You probably know that, when you drive south on 17th Street, NW, you pass the headquarters of the American Red Cross, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Organization of American States. You probably do not know that, behind the OAS building, fronting on 18th street, is the Art Museum of the OAS. I am not sure that anyone has ever gone there.
Yesterday, I decided that would be a good destination, but much to my surprise, I was faced with a sign telling me it was closed for the installation of a new exhibit and would be back open on March 14. In the meantime, the sign went on to say, check out the exhibit called "Brazil-Haiti: Naive Art" in the main OAS building.
I walked back around to the front entrance on 17th Street. There was no sign about any art exhibit, and no "why don't you come on in?" welcome mat out. I asked a Latin American looking woman (she looked Latin American because she was coming out of the OAS building), if there was an art exhibit inside, and she told me that the museum was "around back". I told her what I saw and she finally admitted that there was "little" (actually, she said "leetle") exhibit inside.
I walked up the steps and through the door, and was met by a metal detector and its operator. I asked him about the art exhibit. He told me that the museum was closed today, and that it was on 18th Street. I told him about the sign, and he admitted, reluctantly I think, that there was an exhibit inside, and invited me through his domain. I stripped myself of anything metallic and walked in.
To my surprise, the exhibit, which is located directly through the courtyard, has somewhere between 80 and 90 pieces, divided equally between Haitian and Brazilian. Apparently, this exhibit was displayed at the United Nations in November and December, and then it was moved here. It was put together by a naive art museum in Brazil, and the goal was to compare the Brazilian pieces (which on the whole I did not care for) with Haitian art (and some of the Haitian pieces were masterpieces of this idiom). The Haitian works included paintings by Philome Obin, Hector Hyppolite, Rigaud Benoit and Prefete Duffaut, all very well know.
My favorite was called "Rosalio Bobo et son Cabinet" by Obin. It would be worth the price of admission (if there were a price) just to see it.
Although the exhibit is largely one of oil on canvas or board, there are also a few sculpted pieces and ceramic pieces, as well as carvings from steel and aluminum.
How long will this exhibit be here? I don't know. Will anyone besides me (and OAS employees) see it? I don't know that, either.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Is Starbucks Coffee Addictive?
Fact:
On my way back from lunch, I felt a need to stop at Starbucks and buy a cup of coffee, which I did. I paid for it, left the shop, leaving the coffee on the counter, going to the magazine store next door and then realizing that I was missing something. Went back, picked up the coffee, brought it back to my office.
I placed it on the credenza behind my desk and started my afternoon work chores. About an hour later, I turned around, and realized I had not even tasted it.
My conclusion is:
1. Starbucks coffee is not addictive.
2. Buying Starbucks coffee is addictive.
If I were Starbucks, this is just what I would want to hear.
On my way back from lunch, I felt a need to stop at Starbucks and buy a cup of coffee, which I did. I paid for it, left the shop, leaving the coffee on the counter, going to the magazine store next door and then realizing that I was missing something. Went back, picked up the coffee, brought it back to my office.
I placed it on the credenza behind my desk and started my afternoon work chores. About an hour later, I turned around, and realized I had not even tasted it.
My conclusion is:
1. Starbucks coffee is not addictive.
2. Buying Starbucks coffee is addictive.
If I were Starbucks, this is just what I would want to hear.
I am through with Geishas
Geishas are obviously the rage. Based on the success of the book and then movie version of Memoirs of a Geisha, and a number of coffee-table books (one of which I picked up), which have beautiful photographs of geisha-life, now you find that the National Geographic has added a third exhibit (to accompany the previously discussed Mongolian and Hawaiian wildlife exhibits), which itself has two parts. One, a set of photographs by a woman named Jodi Cobb of contemporary geishadom. The other, an assortment of beautiful (emphasis on that last word) kimonos belonging to a famous geisha of the first half of the 20th century, Ichimaru (famous if you lived in Japan).
In addition to the delicate beauty of the kimonos, I learned that they are made from a single piece of cloth and that they are taken apart and sown together in one long strip for cleaning. Hard to fathom, but true.
But in any event, I am sure that no matter what I read about geishas, there is always a deeper layer being hidden from me. I don't need the frustration. I am through with geishas.
In addition to the delicate beauty of the kimonos, I learned that they are made from a single piece of cloth and that they are taken apart and sown together in one long strip for cleaning. Hard to fathom, but true.
But in any event, I am sure that no matter what I read about geishas, there is always a deeper layer being hidden from me. I don't need the frustration. I am through with geishas.
The Cutter Tetralogy
Several weeks ago, I reported that 'Capote' was one of the best movies I have ever seen. It tells of the writing of "In Cold Blood", the story of his fascination with the murderers of the Cutter family.
Yesterday, we watched 'In Cold Blood', the 1967 film noir version of Capote's book, starring Robert Blake as murderer Perry Smith. Excellent movie, I think, and the second part of the Cutter tetralogy. Blake by the way has a stellar performance as a complicated murdered, never dreaming he would 35 years later be caught up in a real life situation (or did he?)
The third part of the tetralogy would be reading the book itself, and the final part reading Gerald Clarke's biography of Capote, on which much of the recent movie is based.
Then, after 'The Dybbuk' closes at Theater J, we can see Bal Masque, based on Capote's famous black-white ball at the Plaza.
Yesterday, we watched 'In Cold Blood', the 1967 film noir version of Capote's book, starring Robert Blake as murderer Perry Smith. Excellent movie, I think, and the second part of the Cutter tetralogy. Blake by the way has a stellar performance as a complicated murdered, never dreaming he would 35 years later be caught up in a real life situation (or did he?)
The third part of the tetralogy would be reading the book itself, and the final part reading Gerald Clarke's biography of Capote, on which much of the recent movie is based.
Then, after 'The Dybbuk' closes at Theater J, we can see Bal Masque, based on Capote's famous black-white ball at the Plaza.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
To finish out February
a couple of notes:
1. The last two Tuesday concerts at Epiphany Church were quite dissimilar. Today, Mardi Gras, was the time for Mike Flaherty's Dixieland Direct, a piano-clarinet-percussion trio, whose music perhaps reverberated a little too much off the church walls. But their skills as musicians are not in question, and there was a lot of toe tapping and clapping. Their best songs were 'It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Swing", Louisiana Fair Tail and 'After You've Gone'. The best solo was pianist Bob Boguslaw (the official White House pianist) who played two contrasting rythms in his right and left hands during 'Bill Bailey'. They play for brunch every Sunday at the Market Inn in SW. It might be worth a try.
On the other hand, last week's had no instruments, and only voices, the Chantry Singers, and "Renaissance Music for English Castles and Cathedrals", 14 voices singing a half religious/half secular concert. Not my type of music, although the voices were very professional, and their opening song, Thomas Weelkes' "Hosanna to the son of David" was extraordinary. Each of the other pieces, to me, sounded like each of the other pieces. I must admit that when director David Taylor said: "when you think of madrigal, what is the first thing that comes to your mind?", I drew a total blank. (He was thinking of "fa la la la la" apparently). So maybe I am not a good judge.
2. Picking a book I never thought I would read, I read the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, written in the 15th century by the extraordinarily gifted gold and silversmith and sculptor (if you don't believe that he was gifted, look him up) and memoirist. Florentine by birth, spending his life in one or another part of what is now Italy and in France (working in part for the Pope, the King of France and Cosimo Medici), he was also somewhat of a ruffian, who got into scrape after scrape, many of which were the result, so he says, of professional jealousy. His memoirs are very boastful, and no one takes everything he says literally, but the combination of artistic and religious sensitivity, and utter brutality make for fascinating reading.
3. On Monday, I went to see mystery writer Martha Grimes speak at Politics and Prose. I have a couple of books by her, but have not read them. I did not know what to expect. I thought she was English, since her books are all set in England, but no, she is American and lives in Washington, to boot. I learned she has written, among other things, about 25 Richard Jury mysteries, that she writes every day about 4 hours, and that she doesn't know what is going to happen next until she writes. She is, I would guess, 65 or older, and she has a unique demeanor, talking in a husky voice, slowly, and with dramatic emphasis; she has a very good sense of humor, and is clearly a story teller. I would go and hear her speak again.
Tonight, I took one of her books, this one called Jerusalem Inn (not Jamaica Inn, as I accidently called it, as Michelle pointed out), and decided to read it. I read 75 pages, and then I stopped. It did not capture me. I will put it back on the shelf.
1. The last two Tuesday concerts at Epiphany Church were quite dissimilar. Today, Mardi Gras, was the time for Mike Flaherty's Dixieland Direct, a piano-clarinet-percussion trio, whose music perhaps reverberated a little too much off the church walls. But their skills as musicians are not in question, and there was a lot of toe tapping and clapping. Their best songs were 'It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't Got That Swing", Louisiana Fair Tail and 'After You've Gone'. The best solo was pianist Bob Boguslaw (the official White House pianist) who played two contrasting rythms in his right and left hands during 'Bill Bailey'. They play for brunch every Sunday at the Market Inn in SW. It might be worth a try.
On the other hand, last week's had no instruments, and only voices, the Chantry Singers, and "Renaissance Music for English Castles and Cathedrals", 14 voices singing a half religious/half secular concert. Not my type of music, although the voices were very professional, and their opening song, Thomas Weelkes' "Hosanna to the son of David" was extraordinary. Each of the other pieces, to me, sounded like each of the other pieces. I must admit that when director David Taylor said: "when you think of madrigal, what is the first thing that comes to your mind?", I drew a total blank. (He was thinking of "fa la la la la" apparently). So maybe I am not a good judge.
2. Picking a book I never thought I would read, I read the Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, written in the 15th century by the extraordinarily gifted gold and silversmith and sculptor (if you don't believe that he was gifted, look him up) and memoirist. Florentine by birth, spending his life in one or another part of what is now Italy and in France (working in part for the Pope, the King of France and Cosimo Medici), he was also somewhat of a ruffian, who got into scrape after scrape, many of which were the result, so he says, of professional jealousy. His memoirs are very boastful, and no one takes everything he says literally, but the combination of artistic and religious sensitivity, and utter brutality make for fascinating reading.
3. On Monday, I went to see mystery writer Martha Grimes speak at Politics and Prose. I have a couple of books by her, but have not read them. I did not know what to expect. I thought she was English, since her books are all set in England, but no, she is American and lives in Washington, to boot. I learned she has written, among other things, about 25 Richard Jury mysteries, that she writes every day about 4 hours, and that she doesn't know what is going to happen next until she writes. She is, I would guess, 65 or older, and she has a unique demeanor, talking in a husky voice, slowly, and with dramatic emphasis; she has a very good sense of humor, and is clearly a story teller. I would go and hear her speak again.
Tonight, I took one of her books, this one called Jerusalem Inn (not Jamaica Inn, as I accidently called it, as Michelle pointed out), and decided to read it. I read 75 pages, and then I stopped. It did not capture me. I will put it back on the shelf.
The Da Vinci Code Trial
Background: two of the three authors of "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" are suing Dan Brown, author of "The Da Vinci Code" for stealing their ideas, in an English court. I don't presume to know the English law on the subject.
Opinion: "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" is a GREAT book, and the product of a large amount of research, developed into a thesis through the use of imaginative leaps of creativity, and (perhaps) more or less true. It purports to be history; nothing in it says, "don't believe a word of this". It is very well written.
Brown reads the book (actually, he cites it) and several other similar books, and writes a mediocre suspense novel, showing no imaginative leaps of creativity. It is not particularly well written. But the thesis of his book is basically the same as the thesis of "Holy Blood" (with snatches from other sources thrown in). It has sold millions and millions of copies.
When I read "The Da Vinci Code", I said to myself: "It's a crime that this guy is making so much money of others' work. There is nothing value added here, except that it sells."
So, how do I come out on the trial? I think that intellectually, I have to come out on Brown's side, although emotionally, I am with "Holy Blood". If "Holy Blood" were portrayed as fiction, I would change my position, but as long as it is portrayed as history, I don't know why a fiction writer can't write a historical novel. Historians may own their words, but I don't think they own their history.
Dan Brown may be a parasite when it comes to writing, but there is no crime in that, is there?
Opinion: "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" is a GREAT book, and the product of a large amount of research, developed into a thesis through the use of imaginative leaps of creativity, and (perhaps) more or less true. It purports to be history; nothing in it says, "don't believe a word of this". It is very well written.
Brown reads the book (actually, he cites it) and several other similar books, and writes a mediocre suspense novel, showing no imaginative leaps of creativity. It is not particularly well written. But the thesis of his book is basically the same as the thesis of "Holy Blood" (with snatches from other sources thrown in). It has sold millions and millions of copies.
When I read "The Da Vinci Code", I said to myself: "It's a crime that this guy is making so much money of others' work. There is nothing value added here, except that it sells."
So, how do I come out on the trial? I think that intellectually, I have to come out on Brown's side, although emotionally, I am with "Holy Blood". If "Holy Blood" were portrayed as fiction, I would change my position, but as long as it is portrayed as history, I don't know why a fiction writer can't write a historical novel. Historians may own their words, but I don't think they own their history.
Dan Brown may be a parasite when it comes to writing, but there is no crime in that, is there?
The Savvy Shopper (1 cent)
OK, what is worse?
$42 for a new watchband.
$26.50 for a new light bulb in my car.
Obviously, I cannot be trusted with money.
$42 for a new watchband.
$26.50 for a new light bulb in my car.
Obviously, I cannot be trusted with money.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Weekend Shorts
1. Tried a new restaurant, Hank's Oyster Bar, on Q at 17th. It is very small, and packs in an extraordinary number of people (fire marshall, not allowed?), so if you want intimacy, this is not the place. But because it is so jam packed, and you feel like everyone in the restaurant is in some way sitting at your very table, the feeling is very relaxed and friendly, and you don't mind the lack of space (ventilation is good - there is no lack of air).
The food is good, heavy on the seafood and the drinks but with several meat, fish and vegetarian dishes, although our appetizers were better than the main courses. But it is very, very pricey. The Appetizers go as high as $15 and the entrees are $15 to $20, with sides (nothing on the plate except the entree) at $4 each, and drinks in the $10 range.
Will we return? Probably not, but if we woke up and found ourselves there, that would be OK, too.
2. Joel Peters, professor of politics at the Ben Gurion University of the Negev, who is spending this year at George Mason, was the Adas Israel scholar in residence this weekend. We heard him twice on Saturday, speaking about the Israeli political system and upcoming elections. It was interesting, and he speaks well, but it was not profound.
His point was that, in spite of everything going on, the elections are dull, because, within a few swing seats, everyone pretty well knows how they will turn out. That Kadima will have the most seats, followed by Labor and then Likud and then the fringe parties, and that it won't be until after the election when Kadima, with no more than 40 seats will have to put together a coalition with at least 61 seats, that the fun (and interest) will really begin.
He bemoaned the lack of leadership in Kadima (Olmert being non-charismatic), in Labor (Peretz being untested), and in Likud (Netanyahu being too tested). He agreed of course that this was a crucial time for Israel and the middle east, but said that the normal election excitement in Israel just is not there this time.
3. The Dybbuk and Ori Soltes. I haven't mentioned the Dybbuk, at Theater J, which was co-adapted and assistant directed by daughter Hannah, but it was an extraordinary accomplishment of hers that deserves more than a brief comment in this blog. We saw it for the second time Saturday night and thought it improved from the strong performance we saw on opening night. It runs through March 19.
At this Sunday's talkback, Ori Soltes, Georgetown faculty member and lecturer about town, gave a one hour presentation that could not have been better or more carefully connected to the performance. He has spent a lot of time studying the Jewish community of the Republic of Georgia (oops - that is where Hannah and co-adapter Paata Tsurkeshvili set the play), and edited a book on the history of Georgian Jews.
His presentation was in three parts: Jewish mysticism, particularly in the 15th and 16th centuries and how it dealt with the transmigration of souls after death; the history of the Georgian Jewish community, which by artifact goes back almost 2000 years, and by tradition goes back another 500 years, to the Assyrian and Babylonian victories over Israel and Judah; and the particular Georgian practices and traditions that found their ways into the performance.
Soltes is a first class lecturer, and it was a first class talkback, attended by, I would say, 3/4 of the audience who had come for the matinee.
4. I was rooting for Finland, but the 3-2 Swedish victory in Olympic Hockey made for very good watching. The entire hockey program at the Olympics was fascinating for anyone who follows the NHL as it gives you a chance to the many of the same players in very different configurations, playing on a larger rink with somewhat different rules. I think Olympic rules are better than NHL rules, but no one is going to rebuild the American and Canadian arenas to accommodate.
5. Last point on Olympics. Extraordinary closing show. Not usually the kind of thing I watch or like, but I thought this was spectacular.
The food is good, heavy on the seafood and the drinks but with several meat, fish and vegetarian dishes, although our appetizers were better than the main courses. But it is very, very pricey. The Appetizers go as high as $15 and the entrees are $15 to $20, with sides (nothing on the plate except the entree) at $4 each, and drinks in the $10 range.
Will we return? Probably not, but if we woke up and found ourselves there, that would be OK, too.
2. Joel Peters, professor of politics at the Ben Gurion University of the Negev, who is spending this year at George Mason, was the Adas Israel scholar in residence this weekend. We heard him twice on Saturday, speaking about the Israeli political system and upcoming elections. It was interesting, and he speaks well, but it was not profound.
His point was that, in spite of everything going on, the elections are dull, because, within a few swing seats, everyone pretty well knows how they will turn out. That Kadima will have the most seats, followed by Labor and then Likud and then the fringe parties, and that it won't be until after the election when Kadima, with no more than 40 seats will have to put together a coalition with at least 61 seats, that the fun (and interest) will really begin.
He bemoaned the lack of leadership in Kadima (Olmert being non-charismatic), in Labor (Peretz being untested), and in Likud (Netanyahu being too tested). He agreed of course that this was a crucial time for Israel and the middle east, but said that the normal election excitement in Israel just is not there this time.
3. The Dybbuk and Ori Soltes. I haven't mentioned the Dybbuk, at Theater J, which was co-adapted and assistant directed by daughter Hannah, but it was an extraordinary accomplishment of hers that deserves more than a brief comment in this blog. We saw it for the second time Saturday night and thought it improved from the strong performance we saw on opening night. It runs through March 19.
