with Moslems; but I would guess we would wind up the same place there, as well.)
So, Jewish Jews and Christian Jews who share this religion. What do they share? Their relationship to a God is personal. Their relationship to humans is social. (This of course explains why Jewish thinkers such as Martin Buber have had more influence in Christian than in Jewish circles, by the way.)
I think that their shared philosophy is closest to what is known as 'humanism' or even 'secular humanism', and this is the way it should be. I think that their political or social philosophy tends to the left of center, rather than the right of center, as conservative political thinking by and large is self-centered, the opposite of humanistic thinking. Humanism, and liberalism, are bad words today, for reasons unclear but having to do with the conservative-dominated media (also incorrectly known as the liberal-dominated media) and the lack of a strong cadre of political leaders in this country today. But that will change, as the pendulum swings back and forth.
One question can legitimately be posed, however. What about Unitarianism? Aren't I simply describing the belief systems adopted by Unitarians, and maybe all of these Jewish Christians are really only conscious or subconscious crypto-Unitarians? Perhaps this is correct, but so what? Unitarianism obviously does not meet my definition of Christian, so we back to a more basic question, which is whether Unitarianism is really just a more liberal and permissive form of Judaism. It might just be.
Yesterday, I was in a conversation that turned to airports, and people who have airports named after them, and so forth. I said something like "except for Ben Gurion, the only other one may be LaGuardia". My answer wasn't taken seriously, so I had to explain that the secret of La Guardia's political success in New York City was his Italian father and his Jewish mother.
That led to a further conversation about how I know who is or isn't Jewish (which I really don't know, and don't spend that much time worrying about), and I said: "It's easy. I believe that everyone is presumed Jewish unless proven Christian." Isn't that the American way?
That's true. That is what I think (today), and this is my logic.
First, to me being Jewish, does not mean being orthodox, or necessarily observant. In this belief, I am obviously mainstream, but I begin to divert from mainstream because, as people grow ultra-observant, I believe they can lose their Jewishness. Now, this is contrarian, I know, because most people believe if you live the Hasidic life, you are (whether this is deemed admirable or appropriate or not) deemed to live a more Jewish life. I choose to define Judaism differently, so I do not accept this view.
Second, what is Jewish to me? Well, you have to identify as Jewish, and you have to at least sort of maybe believe in a God who an intervene in human affairs, or at least be sympathetic to you when you feel down, and you have to assume that that God wants to you do good things in your life. That's it. Oh, yes, and you can't be Christian.
Third, to be Christian, by my definition, you have to believe in the Jewish God to a stronger degree that someone who is Jewish. Because, you have to believe that the Jewish God sent Jesus, his son, to earth, and allowed or led him to die as a human sacrifice, to permit you to absolve yourself of your sins and attain eternal life.
So, how many people meet this definition of Christian? (I know you don't know the answer; neither do I) Perhaps those "born again" or fundamentalist do (of course some just pretend they do, or only do a few days a week, etc.). But my guess is that most do not.
So, if they are not, what are they? Well, they are not Jews for Jesus, because Jews for Jesus (if they are serious) are Christian, and not within my definition of Jewish. They are, on the other hand, by and large, Christians for Judaism, whether they know it or not. Because, except for identifying themselves as Jewish, they meet my definition.
Given half a chance, I would assume that large numbers of them would recognize this and proclaim themselves Jewish Christians, or just Jewish, but they are not permitted to by the Jewish establishment, which has set up its own rules and regulations (to which I have little sympathy). So, they are stuck pretending to be, and even thinking themselves to be, Christian, where in fact their belief system is much more Jewish (by my definition of Jewish) than Christian (by my definition of Christian).
Would the world be a better place if everyone adopted my definitions? I think the answer is clearly affirmative on that one.
Is this gonna happen? Not in your lifetime. And the trends are going in the wrong direction. (And this does not even begin to deal with Moslems; but I would guess we would wind up the same place there, as well.)
So, Jewish Jews and Christian Jews who share this religion. What do they share? Their relationship to a God is personal. Their relationship to humans is social. (This of course explains why Jewish thinkers such as Martin Buber have had more influence in Christian than in Jewish circles, by the way.)
I think that their shared philosophy is closest to what is known as 'humanism' or even 'secular humanism', and this is the way it should be. I think that their political or social philosophy tends to the left of center, rather than the right of center, as conservative political thinking by and large is self-centered, the opposite of humanistic thinking. Humanism, and liberalism, are bad words today, for reasons unclear but having to do with the conservative-dominated media (also incorrectly known as the liberal-dominated media) and the lack of a strong cadre of political leaders in this country today. But that will change, as the pendulum swings back and forth.
One question can legitimately be posed, however. What about Unitarianism? Aren't I simply describing the belief systems adopted by Unitarians, and maybe all of these Jewish Christians are really only conscious or subconscious crypto-Unitarians? Perhaps this is correct, but so what? Unitarianism obviously does not meet my definition of Christian, so we back to a more basic question, which is whether Unitarianism is really just a more liberal and permissive form of Judaism. It might just be.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Speaking about the Lubavitcher Rebbe [3 cents]
He didn't start out that way (he married into nobility). He started out as a secular kind of guy, and even went to the Sarbonne, where I think he might have studied math. (maybe not math)
If my timing is correct, he was a student at the Sarbonne at the same time that Ho Chi Minh was a student there.
So, now we have a growing pantheon--Ho Chi Minh, Menachum Schneerson and Cardinal Woytila. I want to add Chou En Lai to the list. I do this because Theodore White (The Making of the President books, etc.) said in Making History that Chou En Lai was the most persuasive person he ever met. He even convinced White to stop keeping kosher (this was in Szechuan province at the time of the Long March).
So, if the following people got together, they could have changed history. Ho Chi Minh, Menachum Schneerson, Cardinal Woytila and Ho Chi Minh. We may also have to add Nelson Mandela. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.
You ask where the persuasive women are? Good question.
If my timing is correct, he was a student at the Sarbonne at the same time that Ho Chi Minh was a student there.
So, now we have a growing pantheon--Ho Chi Minh, Menachum Schneerson and Cardinal Woytila. I want to add Chou En Lai to the list. I do this because Theodore White (The Making of the President books, etc.) said in Making History that Chou En Lai was the most persuasive person he ever met. He even convinced White to stop keeping kosher (this was in Szechuan province at the time of the Long March).
So, if the following people got together, they could have changed history. Ho Chi Minh, Menachum Schneerson, Cardinal Woytila and Ho Chi Minh. We may also have to add Nelson Mandela. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.
You ask where the persuasive women are? Good question.
Darwinism/Intelligent Design
Now, here is a subject about which I know a lot from experience.
But, let's start with birds. It used to be that DuPont Circle (like the Tidal Basin) had swarms of seagulls. Now it has only pigeons. My conclusion: by virtue of Darwinian theory, seagulls mutate into pigeons.
Fifteen years ago, at our bird feeder, we had a lot of what were called "house finches". Little brown finches with red (varying degrees of intensity) heads. Now, they are gone, and the only finches we have (other than gold finches) are all brown. The gold finches eat different food (thistle rather than seeds, so I conclude that they are not related to the house finches. My conclusion: by virtue of Darwinian theory, house finches have all turned into brown finches.
Now, we are talking about shifts that have taken place in a very short period of time. Let's take a longer look. There used to be dinosaurs; this is fact. Now, there are none. There is no record that, during the period in which dinosaurs lived, there were any fruit flies. My conclusion (this based on logic, rather than transitional observation) based on Darwinian theory: dinosaurs most likely mutated into fruit flies.
I heard a radical Christian on the radio one day talking on this subject, and he said that people have been mutating fruit flies for a hundred years, and all you get are different kinds of fruit flies (thus implying that Darwin was wrong). But, I say: hey, he had it backwards. He expected to be able to start with fruit flies and wind up with dinosaurs. It only works the other way around.
Besides, Darwin was a Christian, wasn't he? And, doesn't that prove something?
I heard someone say that our closest relatives were bonabos. I looked up bonabos in my dictionary and see that they are long limbed chimpanzees from Zaire. So, Zaire.
