Here I am sitting in my study with the Comcast Music Channel "Singers and Standards" on in the other room. I can see the TV through the open door, if I look to my right. And I am looking, every time I hear a singer who I think is particularly good (or bad).
So is it me, or the music? They play recordings by both contemporary pop and jazz singers, and those who performed from the 1940s or 1950s forward.
Whenever I hear someone, I don't care for, it turns out to be someone contemporary (with about a 50-50 chance that I know who they are). But when I turn because I think the performer is top notch, it turns out to be Ella Fitzgerald, Rosemary Clooney, Mel Torme, Frank Sinatra, Dinah Washington, Dinah Shore, and even Jaye P. Morgan.
Is it me, or the music?
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Light Reading
What I wanted was light reading, so this weekend, that is what I read.
First, I read a first novel by Stephanie Kallos, called "Broken for You", published about two years ago. It was not bad, although I thought it went from barely believable to 'you gotta be kidding' towards the end. Basically, this young woman moves from New York to Seattle because her boyfriend walked out on her (and she knows he will wind up in Seattle) and takes a room with a very, very rich widow, who decides (in part because she has just been diagnosed with a brian tumor) to rent out a room and not live alone. The young woman is befriended by a young man she works with (they spend their time looking for the old boyfriend) and the older woman finds romance with an 80 year old man.
The young woman tells the old woman her story (parents each walk out on her, she is raised by an aunt) and the old woman tells the young woman hers (husband was a shipping magnate and importer of fine porcelain and glass). The young woman's father, a middle aged drifter, also winds up in Seattle working at a bowling alley, where he meets, among other people, an elderly Holocaust survivor.
The old woman learns that her husband's fine antiques were in fact stolen by Nazis from Jewish families in Europe, and on a trip to Paris, discovers that one set of porcelain belonged to an elderly Holocaust survivor, who turns out to be the woman who befriended the young woman's middle aged drifter/father. The Holocaust survivor dies.
The old woman discovers that a man who works at a bowling alley is the legatee of the Holocaust woman and invites him to her house to take the china service. He comes.
The house is now more crowded, because not only the old woman and the young woman are there, but also the young woman's new boy friend, and the old woman's new boyfriend. And a nurse (not registered) to take care of the old woman, and Kosher Katz, a caterer.
Oh, yeah, on one of the excursions to find the old boyfriend, the young woman gets hit by a car (her father, the bowling alley employee, witnesses the accident, but does not know it is his daughter). The daugher is paralyzed and in a wheel chair (but improves by the end of the book).
And, the old woman, discovering that her porcelain and glass is stolen property decides to replicate Kristallnacht and, over time, break it all, which the young woman helps her to do. The young woman, though, discovers she is an artist, and takes the shards of glass and porcelain and makes art work on Jewish themes (she is not Jewish)
Well, the father comes to the house to get the porcelain, meets the daughter and decides to move into the house, as well. Eventually, the father realizes he is the father, and the daughter realizes she is the daughter. And the old woman dies. And the young woman and the new boyfriend decide to get married, and Kosher Katz caters the meal, and they break a glass!!
When I finished that book, I wanted something even lighter, so I read, believe it or not, Maury Povich's memoirs, "Current Affairs", written about 15 years ago. If you thought that Maury Povich was a second rate host and newsman, the book will convince you that you are right. He was an indifferent student, who got by because his father was the sports reporter for the Washington Post and therefore he met everyone and because, as he says, he is very likeable.
The book details his early years as a journalist (when he realizes he won't ever be a network anchor). You note that he really doesn't get any stories (there is always someone else to do that) and he is just there being likeable. This continues, but his marriage disintigrates, he roams around city to city, meets Connie Chung, and eventually is hired by Rupert Murdoch of Fox fame and hosts Current Affairs, where they concentrate on the seemier (but not too seemy) side of things: crimes involving famous people and the like.