At this Sunday's talkback, Ori Soltes, Georgetown faculty member and lecturer about town, gave a one hour presentation that could not have been better or more carefully connected to the performance. He has spent a lot of time studying the Jewish community of the Republic of Georgia (oops - that is where Hannah and co-adapter Paata Tsurkeshvili set the play), and edited a book on the history of Georgian Jews.
His presentation was in three parts: Jewish mysticism, particularly in the 15th and 16th centuries and how it dealt with the transmigration of souls after death; the history of the Georgian Jewish community, which by artifact goes back almost 2000 years, and by tradition goes back another 500 years, to the Assyrian and Babylonian victories over Israel and Judah; and the particular Georgian practices and traditions that found their ways into the performance.
Soltes is a first class lecturer, and it was a first class talkback, attended by, I would say, 3/4 of the audience who had come for the matinee.
4. I was rooting for Finland, but the 3-2 Swedish victory in Olympic Hockey made for very good watching. The entire hockey program at the Olympics was fascinating for anyone who follows the NHL as it gives you a chance to the many of the same players in very different configurations, playing on a larger rink with somewhat different rules. I think Olympic rules are better than NHL rules, but no one is going to rebuild the American and Canadian arenas to accommodate.
5. Last point on Olympics. Extraordinary closing show. Not usually the kind of thing I watch or like, but I thought this was spectacular.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Tonight at Noon
is the name of the memoirs of jazz bassist Charlie Mingus' widow. I read the first 2/3 of the book, and the last two, short chapters. I did not like the book.
Putting aside his musical talent, Mingus was clearly (from this book) a kook. And Sue Graham Mingus, his second wife, who was with him, more or less, from 1964 until his death from ALS in 1979, was - proven by the fact that she stuck around - an enabler to his kookiness, and a masochist.
She had been married before to an Italian in what appeared to be an equally bizarre marriage and had two children. She met Mingus in 1964 and loved/was fascinated by/and disliked him (usually all at the same time) from the beginning.
He was about as bipolar as you can get (again from her description), extremely paranoid at times, and unable to hold back from making his presence known, or saying whatever was on his mind (or whatever he made up at the moment). He was cantankerous, prone to getting into fights, and flung insults from the stage as often as Don Rickles.
He died of Lou Gherig's disease. You had to feel sorry for him as he wasted away, and to wonder what would the end have been like were it not for her care and loyalty.
Once again (touching on a theme I have touched on before), I am interested in how well-known (and generally creative) people, know each other, often accidentally. Was it a coincidence that Mingus' analyst had been Timothy Leary's roommate in medical school? Or that Mingus' son lived with Tom Stoppard? Or that they rented (it sounded coincidental) an apartment from Diane Arbus? Or that his son's girlfried was a close friend of Andre Gide? Or that they ran into Allen Ginsberg at a party?
These connections (not the specifics, just their existence) fascinate me, as if there are parallel societies existing, and depending on which one you live in, you either do, or do not, continually run into your fellow inhabitants.
Putting aside his musical talent, Mingus was clearly (from this book) a kook. And Sue Graham Mingus, his second wife, who was with him, more or less, from 1964 until his death from ALS in 1979, was - proven by the fact that she stuck around - an enabler to his kookiness, and a masochist.
She had been married before to an Italian in what appeared to be an equally bizarre marriage and had two children. She met Mingus in 1964 and loved/was fascinated by/and disliked him (usually all at the same time) from the beginning.
He was about as bipolar as you can get (again from her description), extremely paranoid at times, and unable to hold back from making his presence known, or saying whatever was on his mind (or whatever he made up at the moment). He was cantankerous, prone to getting into fights, and flung insults from the stage as often as Don Rickles.
He died of Lou Gherig's disease. You had to feel sorry for him as he wasted away, and to wonder what would the end have been like were it not for her care and loyalty.
Once again (touching on a theme I have touched on before), I am interested in how well-known (and generally creative) people, know each other, often accidentally. Was it a coincidence that Mingus' analyst had been Timothy Leary's roommate in medical school? Or that Mingus' son lived with Tom Stoppard? Or that they rented (it sounded coincidental) an apartment from Diane Arbus? Or that his son's girlfried was a close friend of Andre Gide? Or that they ran into Allen Ginsberg at a party?
These connections (not the specifics, just their existence) fascinate me, as if there are parallel societies existing, and depending on which one you live in, you either do, or do not, continually run into your fellow inhabitants.
Pompeii and Herculaneum
There is a large exhibit of over 500 artifacts from Pompeii at the Field Museum in Chicago. It is apparently one of the largest (if not the largest) Pompeii exhibit ever. It was the cover story on last month's Smithsonian Magazine. I read the article carefully, and then read the first half of a book I had read years ago on Herculaneum, the other Roman town destroyed when Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79 C.E.
I have never been to Herculaneum, but have been to Pompeii three times, first in 1962, then in the early 1970s, and finally, about ten years ago. I would go back tomorrow if I could.
In fact, not only would I want to go back to Pompeii, and go to Herculaneum for the first time, I would like to spend some time in Naples, where I have been twice, but which I have never given a fair shake. When I spent an evening in Napes about 35 years ago, I discovered a crowded, extremely noisy city, where the traffic never moved. I remember the car driving the semi-highway that skirts the Bay of Naples that aimed right at me as I tried to cross the street, changing lanes three times in order to drive me back on the sidewalk. I remember the wasted American teenagers lounging at a bar near the bay, whose fathers were in the American navy and who told me that this is what they did every night -- "this is Naples, man....." I remember the delicious seafood dinner at the neighborhood restaurant. I remember a late night (don't remember why) at one end of town, and a cab ride back at about 3 a.m., where the driver quoted us a price that was more than exhorbitant, and when I protested, told me he would stop the cab and let us out free where we were, no problem (except that we were in a neighborhood from which it looked like no one had ever escaped alive).
But I never have gone to the wonderful museums, or the opera house, and I want to.
It was not really known at the time, apparently, that Vesuvius was even a volcano, certainly no one thought it would erupt. Volcanologists say that he had not erupted for 3000 years!! But when it blew, it blew, the wind carrying the hot volcanic ash in one direction, where it buried Pompeii, and the lava-mud flowing down the stream beds in the other direction, where it buried Herculaneum.
Both were homes of the Roman elite, although Pompeii was more a full-scale town, and Herculaneum more a place for only the rich and famous, and of course the ruins (many of which perfectly preserved and today still with much more to be excavated) reflect this.
One of the points brought out by the Herculaneum book is that how little was written about the eruption of Vesuvius by contemporaries, even though Roman society did have a strong intellectual culture. Also, that this tragedy of Pompeii and Herculaneum came just 9 years after the Romans had celebrated the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the capture of the temple gold which was brought to, and displayed in, Rome under the newly built Arch of Titus on the forum. Finally, that at the same time the mountain was exploring, Saul of Tarsus was writing his epistles and the Christian gospels were being drafted.
I have never been to Herculaneum, but have been to Pompeii three times, first in 1962, then in the early 1970s, and finally, about ten years ago. I would go back tomorrow if I could.
In fact, not only would I want to go back to Pompeii, and go to Herculaneum for the first time, I would like to spend some time in Naples, where I have been twice, but which I have never given a fair shake. When I spent an evening in Napes about 35 years ago, I discovered a crowded, extremely noisy city, where the traffic never moved. I remember the car driving the semi-highway that skirts the Bay of Naples that aimed right at me as I tried to cross the street, changing lanes three times in order to drive me back on the sidewalk. I remember the wasted American teenagers lounging at a bar near the bay, whose fathers were in the American navy and who told me that this is what they did every night -- "this is Naples, man....." I remember the delicious seafood dinner at the neighborhood restaurant. I remember a late night (don't remember why) at one end of town, and a cab ride back at about 3 a.m., where the driver quoted us a price that was more than exhorbitant, and when I protested, told me he would stop the cab and let us out free where we were, no problem (except that we were in a neighborhood from which it looked like no one had ever escaped alive).
But I never have gone to the wonderful museums, or the opera house, and I want to.
It was not really known at the time, apparently, that Vesuvius was even a volcano, certainly no one thought it would erupt. Volcanologists say that he had not erupted for 3000 years!! But when it blew, it blew, the wind carrying the hot volcanic ash in one direction, where it buried Pompeii, and the lava-mud flowing down the stream beds in the other direction, where it buried Herculaneum.
Both were homes of the Roman elite, although Pompeii was more a full-scale town, and Herculaneum more a place for only the rich and famous, and of course the ruins (many of which perfectly preserved and today still with much more to be excavated) reflect this.
One of the points brought out by the Herculaneum book is that how little was written about the eruption of Vesuvius by contemporaries, even though Roman society did have a strong intellectual culture. Also, that this tragedy of Pompeii and Herculaneum came just 9 years after the Romans had celebrated the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the capture of the temple gold which was brought to, and displayed in, Rome under the newly built Arch of Titus on the forum. Finally, that at the same time the mountain was exploring, Saul of Tarsus was writing his epistles and the Christian gospels were being drafted.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Baseball in DC? (3 cents)
An editorial in the Post this morning says that, because of the ongoing dispute between Comcast and Peter Angeles, the owner of the Orioles, there will again be no Nats games telecast on Comcast, and only about 40 on non-cable tv stations.
So here we are, a major league city, with a team finally, but only 25% of the games televised, no owner, no settled arrangement on a new stadium and only two more years to go at RFK, and - believe it or not - a claim by a mid-west company that it owns the name Washington Nationals and that our team can no longer sell any merchandise identifying the team by name.
Is there something wrong with this picture?
The result will be diminished support for the team, failure on the field, continuing arguing with MLB about the sale of the team, with political repercussions for DC government, and a diminution of value for the franchise. Then, it will be said that Washington is not a major league team after all, the team will move elsewhere, and Peter Angelos will get is way.
So here we are, a major league city, with a team finally, but only 25% of the games televised, no owner, no settled arrangement on a new stadium and only two more years to go at RFK, and - believe it or not - a claim by a mid-west company that it owns the name Washington Nationals and that our team can no longer sell any merchandise identifying the team by name.
Is there something wrong with this picture?
The result will be diminished support for the team, failure on the field, continuing arguing with MLB about the sale of the team, with political repercussions for DC government, and a diminution of value for the franchise. Then, it will be said that Washington is not a major league team after all, the team will move elsewhere, and Peter Angelos will get is way.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
You Can't Judge a Book by its Cover (27 cents)
But how about a car?
I am driving to work, and this car shoots out of a driveway to my right, making a left turn into my lane. Why the driver did not see me is a mystery. I almost hit her. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit her, her car has a big dent.
Ten minutes later, I am driving down Connecticut Avenue, and a car in the lane left of me accelerates suddenly, and moves into my lane. There was no way for this car to have succeeded in this move, had I not put on my brakes. Otherwise, I would have hit the car. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit the car, the car has a big dent.
I think you can judge a car by its cover.
I am driving to work, and this car shoots out of a driveway to my right, making a left turn into my lane. Why the driver did not see me is a mystery. I almost hit her. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit her, her car has a big dent.
Ten minutes later, I am driving down Connecticut Avenue, and a car in the lane left of me accelerates suddenly, and moves into my lane. There was no way for this car to have succeeded in this move, had I not put on my brakes. Otherwise, I would have hit the car. Then, I see that exactly where I would have hit the car, the car has a big dent.
I think you can judge a car by its cover.
More on Malamud
So, here I am a junior high school student. I had a fairly large number of friends, and I knew all of their parents. All of them had fathers who worked and mothers who didn't. Even mothers who were trained to work, like my mother the lawyer, did not work when their children were in school.
So, imagine my surprise, when my friend told me that his mother was going to open a book store, in Clayton MO, and that it was going to be called The Magic Barrel.
The mother/bookseller was unique in a number of ways, to my experience. In the first place, she was not American. She was born in Russia (or in what I thought was Russia; maybe it was Poland or Romania, who knows?) and spoke with a heavy accent. She was very small, and very, very tough. A tough, tough cookie. Even I knew that.
She was clearly an intellectual (also a rarity among parents of my friends) and looked down on American pop culture of the 1950s. Rock and roll music was not allowed in her house.
So she opened this book store (I think it stayed in business about 5 years). The name The Magic Barrel meant nothing to me, and I was told it was named after Bernard Malamud's book. The name Bernard Malamud meant nothing to me. When the store opened, I bought (rare in those non-monied days) a paperback copy of The Magic Barrel, and although I can't tell you what any of the stories were about today, I remember that I thought they were all right. A little later, I read The Fixer, which I thought was phenomenal; this one I sorta remember: it took place in Russia and was based on the Beilas ritual murder trial. This was all new to me and unbelievably exciting.
I never read The Natural, his Robert Redford book, nor, to my memory, anything else. Perhaps, I should, but......with everything else, I don't think I will. I'd be happy to post your thoughts.
So, imagine my surprise, when my friend told me that his mother was going to open a book store, in Clayton MO, and that it was going to be called The Magic Barrel.
The mother/bookseller was unique in a number of ways, to my experience. In the first place, she was not American. She was born in Russia (or in what I thought was Russia; maybe it was Poland or Romania, who knows?) and spoke with a heavy accent. She was very small, and very, very tough. A tough, tough cookie. Even I knew that.
She was clearly an intellectual (also a rarity among parents of my friends) and looked down on American pop culture of the 1950s. Rock and roll music was not allowed in her house.
So she opened this book store (I think it stayed in business about 5 years). The name The Magic Barrel meant nothing to me, and I was told it was named after Bernard Malamud's book. The name Bernard Malamud meant nothing to me. When the store opened, I bought (rare in those non-monied days) a paperback copy of The Magic Barrel, and although I can't tell you what any of the stories were about today, I remember that I thought they were all right. A little later, I read The Fixer, which I thought was phenomenal; this one I sorta remember: it took place in Russia and was based on the Beilas ritual murder trial. This was all new to me and unbelievably exciting.
I never read The Natural, his Robert Redford book, nor, to my memory, anything else. Perhaps, I should, but......with everything else, I don't think I will. I'd be happy to post your thoughts.
Current Events
Mini-reports of recent happenings:
1. Saw Brokeback Mountain (yawn). Found it rather dull, and cannot at all understand how it is sweeping the rewards. I did not think that the relationship between the guys was either very believable or interesting, and thought the physical scenes a bit embarrassing. I thought that Michelle Williams (is that her name?), who played Ennis Delmar's wife, was fantastic.
2. Ate at Nora's (sort of a sad salad, followed by a terrific filet mignon, with obsequious and not very attentive service), Shanghai Garden (always good), Logan Tavern (should rare tuna be brown? no.) and Mt. Everst in Adams Morgan (best Nepalise food on 18th Street).
3. Sorry that the Czechs (boo, Jagr) beat the Slovaks (yea, Bondra)
4. Went to the Nextbook evening on Bernard Malamud (who? Bernard Malamud?), which was a passable but not exciting three way conversation between three author/intellectuals that for the most part left the audience out. The main question was why Malamud, who won a Pulitzer and National Book Award, is read less now than in the 50s and 60s, and whether is changing or should change. More about Malamud on my next posting.
1. Saw Brokeback Mountain (yawn). Found it rather dull, and cannot at all understand how it is sweeping the rewards. I did not think that the relationship between the guys was either very believable or interesting, and thought the physical scenes a bit embarrassing. I thought that Michelle Williams (is that her name?), who played Ennis Delmar's wife, was fantastic.
2. Ate at Nora's (sort of a sad salad, followed by a terrific filet mignon, with obsequious and not very attentive service), Shanghai Garden (always good), Logan Tavern (should rare tuna be brown? no.) and Mt. Everst in Adams Morgan (best Nepalise food on 18th Street).
3. Sorry that the Czechs (boo, Jagr) beat the Slovaks (yea, Bondra)
4. Went to the Nextbook evening on Bernard Malamud (who? Bernard Malamud?), which was a passable but not exciting three way conversation between three author/intellectuals that for the most part left the audience out. The main question was why Malamud, who won a Pulitzer and National Book Award, is read less now than in the 50s and 60s, and whether is changing or should change. More about Malamud on my next posting.
The Middle East Today
Sunni: There is nothing worse than a Jew, except for a Shiite.
Shiite: There is nothing worse than a Jew, except for a Sunni.
What a sad state the world has come to.
Shiite: There is nothing worse than a Jew, except for a Sunni.
What a sad state the world has come to.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Leprosy and Constipation
Two of my favorite subjects.
Leprosy is the subject of a fine, short first novel by Jeff Talarigo, published in 2004. A young woman living on an isolated Japanese island in 1948, where she lives with her very traditional parents and works as a pearl diver, is diagnosed with leprosy, noted on the public records as dead, and moved into quarantine at a leprosarium on another island, only a short distance a way. She spends the rest of her life there, which seems to be at least 50 years (she is still alive at the end of the book).
The disease often proceeds very slowly, but there is no cure. The patients at this very spare facility all have jobs which help organize and support this communal facility. They get to know each other well, but only up to a point: they take new names and new identities.
The isolation is not complete, as mobile patients are allowed off the island for short excursions, and there is even a chance for dismissal into the community as medical assistance becomes more available, but Ms. Fuji (for that is the name she takes) decides against leaving. Why? Probably, because she would be too isolated. Her life as a pearl diver was isolated. Her life as a leper is isolated. In her few excursions back into society, she feels isolated. And the isolation of the leper colony, with all of its limitations and problems, perhaps seems the safest.
A very good book about a female Japanese leprosy patient in an isolated part of Japan starting in the 1940s by an American male who was probably not even alive when the book starts. How is it possible to set the stage, when the stage is so foreign to the writer?
Constipation was, I believe, the undercurrent of an 80 minute French silent movie (from 1923) which we saw this weekend. The apparently well known film, Coeur Fidele, by Polish/French avantgarde director Jean Epstein, is set in depressing Marseilles, on and around the docks, and centers on a poor orphan, who has two suitors, one of whom is handsome Jean and the other Little Paul, a gangster who nobody likes.
Paul and Jean get in a fight, and Jean goes to jail, leaving Little Paul without competition. Little Paul and our heroine get married, have a baby, live in poverty (because of his gambling and drinking), befriended by a poor, crippled girl in the apartment next door (played by Epstein's sister). Jean gets out of jail, finds his old flame, sees her at first secretly and then in the open, when another fight begins between Little Paul and himself. But Paul's gun falls on the floor, the neighbor picks it up and with shaking hands, shoots and kills Little Paul, whose head falls on the crib of his young son.