Actually, I understand that Zaire is no longer Zaire, whaire it used to be. Now, it is Congo. Another example, if I may be so bold, of Darwinian theory in action. Zaire mutated into Congo.
But what about these bonabos? Are there Christian bonabos, Jewish bonabos, Moslem bonabos, animist bonabos (this is fun - in case you have not tried it, bonabo is really a fun word to type)? Bonabo, bonabo, bonabo, bonabo.
So, Darwin is clear. Now, let's move on to intelligent design. That is, of course, a phrase filled with ambiguity. It, read literally, moves that someone/something/someforce with intelligence created the world as we know it. So what? Couldn't intelligent design have created the theory that Darwin posited? Couldn't intelligent design have created Darwin? Couldn't intelligent design have created the people who think that Darwin is for the birds? And so forth.
But no, "intelligent design" is supposed to mean that God (that is a whole other story) created the world in 6 days (and then took a nap). But that is not "intelligent design". You would have to say that God created with world in 6 days using "intelligent design". Dare you to do that. You would have no clue as to what you were suggesting, would you?
But intelligent design, in short hand, is i.d., or id. Which brings us back to Freud. Who, I am sure, would have a lot to say about bonabos.
But, let's start with birds. It used to be that DuPont Circle (like the Tidal Basin) had swarms of seagulls. Now it has only pigeons. My conclusion: by virtue of Darwinian theory, seagulls mutate into pigeons.
Fifteen years ago, at our bird feeder, we had a lot of what were called "house finches". Little brown finches with red (varying degrees of intensity) heads. Now, they are gone, and the only finches we have (other than gold finches) are all brown. The gold finches eat different food (thistle rather than seeds, so I conclude that they are not related to the house finches. My conclusion: by virtue of Darwinian theory, house finches have all turned into brown finches.
Now, we are talking about shifts that have taken place in a very short period of time. Let's take a longer look. There used to be dinosaurs; this is fact. Now, there are none. There is no record that, during the period in which dinosaurs lived, there were any fruit flies. My conclusion (this based on logic, rather than transitional observation) based on Darwinian theory: dinosaurs most likely mutated into fruit flies.
I heard a radical Christian on the radio one day talking on this subject, and he said that people have been mutating fruit flies for a hundred years, and all you get are different kinds of fruit flies (thus implying that Darwin was wrong). But, I say: hey, he had it backwards. He expected to be able to start with fruit flies and wind up with dinosaurs. It only works the other way around.
Besides, Darwin was a Christian, wasn't he? And, doesn't that prove something?
I heard someone say that our closest relatives were bonabos. I looked up bonabos in my dictionary and see that they are long limbed chimpanzees from Zaire. So, Zaire.
Actually, I understand that Zaire is no longer Zaire, whaire it used to be. Now, it is Congo. Another example, if I may be so bold, of Darwinian theory in action. Zaire mutated into Congo.
But what about these bonabos? Are there Christian bonabos, Jewish bonabos, Moslem bonabos, animist bonabos (this is fun - in case you have not tried it, bonabo is really a fun word to type)? Bonabo, bonabo, bonabo, bonabo.
So, Darwin is clear. Now, let's move on to intelligent design. That is, of course, a phrase filled with ambiguity. It, read literally, moves that someone/something/someforce with intelligence created the world as we know it. So what? Couldn't intelligent design have created the theory that Darwin posited? Couldn't intelligent design have created Darwin? Couldn't intelligent design have created the people who think that Darwin is for the birds? And so forth.
But no, "intelligent design" is supposed to mean that God (that is a whole other story) created the world in 6 days (and then took a nap). But that is not "intelligent design". You would have to say that God created with world in 6 days using "intelligent design". Dare you to do that. You would have no clue as to what you were suggesting, would you?
But intelligent design, in short hand, is i.d., or id. Which brings us back to Freud. Who, I am sure, would have a lot to say about bonabos.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
My Visit to the Jewish Museum of Washington
Bet you didn't know it exists, did you? That's because it operates under a different name: the Pope John Paul II Cultural Center, located just off North Capitol Street near the Catholic University campus.
The main exhibit floor is the third floor. The first (below ground level) floor has the children's center, three movie studios, an exhibit on religious tolerance, and the similarities of religious thoughts across denominational lines (actually a nice exhibit, interactive and all), and a cafe (spacious, light, airy and with indoor and outdoor seating.
The first floor has the entrance way and vestibule space, a photography exhibit hall (now showing old religious prayer cards), a chapel, and a room devoted to John Paul.
The third floor is, as I have said, the main exhibit space. There are two exhibits. First, there are the 105 etchings (I think they are etchings) that comprise the Chagall bible series. There were 275 signed copies of a book of the etchings, and 100 sets of etchings, each signed by Chagall. The set on exhibit (no. 65) is on loan from the Marquette University museum. Chagall's bible is strictly O.T. No Jesus here.
The other exhibit, compliments, it is said, of Benjamin Adelman (who he?) consists of models of the Tabernacle, Solomon's Temple, the Second Temple, and Herod's Temple, built by an English modeling company (York Modelmakers) to the desigsn of a Leen Ritzmayer. No Jesus here, either.
In fact, Jesus is fairly absent from the Pope John Paul II Cultural Center (a/k/a Washington Jewish Museum).
By the way, having looked at all of the renditions and photos of John Paul (or as he signed his name Johannes Paulus, in case you were interested), I must conclude that he was one cute guy. At every stage of his life.
The only religious figure I know who can compete with him in cuteness charisma was the Lubavitcher Rebbe (a/k/a "maybe the Messiah"), Menachum Schneerson.
Too bad they could not have really got together. As a team, they would have been unstoppable.
The main exhibit floor is the third floor. The first (below ground level) floor has the children's center, three movie studios, an exhibit on religious tolerance, and the similarities of religious thoughts across denominational lines (actually a nice exhibit, interactive and all), and a cafe (spacious, light, airy and with indoor and outdoor seating.
The first floor has the entrance way and vestibule space, a photography exhibit hall (now showing old religious prayer cards), a chapel, and a room devoted to John Paul.
The third floor is, as I have said, the main exhibit space. There are two exhibits. First, there are the 105 etchings (I think they are etchings) that comprise the Chagall bible series. There were 275 signed copies of a book of the etchings, and 100 sets of etchings, each signed by Chagall. The set on exhibit (no. 65) is on loan from the Marquette University museum. Chagall's bible is strictly O.T. No Jesus here.
The other exhibit, compliments, it is said, of Benjamin Adelman (who he?) consists of models of the Tabernacle, Solomon's Temple, the Second Temple, and Herod's Temple, built by an English modeling company (York Modelmakers) to the desigsn of a Leen Ritzmayer. No Jesus here, either.
In fact, Jesus is fairly absent from the Pope John Paul II Cultural Center (a/k/a Washington Jewish Museum).
By the way, having looked at all of the renditions and photos of John Paul (or as he signed his name Johannes Paulus, in case you were interested), I must conclude that he was one cute guy. At every stage of his life.
The only religious figure I know who can compete with him in cuteness charisma was the Lubavitcher Rebbe (a/k/a "maybe the Messiah"), Menachum Schneerson.
Too bad they could not have really got together. As a team, they would have been unstoppable.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
GEICO and Aflack
GEICO has some of the world's worst ads. They are so bad, that no matter what happens I want to tell people that I have just saved 15% on my car insurance but, alas, I have Travelers.
Aflack has some of the world's best ads. But, in spite of how good they are, I still have no idea as to what Aflack does........except, in the deep recesses of my mind, I know it has something to do with Jennifer Lopez.
Whoever she is.
Aflack has some of the world's best ads. But, in spite of how good they are, I still have no idea as to what Aflack does........except, in the deep recesses of my mind, I know it has something to do with Jennifer Lopez.
Whoever she is.
The Washington Nationals in July
You can't say enough about them, of course, but I hold true to my initial comments that the 'Nationals' is not a proper name for the team. That will become painfully obvious tonight during the All Star game, when one of the teams is the Nationals. They are an entire league, you know.