This is the story. I am sure that Povich is a nice guy. He does not seem to be an important individual, in that he was not the one who shaped the show, or anything else as far as I can see. He also shows that there were a lot of dirty tricks in his brand of journalism. Is that good? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
And did Current Affairs set the stage for the soft news shows we have today? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Did I ever see the show? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Have I seen Maury Povich on any subsequent shows? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Would I recommend this book to others? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
First, I read a first novel by Stephanie Kallos, called "Broken for You", published about two years ago. It was not bad, although I thought it went from barely believable to 'you gotta be kidding' towards the end. Basically, this young woman moves from New York to Seattle because her boyfriend walked out on her (and she knows he will wind up in Seattle) and takes a room with a very, very rich widow, who decides (in part because she has just been diagnosed with a brian tumor) to rent out a room and not live alone. The young woman is befriended by a young man she works with (they spend their time looking for the old boyfriend) and the older woman finds romance with an 80 year old man.
The young woman tells the old woman her story (parents each walk out on her, she is raised by an aunt) and the old woman tells the young woman hers (husband was a shipping magnate and importer of fine porcelain and glass). The young woman's father, a middle aged drifter, also winds up in Seattle working at a bowling alley, where he meets, among other people, an elderly Holocaust survivor.
The old woman learns that her husband's fine antiques were in fact stolen by Nazis from Jewish families in Europe, and on a trip to Paris, discovers that one set of porcelain belonged to an elderly Holocaust survivor, who turns out to be the woman who befriended the young woman's middle aged drifter/father. The Holocaust survivor dies.
The old woman discovers that a man who works at a bowling alley is the legatee of the Holocaust woman and invites him to her house to take the china service. He comes.
The house is now more crowded, because not only the old woman and the young woman are there, but also the young woman's new boy friend, and the old woman's new boyfriend. And a nurse (not registered) to take care of the old woman, and Kosher Katz, a caterer.
Oh, yeah, on one of the excursions to find the old boyfriend, the young woman gets hit by a car (her father, the bowling alley employee, witnesses the accident, but does not know it is his daughter). The daugher is paralyzed and in a wheel chair (but improves by the end of the book).
And, the old woman, discovering that her porcelain and glass is stolen property decides to replicate Kristallnacht and, over time, break it all, which the young woman helps her to do. The young woman, though, discovers she is an artist, and takes the shards of glass and porcelain and makes art work on Jewish themes (she is not Jewish)
Well, the father comes to the house to get the porcelain, meets the daughter and decides to move into the house, as well. Eventually, the father realizes he is the father, and the daughter realizes she is the daughter. And the old woman dies. And the young woman and the new boyfriend decide to get married, and Kosher Katz caters the meal, and they break a glass!!
When I finished that book, I wanted something even lighter, so I read, believe it or not, Maury Povich's memoirs, "Current Affairs", written about 15 years ago. If you thought that Maury Povich was a second rate host and newsman, the book will convince you that you are right. He was an indifferent student, who got by because his father was the sports reporter for the Washington Post and therefore he met everyone and because, as he says, he is very likeable.
The book details his early years as a journalist (when he realizes he won't ever be a network anchor). You note that he really doesn't get any stories (there is always someone else to do that) and he is just there being likeable. This continues, but his marriage disintigrates, he roams around city to city, meets Connie Chung, and eventually is hired by Rupert Murdoch of Fox fame and hosts Current Affairs, where they concentrate on the seemier (but not too seemy) side of things: crimes involving famous people and the like.
This is the story. I am sure that Povich is a nice guy. He does not seem to be an important individual, in that he was not the one who shaped the show, or anything else as far as I can see. He also shows that there were a lot of dirty tricks in his brand of journalism. Is that good? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
And did Current Affairs set the stage for the soft news shows we have today? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Did I ever see the show? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Have I seen Maury Povich on any subsequent shows? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Would I recommend this book to others? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
What's So Hot About It? (2 cents)
Sometime early on Saturday, one of our smoke detectors started to ting. Not to clang, which would mean we needed to get out fast, but to ting. To me, a ting means that the battery must be replaced. Then it stopped tinging.
Later that evening, the tinging started again, so I did what anyone would have done. I grabbed a chair, climbed it, unscrewed the smoke detector, moved it to the kitchen, turned it over, and carefully removed the battery. To remind me that I needed to get a new 9-volt battery, I put the old battery in my pants pocket.
Sunday morning, at about 8 a.m., I put on a different pair of pants and transferred everything that had been in my Saturday pockets (including the battery) into my Sunday trousers. I left the house, and spent the morning doing a number of things about town, picked up my wife at 1 p.m. (she had been at a conference), went out to a leisurely lunch/brunch, went to three shoe stores, and drove home. It was now about 3 or so, and we immediately parked my car and sat down in my wife's car, a step preparatory to going to a local car wash, for our Volvo's 2006 treat.