There are apparently some innovations here: kaleidescope designs, close ups, etc., which were apparently part of the maintstream counterculture of France between the wars.
But the most irritating thing to me (of which there were many), were the continual (i.e., without a single variation or break) scowls on the faces of all of the characters. I can only conclude that all of their problems were the result of their constipation.
Leprosy is the subject of a fine, short first novel by Jeff Talarigo, published in 2004. A young woman living on an isolated Japanese island in 1948, where she lives with her very traditional parents and works as a pearl diver, is diagnosed with leprosy, noted on the public records as dead, and moved into quarantine at a leprosarium on another island, only a short distance a way. She spends the rest of her life there, which seems to be at least 50 years (she is still alive at the end of the book).
The disease often proceeds very slowly, but there is no cure. The patients at this very spare facility all have jobs which help organize and support this communal facility. They get to know each other well, but only up to a point: they take new names and new identities.
The isolation is not complete, as mobile patients are allowed off the island for short excursions, and there is even a chance for dismissal into the community as medical assistance becomes more available, but Ms. Fuji (for that is the name she takes) decides against leaving. Why? Probably, because she would be too isolated. Her life as a pearl diver was isolated. Her life as a leper is isolated. In her few excursions back into society, she feels isolated. And the isolation of the leper colony, with all of its limitations and problems, perhaps seems the safest.
A very good book about a female Japanese leprosy patient in an isolated part of Japan starting in the 1940s by an American male who was probably not even alive when the book starts. How is it possible to set the stage, when the stage is so foreign to the writer?
Constipation was, I believe, the undercurrent of an 80 minute French silent movie (from 1923) which we saw this weekend. The apparently well known film, Coeur Fidele, by Polish/French avantgarde director Jean Epstein, is set in depressing Marseilles, on and around the docks, and centers on a poor orphan, who has two suitors, one of whom is handsome Jean and the other Little Paul, a gangster who nobody likes.
Paul and Jean get in a fight, and Jean goes to jail, leaving Little Paul without competition. Little Paul and our heroine get married, have a baby, live in poverty (because of his gambling and drinking), befriended by a poor, crippled girl in the apartment next door (played by Epstein's sister). Jean gets out of jail, finds his old flame, sees her at first secretly and then in the open, when another fight begins between Little Paul and himself. But Paul's gun falls on the floor, the neighbor picks it up and with shaking hands, shoots and kills Little Paul, whose head falls on the crib of his young son.
There are apparently some innovations here: kaleidescope designs, close ups, etc., which were apparently part of the maintstream counterculture of France between the wars.
But the most irritating thing to me (of which there were many), were the continual (i.e., without a single variation or break) scowls on the faces of all of the characters. I can only conclude that all of their problems were the result of their constipation.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Cezanne at the National Gallery
The 100+ Cezanne paintings will be on display until early May. Combined with the major Dada exhibit opening today, the NGA is a must-see.
It was a well organized exhibit, concentrating on Cezanne's relationship to his native Provence. Multiple landscapes centered around his family house, around various familiar mountain and fishing port scenes, show how Cezanne painted the same scenes with subtle changes. His familiar portraits and self-portraits (including "The Card Players") show his technique.
The exhibit smartly combines subject division with chronological changes. So you see, how Cezanne's early technique was refined, and how he began using the wide variety of beautiful blues and greens, which I like the best. But then you see age catching up, with his paintings becoming darker as time goes on.
The sources of this exhibit are varied: several from the NGA itself, and from other American musuems (Met, Moma, Kimball, Philadelphia, Art Institute, etc.) and from Europe (Hermitage, Tate, Musee d'Orsay, and several German and Swiss museums). Two of the landscapes come from the White House collection (it makes you wonder what the White House collection consists of, and whether it itself could be the subject of an exhibit).
Interesting tid-bit from the show: Cezanne, growing up in a fairly well to do family near Aix, was a boyhood friend of Zola. Never would have put the two of them together.
It was a well organized exhibit, concentrating on Cezanne's relationship to his native Provence. Multiple landscapes centered around his family house, around various familiar mountain and fishing port scenes, show how Cezanne painted the same scenes with subtle changes. His familiar portraits and self-portraits (including "The Card Players") show his technique.
The exhibit smartly combines subject division with chronological changes. So you see, how Cezanne's early technique was refined, and how he began using the wide variety of beautiful blues and greens, which I like the best. But then you see age catching up, with his paintings becoming darker as time goes on.
The sources of this exhibit are varied: several from the NGA itself, and from other American musuems (Met, Moma, Kimball, Philadelphia, Art Institute, etc.) and from Europe (Hermitage, Tate, Musee d'Orsay, and several German and Swiss museums). Two of the landscapes come from the White House collection (it makes you wonder what the White House collection consists of, and whether it itself could be the subject of an exhibit).
Interesting tid-bit from the show: Cezanne, growing up in a fairly well to do family near Aix, was a boyhood friend of Zola. Never would have put the two of them together.
Olympic Hockey (3 cents)
I just saw Slovakia beat Kazakhstan 2-1. It was quite a good game, and it was nice seeing Peter Bondra scoring the winning goal in Slovakia's second straight game.
I am mixed on what I want to see out of this competition, particularly since so many of the players on all the times are NHL players. And with Bondra and Zednik (both ex-Caps) and Majeski (current Cap) on the team, it is easy to root for Slovakia. But Ovechkin is on Russia's team, Kolzig is Germany's goalie, all the Canadian players are well know, and the U.S. is the U.S.
So, I think I would like to have seen Kazakhstan win (as unlikely as that ever was). Because as a country with a significant Moslem population, and one which is primarily moderate in its religious practice, an Olympic medal would bring a Moslem country into the world-wide mainstream. Thus, a Kazakhstan victory may be exactly what is required in order to save Western civiilization.
I am mixed on what I want to see out of this competition, particularly since so many of the players on all the times are NHL players. And with Bondra and Zednik (both ex-Caps) and Majeski (current Cap) on the team, it is easy to root for Slovakia. But Ovechkin is on Russia's team, Kolzig is Germany's goalie, all the Canadian players are well know, and the U.S. is the U.S.
So, I think I would like to have seen Kazakhstan win (as unlikely as that ever was). Because as a country with a significant Moslem population, and one which is primarily moderate in its religious practice, an Olympic medal would bring a Moslem country into the world-wide mainstream. Thus, a Kazakhstan victory may be exactly what is required in order to save Western civiilization.
Friday, February 17, 2006
No Danish Pastries in Iran
I told you it was coming. Apparently, Danish pastries in Iran are now Roses of Mohammed.
Can I have a prune Rose of Mohammed please?
Can I have a prune Rose of Mohammed please?
Mongolia and the Northern Islands of Hawaii
seem to have absolutely nothing in common, other than they are each on exhibit at the National Geographic.
The Mongolian exhibit focuses on two things:
First, some very nice journalistic-type photographs of rural Mongolian families engaged in their daily life activities, and particularly in their annual seasonal migrations. The colors are particularly good. The photographs are by Gordon Wiltsie.
Second, on an appealing Mongolian Buddhist ceremony called Tsam. I can't begin to explain it, except to say it features a number of gods and near gods in variegated stylized costumes and terrific animal like masks (they all look like NHL goalies) who participate in a comic/drama whose goal is to drive evil out of the community. You can't argue with that. The exhibit includes four life size masked models in historic clothes (led by the blue bullhead god Dandinchoijou) and twenty or so 18" models.
The Northern Hawaii exhibit is only photographic, and involves portraits birds, fish and other forms of sea life taken from a chain of environmentally protected islands northwest of the inhabited Hawaiian Is. They are so protected that not only does no one live on them (although they are the stated ancestral homes of native islanders), but you cannot visit them without a reason to go, and then you are in virtual quarantine (and even not allowed to wear clothes you have worn anywhere before, for fear that there might by some seeds or pollen that could pollute the area). The photos are large and very artistically done, generally isolating the subject against a large single color (often white) background. Most appealing are four portraits of a winter tern leaving the egg; a baby albatross and a brown booby. The crustacea are just as interesting but not as appealing. And the photos of the coral and other attached sea life are fascinating, but for me more difficult to appreciate.
The Mongolian exhibit focuses on two things:
First, some very nice journalistic-type photographs of rural Mongolian families engaged in their daily life activities, and particularly in their annual seasonal migrations. The colors are particularly good. The photographs are by Gordon Wiltsie.
Second, on an appealing Mongolian Buddhist ceremony called Tsam. I can't begin to explain it, except to say it features a number of gods and near gods in variegated stylized costumes and terrific animal like masks (they all look like NHL goalies) who participate in a comic/drama whose goal is to drive evil out of the community. You can't argue with that. The exhibit includes four life size masked models in historic clothes (led by the blue bullhead god Dandinchoijou) and twenty or so 18" models.
The Northern Hawaii exhibit is only photographic, and involves portraits birds, fish and other forms of sea life taken from a chain of environmentally protected islands northwest of the inhabited Hawaiian Is. They are so protected that not only does no one live on them (although they are the stated ancestral homes of native islanders), but you cannot visit them without a reason to go, and then you are in virtual quarantine (and even not allowed to wear clothes you have worn anywhere before, for fear that there might by some seeds or pollen that could pollute the area). The photos are large and very artistically done, generally isolating the subject against a large single color (often white) background. Most appealing are four portraits of a winter tern leaving the egg; a baby albatross and a brown booby. The crustacea are just as interesting but not as appealing. And the photos of the coral and other attached sea life are fascinating, but for me more difficult to appreciate.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
I Don't Care About Marjorie Merriweather Post (11 cents)
I just read Nancy Rubin's biography of this overly rich, haughty, very boring individual. I just don't care about her.
The most interesting parts of the book where the stories about her father (the Post of Post Toasties) and the growth of the health food/cereal empires of Battle Creek Michigan, and about her third husband, Joseph Davies, who was ambassador to the USSR (and to Belgium and Luxembourg) right before WWII. Davies believed in befriending the Soviets as a counterweight to the Nazis, and was very anti-isolationist.
The dullest parts of the book were about Marjorie, her first husband (who through his second marriage was Glenn Close's grandfather), her second husband E.F. Hutton, and her fourth husband Herb May. I was interested in reading about Hillwood, and less interested in the goings on in Palm Beach before it was Palm Beach when Marlago was first being built.
At any rate, I found her shallow and uninteresting. I also don't think that Nancy Rubin did much to make her more appealing to her readers.
The most interesting parts of the book where the stories about her father (the Post of Post Toasties) and the growth of the health food/cereal empires of Battle Creek Michigan, and about her third husband, Joseph Davies, who was ambassador to the USSR (and to Belgium and Luxembourg) right before WWII. Davies believed in befriending the Soviets as a counterweight to the Nazis, and was very anti-isolationist.
The dullest parts of the book were about Marjorie, her first husband (who through his second marriage was Glenn Close's grandfather), her second husband E.F. Hutton, and her fourth husband Herb May. I was interested in reading about Hillwood, and less interested in the goings on in Palm Beach before it was Palm Beach when Marlago was first being built.
At any rate, I found her shallow and uninteresting. I also don't think that Nancy Rubin did much to make her more appealing to her readers.
Dull, Dull, Dull, Dull, Dull (1 cent)
The Levine Woodwind Quintet Concert at Epiphany Episcopal Church today was dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
Why? Is it that woodwind quintent music is all dull? Is it that this particular selection of 5 pieces was dull? Is it that the Levine Woodwind Quintet is itself dull? Is it just me?
Don't know. Don't care. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
Why? Is it that woodwind quintent music is all dull? Is it that this particular selection of 5 pieces was dull? Is it that the Levine Woodwind Quintet is itself dull? Is it just me?
Don't know. Don't care. Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Just When You Think You Have It All Figured Out (4 cents)
So, I was watching the women's Olympic hockey match between the United States and Germany. It was being broadcast live from Turin. It was the just before the start of the second period. The US was leading 2-0. The phone rang.
It was my daughter asking me a question. I told her I was watching this game and that it was very good, and on the USA network (an NBC affiliate). She turned it on.
We were still talking when the second period started, and my daughter said: "well, we got another one." I didn't know what she was talking about, but decided that maybe I did not hear correctly and would let it pass. Then, about 10 seconds later, I saw the U.S. score its third goal.
This means that my daughter, watching the same USA channel, but on Montgomery County Comcast Cable, saw the game about 10 or 20 seconds before I saw the same game, watching on District of Columbia Comcast Cable.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Now, I am back to ground zero.
It was my daughter asking me a question. I told her I was watching this game and that it was very good, and on the USA network (an NBC affiliate). She turned it on.
We were still talking when the second period started, and my daughter said: "well, we got another one." I didn't know what she was talking about, but decided that maybe I did not hear correctly and would let it pass. Then, about 10 seconds later, I saw the U.S. score its third goal.
This means that my daughter, watching the same USA channel, but on Montgomery County Comcast Cable, saw the game about 10 or 20 seconds before I saw the same game, watching on District of Columbia Comcast Cable.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Now, I am back to ground zero.
David and Carmen Kreeger (6 cents)
David Kreeger was the founder and long time head of GEICO, an almost-professional violinist, and a patron of the arts in Washington. He and his wife built their Foxhall Road home, designed by Philip Johnson, with the idea of creating a museum after their deaths. The museum has now been opened about 15 years.
It has always been open by appointment only, but now can be visited without a reservation on Saturdays.
The house is architectually unique and hard to explain. You enter a see through vestibule. There are stairs and a living room on your left. There are other rooms to your right, perhaps the dining and kitchen areas. And the garages. All the rooms are oversized. All have marble walls and floors with a canvas-like material on the walls which is designed for the hanging of art work. The ceilings are high, particularly in the center section which is two stories high. There is a full basement (or lower level) and a second floor which is off-limits to the public. There is a large deck behind, and a large swimming pool.
But the highlight is the artwork. The selection is large for a private collection (it is not being added to), and the quality is almost completely top rate.
Picasso (5 or 6), Monet (even more), Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Cezanne, Pissaro, Braque, Van Gogh, Mondrian, Beckmann, Stella, Rosenquist, Avery, Gorky, Chagall, Man Ray, Malliol, Henry Moore, Lipschutz, Noguchi, Kandinsky, and a host of others. All well hung in comfortable, and uncrowded conditions. There is also an impressive collection of African masks.
Many favorites. Perhaps I like best a particular Picasso; my wife likes a Van Gogh vase with flowers. Hard to dislike anything.
It has always been open by appointment only, but now can be visited without a reservation on Saturdays.
The house is architectually unique and hard to explain. You enter a see through vestibule. There are stairs and a living room on your left. There are other rooms to your right, perhaps the dining and kitchen areas. And the garages. All the rooms are oversized. All have marble walls and floors with a canvas-like material on the walls which is designed for the hanging of art work. The ceilings are high, particularly in the center section which is two stories high. There is a full basement (or lower level) and a second floor which is off-limits to the public. There is a large deck behind, and a large swimming pool.
But the highlight is the artwork. The selection is large for a private collection (it is not being added to), and the quality is almost completely top rate.
Picasso (5 or 6), Monet (even more), Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Cezanne, Pissaro, Braque, Van Gogh, Mondrian, Beckmann, Stella, Rosenquist, Avery, Gorky, Chagall, Man Ray, Malliol, Henry Moore, Lipschutz, Noguchi, Kandinsky, and a host of others. All well hung in comfortable, and uncrowded conditions. There is also an impressive collection of African masks.
Many favorites. Perhaps I like best a particular Picasso; my wife likes a Van Gogh vase with flowers. Hard to dislike anything.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Forever Amber
Amber, trapped residue from beech trees, is found mainly in northeastern Europe, near the Baltic Sea Coast. Still today, amber jewelry can be found there, on every block, seemingly in every store. But the greatest amber treasure of all time, the Amber Room was, to make a long story short, a gift of the Prussian king to the Russian royal family, and wound up in Tsarskoe Selo (now Pushkin) in the Catherine Palace. An entire room made of amber.
During World War II, great efforts were made by all combatant European governments to safeguard their works of art from destruction or theft. The Amber Room, at first deemed too large and too fragile to dismantle, was covered with drywall in the hope that invading German troops would overlook it. The palace was badly damaged in the war, and there was no trace of the Amber Room after the fighting stopped and the Germans left the country.
This book tells the story of the Amber Room and, because it is very unlikely that any of my readers will read it, I will give away the end.
A couple of premises. First, extraordinary amounts of art were taken by all invading parties. For example, when the Russians finally gave back a large number of art works to Germany, the inventoried list was just under 2,000,000. Many of these were world class treasures; some had disappeared for decades only to be discovered, while the existence of others were known, but they were secreted.
But what of the Amber Room? It was a subject that, for 40 years, was the subject of expensive and extensive searches. It was never found. (In fact, it has now been reconstructed in Pushkin and the new Amber Room is open for tourists.)
The truth of the matter seems to be that the Amber Room had been dismantled in Pushkin, and taken by train to Koenigsberg, on the Black Sea, an East Prussian stronghold, where it was stored, along with much else, in the cellars and vaults of the Koenigsberg Castle. It also appears that, after the Germans were driven from Koenigsberg (now Kaliningrad) in 1945, the Russian troops set fire to the Castle (now completely gone and replaced with a high rise building constructed for the Russian provincial government) and destroyed it. The Amber Room was destroyed by the fire, although no one knew it was there and certainly no one knew it was being destroyed.
Russian archeologist Alexander Brusov was given the task after the war of locating the Amber Room. He seemed to have understood what had happened, when the Soviets shut down his investigation, and had him completely discredited (as only the Soviets could do).
From here, the investigation took many turns. Had it been moved elsewhere in Kaliningrad, or was it still under the new governmental building in some of the unexplored vaults? Was it taken to Germany, and hidden in Saxony (where many stolen works of hard had been hidden in abandoned coal minds and quarries?
Teams of investigators. Russian communist party. KGB. Russian academics. East German citizens. Stasi. West Germans. Descendents of Russian royalty. All following various lines of thinking, and belittling others. Publishing theories. Creating correspondence that languished in closed archives, or in crumbling apartments scattered around eastern Europe.