And, it is going to be in the mid-90s here today. The Dog Days of Summer.
How about the Washington Pit Bulls?
And, it is going to be in the mid-90s here today. The Dog Days of Summer.
How about the Washington Pit Bulls?
German(y) Update
Feeling guilty that I do not have the discipline to keep studying German on my own in absence of a summer class, I decided to return to the Goethe Institute on my old school-night, Monday, and see a German movie, part of their summer series.
The movie was Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, and the stars included Rod Steiger and Charles Aznavour. When I bought my ticket (student discount - $4), the receptionist said: "You know, there are no subtitles." Of course, I didn't, but I couldn't turn around then, so I simply said "a challenge", and went in. The 7:30 starting time came and went, and about 7:45 the usher came in the almost full theater and said "sorry to be behind schedule, but we still have some people buying tickets, and we want everyone in before we start. thanks for being patient. and thanks for coming out to a movie that is almost three hours long."
Three hours. No English.
I enjoyed the movie, could understand some of the basic conversation (but got lost on the philisophical discussions of life, death, good, evil, spirit, intellect and so forth). Strangely, the movie, made in 1982 reminded me of the recent movie of Ulysses, which I saw earlier this year at the Jewish Film Festival. The cinematography and rhythm were very similar, I thought, and I guess there is some parallel with the stories. Each has a male protagonist, somewhat out of step with the society in which he has been thrown, making his way, surrounded by an odd assortment of caricatured companions.
By the way, getting ready for my trip to Europe, which will include a few days in Berlin, I have found two books that seem, part way through, to be worth reading. Slow Fire by Susan Neiman is the story of a young American Jewish woman who goes to Berlin to study in, I think, the 1980s, and stays for several unexpected years, experiencing the ups and downs of being Jewish in post war Germany, and the other Father/Land by Frederick Kempe, American born Wall Street Journal reporter, who always thought of Germany as his father's land, not as his own fatherland, until he began to dig into his family's history.
The movie was Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, and the stars included Rod Steiger and Charles Aznavour. When I bought my ticket (student discount - $4), the receptionist said: "You know, there are no subtitles." Of course, I didn't, but I couldn't turn around then, so I simply said "a challenge", and went in. The 7:30 starting time came and went, and about 7:45 the usher came in the almost full theater and said "sorry to be behind schedule, but we still have some people buying tickets, and we want everyone in before we start. thanks for being patient. and thanks for coming out to a movie that is almost three hours long."
Three hours. No English.
I enjoyed the movie, could understand some of the basic conversation (but got lost on the philisophical discussions of life, death, good, evil, spirit, intellect and so forth). Strangely, the movie, made in 1982 reminded me of the recent movie of Ulysses, which I saw earlier this year at the Jewish Film Festival. The cinematography and rhythm were very similar, I thought, and I guess there is some parallel with the stories. Each has a male protagonist, somewhat out of step with the society in which he has been thrown, making his way, surrounded by an odd assortment of caricatured companions.
By the way, getting ready for my trip to Europe, which will include a few days in Berlin, I have found two books that seem, part way through, to be worth reading. Slow Fire by Susan Neiman is the story of a young American Jewish woman who goes to Berlin to study in, I think, the 1980s, and stays for several unexpected years, experiencing the ups and downs of being Jewish in post war Germany, and the other Father/Land by Frederick Kempe, American born Wall Street Journal reporter, who always thought of Germany as his father's land, not as his own fatherland, until he began to dig into his family's history.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Yesterday was a Busy Day
I started with two mile walk up the street and back, with a break in the middle for a high quality poppyseed bagel and large cup of French roast coffee - my favorite way to start almost any day. While I was drinking my coffee, I read part of A Drive to Israel, a book by Cairo author and satirist Ali Salem, describing his automobile trip through Israel following the signing of the Oslo accords.
Salem has just left Washington after a week here working with Ari Roth of Theater J, who is adapting this book for the stage. I had the opportunity to see Salem speak twice (once to a large group and once to a small group, sit in on a working session with Roth and a group of actors discussing the adaption-in-process, and be present at a small dinner party at which Salem was a guest. Perhaps, I will talk more about all of this on a subsequent blog. (I say "perhaps", because whenever I say "I will", I wind up never getting around to it.)
At any event, after my morning solo venture, Edie and I decided to play tourist, and went down to the various war memorials near the Reflecting Pool. We found a good parking space on 17th Street, and walked to the Vietnam War memorial, the Lincoln Monument, the Korean War memorial, the World War I memorial and the new World War II memorial. (See yesterday's posting for my two primary observations.) The weather was beautiful, and I guess we may have been the only Washingtonians around. This is not the way it should be.
We walked back to the car, purchasing en route a World War II refrigerator magnet and attached ribbon, to give to my uncle, who will be shortly celebrating his 93rd birthday. He spent a good part of World War II in Italy, and tells his army stories, again, and again, and again.
We then drove to the National Gallery of Art, finding the second closest parking space to the door to the East Building, from which I car was departing as we arrived.
We had several goals to accomplish at the museum. The first was lunch, and we each had a buy-by-the-ounce plate from the salad bar. The quality was B/B-, and the price almost exactly twice what you pay at Soho for a larger selection of better food.
We then went to the exhibit of Irving Penn's platinum prints, which will be there all summer, and which everyone should try to see. Penn, who I think is still living at about the age of 90 was primarily, I believe, a fashion photographer for Vogue and other magazines, but he also photographed numerous celebrities mainly in this country and France, and took busman holidays in such places as New Guinea and the Peruvian Andes.
The photographs in the show (some of which I recognized) were primarily made in the 1940s and 1950s, using standard silver solutions in the development process. In the 1970s, he became interested in the use of platinum instead of silver (apparently platinum had been used a lot prior to World War I) and spent a lot of time re-inventing a platinum technique, and reprinting his old negatives.
The results, with deeper and softer tones (all the pictures are black and white), are worth a visit to the museum (or to the Yale University museum after the show closes here). His portraits of mid-century artistic and literary figures (Picasso, Beaton, Chagall, and all the rest), his fashion photographs (some of which feature his wife), his paintings of family groupings from Cuzco, and 'warriors' from New Guinea, are shown off to their best.
From the Penn exhibit in the East Building, we crossed to the West Building to see the Gilbert Stuart exhibit, which closes the end of July (I had already seen it in February in New York). Stuart, who painting hundreds of George Washingtons, also painted Adams, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe multiple times, as well as other historical figures, and prominent members of the wealthy class in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, London and Dublin. Detailed features on all of subjects, and an excellent use of color make this a worthwhile exhibit. Among the well known paintings, are his full length "The Skater", a painting of a New York businessman, a number of Washingtons, and the painting he did of a 90 year old John Adams just before Adams' death.
We then went to the regular, free National Gallery Saturday afternoon movie. In the summer, they show old movies which have been restored at the Library of Congress, as part of the library's extensive restoration program. Yesterday, it was 'Baby Face', starring Barbara Stanwyck. This is a really silly movie, about a young girl, whose abusive father in Erie PA dies when his illegal still catches on fire, and who is advised by an elderly family friend, a shoemaker with an accent who reads and quotes Nietszche, to leave Erie, move to a big city, and use her feminine power to get anything she wants.
She goes to New York (accompanied by her 'colored' friend and sort-of servant/maid, who is with her throughout - an interesting touch) and decides to get a job at a large bank, Gotham Trust, a company with no available openings. But she seduces (it appears) the personnel man, and then sleeps her way from department to department, until she has affairs with the president of the bank, Mr. Carter, as well as with the fiancee of Mr. Carter's daughter, Mr. Stevens. This helps her in the short run, but winds up with a murder suicide in her apartment.
The bank then turns to the playboy grandson of the founder of the bank, who exiles Ms. Stanwyck to the bank's Paris branch, where she shines, and commences an affair with the bank's new president on his first trip to France. They marry, the bank fails, he is indicted, and needs $500,000 bail (his money is gone; the only assets are those he had given her). He asks for the money, she says 'no' and she and her 'colored' friend (Chico is her hard to believe name) start back from France with their assets in a suitcase. But before the ship sails, Stanwyck has second thoughts and runs back to her husband's office, to find him seriously injured of yet another self-inflicted gunshot wound.