We sat in line at the car wash only a short time, getting out at the vacuuming stand. We received a piece of paper showing that we were getting a Super wash, rather than either a Regular wash, or an Absolutely the Most Super wash, and (as my wife went outside to stand in the breeze and read a book), I got in the cashier's line.
I waited for the two people in front of me to pay for their washes, and reached the cashier, who told me the price. I thought about charging it, but changed my mind. I took out my wallet and a $20 bill. I needed 45 cents, which was in my left front pants pocket. I reached in the pocket, which contained my car keys, change and the 9-volt battery. I touched the battery and almost yelled in pain and surprise.
The battery was unbelievably hot, like it had just been taken from a fire. I couldn't hold it. I had to wrap it in paper.
The question is: what caused it?
A chemical reaction that I should have known about? A first time occurrence? A supernatural visitation?
Anyone know?
Later that evening, the tinging started again, so I did what anyone would have done. I grabbed a chair, climbed it, unscrewed the smoke detector, moved it to the kitchen, turned it over, and carefully removed the battery. To remind me that I needed to get a new 9-volt battery, I put the old battery in my pants pocket.
Sunday morning, at about 8 a.m., I put on a different pair of pants and transferred everything that had been in my Saturday pockets (including the battery) into my Sunday trousers. I left the house, and spent the morning doing a number of things about town, picked up my wife at 1 p.m. (she had been at a conference), went out to a leisurely lunch/brunch, went to three shoe stores, and drove home. It was now about 3 or so, and we immediately parked my car and sat down in my wife's car, a step preparatory to going to a local car wash, for our Volvo's 2006 treat.
We sat in line at the car wash only a short time, getting out at the vacuuming stand. We received a piece of paper showing that we were getting a Super wash, rather than either a Regular wash, or an Absolutely the Most Super wash, and (as my wife went outside to stand in the breeze and read a book), I got in the cashier's line.
I waited for the two people in front of me to pay for their washes, and reached the cashier, who told me the price. I thought about charging it, but changed my mind. I took out my wallet and a $20 bill. I needed 45 cents, which was in my left front pants pocket. I reached in the pocket, which contained my car keys, change and the 9-volt battery. I touched the battery and almost yelled in pain and surprise.
The battery was unbelievably hot, like it had just been taken from a fire. I couldn't hold it. I had to wrap it in paper.
The question is: what caused it?
A chemical reaction that I should have known about? A first time occurrence? A supernatural visitation?
Anyone know?
Monday, April 03, 2006
Do you have the time? (2 cents)
at three seconds after two minutes after one o'clock on the 5th of April, the time will be 01.02.03.04.05.06.
so there
so there
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Bumper Stickers of the Week
Both seen on Friday:
1. Where are we going, and what am I doing in a handbasket?
2. You are getting too close. I am not that kind of a car.
And.....
lawn sign seen on Saturday:
House for Sale
With Owner
1. Where are we going, and what am I doing in a handbasket?
2. You are getting too close. I am not that kind of a car.
And.....
lawn sign seen on Saturday:
House for Sale
With Owner
Suddenly, It Was Too Late!!
I forgot and now have to wait six months.
I wanted to stay up last night, turn my computer on, and see the clock automatically adjust itself to daylight savings time.
How does it do it? Is it 1:59 and then 3:00? Is it 2:00 and then 3:00? Is there a lag? Does it give you warning? Does it give you a chance to reject daylight savings time?
Wait 'til October.
I wanted to stay up last night, turn my computer on, and see the clock automatically adjust itself to daylight savings time.
How does it do it? Is it 1:59 and then 3:00? Is it 2:00 and then 3:00? Is there a lag? Does it give you warning? Does it give you a chance to reject daylight savings time?
Wait 'til October.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
One Year's Reading (3 cents)
One advantage of this blog, is that I can look back and see what I have read over the past year. Another, is that I have read quite a bit, because I did not want to embarrass myself in the blog.