The conclusion of the authors is as stated above: the Russians themselves had destroyed one of their own greatest treasures. Not the Germans, who had stolen it (to be sure), but who had not been able to move it beyond Koenigsberg.
But this conclusion would be of great embarrassment in the USSR, would adversely affect the complex stolen art negotiations being undertaken across the continent after the war, and blunt the accusations of wrongdoing by the Germans. So the Russian Communist party, knowing the truth, kept the lies alive by funding and supporting all of the attempts to locate a hidden Amber Room, and surpressing anything that resembled the truth.
An interesting story, involving not a handful of people, but vast numbers of people of all sorts of backgrounds. The complexity of the tale is overwhelming (more characters than War and Peace) and impossible to keep in mind. But as an example of Soviet disinformation at work, as an example of a story that captured the minds of geniuses and crazies alike, and as an example of how much activity took place in cataloging, securing, stealing, hiding, finding and arguing about the proper ownership of works of art, it is fascinating.
Oh, yes, the book is called "The Amber Room" and was published in 2004. It was written by Adrian Levy and Catherine Scott-Clark.
During World War II, great efforts were made by all combatant European governments to safeguard their works of art from destruction or theft. The Amber Room, at first deemed too large and too fragile to dismantle, was covered with drywall in the hope that invading German troops would overlook it. The palace was badly damaged in the war, and there was no trace of the Amber Room after the fighting stopped and the Germans left the country.
This book tells the story of the Amber Room and, because it is very unlikely that any of my readers will read it, I will give away the end.
A couple of premises. First, extraordinary amounts of art were taken by all invading parties. For example, when the Russians finally gave back a large number of art works to Germany, the inventoried list was just under 2,000,000. Many of these were world class treasures; some had disappeared for decades only to be discovered, while the existence of others were known, but they were secreted.
But what of the Amber Room? It was a subject that, for 40 years, was the subject of expensive and extensive searches. It was never found. (In fact, it has now been reconstructed in Pushkin and the new Amber Room is open for tourists.)
The truth of the matter seems to be that the Amber Room had been dismantled in Pushkin, and taken by train to Koenigsberg, on the Black Sea, an East Prussian stronghold, where it was stored, along with much else, in the cellars and vaults of the Koenigsberg Castle. It also appears that, after the Germans were driven from Koenigsberg (now Kaliningrad) in 1945, the Russian troops set fire to the Castle (now completely gone and replaced with a high rise building constructed for the Russian provincial government) and destroyed it. The Amber Room was destroyed by the fire, although no one knew it was there and certainly no one knew it was being destroyed.
Russian archeologist Alexander Brusov was given the task after the war of locating the Amber Room. He seemed to have understood what had happened, when the Soviets shut down his investigation, and had him completely discredited (as only the Soviets could do).
From here, the investigation took many turns. Had it been moved elsewhere in Kaliningrad, or was it still under the new governmental building in some of the unexplored vaults? Was it taken to Germany, and hidden in Saxony (where many stolen works of hard had been hidden in abandoned coal minds and quarries?
Teams of investigators. Russian communist party. KGB. Russian academics. East German citizens. Stasi. West Germans. Descendents of Russian royalty. All following various lines of thinking, and belittling others. Publishing theories. Creating correspondence that languished in closed archives, or in crumbling apartments scattered around eastern Europe.
The conclusion of the authors is as stated above: the Russians themselves had destroyed one of their own greatest treasures. Not the Germans, who had stolen it (to be sure), but who had not been able to move it beyond Koenigsberg.
But this conclusion would be of great embarrassment in the USSR, would adversely affect the complex stolen art negotiations being undertaken across the continent after the war, and blunt the accusations of wrongdoing by the Germans. So the Russian Communist party, knowing the truth, kept the lies alive by funding and supporting all of the attempts to locate a hidden Amber Room, and surpressing anything that resembled the truth.
An interesting story, involving not a handful of people, but vast numbers of people of all sorts of backgrounds. The complexity of the tale is overwhelming (more characters than War and Peace) and impossible to keep in mind. But as an example of Soviet disinformation at work, as an example of a story that captured the minds of geniuses and crazies alike, and as an example of how much activity took place in cataloging, securing, stealing, hiding, finding and arguing about the proper ownership of works of art, it is fascinating.
Oh, yes, the book is called "The Amber Room" and was published in 2004. It was written by Adrian Levy and Catherine Scott-Clark.
Friday, February 10, 2006
The Renaissance Mysteries of the NGA (3 cents)
The city of Florence has spent twenty years restoring the sculpture that sits in the niches around the perimeter of the Orsanmichele (if you don't know what that is, look it up; it is one of Florence's most recognizable buildings).
Three (or six, depending on how you count them) have been on display at the National Gallery before heading back to Italy at the end of the month. They include a group of four Roman artisans who were martyred for refusing to sculpt a pagan God, Jesus and St. Thomas (the doubter) and St. Matthew, patron saint of the Banking Guild, one of guilds which supported the niches. The sculptors are Ghiberti, Verrochio and Nanni de Banco. The materials are stone (marble) and bronze. In true Renaissance fashion, they are all very life-like an approachable, particularly seen at ground level, rather than raised as they will be (again) when placed around the Orsanmichele.
While at the gallery, I glommed on a docent tour of Renaissance art. As usual, the guide was quite well informed, and she concentrated both on the paintings themselves, but also on some strange happenings that I would not have guessed.
For example, two of the paintings were painted on wood, but later transferred to canvas when the gallery acquired them. This includes a Raphael, which was purchased in the 1930s from the Hermitage in Leningrad.
One of the paintings (Feast of the Gods) was started by Bellini when he was in his 80s and finished by Dosso Dossi. Titian was then asked to paint two other canvasses which would hang in the same room, but he said he would only do so if he could make some changes to the Bellini/Dossi. Bellini painted a wooded background, Dossi painted over part of the woods with a distant town, and Titian got rid of the town and put in a mountain.
Then there is a da Vinci "Ginerva de Benci", a very nice work (surprise!) purchased from the Prinz von Lichtenstein, where it had sustained water damage. It was painted on wood (still on wood), back and front. The back is a wreath of juniper, laurel, etc. and a banner that talks about beauty. Apparently, da Vinci first talked about virtue on the back, but was asked to change it by the man who had commissioned the portrait.
This painting, as displayed is square, which is an unusual shape for a Renaissance painting. In fact, it was rectangular, but had about 6 inches cut off because of the water damage.
Then, there is a painting that at some point was cut in two, with half of it winding up at the National Gallery , and half in New York at the Met. Originally, no one knew that they were the same painting; each had apparently been restored so that they looked sort of like an entire painting. But at some point, someone notice the similarities and saw that they fit together and matched, so they were restored as one, and ownership is now apparently shared between the two museums.
As to sizing, apparently, it was not unusual for a painting to be cropped to fit a frame; there are a few examples, and then there are some paintings that have not been cropped but where the frames do not show the full painting.
All this is pretty interesting, I think. And certainly not at all what you would notice wandering by yourself.
Three (or six, depending on how you count them) have been on display at the National Gallery before heading back to Italy at the end of the month. They include a group of four Roman artisans who were martyred for refusing to sculpt a pagan God, Jesus and St. Thomas (the doubter) and St. Matthew, patron saint of the Banking Guild, one of guilds which supported the niches. The sculptors are Ghiberti, Verrochio and Nanni de Banco. The materials are stone (marble) and bronze. In true Renaissance fashion, they are all very life-like an approachable, particularly seen at ground level, rather than raised as they will be (again) when placed around the Orsanmichele.
While at the gallery, I glommed on a docent tour of Renaissance art. As usual, the guide was quite well informed, and she concentrated both on the paintings themselves, but also on some strange happenings that I would not have guessed.
For example, two of the paintings were painted on wood, but later transferred to canvas when the gallery acquired them. This includes a Raphael, which was purchased in the 1930s from the Hermitage in Leningrad.
One of the paintings (Feast of the Gods) was started by Bellini when he was in his 80s and finished by Dosso Dossi. Titian was then asked to paint two other canvasses which would hang in the same room, but he said he would only do so if he could make some changes to the Bellini/Dossi. Bellini painted a wooded background, Dossi painted over part of the woods with a distant town, and Titian got rid of the town and put in a mountain.
Then there is a da Vinci "Ginerva de Benci", a very nice work (surprise!) purchased from the Prinz von Lichtenstein, where it had sustained water damage. It was painted on wood (still on wood), back and front. The back is a wreath of juniper, laurel, etc. and a banner that talks about beauty. Apparently, da Vinci first talked about virtue on the back, but was asked to change it by the man who had commissioned the portrait.
This painting, as displayed is square, which is an unusual shape for a Renaissance painting. In fact, it was rectangular, but had about 6 inches cut off because of the water damage.
Then, there is a painting that at some point was cut in two, with half of it winding up at the National Gallery , and half in New York at the Met. Originally, no one knew that they were the same painting; each had apparently been restored so that they looked sort of like an entire painting. But at some point, someone notice the similarities and saw that they fit together and matched, so they were restored as one, and ownership is now apparently shared between the two museums.
As to sizing, apparently, it was not unusual for a painting to be cropped to fit a frame; there are a few examples, and then there are some paintings that have not been cropped but where the frames do not show the full painting.
All this is pretty interesting, I think. And certainly not at all what you would notice wandering by yourself.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Not Beetlejuice or Beezlebub (3 cents)
This is not about Beetlejuice or Beezlebut. It is about Bettelheim. Bruno Bettelheim.
When he died in 1990 at the age of 87, he was respected as an authority on troubled children, the impact of fairy tales on young minds, autism, and the Holocaust. Immediately on his death, he was accused of being a fraud and a bully, and his reputation was irreparably diminished. Biographer/psychoanalyst Nina Sutton wrote his biography, which was published in 1996. A quick trip to amazon.com shows the controversy surrounding her subject. The reviewers say that her book is masterful, that it made a saint out of a scoundrel, and that it made a scoundrel out of a saint.
Certain things are clear. Bettelheim, a Vienna native, spent a year in Dachau and Buchenwald (pre-final solution), until he was let out because of an exit visa permitting him to emigrate to the U.S. His concentration camp experiences had an extraordinary influence on his approach to youth and adolescence, as did his younger years growing up in a household with a prosperous, but syphillitic father, who died a young man.
Having been active in Freudian circles in Vienna (although his early adulthood was spent managing the family lumber business, and while he eventually received an advanced degree, it was not in psychology or medicine) and was not hesitant to portray himself as an analyst. Getting teaching jobs at Wheaton (IL) College and eventually the U. of Chicago, and being chosen to run the university's new Orthogenic School for children with autism and related conditions, he made a name for himself with his unusual methods of dealing with his students - primarily, giving them much freer rein than others, and avoiding treatment of their emotional condition with medicines or medical treatments. He apparently also, however, had a very difficult personality, and did not shy away from physical punishment, sometimes as a result of sudden eruptions. This was kept hidden from the public, however.
After thirty years at the school, he retired and moved to California where he taught some at Stanford and wrote. In his 60s, he became interested in the kibbutz movement in Israel, spent a considerable amount of time there, and wrote on the subject.
In his 70s, he wrote about fairy tales and their psychological impact, publishing his most widely read book, "The Uses of Enchantment" when he was 73.
In his 80s, after the death of his wife, and after significant conflict with his oldest daughter (the conflict being a source of great embarrassment to this expert on child rearing), he moved to Washington, to live near his youngest daughter. Shortly after moving here, in 1990, he took barbituates, put a plastic bag over his head, and died.
His story is interesting, filled with both great success and equally great failure. His theories about the origins of his charges' problems remain controversial, and he began to doubt himself in later years. As the school began to take more difficult cases, he found his success rate dropping, leading questions as to the accuracy of early diagnoses of autism. Although he pioneered in new treatments, the world moved beyong him to even newer treatments and better understandings of the mind.
His writings on the Holocaust were equally controversial, with some saying that, as a 1938-1939 concentration camp survivor, he could not write with authority. That only death camp survivors of the 1940s could really do that. But he clearly had a good understanding of how survivorship tactics worked at Dachau, and how different types of people reacted in different ways. This colored (I think positively) his later thinking.
He was against condemnation of the German people as a whole; he had psychological explanations for the behavior of many Germans during the war. He agreed with Hannah Arendt's treatment of Eichmann, as being a small and uniimportant man caught up in big things, the "banality of evil". He came in for a lot of criticism.
Expecting to fall in love with the kibbutz movement, he found it stultifying and doomed to failure. Again, more controversy ensued.
He started out as a liberal in America, but wound up supporting Nixon, and voting for Reagan. He was aghast at the student riots of the late 1960s, which he declared "bad for the Jews". This did not endear him to many who would be expected to be his biggest admirers.
A complicated life; a complicated, but very interesting and satisfying, book.
When he died in 1990 at the age of 87, he was respected as an authority on troubled children, the impact of fairy tales on young minds, autism, and the Holocaust. Immediately on his death, he was accused of being a fraud and a bully, and his reputation was irreparably diminished. Biographer/psychoanalyst Nina Sutton wrote his biography, which was published in 1996. A quick trip to amazon.com shows the controversy surrounding her subject. The reviewers say that her book is masterful, that it made a saint out of a scoundrel, and that it made a scoundrel out of a saint.
Certain things are clear. Bettelheim, a Vienna native, spent a year in Dachau and Buchenwald (pre-final solution), until he was let out because of an exit visa permitting him to emigrate to the U.S. His concentration camp experiences had an extraordinary influence on his approach to youth and adolescence, as did his younger years growing up in a household with a prosperous, but syphillitic father, who died a young man.
Having been active in Freudian circles in Vienna (although his early adulthood was spent managing the family lumber business, and while he eventually received an advanced degree, it was not in psychology or medicine) and was not hesitant to portray himself as an analyst. Getting teaching jobs at Wheaton (IL) College and eventually the U. of Chicago, and being chosen to run the university's new Orthogenic School for children with autism and related conditions, he made a name for himself with his unusual methods of dealing with his students - primarily, giving them much freer rein than others, and avoiding treatment of their emotional condition with medicines or medical treatments. He apparently also, however, had a very difficult personality, and did not shy away from physical punishment, sometimes as a result of sudden eruptions. This was kept hidden from the public, however.
After thirty years at the school, he retired and moved to California where he taught some at Stanford and wrote. In his 60s, he became interested in the kibbutz movement in Israel, spent a considerable amount of time there, and wrote on the subject.
In his 70s, he wrote about fairy tales and their psychological impact, publishing his most widely read book, "The Uses of Enchantment" when he was 73.
In his 80s, after the death of his wife, and after significant conflict with his oldest daughter (the conflict being a source of great embarrassment to this expert on child rearing), he moved to Washington, to live near his youngest daughter. Shortly after moving here, in 1990, he took barbituates, put a plastic bag over his head, and died.
His story is interesting, filled with both great success and equally great failure. His theories about the origins of his charges' problems remain controversial, and he began to doubt himself in later years. As the school began to take more difficult cases, he found his success rate dropping, leading questions as to the accuracy of early diagnoses of autism. Although he pioneered in new treatments, the world moved beyong him to even newer treatments and better understandings of the mind.
His writings on the Holocaust were equally controversial, with some saying that, as a 1938-1939 concentration camp survivor, he could not write with authority. That only death camp survivors of the 1940s could really do that. But he clearly had a good understanding of how survivorship tactics worked at Dachau, and how different types of people reacted in different ways. This colored (I think positively) his later thinking.
He was against condemnation of the German people as a whole; he had psychological explanations for the behavior of many Germans during the war. He agreed with Hannah Arendt's treatment of Eichmann, as being a small and uniimportant man caught up in big things, the "banality of evil". He came in for a lot of criticism.
Expecting to fall in love with the kibbutz movement, he found it stultifying and doomed to failure. Again, more controversy ensued.
He started out as a liberal in America, but wound up supporting Nixon, and voting for Reagan. He was aghast at the student riots of the late 1960s, which he declared "bad for the Jews". This did not endear him to many who would be expected to be his biggest admirers.
A complicated life; a complicated, but very interesting and satisfying, book.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Three Cantatas To go
On their Tuesday concerts at Epiphany Episcopal, the Washington Bach Consort has spent the last 17 years performing all 215 of the Bach contatas. They only have 3 to go, and will finish on May 2. Then, they vow to start all over again.
Yesterday's cantata was "Schau, lieber Gott, wie meine Feind". I did not find it particularly fulfilling, which may explain why they waited 17 years to perform it. In fact, I thought it very mundane, but just when I was about to give up on it entirely, it was time for the final Choral, which has a masterful melody. Goes to show you -- it's not over 'til the fat lady sings.
According to J. Reilly Lewis in his informative introduction, this cantata was written for Bach's first News Years Day in Leipzig, following all of the Christmas works, and was therefore supposed to be rather simple, easy to learn and so forth. I guess it was.
It was preceded by a short organ prelude, that Bach wrote when he was 15. Again, not the greatest, but intersting in that the first part was written for the pedals only. I guess it could be called the "look, ma, no hands prelude" but it isn't.
Yesterday's cantata was "Schau, lieber Gott, wie meine Feind". I did not find it particularly fulfilling, which may explain why they waited 17 years to perform it. In fact, I thought it very mundane, but just when I was about to give up on it entirely, it was time for the final Choral, which has a masterful melody. Goes to show you -- it's not over 'til the fat lady sings.
According to J. Reilly Lewis in his informative introduction, this cantata was written for Bach's first News Years Day in Leipzig, following all of the Christmas works, and was therefore supposed to be rather simple, easy to learn and so forth. I guess it was.
It was preceded by a short organ prelude, that Bach wrote when he was 15. Again, not the greatest, but intersting in that the first part was written for the pedals only. I guess it could be called the "look, ma, no hands prelude" but it isn't.
Danes Kicked Out Of Chechnya
The head of the government of Chechnya has told Danish relief workers that they are not welcome any longer, and have to go home.
Can you imagine the tears and fears of those poor Danes who have to leave Chechnya and wind up in Denmark?
What could be worse?
Can you imagine the tears and fears of those poor Danes who have to leave Chechnya and wind up in Denmark?
What could be worse?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
I Always Wanted to be Danish
Because Danes are universally smart, stylish, attractive, prosperous and, most of all, well-loved by all. (This is why they named that most delcious of breakfast food after them, after all.)