The movie, released in 1933, was banned in NYC (and therefore did not open) because of its questionable moral stance. It was redone, with the elderly Mr. Krok telling Barbara that, when she uses her feminine ways to get ahead, that there is a right way and a wrong way, and that she should use the right way. Also, with a new ending, where the $500,000 is turned over to the bank as a voluntary contribution to put it back on its feet (I assume the revised version drops the concept of the indictment and bail) , and Mr. and Mrs. Threlkeld (just remembered the name) move to Pittsburgh where "they have no money at all" and Mr. Threlkeld takes a laborer's job at a steel mill.
Then, we came home to relax a while, although I went to Gold's Gym to finish A Drive to Israel, while on the cross trainer. Then, as reported yesterday, dinner at Blacksalt. I neglected to say that we went there without reservations and were told that it would be an hour wait. Two chairs at the bar opened, and we were able to be seated there for supper within about twenty minutes. Had we waited the hour, I think we would soon be waiting, because at 8:30, there must still have been a half dozen groups awaiting their tables, and I know we would have been at the back of that line.
Salem has just left Washington after a week here working with Ari Roth of Theater J, who is adapting this book for the stage. I had the opportunity to see Salem speak twice (once to a large group and once to a small group, sit in on a working session with Roth and a group of actors discussing the adaption-in-process, and be present at a small dinner party at which Salem was a guest. Perhaps, I will talk more about all of this on a subsequent blog. (I say "perhaps", because whenever I say "I will", I wind up never getting around to it.)
At any event, after my morning solo venture, Edie and I decided to play tourist, and went down to the various war memorials near the Reflecting Pool. We found a good parking space on 17th Street, and walked to the Vietnam War memorial, the Lincoln Monument, the Korean War memorial, the World War I memorial and the new World War II memorial. (See yesterday's posting for my two primary observations.) The weather was beautiful, and I guess we may have been the only Washingtonians around. This is not the way it should be.
We walked back to the car, purchasing en route a World War II refrigerator magnet and attached ribbon, to give to my uncle, who will be shortly celebrating his 93rd birthday. He spent a good part of World War II in Italy, and tells his army stories, again, and again, and again.
We then drove to the National Gallery of Art, finding the second closest parking space to the door to the East Building, from which I car was departing as we arrived.
We had several goals to accomplish at the museum. The first was lunch, and we each had a buy-by-the-ounce plate from the salad bar. The quality was B/B-, and the price almost exactly twice what you pay at Soho for a larger selection of better food.
We then went to the exhibit of Irving Penn's platinum prints, which will be there all summer, and which everyone should try to see. Penn, who I think is still living at about the age of 90 was primarily, I believe, a fashion photographer for Vogue and other magazines, but he also photographed numerous celebrities mainly in this country and France, and took busman holidays in such places as New Guinea and the Peruvian Andes.
The photographs in the show (some of which I recognized) were primarily made in the 1940s and 1950s, using standard silver solutions in the development process. In the 1970s, he became interested in the use of platinum instead of silver (apparently platinum had been used a lot prior to World War I) and spent a lot of time re-inventing a platinum technique, and reprinting his old negatives.
The results, with deeper and softer tones (all the pictures are black and white), are worth a visit to the museum (or to the Yale University museum after the show closes here). His portraits of mid-century artistic and literary figures (Picasso, Beaton, Chagall, and all the rest), his fashion photographs (some of which feature his wife), his paintings of family groupings from Cuzco, and 'warriors' from New Guinea, are shown off to their best.
From the Penn exhibit in the East Building, we crossed to the West Building to see the Gilbert Stuart exhibit, which closes the end of July (I had already seen it in February in New York). Stuart, who painting hundreds of George Washingtons, also painted Adams, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe multiple times, as well as other historical figures, and prominent members of the wealthy class in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, London and Dublin. Detailed features on all of subjects, and an excellent use of color make this a worthwhile exhibit. Among the well known paintings, are his full length "The Skater", a painting of a New York businessman, a number of Washingtons, and the painting he did of a 90 year old John Adams just before Adams' death.
We then went to the regular, free National Gallery Saturday afternoon movie. In the summer, they show old movies which have been restored at the Library of Congress, as part of the library's extensive restoration program. Yesterday, it was 'Baby Face', starring Barbara Stanwyck. This is a really silly movie, about a young girl, whose abusive father in Erie PA dies when his illegal still catches on fire, and who is advised by an elderly family friend, a shoemaker with an accent who reads and quotes Nietszche, to leave Erie, move to a big city, and use her feminine power to get anything she wants.
She goes to New York (accompanied by her 'colored' friend and sort-of servant/maid, who is with her throughout - an interesting touch) and decides to get a job at a large bank, Gotham Trust, a company with no available openings. But she seduces (it appears) the personnel man, and then sleeps her way from department to department, until she has affairs with the president of the bank, Mr. Carter, as well as with the fiancee of Mr. Carter's daughter, Mr. Stevens. This helps her in the short run, but winds up with a murder suicide in her apartment.
The bank then turns to the playboy grandson of the founder of the bank, who exiles Ms. Stanwyck to the bank's Paris branch, where she shines, and commences an affair with the bank's new president on his first trip to France. They marry, the bank fails, he is indicted, and needs $500,000 bail (his money is gone; the only assets are those he had given her). He asks for the money, she says 'no' and she and her 'colored' friend (Chico is her hard to believe name) start back from France with their assets in a suitcase. But before the ship sails, Stanwyck has second thoughts and runs back to her husband's office, to find him seriously injured of yet another self-inflicted gunshot wound.
The movie, released in 1933, was banned in NYC (and therefore did not open) because of its questionable moral stance. It was redone, with the elderly Mr. Krok telling Barbara that, when she uses her feminine ways to get ahead, that there is a right way and a wrong way, and that she should use the right way. Also, with a new ending, where the $500,000 is turned over to the bank as a voluntary contribution to put it back on its feet (I assume the revised version drops the concept of the indictment and bail) , and Mr. and Mrs. Threlkeld (just remembered the name) move to Pittsburgh where "they have no money at all" and Mr. Threlkeld takes a laborer's job at a steel mill.
Then, we came home to relax a while, although I went to Gold's Gym to finish A Drive to Israel, while on the cross trainer. Then, as reported yesterday, dinner at Blacksalt. I neglected to say that we went there without reservations and were told that it would be an hour wait. Two chairs at the bar opened, and we were able to be seated there for supper within about twenty minutes. Had we waited the hour, I think we would soon be waiting, because at 8:30, there must still have been a half dozen groups awaiting their tables, and I know we would have been at the back of that line.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Restaurant Reviews
Remember how I described Ri-Re, an Irishish restaurant in Bethesda, as being mediocre at best? This time, we tried the Dubliner in DC, in the Phoenix Hotel, near Union Station. No better than Ri-Re.
But then there is Blacksalt, a fish restaurant in the Palisades part of Washington. We went there tonight, and (except that it is expensive) you cannot fault it. It is modern, roomy, open, comfortable, and a fish market as well as a restaurant, so you can assume freshness.
I had wild New England blue sole and my wife had Alaskan halibut. Each came with appropriate accompaniments, and we had a small arugula salad and a fresh grilled sardine as appetizers. A drink a piece, and coffee-flavored Patron liquoer after dinner. Sat at the bar, nice neighbors, friendly bartenders. Recomend highly.
But then there is Blacksalt, a fish restaurant in the Palisades part of Washington. We went there tonight, and (except that it is expensive) you cannot fault it. It is modern, roomy, open, comfortable, and a fish market as well as a restaurant, so you can assume freshness.
I had wild New England blue sole and my wife had Alaskan halibut. Each came with appropriate accompaniments, and we had a small arugula salad and a fresh grilled sardine as appetizers. A drink a piece, and coffee-flavored Patron liquoer after dinner. Sat at the bar, nice neighbors, friendly bartenders. Recomend highly.
Prague, St. Petersburg and Washington, D.C.