Here goes:
Adamson, J.H. and H. F. Holland: The Shepherd of the Ocean (Sir Walter Raleigh)
Berg, A. Scott: Lindberg
Bergin, Michael: The Other Man (John Kennedy Jr.'s rival)
Brookhiser, Richard: The Adamses
Brown, Dan: The da Vinci Code (fiction)
Brown, Gordon: Toussaint's Clause (Haiti)
Cellini, Benvenuto: Memoirs
Demetz, Peter: Prague in Black and Gold
Didion, Joan: The Year of Magical Thinking (After the death of her husband)
Dukakis, Kitty: Now You Know (addiction and politics)
Feldman, Noah: Divided by God (religion in the U.S.)
Feliciano, Hector: The Lost Museum (Nazis and art)
Fleming, Peter: One's Company (China before the Communists)
Foer, Jonathan Safran: Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close (fiction)
Goldemberg, Isaac: The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner (fiction)
Gould, Stephen Jay: Full House (evolution and clear thinking)
Gray, Spalding: Impossible Vacation (fictionalized memoir)
Grimes, Martha: Jerusalem Inn (stopped) (mystery)
Hakakian, Roya: Journey from the Land of No (Iran)
Haliburton, Richard: The Glorious Adventure (Trail of Odysseus)
Holland, Tom: Rubicon (Rome)
Jackson, Hampden: Clemenceau and the Third Republic
Josephy, Alvin: A Walk Toward Oregon (memoirs)
Kaufman, Jonathan: The Hole in the Heart of the World (post-WWII Eastern Europe)
Kempe, Frederick: Father/Land (Germany today)
Kertesz, Imre: Fatelessness (fictionalized memoir)
Kincaid, Jamaica: Autobiography of My Mother (fiction)
Klass, Rosanne: Land of the High Flags (Afghanistan)
Krause, Nicole: A Man Walked in the Door (fiction)
Krause, Nicole: History of Love (fiction)
Kurzman, Dan: No Greater Glory (the four chaplains)
Law-Yone, Wendy: The Coffin Tree (fiction)
Levy, Adrian and Catherine Scott-Clark: The Amber Room (art and Nazis)
Lipstadt, Deborah: History on Trial (holocaust deniers)
Massey, Sujata: The Floating Girl (mystery)
McMillan, Terry: How Stella Got Her Groove Back (fiction)
McMillan, Terry: Waiting to Exhale (stopped) (fiction)
Miller, Kristie: Isabella Greenway (Arizona politician and activist)
Miller, : Lee Miller (photographer)
Mingus, Sue: Tonight at Noon (memoirs of musician's widow)
Moore, Robert: A Time to Die (the sinking of the Soviet ship 'Kurtsk')
Mordaunt, Elinor: The Venture Book (traveling the south Pacific)
Morrison, John: Boris Yeltsin
Neiman, Susan: Slow Fire (Germany today)
O'Foalain, Nuala: My Dream of You (fiction)
Pinsky, Robert: David (stopped) (the biblical king)
Poniatowska, Eleana: Tinisima (fiction based on Communist/photographer)
Pucci, Idanna: The Trials of Maria Barbella (first woman facing capital punishment)
Puhan, Alfred: THe Cardinal in the Chancery (Mindzentsy in Budapest)
Rubin, Nancy: [biogaphy of Marjorie Merriwether Post]
Russert, Tim: Big Russ and Me (memoirs)
Rux, Carl: Asphalt (fiction)
Ryan, Cornelius and Katherine: Private Battles (writer struggling with cancer)
Seth, Vikram: Two Lives (Indian uncle/Jewish aunt)
Seymour, Miranda: The Bugatti Queen (French racer)
Sholem, Gershon: From Berlin to Jerusalem (memoirs of Jewish scholar)
Shreve, Susan Richards: The Train Home (fiction)
Sutton, Nina: [biography of Bruno Bettelheim]
Talarigo, Jeff: The Pearl Diver (fiction)
Thomas, Lowell: Back to Mandalay (flying the Burma hump)
Thubron, Colin: Siberia (travels)
Vrettos, Theodore: A Shadow of Magnitude (the Elgin marbles)
Walker, Rebecca: Black, White and Jewish (memoirs/Alice Walker's daughter)
Wex, Michael: Born to Kvetch (about the Yiddish language)
Wiesel, Elie: The Time of the Uprooted (fiction)
Williams, Kayla: Love My Rifle More Than You (female soldier in Iraq)
Williams, Wythe: Riddle of the Reich (Nazi Germany)
Wills, Gary: Under God (America and religion: quirks)
Wise, James Waterman: Liberalizing Liberal Judaism (Rabbi Stephen Wise's son)
Whew!