Now, I learn that, in spite of what I thought, Danes are evil incarnate and that their embassies are fair target for target practice throughout the Moslem world.
How to react to this change in universal perception?
WWVBD*?
* What Would Victor Borge Do?
Now, I learn that, in spite of what I thought, Danes are evil incarnate and that their embassies are fair target for target practice throughout the Moslem world.
How to react to this change in universal perception?
WWVBD*?
* What Would Victor Borge Do?
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Sport Shorts
1. The Caps-Toronto game Friday night was a very good game. By chance, the Caps also won.
2. The Caps-Lightening game Saturday night was a terrible game. As it turned out, the Caps lost the bad game.
3. The basketball game on Saturday between Notre Dame and U. of Louisville was very exciting: Louisville won in overtime.
4. The first half of the Super Bowl was (a) not particularly interesting and (b) marred by bad calls. But it was terrific entertainment compared to the absolutely awful half time show with the Rolling Stones. They were terrible. They have never been good, but this tiem they were terrible. Years ago, when I first heard them, I knew they had no future. I think I was right.
2. The Caps-Lightening game Saturday night was a terrible game. As it turned out, the Caps lost the bad game.
3. The basketball game on Saturday between Notre Dame and U. of Louisville was very exciting: Louisville won in overtime.
4. The first half of the Super Bowl was (a) not particularly interesting and (b) marred by bad calls. But it was terrific entertainment compared to the absolutely awful half time show with the Rolling Stones. They were terrible. They have never been good, but this tiem they were terrible. Years ago, when I first heard them, I knew they had no future. I think I was right.
Udvar-Hagy
Believe it or not, this is the official name of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum's new location near Dulles Airport. That is because Mr. Udvar-Hagy was the biggest donor to the project. It reminds me of Horton Watkins, whose wife donated the land for my public high school, which became officially known as Horton Watkins High School, and which is unofficially never known that way.
But I digress.
This new museum provides the Air and Space Museum space to display much of what does not fit into its Mall location, and will one day provide space for its restoration department (now in Silver Hill, MD, a place no one could possibly find).
Is it worth visiting? Yes, definitely, as much for the scale and design of the facility (the latter being a pleasant surprise), as well as for its contents.
Inside, there are a lot of little planes hanging from the ceilings, and more planes and space ships (as well as displayed engines, etc.)on the ground. Too much for me to absorb, although there are very detailed explanations provided.
There are, however, even for the air-challenged, some attention grabbers: the enormous original Space Shuttle Enterprise, a very shiny Pan American Clipper that used to belong to Papa Doc in Haiti, Air France's last Concorde, the original prototype for the Boeing 707, and a fascinating array of World War I and World War II vintage fighter and reconnaisance planes (not only US and British, there are also Japanese and German planes).
In addition, there is a McDonalds fast food outlet, a large gift shop with nothing I want, and an IMAX theater now showing both a movie about Mars exploration, and a movie about fighter pilot war games in the suburbs of Las Vegas. We saw the latter and (although it is a cheerleading film for potential fighter pilots)found it pretty interesting.
The museum is free (once you pay $12 to park the car), plus a charge for the movies.
But I digress.
This new museum provides the Air and Space Museum space to display much of what does not fit into its Mall location, and will one day provide space for its restoration department (now in Silver Hill, MD, a place no one could possibly find).
Is it worth visiting? Yes, definitely, as much for the scale and design of the facility (the latter being a pleasant surprise), as well as for its contents.
Inside, there are a lot of little planes hanging from the ceilings, and more planes and space ships (as well as displayed engines, etc.)on the ground. Too much for me to absorb, although there are very detailed explanations provided.
There are, however, even for the air-challenged, some attention grabbers: the enormous original Space Shuttle Enterprise, a very shiny Pan American Clipper that used to belong to Papa Doc in Haiti, Air France's last Concorde, the original prototype for the Boeing 707, and a fascinating array of World War I and World War II vintage fighter and reconnaisance planes (not only US and British, there are also Japanese and German planes).
In addition, there is a McDonalds fast food outlet, a large gift shop with nothing I want, and an IMAX theater now showing both a movie about Mars exploration, and a movie about fighter pilot war games in the suburbs of Las Vegas. We saw the latter and (although it is a cheerleading film for potential fighter pilots)found it pretty interesting.
The museum is free (once you pay $12 to park the car), plus a charge for the movies.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Middle East Hypocrisy?
The folks in the Middle Eastern countries complaining so loudly about the anti-Mohammed cartoons don't have the same problem with anti-Jewish cartoons in their own papers, right?
Friday, February 03, 2006
Send a Telegram (STOP) (5 cents)
The first Western Union telegram was sent in 1861 (STOP). Want to send another one? (STOP) The last Western Union telegram was sent on January 27, 2006 (STOP).
The Daughters of the American Revolution
The DAR Building (the place where they would not let Marion Anderson sing) is always pointed out by the tour guides heading down 17th Street from the White House towards the monuments. And those of us who were in Washington before the completion of the Kennedy Center in the early 1970s remember DAR Constitution Hall as the home of the National Symphony Orchestra.
But who goes there today? Well, today (literally), I went there, to see the free DAR Museum.
I have the following to report.
First, I find the building itself downright spooky. None of the rooms are the right size, nothing is decorated properly, the halls are too narrow and don't go anywhere, the elegant stair case is hidden away. I have all sorts of complaints.
Including the weird inhabitants, who are largely middle aged women, modestly dressed, with 1950s hair styles, who have diagonal sashes in various colors, and a bunch of pins on their dresses, as if they were proud Russian communists.
Putting that aside, the museum (if you can get over its extraordinarily poor layout) has something to offer. First, there is only one large room, which contains three major things: First, a large collection of pottery and glassware from the late 18th and early 19th centuries, that is very interesting. Pieces are numbered, and then briefly identified in looseleaf books, not with wall signage.
The pottery/ceramic collection, for example, is divided into the following sections, with the guidebooks giving general information on ingredients and process: Tin glazed earthenware, white salt glazed stoneware, agate ware, dry based stoneware (that's the blue and green Wedgewood we are so familiar with), colored glazed ware, creamware, Chinese export porcelin and American and continenal porcelin.
In addition to this collection, there are some period furniture pieces and a collection of late 18th and early 19th century quilts, samplers and bedcoverings.
Then there are the period rooms, sponsored by several of the states and the District of Columbia. Although they are scattered about down meandering hallways, and themselves not well lit, they are of interest to those who have interest in such things. I think.
Finally, there is a very large and attractive library which concentrates in geneological material (several hundred thousand books alone), that is open to the public for a $6 a day fee.
But who goes there today? Well, today (literally), I went there, to see the free DAR Museum.
I have the following to report.
First, I find the building itself downright spooky. None of the rooms are the right size, nothing is decorated properly, the halls are too narrow and don't go anywhere, the elegant stair case is hidden away. I have all sorts of complaints.
Including the weird inhabitants, who are largely middle aged women, modestly dressed, with 1950s hair styles, who have diagonal sashes in various colors, and a bunch of pins on their dresses, as if they were proud Russian communists.
Putting that aside, the museum (if you can get over its extraordinarily poor layout) has something to offer. First, there is only one large room, which contains three major things: First, a large collection of pottery and glassware from the late 18th and early 19th centuries, that is very interesting. Pieces are numbered, and then briefly identified in looseleaf books, not with wall signage.
The pottery/ceramic collection, for example, is divided into the following sections, with the guidebooks giving general information on ingredients and process: Tin glazed earthenware, white salt glazed stoneware, agate ware, dry based stoneware (that's the blue and green Wedgewood we are so familiar with), colored glazed ware, creamware, Chinese export porcelin and American and continenal porcelin.
In addition to this collection, there are some period furniture pieces and a collection of late 18th and early 19th century quilts, samplers and bedcoverings.
Then there are the period rooms, sponsored by several of the states and the District of Columbia. Although they are scattered about down meandering hallways, and themselves not well lit, they are of interest to those who have interest in such things. I think.
Finally, there is a very large and attractive library which concentrates in geneological material (several hundred thousand books alone), that is open to the public for a $6 a day fee.
The Sinking of the Egyptian Freighter
Looks like the death toll my approach 1500. Beyond tragic.
There was a note in the MSNBC report that the Israeli navy had offered help, and Egypt declined. Don't know if true, but it reminded me of when the Russian nuclear submarine Kursk sank in the Baltic Sea, and the Russians refused American or English help 'for security reasons'. There, had the help been accepted, the crew would quite possibly have been saved.
As to this sad event, I assume that Pat Robertson will have his explanation ("the Saudis don't accept Jesus")as will Rabbi O.J. ("the Saudis don't study Torah"), and I guess many other of the conspiracy theorists will as well("payback for Saudi participation in 9/11"). And I guess there will be another group who will blame it on the Zionists.
There was a note in the MSNBC report that the Israeli navy had offered help, and Egypt declined. Don't know if true, but it reminded me of when the Russian nuclear submarine Kursk sank in the Baltic Sea, and the Russians refused American or English help 'for security reasons'. There, had the help been accepted, the crew would quite possibly have been saved.
As to this sad event, I assume that Pat Robertson will have his explanation ("the Saudis don't accept Jesus")as will Rabbi O.J. ("the Saudis don't study Torah"), and I guess many other of the conspiracy theorists will as well("payback for Saudi participation in 9/11"). And I guess there will be another group who will blame it on the Zionists.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Congressional Prayer Breakfast
The Congressional Prayer Breakfast was held this morning at the Washington Hilton, as it is every year.
Because the president and all the other dignataries attend, traffic is always a mess when the breakfast is letting out.
Today, was the worst. I had forgotten (or did not know) that the breakfast was this morning, and my 10-20 minute commute took one hour and 20 minutes.
What happened to the separation of church and state? Why should there be a prayer breakfast at all, much less one organized without any semblance of intelligent design?
And why can't prayer breakfast attendees take the metro?
Because the president and all the other dignataries attend, traffic is always a mess when the breakfast is letting out.
Today, was the worst. I had forgotten (or did not know) that the breakfast was this morning, and my 10-20 minute commute took one hour and 20 minutes.
What happened to the separation of church and state? Why should there be a prayer breakfast at all, much less one organized without any semblance of intelligent design?
And why can't prayer breakfast attendees take the metro?
Theater Jottings
1. Saw "Fat Pig" last night at the Studio. By Neil LaBute (who apparently has his own set of theatrical groupies), it is about a young man who falls in love (shallowly) with a young librarian who weights 250 pounds or so, and who breaks up with her because of cruel peer pressure (so he says). It got strong reviews, has been extended several weeks, and is apparently selling out every night.
I thought it an appalling play. To call it sophomoric, immature, puerile, or juvenile all would be too kind, it seemed to me. If I were LaBute, I would be embarrassed (and amazed at its success).
2. About Wendy Wasserstein, who died at 55 earlier this week. I had only seen one of her plays, which was put on at Theater J, and was the precurser to her current play, "Third", which is being staged in New York. When I saw "Third", it was the second act and followed "Welcome to My Rash", about a middle age woman coping with a mysterious disease (which of course in life turned out to be Wasserstein herself). It was the first play at Theater J that my daughter Hannah worked on, which brings everything even closer to home, and I found Wasserstein, short and pudgy, to be a very appealing personality. (Perhaps, this was another reason I found "Fat Girl" so offensive right now.)
Although I have never seen or read "Heidi Chronicles" or "The Sisters Rosensweig", I did read Wasserstein's book of short stories, "Shicksa Goddess", which I don't think received much attention when published, but which I commend to you all. Her plays, her personal appeal and her book all go to deepen the loss caused by her death.
And it was by lymphoma, clearly not my friend. My only sister died at 49 of lymphoma several years ago, a lawyer friend died of lymphoma in his early fifties earlier this year, and now Wendy Wasserstein. It brought back memories.
I thought it an appalling play. To call it sophomoric, immature, puerile, or juvenile all would be too kind, it seemed to me. If I were LaBute, I would be embarrassed (and amazed at its success).
2. About Wendy Wasserstein, who died at 55 earlier this week. I had only seen one of her plays, which was put on at Theater J, and was the precurser to her current play, "Third", which is being staged in New York. When I saw "Third", it was the second act and followed "Welcome to My Rash", about a middle age woman coping with a mysterious disease (which of course in life turned out to be Wasserstein herself). It was the first play at Theater J that my daughter Hannah worked on, which brings everything even closer to home, and I found Wasserstein, short and pudgy, to be a very appealing personality. (Perhaps, this was another reason I found "Fat Girl" so offensive right now.)
Although I have never seen or read "Heidi Chronicles" or "The Sisters Rosensweig", I did read Wasserstein's book of short stories, "Shicksa Goddess", which I don't think received much attention when published, but which I commend to you all. Her plays, her personal appeal and her book all go to deepen the loss caused by her death.
And it was by lymphoma, clearly not my friend. My only sister died at 49 of lymphoma several years ago, a lawyer friend died of lymphoma in his early fifties earlier this year, and now Wendy Wasserstein. It brought back memories.
Before I Forget
It has been said that Haydn did not write 104 symphonies, but that he wrote the same symphony 104 times. This does not make his music any less enjoyable.
Perhaps the same remark could be made about Elie Wiesel: that he has written the same book more than 30 times. All about the Holocaust; all about memory. And that does not detract from his work either.
I recently read his latest book, "The Time of the Uprooted", this time about a survivor, who makes his way in the world as a ghost writer for a famous French novelist who in fact has never written a word, and who is able to write about anything other than his own past, part of which he remembers but does not want to share, and part of which he has surpressed or distorted.
It's like I have read a trilogy. Memory and the Holocaust obviously was the basis for Imre Kertesz' "Fatelessness" (see recent posting), and loss of memory (for medical reasons) and its effect on life the subject of Nicole Krauss' "Man Walks Into a Room" (see recent posting).
Yes, memory. I got up early this morning (I thought it was about 5 a.m.), decided to get out of bed and get dressed (which I did), then sat down to read a book for an hour or so. But when I looked at the clock, it was not 5:30 or 6, but about 2 a.m. Feeling rather dumb, I put down the book, kept my clothes on, climbed back into bed, hoping I would fall asleep, which I did rather quickly.
I got up this morning (again ?) about 6:45. My first thought was to see how my clothes fared through the second half of the night. I looked to see, and then realized that it had all been a dream, and that in fact I had slept through the night. But I remember it (still) distinctly.
So, loss of memory, repressed memory, and the memory of things that never occurred. And why do I bother to write this blog? To preserve my own memory, I think. For me, and for others. But there are things that I don't write down, much of which I obviously forget, and there are things I don't want to write down and that I either want to forget or at least do not want to memorialize in this way.
A strange thing, memory.
Perhaps the same remark could be made about Elie Wiesel: that he has written the same book more than 30 times. All about the Holocaust; all about memory. And that does not detract from his work either.
I recently read his latest book, "The Time of the Uprooted", this time about a survivor, who makes his way in the world as a ghost writer for a famous French novelist who in fact has never written a word, and who is able to write about anything other than his own past, part of which he remembers but does not want to share, and part of which he has surpressed or distorted.
It's like I have read a trilogy. Memory and the Holocaust obviously was the basis for Imre Kertesz' "Fatelessness" (see recent posting), and loss of memory (for medical reasons) and its effect on life the subject of Nicole Krauss' "Man Walks Into a Room" (see recent posting).
Yes, memory. I got up early this morning (I thought it was about 5 a.m.), decided to get out of bed and get dressed (which I did), then sat down to read a book for an hour or so. But when I looked at the clock, it was not 5:30 or 6, but about 2 a.m. Feeling rather dumb, I put down the book, kept my clothes on, climbed back into bed, hoping I would fall asleep, which I did rather quickly.
I got up this morning (again ?) about 6:45. My first thought was to see how my clothes fared through the second half of the night. I looked to see, and then realized that it had all been a dream, and that in fact I had slept through the night. But I remember it (still) distinctly.
So, loss of memory, repressed memory, and the memory of things that never occurred. And why do I bother to write this blog? To preserve my own memory, I think. For me, and for others. But there are things that I don't write down, much of which I obviously forget, and there are things I don't want to write down and that I either want to forget or at least do not want to memorialize in this way.
A strange thing, memory.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
What is Going On in _______
Iran, Iraq, Palestine, Syria, Bolivia, Nepal, Russia, Ukraine, and Belorus?
Nothing good.
Nothing good.
Just the Sax, Ma'am
Today's Tuesday concert at the Church of the Epiphany was a performance by the Washington Saxophone Quartet. I had never heard them before, although the same four men have been performing for 30 years together. Except for one mistaken piece (a medley of songs from West Side Story, which was very ordinary), the concert was enlightening and uplifting.
Who knew that four saxes, playing a Bach toccata could sound like a powerful pipe organ? Or playing an Argentinian tango, could sound like a dance band? Or playing the Danse Boheme from Carmen, could sound like an entire wind ensemble?
The instruments are soprano, alto, tenor and baritone. Three of the members are present for former U.S. Army Band members. They teach; they concertize.
They also perform the theme song on NPR's All Things Considered, and asked composer Thomas Albert to write a piece for them which is a series of variations on that simple theme. They call it Anonymous Fame.
They have a website, www.wsaxq.com, at which you can download and hear several short excerpts from their two cds, which will give you a taste of what I have heard. You can also see their upcoming schedule.
Who knew that four saxes, playing a Bach toccata could sound like a powerful pipe organ? Or playing an Argentinian tango, could sound like a dance band? Or playing the Danse Boheme from Carmen, could sound like an entire wind ensemble?
The instruments are soprano, alto, tenor and baritone. Three of the members are present for former U.S. Army Band members. They teach; they concertize.
They also perform the theme song on NPR's All Things Considered, and asked composer Thomas Albert to write a piece for them which is a series of variations on that simple theme. They call it Anonymous Fame.
They have a website, www.wsaxq.com, at which you can download and hear several short excerpts from their two cds, which will give you a taste of what I have heard. You can also see their upcoming schedule.
More on Intelligent Design (1 cent)
The science headline this morning is that scientists have not only located the gene that controls ear wax, but is able to look at genetic variations which govern the precise type of ear wax being created.
Is this proof of intelligent design, or do you need more?
Is this proof of intelligent design, or do you need more?