I am not pleased with the following blog......I wanted to do better. But it is a complicated subject. The history of Prague. A very old city. Been through a lot. Catholic/Protestant/Jewish. Independent/part of Hapsburg Empire and Holy Roman Empire/ part of Communist East Europe. German/Slavic. Rich/poor.
I have recently read Prague in Black and Gold, a history of the city by Czech native and retired Yale comparative literature professor Peter Demetz. It traces the history of Prague from the Bronze Age through 1937. It was published in 1997, following Demetz's first trip back in approximately 50 years. It is a scholarly book, yet readable if you give it a chance.
I had wanted to comment on it in connection with Solomon Volkov's book on St. Petersburg that I read several years ago. But I cannot find my copy of the Volkov book, so my ability to compare the two is limited.
I also wanted to compare the history of Prague with that of Washington. The history of Prague is much more interesting. Much more. I wanted to conclude that this would not be surprising considering how much older Prague is than Washington. Washington has no Bronze Age origin. Washington was founded in approximately 1800.
But St. Petersburg, founded by the Russian tsar, Peter the Great, is less than 100 years older than Washington, D.C. Yet its history is equally more interesting than Washington's.
Why is this? The answer is simple. Prague and St. Petersburg are European cities, with European history, meaning war, regime change, and general cycles between prosperity and cataclysm.
Because, I do not have my book on St. Petersburg, I am not going to try to compare Russia and Czechoslovakia. The history of Washington is easy. It was formed around 1800, it remained small, even though it became the capital, the British did attack in 1814 but were eventually repelled, and slowly but surely, the city grew.
Now let's look at Prague. The first humanoid presence.....250,000 B.C.E. Farming communities from 4000 B.C.E. Celts, Czechs, Greeks, Romans, Jews. The Premyslid dynasties through 1250 C.E. The end of the dynasty and a time of invasion, revolution, hunger, raiders, and disease. Then, the Carolingean period. Then King Charles and a time of great prosperity and intellectual accomplishment, growth of church influence, growth of the Jewish community, followed by 14th century pogroms.
The the Hussite revolution against the Catholic Church in the 15th century, and the attraction of European radicals and dissidents to Prague. And civil war.
The 17th century entrance of the Hapsburgs, King Rudolf II, and the strengthening of the Catholic Church once again. The time of Czech scientists: Hayek, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler. The golden age of the alchemists. The Jewish mystics and Rabbi Judah Lowe and his golem.
Increased tension and fighting between Catholics and Protestants. The Thirty Years War, the removal of the emperor's seat from Prague, the decline of the population by half, and the eclipse of the city.
Prosperity and optimism, and 1848 and its repressive aftermath. Then modernization and slum clearance and industrialization in the 1880s. The collapse of the Habsburg empire in World War I, the creation of the Republic of Czechoslovakia, the entry of the Nazis, World War II, the failure of a free Czechoslovakia, Communist rule, Prague Spring in 1968, the entrance of the Russian troops, and eventual liberation in the 1990s.
A history unlike Washington's, but more like St. Petersburg, with its frontier days, it rapid development into a world-class city, the decline of the Romanovs and their moving the central power into Moscow, the Communist revolution and the name change to Petrograd, and then to Leningrad. World Wars I and especially World War II and the famous 900 day siege. Stagnation. Then Russian liberation and prosperity.
We are lucky not to share the Prague or St. Petersburg histories. But do we have any history of our own?
I have recently read Prague in Black and Gold, a history of the city by Czech native and retired Yale comparative literature professor Peter Demetz. It traces the history of Prague from the Bronze Age through 1937. It was published in 1997, following Demetz's first trip back in approximately 50 years. It is a scholarly book, yet readable if you give it a chance.
I had wanted to comment on it in connection with Solomon Volkov's book on St. Petersburg that I read several years ago. But I cannot find my copy of the Volkov book, so my ability to compare the two is limited.
I also wanted to compare the history of Prague with that of Washington. The history of Prague is much more interesting. Much more. I wanted to conclude that this would not be surprising considering how much older Prague is than Washington. Washington has no Bronze Age origin. Washington was founded in approximately 1800.
But St. Petersburg, founded by the Russian tsar, Peter the Great, is less than 100 years older than Washington, D.C. Yet its history is equally more interesting than Washington's.
Why is this? The answer is simple. Prague and St. Petersburg are European cities, with European history, meaning war, regime change, and general cycles between prosperity and cataclysm.
Because, I do not have my book on St. Petersburg, I am not going to try to compare Russia and Czechoslovakia. The history of Washington is easy. It was formed around 1800, it remained small, even though it became the capital, the British did attack in 1814 but were eventually repelled, and slowly but surely, the city grew.
Now let's look at Prague. The first humanoid presence.....250,000 B.C.E. Farming communities from 4000 B.C.E. Celts, Czechs, Greeks, Romans, Jews. The Premyslid dynasties through 1250 C.E. The end of the dynasty and a time of invasion, revolution, hunger, raiders, and disease. Then, the Carolingean period. Then King Charles and a time of great prosperity and intellectual accomplishment, growth of church influence, growth of the Jewish community, followed by 14th century pogroms.
The the Hussite revolution against the Catholic Church in the 15th century, and the attraction of European radicals and dissidents to Prague. And civil war.
The 17th century entrance of the Hapsburgs, King Rudolf II, and the strengthening of the Catholic Church once again. The time of Czech scientists: Hayek, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler. The golden age of the alchemists. The Jewish mystics and Rabbi Judah Lowe and his golem.
Increased tension and fighting between Catholics and Protestants. The Thirty Years War, the removal of the emperor's seat from Prague, the decline of the population by half, and the eclipse of the city.
Prosperity and optimism, and 1848 and its repressive aftermath. Then modernization and slum clearance and industrialization in the 1880s. The collapse of the Habsburg empire in World War I, the creation of the Republic of Czechoslovakia, the entry of the Nazis, World War II, the failure of a free Czechoslovakia, Communist rule, Prague Spring in 1968, the entrance of the Russian troops, and eventual liberation in the 1990s.
A history unlike Washington's, but more like St. Petersburg, with its frontier days, it rapid development into a world-class city, the decline of the Romanovs and their moving the central power into Moscow, the Communist revolution and the name change to Petrograd, and then to Leningrad. World Wars I and especially World War II and the famous 900 day siege. Stagnation. Then Russian liberation and prosperity.
We are lucky not to share the Prague or St. Petersburg histories. But do we have any history of our own?
Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me
Went to a number of D.C. tourists sites today: WWII memorial, WWI memorial, Korean War memorial, Vietnam War memorial.........
Two matters of note:
1. Many tourists weigh too much. Many weigh way too much. Some weigh way way too much. (And it seems that, while here, only U.K. tourists shed their pounds. ha. ha.)
2. There is still plent of space between Constitution Avenue and the Potomac (N and S) and the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial (E and W). We can have a lot more wars. Our leaders should not let fear of monumental claustrophobia keep them from launching attacks.
Two matters of note:
1. Many tourists weigh too much. Many weigh way too much. Some weigh way way too much. (And it seems that, while here, only U.K. tourists shed their pounds. ha. ha.)
2. There is still plent of space between Constitution Avenue and the Potomac (N and S) and the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial (E and W). We can have a lot more wars. Our leaders should not let fear of monumental claustrophobia keep them from launching attacks.
Friday, July 08, 2005
I'm Told It's a Yiddish Proverb
"If everyone was pulling in the same direction, the world would topple over".
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Oh, Drudge
Matt Drudge's blog has been visited 3,500,000,000 times in the past twelve months.
My Blog is slightly less popular.
I guess they like his pop-up ads.
My Blog is slightly less popular.
I guess they like his pop-up ads.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Seeing Red
The US is worried about China buying UNOCAL, one of our largest oil companies. The Chineses say: why worry? this is just a normal business transaction.
Perhaps, it is just an example of Red China coming into confluence with 'red' America.
Perhaps, it is just an example of Red China coming into confluence with 'red' America.
Monday, July 04, 2005
A Walker in the City
The title belongs to Alfred Kazin; I just borrowed it for this posting.