Here goes:
Adamson, J.H. and H. F. Holland: The Shepherd of the Ocean (Sir Walter Raleigh)
Berg, A. Scott: Lindberg
Bergin, Michael: The Other Man (John Kennedy Jr.'s rival)
Brookhiser, Richard: The Adamses
Brown, Dan: The da Vinci Code (fiction)
Brown, Gordon: Toussaint's Clause (Haiti)
Cellini, Benvenuto: Memoirs
Demetz, Peter: Prague in Black and Gold
Didion, Joan: The Year of Magical Thinking (After the death of her husband)
Dukakis, Kitty: Now You Know (addiction and politics)
Feldman, Noah: Divided by God (religion in the U.S.)
Feliciano, Hector: The Lost Museum (Nazis and art)
Fleming, Peter: One's Company (China before the Communists)
Foer, Jonathan Safran: Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close (fiction)
Goldemberg, Isaac: The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner (fiction)
Gould, Stephen Jay: Full House (evolution and clear thinking)
Gray, Spalding: Impossible Vacation (fictionalized memoir)
Grimes, Martha: Jerusalem Inn (stopped) (mystery)
Hakakian, Roya: Journey from the Land of No (Iran)
Haliburton, Richard: The Glorious Adventure (Trail of Odysseus)
Holland, Tom: Rubicon (Rome)
Jackson, Hampden: Clemenceau and the Third Republic
Josephy, Alvin: A Walk Toward Oregon (memoirs)
Kaufman, Jonathan: The Hole in the Heart of the World (post-WWII Eastern Europe)
Kempe, Frederick: Father/Land (Germany today)
Kertesz, Imre: Fatelessness (fictionalized memoir)
Kincaid, Jamaica: Autobiography of My Mother (fiction)
Klass, Rosanne: Land of the High Flags (Afghanistan)
Krause, Nicole: A Man Walked in the Door (fiction)
Krause, Nicole: History of Love (fiction)
Kurzman, Dan: No Greater Glory (the four chaplains)
Law-Yone, Wendy: The Coffin Tree (fiction)
Levy, Adrian and Catherine Scott-Clark: The Amber Room (art and Nazis)
Lipstadt, Deborah: History on Trial (holocaust deniers)
Massey, Sujata: The Floating Girl (mystery)
McMillan, Terry: How Stella Got Her Groove Back (fiction)
McMillan, Terry: Waiting to Exhale (stopped) (fiction)
Miller, Kristie: Isabella Greenway (Arizona politician and activist)
Miller, : Lee Miller (photographer)
Mingus, Sue: Tonight at Noon (memoirs of musician's widow)
Moore, Robert: A Time to Die (the sinking of the Soviet ship 'Kurtsk')
Mordaunt, Elinor: The Venture Book (traveling the south Pacific)
Morrison, John: Boris Yeltsin
Neiman, Susan: Slow Fire (Germany today)
O'Foalain, Nuala: My Dream of You (fiction)
Pinsky, Robert: David (stopped) (the biblical king)
Poniatowska, Eleana: Tinisima (fiction based on Communist/photographer)
Pucci, Idanna: The Trials of Maria Barbella (first woman facing capital punishment)
Puhan, Alfred: THe Cardinal in the Chancery (Mindzentsy in Budapest)
Rubin, Nancy: [biogaphy of Marjorie Merriwether Post]
Russert, Tim: Big Russ and Me (memoirs)
Rux, Carl: Asphalt (fiction)
Ryan, Cornelius and Katherine: Private Battles (writer struggling with cancer)
Seth, Vikram: Two Lives (Indian uncle/Jewish aunt)
Seymour, Miranda: The Bugatti Queen (French racer)
Sholem, Gershon: From Berlin to Jerusalem (memoirs of Jewish scholar)
Shreve, Susan Richards: The Train Home (fiction)
Sutton, Nina: [biography of Bruno Bettelheim]
Talarigo, Jeff: The Pearl Diver (fiction)
Thomas, Lowell: Back to Mandalay (flying the Burma hump)
Thubron, Colin: Siberia (travels)
Vrettos, Theodore: A Shadow of Magnitude (the Elgin marbles)
Walker, Rebecca: Black, White and Jewish (memoirs/Alice Walker's daughter)
Wex, Michael: Born to Kvetch (about the Yiddish language)
Wiesel, Elie: The Time of the Uprooted (fiction)
Williams, Kayla: Love My Rifle More Than You (female soldier in Iraq)
Williams, Wythe: Riddle of the Reich (Nazi Germany)
Wills, Gary: Under God (America and religion: quirks)
Wise, James Waterman: Liberalizing Liberal Judaism (Rabbi Stephen Wise's son)
Whew!