Monday, January 30, 2006
The da Vinci Code (1 cent)
I finally read Dan Brown's absolute blockbuster bestseller on the airplane yesterday, and I was not disappointed. But that is only because I really was not expecting much. As to the premises of the Grail, the Templars, Mary Magdalene and the bloodline of Jesus and all that, nothing was new to me because I have been reading about that stuff for several years now. I certainly can understand how it can interest newcomers to these tales, and that that would account for much of the success of the book. As to the overall plot line, however, I thought it far fetched. As to the writing, I found it adequate, but not much better than that. Like other fads, once it catches on, it catches on.
I thought about the books that I have read or partially read that touch on the subject, and here is my bibliography for all of you to follow, should you choose.
Graham Hancock's "The Sign and the Seal"
Picknett and Prince's "The Templar Revelation"
Knight and Lomas' "The Hiram Key"
Kersten and Gruber's "The Jesus Conspiracy"
Pagels' "The Gnostic Gospels"
Baignet, Leigh and Lincoln's "The Messianic Legacy"
Baignet and Leigh's "The Temple and the Lodge"
Kersten and Gruber's "The Original Jesus"
Picknett and Prince's "Turin Shroud"
Gardner's "Bloodline of the Holy Grail"
Barber's "The Trial of the Templars"
Wagner's "Freemasonry Interpreted"
Baignet, Leigh and Lincoln's "Holy Blood, Holy Grail"
Goodrich's "The Holy Grail"
Ridley's "The Freemasons"
This will give you a start, before you move on to the Velikovsky books, books about the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and the remainder of the Hancock books.
I thought about the books that I have read or partially read that touch on the subject, and here is my bibliography for all of you to follow, should you choose.
Graham Hancock's "The Sign and the Seal"
Picknett and Prince's "The Templar Revelation"
Knight and Lomas' "The Hiram Key"
Kersten and Gruber's "The Jesus Conspiracy"
Pagels' "The Gnostic Gospels"
Baignet, Leigh and Lincoln's "The Messianic Legacy"
Baignet and Leigh's "The Temple and the Lodge"
Kersten and Gruber's "The Original Jesus"
Picknett and Prince's "Turin Shroud"
Gardner's "Bloodline of the Holy Grail"
Barber's "The Trial of the Templars"
Wagner's "Freemasonry Interpreted"
Baignet, Leigh and Lincoln's "Holy Blood, Holy Grail"
Goodrich's "The Holy Grail"
Ridley's "The Freemasons"
This will give you a start, before you move on to the Velikovsky books, books about the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and the remainder of the Hancock books.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Los Angeles (final episode)
Still not Los Angeles, but in fact, the desert.
I am staying at the Renaissance Esmerelda, which is a fairly high end resort hotel, with all of the requisite facilities, but yesterday I had a meeting at the Riviera in Palm Springs, which is a 400+ unit, nine building resort which is not quite as upscale. In fact, it seems to serve primarily union meetings and members. There is certainly nothing wrong with it, but it seems more functional than luxurious.
One thing about it is fascinating, however. On one of its long hallways, there are blown up photographs from this area in the late nineteenth century. The current Highway 111 (the main drag) as a dirt trail in the wilderness, photos of Coachilla Indians, early settlers, and the first buildings built by white men. Shows you what 125 years can do to a place.
I had dinner last night with about 25 of my closest friends at a restaurant in Palm Springs called Coply's. It was very good. I had sea bass, which was excellent and in fat much better than sea bass I usually am served (which I don't like that much). The person on my right had a N.Y. strip steak and we did a little trading. The steak was good, but I would go for the sea bass any day.
Today, I spent most of the day at Joshua Tree National Monument with a friend. Almost 600,000 acres, about an hour or so from here. To get from one entrance to the other takes about 1 1/2 hours, and runs about 45 miles or so. High desert, cacti, interesting plant life generally, and a tremendous variety of rock formations -- large rocks piled on one another, small rocks piled on one another to form hills or mini-mounts, large one rock hills, horizontal formations, vertical formations. Oh, to understand them.
I also learned that, at age 62, you can get (for ten dollars) a lifetime free pass to all national parks and monuments. So, I got me one.
Lunch at the Country Kitchen, a tiny restaurant, which made extraordinary omelets, located in the small, impoverished town of Joshua Tree, and a ride back to the city. The entire venture took just under five hours.
Dinner in Palm Desert at a restaurant (picked off the street) where we were lucky enough to get bar table seats. Like most good restaurants here, it gets fully reserved pretty fast. I had a baby green salad, with a honey mustard dressing that was perhaps a tad too strong, followed by probably the best lamb chops I have ever had. Apparently, they were marinated in tangerine juice if I understood the owner/chef correctly as we left.
Tomorrow morning, it's off to the airport, a short hop to Phoenix, and then home again, home again jiggedy jig.
I am staying at the Renaissance Esmerelda, which is a fairly high end resort hotel, with all of the requisite facilities, but yesterday I had a meeting at the Riviera in Palm Springs, which is a 400+ unit, nine building resort which is not quite as upscale. In fact, it seems to serve primarily union meetings and members. There is certainly nothing wrong with it, but it seems more functional than luxurious.
One thing about it is fascinating, however. On one of its long hallways, there are blown up photographs from this area in the late nineteenth century. The current Highway 111 (the main drag) as a dirt trail in the wilderness, photos of Coachilla Indians, early settlers, and the first buildings built by white men. Shows you what 125 years can do to a place.
I had dinner last night with about 25 of my closest friends at a restaurant in Palm Springs called Coply's. It was very good. I had sea bass, which was excellent and in fat much better than sea bass I usually am served (which I don't like that much). The person on my right had a N.Y. strip steak and we did a little trading. The steak was good, but I would go for the sea bass any day.
Today, I spent most of the day at Joshua Tree National Monument with a friend. Almost 600,000 acres, about an hour or so from here. To get from one entrance to the other takes about 1 1/2 hours, and runs about 45 miles or so. High desert, cacti, interesting plant life generally, and a tremendous variety of rock formations -- large rocks piled on one another, small rocks piled on one another to form hills or mini-mounts, large one rock hills, horizontal formations, vertical formations. Oh, to understand them.
I also learned that, at age 62, you can get (for ten dollars) a lifetime free pass to all national parks and monuments. So, I got me one.
Lunch at the Country Kitchen, a tiny restaurant, which made extraordinary omelets, located in the small, impoverished town of Joshua Tree, and a ride back to the city. The entire venture took just under five hours.
Dinner in Palm Desert at a restaurant (picked off the street) where we were lucky enough to get bar table seats. Like most good restaurants here, it gets fully reserved pretty fast. I had a baby green salad, with a honey mustard dressing that was perhaps a tad too strong, followed by probably the best lamb chops I have ever had. Apparently, they were marinated in tangerine juice if I understood the owner/chef correctly as we left.
Tomorrow morning, it's off to the airport, a short hop to Phoenix, and then home again, home again jiggedy jig.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Los Angeles (Episode 3) (2 cents)
I am not really in Los Angeles; I am about 150 miles east in the desert, in Indian Wells. The strip of desert communities starts at Palm Springs, about twenty miles north of here, and runs to Indio, about ten miles south. The setting, with mountains on all sides, is beautiful. The urbanization is fairly glitzy, with an overabundance of golf courses, resort hotels, and restaurants, and a shortage of bookstores.
For those of you wondering whether two nights ago, I had dinner at Cicada or the Water Grill (you may remember I left you hanging), it was Cicada, an upscale restaurant recently opened on the cusp of fancy and dilapidated downtown L.A., in what was an old men's clothing shop. The cavernous insides have been restored very nicely, still showing the art deco work of the original, with gold leaf ceilings, herring bone wood patterns, and so forth. The food was very good.
The next morning, I drove to the desert, leaving about ten and getting here about two, with an intermediate stop in Riverside, where I walked around the church and Mission Inn (historic, historic, historic) and was surprised to see in this very populated area that the downtown area, with its colonial Spanish feel, is much as it was fifty years ago, with most of the buildings now populated by antique stores and the like. A surprisingly interesting area to walk around in, although I did not have enough time to do it justice. The local historical society has done a good job of putting up bronze placques commemorating this or that, including one on the old Fox Theater (now unused), which it says was actually the first place Gone With the Wind was shown to the public, and that it was, in those days, used often as a preview house.
The weather here has been on the cool side. I ate at another fancy restaurant last night, called something like Wally the Desert Turtle. I had Lake Superior whitefish, of all things, which tasted like it just came from the lake. Excellent.
I also went to a 'party' or 'reception' or 'function' yesterday evening at the house of a developer from Minnesota. It is in Rancho Mirage, and everyone but me thought it was the cat's meow. I hated it. It is desert stone, you enter into an open courtyard, with the house in front of you, a guest cabin to your left, and a swimming pool in an intricate design without any room to swim in in front of the guest house. You then enter a room which appears to be the kitchen, bar, living room (with a million inch flat screen tv) and dining room all in one. The walls are glass to the courtyard, and the stone is carried through to the walls and floor. The back wall is also glass and it opens up completely (like a pocket door) to open the house to the patio/deck, which also has living room furniture on it, since it doesn't rain here. That overlooks an artificial lake with other fancy houses. There is a master bedroom suite off the living room, with several bathrooms (each large enough to be a bedroom) a large walk in closet, a medium size bedroom and a sitting area. There are two other bedrooms.
There is also a lot of fire. There were three fire places, plus what looked to be a gas barbecue grill which is only for design (it is round and low, and there were chairs around it) and, weirdest of all, an elevated pool (like a twenty foot fish tank), which 3 gas jets in it, so you light the gas jets and the flames jump out of the water). I thought I was on Survivor.
Speaking of libraries, Rancho Mirage has opened a new one this month and, like so many I see, it is a spectacular building. Again, why can't Washington do it?
That's it for now. Stay tuned.
For those of you wondering whether two nights ago, I had dinner at Cicada or the Water Grill (you may remember I left you hanging), it was Cicada, an upscale restaurant recently opened on the cusp of fancy and dilapidated downtown L.A., in what was an old men's clothing shop. The cavernous insides have been restored very nicely, still showing the art deco work of the original, with gold leaf ceilings, herring bone wood patterns, and so forth. The food was very good.
The next morning, I drove to the desert, leaving about ten and getting here about two, with an intermediate stop in Riverside, where I walked around the church and Mission Inn (historic, historic, historic) and was surprised to see in this very populated area that the downtown area, with its colonial Spanish feel, is much as it was fifty years ago, with most of the buildings now populated by antique stores and the like. A surprisingly interesting area to walk around in, although I did not have enough time to do it justice. The local historical society has done a good job of putting up bronze placques commemorating this or that, including one on the old Fox Theater (now unused), which it says was actually the first place Gone With the Wind was shown to the public, and that it was, in those days, used often as a preview house.
The weather here has been on the cool side. I ate at another fancy restaurant last night, called something like Wally the Desert Turtle. I had Lake Superior whitefish, of all things, which tasted like it just came from the lake. Excellent.
I also went to a 'party' or 'reception' or 'function' yesterday evening at the house of a developer from Minnesota. It is in Rancho Mirage, and everyone but me thought it was the cat's meow. I hated it. It is desert stone, you enter into an open courtyard, with the house in front of you, a guest cabin to your left, and a swimming pool in an intricate design without any room to swim in in front of the guest house. You then enter a room which appears to be the kitchen, bar, living room (with a million inch flat screen tv) and dining room all in one. The walls are glass to the courtyard, and the stone is carried through to the walls and floor. The back wall is also glass and it opens up completely (like a pocket door) to open the house to the patio/deck, which also has living room furniture on it, since it doesn't rain here. That overlooks an artificial lake with other fancy houses. There is a master bedroom suite off the living room, with several bathrooms (each large enough to be a bedroom) a large walk in closet, a medium size bedroom and a sitting area. There are two other bedrooms.
There is also a lot of fire. There were three fire places, plus what looked to be a gas barbecue grill which is only for design (it is round and low, and there were chairs around it) and, weirdest of all, an elevated pool (like a twenty foot fish tank), which 3 gas jets in it, so you light the gas jets and the flames jump out of the water). I thought I was on Survivor.
Speaking of libraries, Rancho Mirage has opened a new one this month and, like so many I see, it is a spectacular building. Again, why can't Washington do it?
That's it for now. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Los Angeles (Episode 2) (4 cents)
5:30 p.m. in Los Angeles.
Downtown L.A. is a real mix. Part of it is brand spanking new, with fifty story office towers, condominiums and shops. The other part has been falling apart for half a century and is populated largely by people who probably sleep outside of, rather than inside of, the crumbling buildings. With a little money, older downtown L.A. could be pretty spiffy, and the money is, not surprisingly coming in now, and you can expect to see a lot of restoration and infill construction over the next decade. The financial issue is in part earthquake retrofitting, which is very expensive, code required, and in demand by those can afford higher rents and sale prices. But where will the homeless (an eclectic mix of Latinos, Anglos, and African Americans, all of whom look like that had expected better days) go? No one has that answer, of course.
Not that there is nothing in the old buildings. There is still a very extensive jewelry district and a lot of places you would not want to be caught dead eating in. I must admit that I did not see one appealing shop, outside of the several blocks of jewelry stores. And, although the stores weren't open at about 8 this morning, I didn't see any hasidim walking the streets.
The Los Angeles library (old and new buildings joined together) is a treat. It is clean and inviting, with a cafe and open stacks and escalators and glass views in all directions. Once again, it absolutely shames Washington DC, which has no excuse (none!) for what it calls a library. There are two small exhibit places in the library. One has an exhibit of old travel posters (you know, from the 20s and 30s) from all over the world (including ship lines and railways). I think that should be my next collection.
The other exhibit is a small exhibit of the library's permanent collections, which include 2.5 million photos, 38,000 pieces of sheet music,80,000 maps, 2000 atlases, as well as innumerable theatrical and musical programs, fan magazines, post cards, movie stills and lobby cards.
There is also an inviting looking Museum of Contemporary Arts downtown. The main exhibit is on American comic art. I did not get a chance to go on, but did look at the museum store. The new Disney (Roy, not Walt) music building, designed by Frank Ghery, which I thought I would not like, is a treat and a half. It sits high and is surrounded by a small garden and park, so there is no real clash with adjoining buildings. It is very exciting.
And I got to watch a commercial being shot there (this is Hollywood, almost, after all). I will try to remember the two young women whom I saw promenading hand in hand twenty times down the path, talking about deoderants, or tampons, or clothes you can both work and play in.
That's about it for now. Only question is: will tonight's dinner with friends be at Cicada or at the Water Grill? Tune in tomorrow for the answer.
Downtown L.A. is a real mix. Part of it is brand spanking new, with fifty story office towers, condominiums and shops. The other part has been falling apart for half a century and is populated largely by people who probably sleep outside of, rather than inside of, the crumbling buildings. With a little money, older downtown L.A. could be pretty spiffy, and the money is, not surprisingly coming in now, and you can expect to see a lot of restoration and infill construction over the next decade. The financial issue is in part earthquake retrofitting, which is very expensive, code required, and in demand by those can afford higher rents and sale prices. But where will the homeless (an eclectic mix of Latinos, Anglos, and African Americans, all of whom look like that had expected better days) go? No one has that answer, of course.
Not that there is nothing in the old buildings. There is still a very extensive jewelry district and a lot of places you would not want to be caught dead eating in. I must admit that I did not see one appealing shop, outside of the several blocks of jewelry stores. And, although the stores weren't open at about 8 this morning, I didn't see any hasidim walking the streets.
The Los Angeles library (old and new buildings joined together) is a treat. It is clean and inviting, with a cafe and open stacks and escalators and glass views in all directions. Once again, it absolutely shames Washington DC, which has no excuse (none!) for what it calls a library. There are two small exhibit places in the library. One has an exhibit of old travel posters (you know, from the 20s and 30s) from all over the world (including ship lines and railways). I think that should be my next collection.
The other exhibit is a small exhibit of the library's permanent collections, which include 2.5 million photos, 38,000 pieces of sheet music,80,000 maps, 2000 atlases, as well as innumerable theatrical and musical programs, fan magazines, post cards, movie stills and lobby cards.
There is also an inviting looking Museum of Contemporary Arts downtown. The main exhibit is on American comic art. I did not get a chance to go on, but did look at the museum store. The new Disney (Roy, not Walt) music building, designed by Frank Ghery, which I thought I would not like, is a treat and a half. It sits high and is surrounded by a small garden and park, so there is no real clash with adjoining buildings. It is very exciting.
And I got to watch a commercial being shot there (this is Hollywood, almost, after all). I will try to remember the two young women whom I saw promenading hand in hand twenty times down the path, talking about deoderants, or tampons, or clothes you can both work and play in.
That's about it for now. Only question is: will tonight's dinner with friends be at Cicada or at the Water Grill? Tune in tomorrow for the answer.
Los Angeles (Episode 1)
Yesterday, I flew Frontier Airlines, leaving Washington at about 6 p.m., stopping in Denver, and arriving LAX at about 10:30. Highlights follow:
1. The drive to the airport was very pretty, over Memorial Bridge and down the parkway. I found a parking space not far from the 'moveable sidewalk', so figured everything would be smooth. Until I found that the escalator up to the ticketing was broken. There may be other escalators, and there probably are elevators, but they were not apparent, so I joined a group carrying our heavy baggage up 36 steps. And when you get to the top, although most airlines are alphabetical south to north, Frontier is at Continental, so I walked most of the airport before I found someone who could tell me anything. But there was no line, and they actually put your bag on a conveyor belt, rather than make you go to a CAT scanner.
2. You would think that on a four hour flight that starts at 6 in the evening, food would be served. Wrong. So, not being hungry, but knowing that I had to eat I wound up at the Federal Tavern (it was that or Wall Street Deli or something called Maui Taco) at the gates in the Delta/Frontier side of Terminal B, where I had my second chicken caesar salad of the day, and ate half of it. It was like it came from the greater Washington DC caesar salad central kitchen, as did my lunch salad at the Fourth Estate. On the plane, I got my choice of 'potato skins' or a Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie. Four hours.
3. But Frontier does have individual TV screens. Normally, to access the 24 channels you need to pay $5, but because we were 15 minutes late in taking off, we got it free, which gave me a chance to watch the Duke women's basketball team (18-0) beat Tennessee (18-0) on Big Monday. Duke ended Tennessee's 40 game streak with a victory of thirty points or so, and I have to say they were extraordinary. Tennessee's Pat Summit took it very well.