Yesterday morning, I took a walk. It is one of a series I have been taking over the past year or so with my Canon PowerShot S400 to document the public sculpture in the city. Of which there is an unbelievable amount, and which has not yet been, as far as I know, comprehensibly documented.
I started at about 8 in the morning at Union Station. Inside there is a bust of A. Phillip Randolph, former president of the Sleeping Car Porters Union. The statute was the gift of the AFL-CIO, and the inscription on the base says that Randolph had the idea for the 1963 civil rights March on Washington.
This got me thinking. How many statues are there of African Americans in Washington? Not many that I recall seeing.
Strange event #1. A 40-ish white male, 5' 10" or so, wearing white shorts and a pullover shirt, weighing about 300 pounds, walks by the bust of Randolph, stops, looks, carefully reads the inscription, moves three steps back to get a better look, moves three steps forward, reaches up and touches Randolph's hands gracefully, and the moves on.
Randolph stands in the back part of the station, where you buy coffee and newspaper and wait for your train. Moving towards the front, past the ticket takers into the great hall, I noticed that the great hall is ringed, just below ceiling level, with statues of crusader-looking men. Not quite carytids, because they do not hold anything up, but they look like they could, if asked. Life size or bigger, maybe 50 of them. I didn't count them.
I decided that they did not fit the category of sculpture and went on. Perhaps I was wrong.
In front of Union Station, after you cross three or four separate automobile tracks, you get to the statue (and its meagre fountain pool) of Christopher Columbus. In white stone, and not exactly what you would call a piece of art.
Why is he here? There is an inscription that credits him with having the vision and courage to found a New World. I guess that is part of the reason.
This is not the only statute of Columbus in Washington (read on), and is hardly a great work of art. On the back, facing the station, is a cameo of Ferdinand and Isabella (there is another statue of Isabella in front of the Organization of American States building on 17th street), there is the prow of a boat in front of the standing Columbus, and more.
As Columbus and Washington have so little to do with each other, I would rather there be something else in front of the station. The replica of the Liberty Bell, which stands between the Columbus statue and the station looks equally out of place.
Union Station is located a bit uncomfortably. Ringed by streets such as New Jersey and Lousiana, it is difficult to tell north from south, or east from west. Perhaps that makes for a good metaphor. I don't know.
But basically, if you head directly south (which you cannot do by car) you wind up first in the Senate office complex, then the Capitol, then the site of the proposed new ball-park, and pretty soon, you are in Key West (if not Cuba). But between the station and the Senate are several city blocks of parkland. You sort of know this is there, but you never actually set foot on this space expect in those rare instances when you have to go from the station to the Senate. And, if you are not a Senator who commutes by train, how often can this be?
It turns out that there are trees and flowers and mowed grass and winding paths and benches and in fact a very comfortable small park (and it is not so small that you don't think you are in a park; you definitely do). While there is no immediate sculpture in the park, there is a marker reminding everyone that all of this land was ceded from the state of Maryland in 1790 (hardly a man is now alive, who remembers that fateful day and year) to form, along with land ceded by, and later retroceded to, Virginia, the District of Columbia. (Aye, there's the rub. That is why Columbus is there. We are in the District of Columbia!! Now, I got it.)
In addition, a number of trees in this park were donated by Maryland (I cannot figure this out; were they planted later? Were they already there?), and each is marked. They seem either to be Northern Oak or Scarlet Oak. The leaves on the Scarlet Oak are narrower and, as you might by now have guessed, the leaves on the Northern Oak wider.
If you cross the park, and then bear to the southwest (as if you wanted to pass in front of the Senate office buildings, rather than wind up at them), you cross to another small, but not too small park, this one bearing the monument to Robert Taft, formerly Senator from Ohio.
This is an extraordinary monument for a number of reasons. Taft, for those you who do not remember, was the son of President William Howard Taft (where is his statue???), and a Senator from Ohio, who was known as Mr. Republican. I believe he was minority leader for a number of years and, had Eisenhower declined to run for president as a Republican in 1952, would undoubtedly had been the party's candidate that year (so much for dynasties).
The statue itself is a bigger than life full length bronze, that sits on a walk-up pedestal in front of a rectangular concrete (marble?) stele that is very tall. I mean very tall. A couple of hundred feet tall, perhaps? And, atop this stele, is a bell carillon. Whether they ever ring the bells, I am not sure. [I cheated: 115 feet high/27 bells/wrung when Congress is in session]
Because of all of the tall trees (I assume they are more Northern and Scarlet oaks), you cannot get a feel for the size of this monument as you drive nearby streets. But take my word for it. This is one tall piece.
If you keep walking in a southwesterly direction, you will find yourself out of the park, and approximately where Pennsylvania Avenue crosses Constitution. In other words, accross two very wide, and not normally heavily trafficked streets from the East Building of the National Gallery of Art.
As you would expect, there are some statues that encircle the building. The first one that you see is a terrific piece by Frank Stella that looks like some enormous insect from another planet and which has the unlikely name: "Prinz Friedrich von Homburg - ein Schauspiel".
As you go around the building counter clockwise, you then pass an untitled painted set of aluminum boxes by James Rosatti, a large black spider-like creature by Alexander Calder, called "Tom's" (again mysteriously), the two piece brown and off-yellow "Knife Edge Mirror" by Henry Moore, that stands in front of the entrance to the museum, a stark black grouping of rectangles that also could be alive by Tony Smith called something like "The Snake is One', and a misshapen, sliced bagel like sculpture (actually halfway between a bagel and Robert Indiana's well know "Love" design) called "Oriforma" by Jean Arp. There construction going on around about 30% of the building's periphery, so other sculpture is not visable (and probably not there) for now.
Crossing back over Pennsylvania and Constitution (but this time not veering eastward, but heading due north), you come to the Courthouse for the District Court of the District of Columbia, where all of the base line federal trials are held. The building, now named after E. Barrett Prettyman, is a plain-Jane affair, with a large annex being completed on its east side, which doesn't quite belong, but which by itself is a better design (if less monumental) than the Courthouse proper. (Why do I capitalize "Courthouse"?). In front of this building is a large full length statue of, of all people, General George Meade, the commander of the Union troops at Gettysburg, surrounded by a group of proud and supportive men.
Between General Meade and the Courthouse (as you head up the steps), you come to a large stone stele, with various scenes engraved on it including a man looking at a large cross. (So, there, Judge Roy Moore!!).
Walking by the courthouse (there, I have stopped using capital letters) to the north on its west side, you go through a park like square separating the courthouse from the Canadian embassy, where the are the usual benches for reading, and so forth. On one of the ledges, is a terrific statue of two men playing chess, very life-like and life-size. As you walk on, you come to a seated statue of John Marshall, who was the chief justice of the Supreme Court even longer than Rumsfeld, and you see a small plaque that tells you that Marshall lived in a house on this very site. And, that you are in John Marshall Park.
If you walk north past (or around) Marshall, you get to a broad set of stairs leading to the street that has the city's courts, some local governmental buildings, and straight ahead, across the next street, the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. There are two friezes surrounding the steps that are decorative enough, although I am not sure what they represent. On the grounds of the Court of Appeals is an unprepossing statue of Abraham Lincoln, which is inaccessible for now because of reconstruction work going on. On the grounds of that building, but on the east side, near 4th Street NW, there is another sculpture, a large black one, that I have admired before, but is also out of view. I am not certain at all what it is.
Crossing the street, heading back south but a little to the east, you cross between a District government building (where the Department of Motor Vehicles, among other things, resides), and a building of the United States Department of Labor. Located between these two buildings is a very impressive statue of Albert Pike, who is stated to be an author, scholar, soldier, philanthropist, philosopher, and poet, but who in fact is best known as a Freemason and author of many of the classic masonic texts. No one knows this is here, but it has been here since 1901, when it was placed there by the Scottish Rite Masons.
If you go south past Mr. Pike, you come to another small park, this one housing the memorial to fallen law enforcement officers, with all of their names being engraved on a short, but long, wall, reminiscent, but not exactly, of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The names are guarded by several well placed lions, of various sexes and ages, and in various positions of repose.
To the east, again on 4th Street, is the Holy Rosary Church, the only (I am sure) Catholic church in the city to offer mass every Sunday in Italian. Next to it, you find another, smaller but better, statue of Columbus, to add to the one in front of Union Station.
If you walk south from there, you again cross Pennsylvania and Constitution and wind up in front of the Capitol (west side), at the big reflecting pool. In this area, as well, you find statuary, including a monument to Naval losses during the Civil War, which stands in a small round-a-bout that makes it hard to get to (without really trying), a large and impressive statue of General Grant, flanked by bronzes of soldiers in battle, and a statute of someone whom I assume is Neptune, also flanked by other statues of mythogical creatures, in front of the fountain in front of the Capitol.
There you have it. The sculpture I saw on my walk. One of many such walks I have taken.
Yesterday morning, I took a walk. It is one of a series I have been taking over the past year or so with my Canon PowerShot S400 to document the public sculpture in the city. Of which there is an unbelievable amount, and which has not yet been, as far as I know, comprehensibly documented.
I started at about 8 in the morning at Union Station. Inside there is a bust of A. Phillip Randolph, former president of the Sleeping Car Porters Union. The statute was the gift of the AFL-CIO, and the inscription on the base says that Randolph had the idea for the 1963 civil rights March on Washington.
This got me thinking. How many statues are there of African Americans in Washington? Not many that I recall seeing.
Strange event #1. A 40-ish white male, 5' 10" or so, wearing white shorts and a pullover shirt, weighing about 300 pounds, walks by the bust of Randolph, stops, looks, carefully reads the inscription, moves three steps back to get a better look, moves three steps forward, reaches up and touches Randolph's hands gracefully, and the moves on.
Randolph stands in the back part of the station, where you buy coffee and newspaper and wait for your train. Moving towards the front, past the ticket takers into the great hall, I noticed that the great hall is ringed, just below ceiling level, with statues of crusader-looking men. Not quite carytids, because they do not hold anything up, but they look like they could, if asked. Life size or bigger, maybe 50 of them. I didn't count them.
I decided that they did not fit the category of sculpture and went on. Perhaps I was wrong.
In front of Union Station, after you cross three or four separate automobile tracks, you get to the statue (and its meagre fountain pool) of Christopher Columbus. In white stone, and not exactly what you would call a piece of art.
Why is he here? There is an inscription that credits him with having the vision and courage to found a New World. I guess that is part of the reason.
This is not the only statute of Columbus in Washington (read on), and is hardly a great work of art. On the back, facing the station, is a cameo of Ferdinand and Isabella (there is another statue of Isabella in front of the Organization of American States building on 17th street), there is the prow of a boat in front of the standing Columbus, and more.
As Columbus and Washington have so little to do with each other, I would rather there be something else in front of the station. The replica of the Liberty Bell, which stands between the Columbus statue and the station looks equally out of place.
Union Station is located a bit uncomfortably. Ringed by streets such as New Jersey and Lousiana, it is difficult to tell north from south, or east from west. Perhaps that makes for a good metaphor. I don't know.
But basically, if you head directly south (which you cannot do by car) you wind up first in the Senate office complex, then the Capitol, then the site of the proposed new ball-park, and pretty soon, you are in Key West (if not Cuba). But between the station and the Senate are several city blocks of parkland. You sort of know this is there, but you never actually set foot on this space expect in those rare instances when you have to go from the station to the Senate. And, if you are not a Senator who commutes by train, how often can this be?
It turns out that there are trees and flowers and mowed grass and winding paths and benches and in fact a very comfortable small park (and it is not so small that you don't think you are in a park; you definitely do). While there is no immediate sculpture in the park, there is a marker reminding everyone that all of this land was ceded from the state of Maryland in 1790 (hardly a man is now alive, who remembers that fateful day and year) to form, along with land ceded by, and later retroceded to, Virginia, the District of Columbia. (Aye, there's the rub. That is why Columbus is there. We are in the District of Columbia!! Now, I got it.)
In addition, a number of trees in this park were donated by Maryland (I cannot figure this out; were they planted later? Were they already there?), and each is marked. They seem either to be Northern Oak or Scarlet Oak. The leaves on the Scarlet Oak are narrower and, as you might by now have guessed, the leaves on the Northern Oak wider.
If you cross the park, and then bear to the southwest (as if you wanted to pass in front of the Senate office buildings, rather than wind up at them), you cross to another small, but not too small park, this one bearing the monument to Robert Taft, formerly Senator from Ohio.
This is an extraordinary monument for a number of reasons. Taft, for those you who do not remember, was the son of President William Howard Taft (where is his statue???), and a Senator from Ohio, who was known as Mr. Republican. I believe he was minority leader for a number of years and, had Eisenhower declined to run for president as a Republican in 1952, would undoubtedly had been the party's candidate that year (so much for dynasties).
The statue itself is a bigger than life full length bronze, that sits on a walk-up pedestal in front of a rectangular concrete (marble?) stele that is very tall. I mean very tall. A couple of hundred feet tall, perhaps? And, atop this stele, is a bell carillon. Whether they ever ring the bells, I am not sure. [I cheated: 115 feet high/27 bells/wrung when Congress is in session]
Because of all of the tall trees (I assume they are more Northern and Scarlet oaks), you cannot get a feel for the size of this monument as you drive nearby streets. But take my word for it. This is one tall piece.
If you keep walking in a southwesterly direction, you will find yourself out of the park, and approximately where Pennsylvania Avenue crosses Constitution. In other words, accross two very wide, and not normally heavily trafficked streets from the East Building of the National Gallery of Art.
As you would expect, there are some statues that encircle the building. The first one that you see is a terrific piece by Frank Stella that looks like some enormous insect from another planet and which has the unlikely name: "Prinz Friedrich von Homburg - ein Schauspiel".
As you go around the building counter clockwise, you then pass an untitled painted set of aluminum boxes by James Rosatti, a large black spider-like creature by Alexander Calder, called "Tom's" (again mysteriously), the two piece brown and off-yellow "Knife Edge Mirror" by Henry Moore, that stands in front of the entrance to the museum, a stark black grouping of rectangles that also could be alive by Tony Smith called something like "The Snake is One', and a misshapen, sliced bagel like sculpture (actually halfway between a bagel and Robert Indiana's well know "Love" design) called "Oriforma" by Jean Arp. There construction going on around about 30% of the building's periphery, so other sculpture is not visable (and probably not there) for now.
Crossing back over Pennsylvania and Constitution (but this time not veering eastward, but heading due north), you come to the Courthouse for the District Court of the District of Columbia, where all of the base line federal trials are held. The building, now named after E. Barrett Prettyman, is a plain-Jane affair, with a large annex being completed on its east side, which doesn't quite belong, but which by itself is a better design (if less monumental) than the Courthouse proper. (Why do I capitalize "Courthouse"?). In front of this building is a large full length statue of, of all people, General George Meade, the commander of the Union troops at Gettysburg, surrounded by a group of proud and supportive men.
Between General Meade and the Courthouse (as you head up the steps), you come to a large stone stele, with various scenes engraved on it including a man looking at a large cross. (So, there, Judge Roy Moore!!).
Walking by the courthouse (there, I have stopped using capital letters) to the north on its west side, you go through a park like square separating the courthouse from the Canadian embassy, where the are the usual benches for reading, and so forth. On one of the ledges, is a terrific statue of two men playing chess, very life-like and life-size. As you walk on, you come to a seated statue of John Marshall, who was the chief justice of the Supreme Court even longer than Rumsfeld, and you see a small plaque that tells you that Marshall lived in a house on this very site. And, that you are in John Marshall Park.
If you walk north past (or around) Marshall, you get to a broad set of stairs leading to the street that has the city's courts, some local governmental buildings, and straight ahead, across the next street, the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. There are two friezes surrounding the steps that are decorative enough, although I am not sure what they represent. On the grounds of the Court of Appeals is an unprepossing statue of Abraham Lincoln, which is inaccessible for now because of reconstruction work going on. On the grounds of that building, but on the east side, near 4th Street NW, there is another sculpture, a large black one, that I have admired before, but is also out of view. I am not certain at all what it is.