4. I also read, Nicole Krause's first book, whose name is something like "A Man Walked in the Door" (after all, it's since yesterday), which was very good, although not extraordinary like her "History of Love". But very good. Written about 3 years ago, it is a study of memory and its relationship to both self-identity, and the identity of the memory challenged individual in the eyes of others. The hero (of sorts) is a young (36, although Krause seems to think that elderly) English professor who has a benign brain tumor that causes him to lose the last 24 years memory.
5. During my 30 minutes at the Denver airport, I realized it was time for another bad dinner, and got a low-carb tuna flatbread sandwich at Quizmo's. It was next to my gate. I had been to one other Quizmo's. If there was any such thing as food police, Quizmo's would be in jail. From Denver to LA, no potato skins or cookies. The choice was dorritos or sun chips, and tv was not free.
6. Arrived 15 minutes early in L.A. Baggage was there. Cab ride was quick. Hotel was right where it should be.
1. The drive to the airport was very pretty, over Memorial Bridge and down the parkway. I found a parking space not far from the 'moveable sidewalk', so figured everything would be smooth. Until I found that the escalator up to the ticketing was broken. There may be other escalators, and there probably are elevators, but they were not apparent, so I joined a group carrying our heavy baggage up 36 steps. And when you get to the top, although most airlines are alphabetical south to north, Frontier is at Continental, so I walked most of the airport before I found someone who could tell me anything. But there was no line, and they actually put your bag on a conveyor belt, rather than make you go to a CAT scanner.
2. You would think that on a four hour flight that starts at 6 in the evening, food would be served. Wrong. So, not being hungry, but knowing that I had to eat I wound up at the Federal Tavern (it was that or Wall Street Deli or something called Maui Taco) at the gates in the Delta/Frontier side of Terminal B, where I had my second chicken caesar salad of the day, and ate half of it. It was like it came from the greater Washington DC caesar salad central kitchen, as did my lunch salad at the Fourth Estate. On the plane, I got my choice of 'potato skins' or a Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie. Four hours.
3. But Frontier does have individual TV screens. Normally, to access the 24 channels you need to pay $5, but because we were 15 minutes late in taking off, we got it free, which gave me a chance to watch the Duke women's basketball team (18-0) beat Tennessee (18-0) on Big Monday. Duke ended Tennessee's 40 game streak with a victory of thirty points or so, and I have to say they were extraordinary. Tennessee's Pat Summit took it very well.
4. I also read, Nicole Krause's first book, whose name is something like "A Man Walked in the Door" (after all, it's since yesterday), which was very good, although not extraordinary like her "History of Love". But very good. Written about 3 years ago, it is a study of memory and its relationship to both self-identity, and the identity of the memory challenged individual in the eyes of others. The hero (of sorts) is a young (36, although Krause seems to think that elderly) English professor who has a benign brain tumor that causes him to lose the last 24 years memory.
5. During my 30 minutes at the Denver airport, I realized it was time for another bad dinner, and got a low-carb tuna flatbread sandwich at Quizmo's. It was next to my gate. I had been to one other Quizmo's. If there was any such thing as food police, Quizmo's would be in jail. From Denver to LA, no potato skins or cookies. The choice was dorritos or sun chips, and tv was not free.
6. Arrived 15 minutes early in L.A. Baggage was there. Cab ride was quick. Hotel was right where it should be.
Monday, January 23, 2006
God strikes Ford Motor Company: or just bad Karma(king)?
The decision of the Ford Motor Company to fire or lay off 25,000 to 30,000 employees and close three to five plants is not as innocent as it sounds. It is God punishing Henry Ford for his life time of anti-semitism by striking down his legacy!!!
(Did I get that right, Reverend Robertson? Rabbi OJ?)
(Did I get that right, Reverend Robertson? Rabbi OJ?)
Saturday, January 21, 2006
"Isabella Greenway" (31 cents)
Isabella Greenway was the first female member of Congress from Arizona and the subject of a well written biography by Washington writer Kristie Miller. I had never heard of Ms. Greenway, who was a close friend of Eleanor Roosevelt. She knew the Roosevelt family by happenstance. Her parents had moved to North Dakota, and had met Roosevelt when he was a young man exploring the North Dakota badlands, near Mandan (now a national park where TR is idolized). Isabella's mother and TR became (platonic) friends and the relationship stayed. This friendship brought the family to Washington when TR was in the White House, led to a close relationship between Isabella and Eleanor and an invitation to her wedding to cousin Franklin, and so forth. Isabella married twice; both husbands' had their hearts and interest in the west. Isabella experienced poverty, isolation, financial success and activism. She became heavily involved in copper mining interests in the west, Democratic party politics, Depression relief work, and the establishment of the well known Arizona Inn in Tucson. She served in Congress two terms. I am not giving her justice in this short paragraph; she was a very accomplished person who led a very interesting life. The book is worth reading.
Joan Didion's Allusions
I had mentioned that I thought that Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking" contained too many quotations that made it appear that she wrote the book, with a stock of quotation references on her desk. It has been suggested that perhaps I was exaggerating, so I took another look.
In the small page, large print 225 page book, I see references/quotations as follows:
David Fromkin's "Europe's Last Summer", the book her husband was reading when he died.
Bob Herbert's column in the NY Times, 11-12-04.
The Merck Manual
"Up Close & Personal" , her husband's book.
"The Intern's Dilemma" an article in "Psychiatry in Medicine" 1972.
Temko, BBC TV series
Mrs. Miniver
Philip Aribes, "The Hour of Our Death"
"Chanson de Roland"
Eric Lindemann's study of those killed in the 1942 Cocoanut Grove fire.
Poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins
Freud's 1917 "Mourning and Melancholia"
Melanie Klein's 1940 study "Mourning and its Relation to Manic-Depressive States"
Teresa Heinz Kerry's comments on her first husband's death
Poetry of e.e. cummings
"East Coker", perhaps poetry by Susanna Moore
Catullus, "On His Brother's Death"
C.S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed"
Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain"
Matthew Arnold's "The Forsaken Moment"
W. H. Auden's "Funeral Blues"
National Academy of Sciences "Bereavement: Reactions, Consequences and Care"
J. William Worden's report of the Harvard Bereavement Study
Study of widowers by Benjamin Young in "The Lancet" in 1963
Study of bereaved relatives by Rees and Lutkins, in the "British Medical Journal" 1967.
Her husband's "Dutch Shea, Jr."
Hitchcock's "Vertigo"
Walter Savage Aylmer's "Rose Alymer" of 1806
Vamik Volkan's article on "regrief therapy"
Bibring's "Psychoanalysis and the Dynamic Psychotherapies" in "Journal of the American Psychiatric Association" of 1954
Emily Post's book of etiquette on funerals, 1922
Phillippe Aries, "Western Attitudes Towards Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present"
Geoffrey Gorer's "Death, Grief and Mourning", 1965
This will take you through Chapter 4, ending on about page 65.
Looking at these references in this way, it shows the intellectual approach she took to understanding what her situation was after the death of her husband, and perhaps a list of books, articles, etc. like this could be of help to others. My point was that it did not add to my interest in reading the book.
In the small page, large print 225 page book, I see references/quotations as follows:
David Fromkin's "Europe's Last Summer", the book her husband was reading when he died.
Bob Herbert's column in the NY Times, 11-12-04.
The Merck Manual
"Up Close & Personal" , her husband's book.
"The Intern's Dilemma" an article in "Psychiatry in Medicine" 1972.
Temko, BBC TV series
Mrs. Miniver
Philip Aribes, "The Hour of Our Death"
"Chanson de Roland"
Eric Lindemann's study of those killed in the 1942 Cocoanut Grove fire.
Poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins
Freud's 1917 "Mourning and Melancholia"
Melanie Klein's 1940 study "Mourning and its Relation to Manic-Depressive States"
Teresa Heinz Kerry's comments on her first husband's death
Poetry of e.e. cummings
"East Coker", perhaps poetry by Susanna Moore
Catullus, "On His Brother's Death"
C.S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed"
Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain"
Matthew Arnold's "The Forsaken Moment"
W. H. Auden's "Funeral Blues"
National Academy of Sciences "Bereavement: Reactions, Consequences and Care"
J. William Worden's report of the Harvard Bereavement Study
Study of widowers by Benjamin Young in "The Lancet" in 1963
Study of bereaved relatives by Rees and Lutkins, in the "British Medical Journal" 1967.
Her husband's "Dutch Shea, Jr."
Hitchcock's "Vertigo"
Walter Savage Aylmer's "Rose Alymer" of 1806
Vamik Volkan's article on "regrief therapy"
Bibring's "Psychoanalysis and the Dynamic Psychotherapies" in "Journal of the American Psychiatric Association" of 1954
Emily Post's book of etiquette on funerals, 1922
Phillippe Aries, "Western Attitudes Towards Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present"
Geoffrey Gorer's "Death, Grief and Mourning", 1965
This will take you through Chapter 4, ending on about page 65.
Looking at these references in this way, it shows the intellectual approach she took to understanding what her situation was after the death of her husband, and perhaps a list of books, articles, etc. like this could be of help to others. My point was that it did not add to my interest in reading the book.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Follow Up on Most Recent Posting
Commenter Jo asked: what happened when I pulled the string?
Jo is usually pretty sharp. She should have figured it out herself.......
I was sent to the library.
Jo is usually pretty sharp. She should have figured it out herself.......
I was sent to the library.
High School Teachers (Part 2)
Let's talk about the good teachers.
Probably the best I had with Helen Weiss ("Frau Weiss") my German teacher. She was probably in her fifties or early sixties, and was very animated and able to connect with her students, calling them each by the name of an animal (as I recall) in German. I don't remember who I was, believe it or not. Her husband had worked at one of the St. Louis breweries, and she used to go to Havana to gamble (and gambol?) on vacations (that was in the Meyer Lansky, pre-Castro days, of course), which I thought very, very exotic. Each spring we would have a German party in the rathskellar of Schober's restaurant in south St. Louis County, a place where otherwise no one from my school would have ever seen.
I also had a good Latin teacher, Eugene Schmidt. He was thought to have been very bright (he probably was) and to be fluent in six languages, including Icelandic. That was as cool as vacationing in Havana. Apparently, he was stationed in Iceland during WWII, which is where he (claimed to have) picked up the language.
I only had Mr. Schmidt for one year; then I was put in Octavia Hale's class. This was tragic both for Miss Hale and me. Octavia Hale was a rather heavy-set, middle aged woman, who was clearly very nice, but who could control a class about as well as I could control a bucking bronco. I had a hard time taking anything in Latin II seriously, unfortunately, and was quite trouble maker. One day, she asked me to stop talking in class, and I told her that I did not think that I would be able to because I was bored, and that I thought I should be able to go to the library instead of sitting through an hour of boring Latin II. She said that would not at all be acceptable. I told her that, then, I was probably going to be disruptive, because that day I just could not control myself. She told me that if I continued the rest of the class as I had started it, I would be punished. What will happen, I asked, as much out of curiousity as concern. She said (believe it or not): "I will have no choice but to send you to the library."
Extra sensory perception was the rage in those days. I recall that Professor Rhyne from Duke University had been making waves talking about things like ESP and poltergeists, and had been on TV quite a bit. Miss Hale's class was the first afternoon period, right after lunch, so we often got to the room before she did (I am sure she did not want to spend more time with us than necessary). One day, my friends and I decided that it would be nice if the class were visited by a poltergeist, so we rigged up all sort of things that would fall, rattle, or clang, in series, after one string was pulled. It was all set up before class started, and I had the honor of having the string under my desk. At the pre-arranged time, I pulled the string to set off the poltergeist. It did not work out as planned.
Probably the best I had with Helen Weiss ("Frau Weiss") my German teacher. She was probably in her fifties or early sixties, and was very animated and able to connect with her students, calling them each by the name of an animal (as I recall) in German. I don't remember who I was, believe it or not. Her husband had worked at one of the St. Louis breweries, and she used to go to Havana to gamble (and gambol?) on vacations (that was in the Meyer Lansky, pre-Castro days, of course), which I thought very, very exotic. Each spring we would have a German party in the rathskellar of Schober's restaurant in south St. Louis County, a place where otherwise no one from my school would have ever seen.
I also had a good Latin teacher, Eugene Schmidt. He was thought to have been very bright (he probably was) and to be fluent in six languages, including Icelandic. That was as cool as vacationing in Havana. Apparently, he was stationed in Iceland during WWII, which is where he (claimed to have) picked up the language.
I only had Mr. Schmidt for one year; then I was put in Octavia Hale's class. This was tragic both for Miss Hale and me. Octavia Hale was a rather heavy-set, middle aged woman, who was clearly very nice, but who could control a class about as well as I could control a bucking bronco. I had a hard time taking anything in Latin II seriously, unfortunately, and was quite trouble maker. One day, she asked me to stop talking in class, and I told her that I did not think that I would be able to because I was bored, and that I thought I should be able to go to the library instead of sitting through an hour of boring Latin II. She said that would not at all be acceptable. I told her that, then, I was probably going to be disruptive, because that day I just could not control myself. She told me that if I continued the rest of the class as I had started it, I would be punished. What will happen, I asked, as much out of curiousity as concern. She said (believe it or not): "I will have no choice but to send you to the library."
Extra sensory perception was the rage in those days. I recall that Professor Rhyne from Duke University had been making waves talking about things like ESP and poltergeists, and had been on TV quite a bit. Miss Hale's class was the first afternoon period, right after lunch, so we often got to the room before she did (I am sure she did not want to spend more time with us than necessary). One day, my friends and I decided that it would be nice if the class were visited by a poltergeist, so we rigged up all sort of things that would fall, rattle, or clang, in series, after one string was pulled. It was all set up before class started, and I had the honor of having the string under my desk. At the pre-arranged time, I pulled the string to set off the poltergeist. It did not work out as planned.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
High School Teachers (Part 1)
I have been thinking about my high school teachers, good and bad, and thought I should share my thoughts. I went to the same school for six years. When I started, there were about 600 kids in grades 7-12. The district expanded rapidly, junior high schools were built, and when I graduated, there were about 800 kids in grades 10-12.
When I think back about my teachers, my mind always turns first to Sarah Leonard. I never took a class from Mrs. Leonard, but knew her as she was a sponsor of activities I was involved with. Sarah Leonard was a hippie. In fact, she was the country's first hippie. She was one before the word was even invented. She was of average height, and quite thin. Her straight brown hair reached down to her waist. She wore long skirts, and vests, and Indian jewelry. She was not, to me, particularly attractive. (I can say these things, because these people are probably no longer around.) She tended to wear very big earings. (I remember one event, when her earings hung down to her shoulders. "Sit down, Mrs. Leonard", the adolescent Arthur said, "and give your ears a rest.")
There was no Mr. Leonard. I don't know what happened to him, or when. I assume he existed. She was an English teacher ("language arts", they called it). She had a daughter a few years younger than me who attended the school. And, miracle that it was, her daughter seemed to be perfectly normal.
Her room was next to Mr. Cordell's room. Ralph Cordell was a bachelor, and sort of awkward and sheepish. Sarah Leonard used to say hello, as she walked by his room, with a dramatic "Hi, there, Ralphie." Mr. Cordell would blush. Mr. Cordell spent a lot of time talking to the class perched on the edge of his desk, with his legs hanging over the side. Often, his metal waste basket was on the floor, and his legs played around the top of the waste basket as he talked. I remember the day he was sitting there, playing with the waste basket, when Mrs. Leonard gave him a "hello, Ralphie", and he turned beet red, and tried to respond to her and stand up at the same time, winding up with his feet inside the wastebasket, and the rest of him sprawled out on the floor. Even we 15 year olds felt sorry for him that day. But we didn't show it.
At any rate, antics aside, Sarah Leonard was considered a very good teacher.
And then there was George Marshall (not the author of the Marshall Plan), who was our assistant principal. He did not teach. In fact, I have no idea what he did, but I am sure he did it well.
George Marshall was on the tall side, and slender. He was blond. Everything about him was blond. His hair, his complexion, his eyes, his eyeglasses and their frames, his clothes. There was never anything about him darker than a yellow ochre crayola. Not only was he blond, he was bland. His shirts were always white, his ties were always narrow, and you would never catch him without a tie tack to make sure that his narrow tie never strayed. I never saw him smile; I doubt that he had anything approaching a sense of humor.
George Marshall was married and had, I believe, three young children. I never saw his family.
Is the picture becoming clear? Probably not, so I will continue.
One day, we came to school, and there was a big hole where Sarah Leonard was supposed to be standing in her class room. There was another big hole in Mr. Marshall's office. Sarah Leonard, the hippie, and George Marshall, blond and bland, had run off with each other. Rumor had them in Florida and, to my knowledge, they were never heard from again.
This was an event that was extraordinary. It was no more believable than if Eisenhower had defected to the Soviets. The Marshall wife and kids were left in suburban St. Louis, apparently as shocked as we were; I don't know what happened to young Ms. Leonard.
There was a lesson to be learned there. I knew that. But to this day, I have not figured out what it is.
There were two other romantic incidences that I remember. One was the equally surprising engagement and marriage of Miss Lovercamp and Mr. Doyle. They were not young. I would guess that she was about 40 and he about 50 (do you think I have overstated their ages by ten years? maybe). She had not been married before. I don't remember about him; something tells me that he had been. Miss Lovercamp was what I would call an archetypical English teacher. She was serious and to the point, she was presentable and attractive in a formal way. It was not clear why she had not been married before. Mr. Doyle was nothing like Miss Lovercamp. He was all drama. His graying hair was slicked into what I think they called a pompadour. He wore flashy clothes. If I had known what "gay" was in those days, I would have thought he was it (maybe he was?). He was always on stage. This made him a good teacher, but a life with him would have to me seemed as difficult as a life with Mrs. Leonard. And Miss Lovercamp (her name aside) was just an ordinary, typical, standard, all-American type of person.
At any rate, they got married. She became Mrs. Doyle. And life went on.
And then there was the young art and drama teacher, Mr. Striby. I spent a lot of time with him over my last three years in the school (and his first three), as he was the director of all the theatrical productions I was in. I thought I knew all about him. I knew he had come from Florida, I knew he was still in his 20s, I knew where he went to school, and so forth. It never occurred to me that he would have a girl friend or get married or anything like that. His interests really seemed fully focused on his job, and on us.
One day, senior year, I saw him playing ping pong with Miss Grueb. Maxine Grueb was young and fairly attractive. She was a women's phys. ed. teacher, so I had absolutely nothing to do with her. I knew nothing about her.
Now playing ping pong is no big thing, right? But it seemed so out of character for Mr. Striby to be playing ping pong, that I immediately got suspicous. And, lo and behold, one ping pong match led to another, they got engaged and married, and (like the Marshall/Leonard combine) moved to Florida.
Were there other faculty romances at my high school? Who knows? I clearly was not attuned to such things, as these three each caught me totally by surprise.
And, the pairings were so strange. Who would have put Leonard with Marshall? Why would Marshall leave his family for Leonard, and why would Leonard, the hippie, pick the least hip person imaginable? Why would dramatic Doyle go for staid Lovercamp, and why would she want to give up what must have been tranquility for his theatrics? Why would Ms. Grueb, the physical fitness professional, choose Jim Striby, who looked like he might not be able to run around the track? And why would he choose someone who would want more activity than an occasional game of table tennis?
What was it that I did not understand about the world? Would I ever figure it out?
When I think back about my teachers, my mind always turns first to Sarah Leonard. I never took a class from Mrs. Leonard, but knew her as she was a sponsor of activities I was involved with. Sarah Leonard was a hippie. In fact, she was the country's first hippie. She was one before the word was even invented. She was of average height, and quite thin. Her straight brown hair reached down to her waist. She wore long skirts, and vests, and Indian jewelry. She was not, to me, particularly attractive. (I can say these things, because these people are probably no longer around.) She tended to wear very big earings. (I remember one event, when her earings hung down to her shoulders. "Sit down, Mrs. Leonard", the adolescent Arthur said, "and give your ears a rest.")
There was no Mr. Leonard. I don't know what happened to him, or when. I assume he existed. She was an English teacher ("language arts", they called it). She had a daughter a few years younger than me who attended the school. And, miracle that it was, her daughter seemed to be perfectly normal.
Her room was next to Mr. Cordell's room. Ralph Cordell was a bachelor, and sort of awkward and sheepish. Sarah Leonard used to say hello, as she walked by his room, with a dramatic "Hi, there, Ralphie." Mr. Cordell would blush. Mr. Cordell spent a lot of time talking to the class perched on the edge of his desk, with his legs hanging over the side. Often, his metal waste basket was on the floor, and his legs played around the top of the waste basket as he talked. I remember the day he was sitting there, playing with the waste basket, when Mrs. Leonard gave him a "hello, Ralphie", and he turned beet red, and tried to respond to her and stand up at the same time, winding up with his feet inside the wastebasket, and the rest of him sprawled out on the floor. Even we 15 year olds felt sorry for him that day. But we didn't show it.
At any rate, antics aside, Sarah Leonard was considered a very good teacher.
And then there was George Marshall (not the author of the Marshall Plan), who was our assistant principal. He did not teach. In fact, I have no idea what he did, but I am sure he did it well.
George Marshall was on the tall side, and slender. He was blond. Everything about him was blond. His hair, his complexion, his eyes, his eyeglasses and their frames, his clothes. There was never anything about him darker than a yellow ochre crayola. Not only was he blond, he was bland. His shirts were always white, his ties were always narrow, and you would never catch him without a tie tack to make sure that his narrow tie never strayed. I never saw him smile; I doubt that he had anything approaching a sense of humor.
George Marshall was married and had, I believe, three young children. I never saw his family.
Is the picture becoming clear? Probably not, so I will continue.
One day, we came to school, and there was a big hole where Sarah Leonard was supposed to be standing in her class room. There was another big hole in Mr. Marshall's office. Sarah Leonard, the hippie, and George Marshall, blond and bland, had run off with each other. Rumor had them in Florida and, to my knowledge, they were never heard from again.
This was an event that was extraordinary. It was no more believable than if Eisenhower had defected to the Soviets. The Marshall wife and kids were left in suburban St. Louis, apparently as shocked as we were; I don't know what happened to young Ms. Leonard.
There was a lesson to be learned there. I knew that. But to this day, I have not figured out what it is.
There were two other romantic incidences that I remember. One was the equally surprising engagement and marriage of Miss Lovercamp and Mr. Doyle. They were not young. I would guess that she was about 40 and he about 50 (do you think I have overstated their ages by ten years? maybe). She had not been married before. I don't remember about him; something tells me that he had been. Miss Lovercamp was what I would call an archetypical English teacher. She was serious and to the point, she was presentable and attractive in a formal way. It was not clear why she had not been married before. Mr. Doyle was nothing like Miss Lovercamp. He was all drama. His graying hair was slicked into what I think they called a pompadour. He wore flashy clothes. If I had known what "gay" was in those days, I would have thought he was it (maybe he was?). He was always on stage. This made him a good teacher, but a life with him would have to me seemed as difficult as a life with Mrs. Leonard. And Miss Lovercamp (her name aside) was just an ordinary, typical, standard, all-American type of person.
At any rate, they got married. She became Mrs. Doyle. And life went on.
And then there was the young art and drama teacher, Mr. Striby. I spent a lot of time with him over my last three years in the school (and his first three), as he was the director of all the theatrical productions I was in. I thought I knew all about him. I knew he had come from Florida, I knew he was still in his 20s, I knew where he went to school, and so forth. It never occurred to me that he would have a girl friend or get married or anything like that. His interests really seemed fully focused on his job, and on us.
One day, senior year, I saw him playing ping pong with Miss Grueb. Maxine Grueb was young and fairly attractive. She was a women's phys. ed. teacher, so I had absolutely nothing to do with her. I knew nothing about her.
Now playing ping pong is no big thing, right? But it seemed so out of character for Mr. Striby to be playing ping pong, that I immediately got suspicous. And, lo and behold, one ping pong match led to another, they got engaged and married, and (like the Marshall/Leonard combine) moved to Florida.
Were there other faculty romances at my high school? Who knows? I clearly was not attuned to such things, as these three each caught me totally by surprise.
And, the pairings were so strange. Who would have put Leonard with Marshall? Why would Marshall leave his family for Leonard, and why would Leonard, the hippie, pick the least hip person imaginable? Why would dramatic Doyle go for staid Lovercamp, and why would she want to give up what must have been tranquility for his theatrics? Why would Ms. Grueb, the physical fitness professional, choose Jim Striby, who looked like he might not be able to run around the track? And why would he choose someone who would want more activity than an occasional game of table tennis?
What was it that I did not understand about the world? Would I ever figure it out?
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking
After finishing "A Private Battle", I thought that Joan Didion's notes on the year following the death of her husband, writer John Gregory Dunne, "The Year of Magical Thinking" would be an appropriate book to read next. It had been well reviewed and my wife liked it very much. Dunne, who had a heart condition thought under control had a fatal coronary having dinner with his wife in their New York apartment. They had returned from a hospital visit to their 30-something year old daughter, who was suffering from sepsis (and who herself would die a few months after her father), It was clearly a terrible year.
Unfortunatley, I found the book (even though quite short) tendentious, and repetitive, and filled with literary quotes and illusions which might have been familiar to Didion, but which appeared more likely to have been taken from a book of quotations she might have kept at her writing desk. I just did not enjoy it.
Why the difference between my reaction to the two books? I can't say in an objective way. But the contrast in my mind was great, as was the contrast between Didion's book and another spousal-medical book I had read a year or so ago, Morton Kondracke's "Saving Milly", about his wife to-be-fatal battle with Parkinson's Disease. As a reporter, I am not fond of Kondracke; but this book I thought extraordinary.
Perhaps it goes to perceptions of honesty. The Ryan and the Kondracke books seemed to me to be brutally honest, painting the authors with shortcomings as well as heroic virtues. I did not see the Didion book in the same manner. I saw it as more of a staged piece. I cannot blame her; it could easily have been me.
Unfortunatley, I found the book (even though quite short) tendentious, and repetitive, and filled with literary quotes and illusions which might have been familiar to Didion, but which appeared more likely to have been taken from a book of quotations she might have kept at her writing desk. I just did not enjoy it.
Why the difference between my reaction to the two books? I can't say in an objective way. But the contrast in my mind was great, as was the contrast between Didion's book and another spousal-medical book I had read a year or so ago, Morton Kondracke's "Saving Milly", about his wife to-be-fatal battle with Parkinson's Disease. As a reporter, I am not fond of Kondracke; but this book I thought extraordinary.
Perhaps it goes to perceptions of honesty. The Ryan and the Kondracke books seemed to me to be brutally honest, painting the authors with shortcomings as well as heroic virtues. I did not see the Didion book in the same manner. I saw it as more of a staged piece. I cannot blame her; it could easily have been me.
Cornelius Ryan's Private Battle (5 cents)
World War II historian Cornelius Ryan died at age 54 of metastatic prostate cancer in 1974. He had the disease (metastatic when discovered) for over four years. During that period of time, he kept a detailed journal (mainly on tape), as did his wife, Kathryn Morgan Ryan. Neither apparently knew about the other's journal. The book was published four years after he died.
Ryan had written the first two of his three books on World War II, and was in the process of beginning the third, "A Bridge Too Far" when the disease struck. The journals tell of his struggle to complete the book, the medical progress of the disease including his visits to five different specialists in 1970, each of whom suggested totally different courses of treatment, the relationship between husband and wife, and the struggles that they had with their two teenage children (and the struggles both of their children were having). It also tells a story of their many friendships, of their parents (his mother in Dublin; her father in Iowa) and of his enormous determination to keep up those friendships (through fishing trips, dinner parties, and evenings out) even when in great pain, hiding the truth of his condition from some, sharing it with others. What may be most amazing was the travel, to the Caribbean for r and r, and to Europe for book related events even when his illness was most debilitating.
This, I would not think, is a book I would enjoy. But, to the contrary, I found it mesmerizing. It is a 450 page book that I read in two evening sessions, my eyes glued to the pages. It shows what good writing, and honest writing, can do.
Ryan had written the first two of his three books on World War II, and was in the process of beginning the third, "A Bridge Too Far" when the disease struck. The journals tell of his struggle to complete the book, the medical progress of the disease including his visits to five different specialists in 1970, each of whom suggested totally different courses of treatment, the relationship between husband and wife, and the struggles that they had with their two teenage children (and the struggles both of their children were having). It also tells a story of their many friendships, of their parents (his mother in Dublin; her father in Iowa) and of his enormous determination to keep up those friendships (through fishing trips, dinner parties, and evenings out) even when in great pain, hiding the truth of his condition from some, sharing it with others. What may be most amazing was the travel, to the Caribbean for r and r, and to Europe for book related events even when his illness was most debilitating.
This, I would not think, is a book I would enjoy. But, to the contrary, I found it mesmerizing. It is a 450 page book that I read in two evening sessions, my eyes glued to the pages. It shows what good writing, and honest writing, can do.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Spoke Too Soon
I spoke too soon. At 1 p.m., a program called Dayside airs on Fox News. The anchor is a woman named Linda Vester, but today's anchors were Martha ________, and Steve Dooley. Dooley, a supercilious former weatherman, is one of the hosts of morning Fox and Friends.
Still a news show, the gloves came off, with Dooley making his silly embarrass-the-liberals remarks.
I spoke too soon. Fox News at 1 p.m. is no longer fair and balanced.
Still a news show, the gloves came off, with Dooley making his silly embarrass-the-liberals remarks.
I spoke too soon. Fox News at 1 p.m. is no longer fair and balanced.
Fox News: Fair and Balanced
I turned on Fox News at 9 a.m. and kept it on until noon.
Surprise!! It was fair and balanced. Actually a pretty good grouping of stories, focusing on matters abroad more than domestic. A good mix of straight news, news reports from various locations across the world, and brief discussions with one or more "experts".
So, I now conclude that it may be only after nightfall that the crazies take over the network. And, of course, before 9 a.m., when Fox and Friends is on, the network is under the control of semi-crazies. Wonder what the afternoons are like.
Surprise!! It was fair and balanced. Actually a pretty good grouping of stories, focusing on matters abroad more than domestic. A good mix of straight news, news reports from various locations across the world, and brief discussions with one or more "experts".
So, I now conclude that it may be only after nightfall that the crazies take over the network. And, of course, before 9 a.m., when Fox and Friends is on, the network is under the control of semi-crazies. Wonder what the afternoons are like.
Chevy Chase Library
The Chevy Chase branch of the D.C. Public Library had an off-season used book sale Friday and Saturday. I have attended several of their sales over the years and generally leave empty handed, so I went without expectation.
It was a larger sale than usual, I thought, and I did come up with a few winners. For example, a copy of astronaut Michael Collins' memoirs which he had inscribed to former Secretary of State William P. Rogers; a copy of convicted murderer Jean Harris' book "Stranger in Two Worlds", with a note from her from prison pasted in; a book-club edition copy of Yehudi Menuhin's autobiography "Unfinished Journey" which he had signed and dated; and a copy of "A Private Battle", the story of author Cornelius Ryan's long battle with cancer, written by him (prior to his death) and his wife Kathryn. The book was signed by Kathryn Morgan Ryan.
Not bad for $1 a book.
It was a larger sale than usual, I thought, and I did come up with a few winners. For example, a copy of astronaut Michael Collins' memoirs which he had inscribed to former Secretary of State William P. Rogers; a copy of convicted murderer Jean Harris' book "Stranger in Two Worlds", with a note from her from prison pasted in; a book-club edition copy of Yehudi Menuhin's autobiography "Unfinished Journey" which he had signed and dated; and a copy of "A Private Battle", the story of author Cornelius Ryan's long battle with cancer, written by him (prior to his death) and his wife Kathryn. The book was signed by Kathryn Morgan Ryan.
Not bad for $1 a book.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Johnny Cash and June Carter
I just saw Walk the Line and logged on to rottentomatoes.com and saw that they had 178 reviews of the movie. From the leadlines of the first 30 or so, I saw that most liked the movie, some loved it, and a few thought it just another biopic. Everyone loved Reese Witherspoon's June Carter and almost everyone felt the same about Joaquim Phoenix.
I was a little disappointed, although I enjoyed the movie. I did not see anyone who had quite my take. I thought the story was fairly much a repeat of "Ray"; a number of critics compared the two, something favoring one and some the other. I thought Ray's story was a bit more compelling; I did not feel that Phoenix put much depth into Cash, although he does sing well.
And the voice, in spite of what some say, pales in comparison. In fact, what I liked best about the movie was the music, but I could only compare Phoenix to the real Cash in each song.
As to Witherspoon, she was very appealing. Undoubtedly more appealing than Carter herself would have been. I liked that.
But the story line was tired (even if true) and shown without imagination. There were clearly no good guys (although Carter tried hard) and if Cash did turn into a good guy after his marriage to Carter, that part of his life is not part of the movie.
I don't care for Phoenix. I don't like looking at him for whatever reason. And I guess that is important, again particularly when I have Cash in mind.
There was another small plus. I had forgotten that old Tennessee license plates shaped like the state. It was very good to see them again.
I was a little disappointed, although I enjoyed the movie. I did not see anyone who had quite my take. I thought the story was fairly much a repeat of "Ray"; a number of critics compared the two, something favoring one and some the other. I thought Ray's story was a bit more compelling; I did not feel that Phoenix put much depth into Cash, although he does sing well.
And the voice, in spite of what some say, pales in comparison. In fact, what I liked best about the movie was the music, but I could only compare Phoenix to the real Cash in each song.
As to Witherspoon, she was very appealing. Undoubtedly more appealing than Carter herself would have been. I liked that.
But the story line was tired (even if true) and shown without imagination. There were clearly no good guys (although Carter tried hard) and if Cash did turn into a good guy after his marriage to Carter, that part of his life is not part of the movie.
I don't care for Phoenix. I don't like looking at him for whatever reason. And I guess that is important, again particularly when I have Cash in mind.
There was another small plus. I had forgotten that old Tennessee license plates shaped like the state. It was very good to see them again.
More on Imre Kertesz
I feel like I have been doing a lot of repeating recently, but I finally finished reading "Fatelessness", which I wrote about last month after seeing the movie version in a preview at the DC Jewish film festival. The movie clearly does justice to the book.
But until I read the book, I did not know why it was said that it would be so difficult to film. The reason is that the book (the semi-autobiographical story of a 15 year old Jewish Budapest boy who spent a year in German prison camps at the end of World War II) is as much philosophy as it is narrative or drama. It is an odd book, in that it is written (at some indefinite time) in the first person, as the protagonist looks back at the prison camps and his reactions to being held. What is unclear is his age at writing, because the ruminations are very erudite and mature, yet the writing is about an adolescent and has not hint of what happened after the war. In other words, it does not appear that the narrator is drawing on any later experience. I found this juxtoposition of vantage point unsettling.
I have read nothing else of Nobel winner Kertesz, so should keep quiet for now beyond what I have said. As to the book that I felt reminded of when reading "Fatelessness", it was none of the other Holocaust narratives that I have read, except for Viktor Frankl's classic psychological self-study, "Man's Search for Meaning". A quick internet search does not lead to me to any article comparing that two. Perhaps if I were a little more serious and re-looked at Frankl, I would see why I was the only one making this comparison.
But until I read the book, I did not know why it was said that it would be so difficult to film. The reason is that the book (the semi-autobiographical story of a 15 year old Jewish Budapest boy who spent a year in German prison camps at the end of World War II) is as much philosophy as it is narrative or drama. It is an odd book, in that it is written (at some indefinite time) in the first person, as the protagonist looks back at the prison camps and his reactions to being held. What is unclear is his age at writing, because the ruminations are very erudite and mature, yet the writing is about an adolescent and has not hint of what happened after the war. In other words, it does not appear that the narrator is drawing on any later experience. I found this juxtoposition of vantage point unsettling.
I have read nothing else of Nobel winner Kertesz, so should keep quiet for now beyond what I have said. As to the book that I felt reminded of when reading "Fatelessness", it was none of the other Holocaust narratives that I have read, except for Viktor Frankl's classic psychological self-study, "Man's Search for Meaning". A quick internet search does not lead to me to any article comparing that two. Perhaps if I were a little more serious and re-looked at Frankl, I would see why I was the only one making this comparison.
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