Crossing the street, heading back south but a little to the east, you cross between a District government building (where the Department of Motor Vehicles, among other things, resides), and a building of the United States Department of Labor. Located between these two buildings is a very impressive statue of Albert Pike, who is stated to be an author, scholar, soldier, philanthropist, philosopher, and poet, but who in fact is best known as a Freemason and author of many of the classic masonic texts. No one knows this is here, but it has been here since 1901, when it was placed there by the Scottish Rite Masons.
If you go south past Mr. Pike, you come to another small park, this one housing the memorial to fallen law enforcement officers, with all of their names being engraved on a short, but long, wall, reminiscent, but not exactly, of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The names are guarded by several well placed lions, of various sexes and ages, and in various positions of repose.
To the east, again on 4th Street, is the Holy Rosary Church, the only (I am sure) Catholic church in the city to offer mass every Sunday in Italian. Next to it, you find another, smaller but better, statue of Columbus, to add to the one in front of Union Station.
If you walk south from there, you again cross Pennsylvania and Constitution and wind up in front of the Capitol (west side), at the big reflecting pool. In this area, as well, you find statuary, including a monument to Naval losses during the Civil War, which stands in a small round-a-bout that makes it hard to get to (without really trying), a large and impressive statue of General Grant, flanked by bronzes of soldiers in battle, and a statute of someone whom I assume is Neptune, also flanked by other statues of mythogical creatures, in front of the fountain in front of the Capitol.
There you have it. The sculpture I saw on my walk. One of many such walks I have taken.
Congratulations to Me
I completed the NY Times crossword puzzle, two weeks in a row, on the Sunday I received the paper.
I discovered you cannot do everything. You need to make a choice. Do the Sunday puzzle, or study German.
Sometimes, the choice is made for you. When the class I thought I would take over the summer at the Goethe Institute did not pan out like I thought it would, I had no choice.
I had to revert to the crossword puzzle.
Sunday's started out hard, but wound up pretty easy. But one question: does Pat Paulsen really qualify as a 1960s presidential candidate (96 Across)?
I discovered you cannot do everything. You need to make a choice. Do the Sunday puzzle, or study German.
Sometimes, the choice is made for you. When the class I thought I would take over the summer at the Goethe Institute did not pan out like I thought it would, I had no choice.
I had to revert to the crossword puzzle.
Sunday's started out hard, but wound up pretty easy. But one question: does Pat Paulsen really qualify as a 1960s presidential candidate (96 Across)?
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Law-Yone
I recently finished two short novels by a Burmese-American woman named Wendy Law-Yone. One called The Coffin Tree and one called Irawaddy Tango. I think I read them because I liked the name Irawaddy Tango, and then realized I also owned the other one.
The books are similar, and written well enough. Both are written in the first person, and deal with a woman from Burma who winds up in the U.S.A. (one of them returns to Burma, which in that book is not called Burma, but rather Daya). In one, the young woman is the daughter of a rebel, sent to this country with her brother, who has terrible emotional problmes and gets sick an dies and who herself tries to commit suicide as she tries to figure out who she is, but is saved, spends several months in a public mental institution in New York City, and then announces she will live happily ever after (or, if not happily, she will at least live ever after). That is The Coffin Tree.
In the other one, our heroine is a young poor woman whose cousin becomes a tango maven, and introduces her to the art form. She wins a contest, and the eye of a military figure, who becomes dictator of the country. She is captured by rebels (rather than being the daughter of rebels), becomes the darling of the rebels, is deemed a traitor and exiled. She winds up in the United States, until the politics in Daya is turned upside down and she is allowed to return.
The books were written ten and twenty years ago. I looked up Wendy Law-Yone on Google, but before I got too deep into her (which I never did), I discovered Hubert Law-Yone who is apparently a professor emeritus at the Technion in Israel.
Oh, I said, they must be Jewish. Perhaps Wendy Law-Yone's husband is Jewish.
But no, it turns out that Hubert Law-Yone is also Burmese and wound up in Israel about 30 years ago, having been favorably impressed with certain aspects of the country living in Burma.
When he got to Israel, he discovered that things are seldom what they seem, and learned that the life of a Burmese emigrant (he both went to school and took a position at the Technion) was not what it was cracked up to be in this highly ethno-centric part of the world. Nevertheless, kicking, screaming and complaining, he stayed at the Technion 40 years before retiring to a life of kicking, screaming and complaining. He complains that the Technion is a mere tool of the state, and does not teach its students to think. He complains that its intellectual status is below sub-par.
While complaining and fighting with the Technion administration, he married an Israeli woman and considers himself 100% Israeli. Apparently, his Hebrew has no trace of an accent.
Both of the Law-Yones were involved in radical activity in Burma before the mid-60s, and both are Catholic. Both have Chinese and English in their ancestral background, so I assume they are related.
Wendy Law-Yone revisited Burma (she does not call is Myanmar) for the first time in 33 years a few years ago, and felt it depressing and repressive. I do not know if Hubert Law-Yone has gone back or not.
Both though give reality to the characters Wendy L-Y put into her two novels. Coming from a dreadful place for anyone with political or intellectual ambition, they struggled with a new society which was in some ways unmeasurably better than their native society, and in some ways equally problemmatic.
The books are similar, and written well enough. Both are written in the first person, and deal with a woman from Burma who winds up in the U.S.A. (one of them returns to Burma, which in that book is not called Burma, but rather Daya). In one, the young woman is the daughter of a rebel, sent to this country with her brother, who has terrible emotional problmes and gets sick an dies and who herself tries to commit suicide as she tries to figure out who she is, but is saved, spends several months in a public mental institution in New York City, and then announces she will live happily ever after (or, if not happily, she will at least live ever after). That is The Coffin Tree.
In the other one, our heroine is a young poor woman whose cousin becomes a tango maven, and introduces her to the art form. She wins a contest, and the eye of a military figure, who becomes dictator of the country. She is captured by rebels (rather than being the daughter of rebels), becomes the darling of the rebels, is deemed a traitor and exiled. She winds up in the United States, until the politics in Daya is turned upside down and she is allowed to return.
The books were written ten and twenty years ago. I looked up Wendy Law-Yone on Google, but before I got too deep into her (which I never did), I discovered Hubert Law-Yone who is apparently a professor emeritus at the Technion in Israel.
Oh, I said, they must be Jewish. Perhaps Wendy Law-Yone's husband is Jewish.
But no, it turns out that Hubert Law-Yone is also Burmese and wound up in Israel about 30 years ago, having been favorably impressed with certain aspects of the country living in Burma.
When he got to Israel, he discovered that things are seldom what they seem, and learned that the life of a Burmese emigrant (he both went to school and took a position at the Technion) was not what it was cracked up to be in this highly ethno-centric part of the world. Nevertheless, kicking, screaming and complaining, he stayed at the Technion 40 years before retiring to a life of kicking, screaming and complaining. He complains that the Technion is a mere tool of the state, and does not teach its students to think. He complains that its intellectual status is below sub-par.
While complaining and fighting with the Technion administration, he married an Israeli woman and considers himself 100% Israeli. Apparently, his Hebrew has no trace of an accent.
Both of the Law-Yones were involved in radical activity in Burma before the mid-60s, and both are Catholic. Both have Chinese and English in their ancestral background, so I assume they are related.
Wendy Law-Yone revisited Burma (she does not call is Myanmar) for the first time in 33 years a few years ago, and felt it depressing and repressive. I do not know if Hubert Law-Yone has gone back or not.
Both though give reality to the characters Wendy L-Y put into her two novels. Coming from a dreadful place for anyone with political or intellectual ambition, they struggled with a new society which was in some ways unmeasurably better than their native society, and in some ways equally problemmatic.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Best Opening Line
of recent weeks goes to New York Times science writer Dennis Overbye, who starts his article on scientific debate over the possibility of time travel by stating:
"There was a conference for time travelers at M.I.T. earlier this spring. I'm still hoping to attend."
"There was a conference for time travelers at M.I.T. earlier this spring. I'm still hoping to attend."
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