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Friday Morning Music Club Orchestra
played today at the noon concert at the Church of the Epiphany. I probably should have skipped it.
The orchestra consists of about 50 members, described as both professionals and amateurs. The description sounded correct. Much of the playing was quite professional, but the amateur mistakes (wrong notes and missed cues) came through loud and clear, particulary in the brass section.
The audience was large and very appreciative (I assume it was composed in large part of relatives of the musicians). The selection of pieces was adequate (a short Mozart piece, Haydn symphony number 26 (a three movement symphony, lacking a final presto or allegretto), and Copland's Appalachian Spring), and the star of the show was the church's accoustics.
Overall, the playing was uneven. And uneven playing does not an enjoyable concert make.
The orchestra consists of about 50 members, described as both professionals and amateurs. The description sounded correct. Much of the playing was quite professional, but the amateur mistakes (wrong notes and missed cues) came through loud and clear, particulary in the brass section.
The audience was large and very appreciative (I assume it was composed in large part of relatives of the musicians). The selection of pieces was adequate (a short Mozart piece, Haydn symphony number 26 (a three movement symphony, lacking a final presto or allegretto), and Copland's Appalachian Spring), and the star of the show was the church's accoustics.
Overall, the playing was uneven. And uneven playing does not an enjoyable concert make.
Big Russ's Bigger Son (14 cents)
"Big Russ and Me", Tim Russert's best selling book, was a bit of a disappointment. It is not really about his father, as much as it is a chronicle of his own life. But it is not the memoir of a journalist, but rather of an ordinary, Catholic guy growing up in South Buffalo. Why do I say "Catholic guy"? Because that is clearly how Russert thinks of himself, 24-7.
You learn some things about his father, obviously. He was poor, he was in the Army AirCorps during World War II, he worked two jobs, he went to church a lot, he was a baseball fan, and he hung out at the American Legion. He set a good example for the Russert kids, who thought he was an archtypical good guy. He was not educated, perhaps never read a book and, when his son offered to buy him a Cadillac, said that he preferred a Ford Crown Victoria, not because it was a better car, but because he did not wants his friends to think him uppity. That's an emotion I understand, but is it a virtue?
Big Russ certainly takes precedence over Russert's mother, who separated from his father when Russert was an adult and after thirty years of marriage. Is a second book coming out, or did she simply play second fiddle?
The bulk of the book is about Buffalo. The final 20% or so deals with Russert's career working for Moynihan and Cuomo and then going into broadcast journalism and getting the Pope (another Catholic) to agree to be interviewed by NBC News.
The nostalgic Buffalo stories could be written of any major older American city, 40 to 50 years ago. I have thought about what Russert says about Buffalo. And I decided that, while it is moderately interesting, it is really only interesting to people from Buffalo. Who else cares about the names of the brands of sausage, or what drug store he went to, or about the Catholic high schools of the city.
I think this is a great book for Russert's kids. For the rest of us, it just shows Russert as an ordinary (very ordinary) guy. But.....that is the way he comes across on TV, so I guess that what you see, is what you get.
You learn some things about his father, obviously. He was poor, he was in the Army AirCorps during World War II, he worked two jobs, he went to church a lot, he was a baseball fan, and he hung out at the American Legion. He set a good example for the Russert kids, who thought he was an archtypical good guy. He was not educated, perhaps never read a book and, when his son offered to buy him a Cadillac, said that he preferred a Ford Crown Victoria, not because it was a better car, but because he did not wants his friends to think him uppity. That's an emotion I understand, but is it a virtue?
Big Russ certainly takes precedence over Russert's mother, who separated from his father when Russert was an adult and after thirty years of marriage. Is a second book coming out, or did she simply play second fiddle?
The bulk of the book is about Buffalo. The final 20% or so deals with Russert's career working for Moynihan and Cuomo and then going into broadcast journalism and getting the Pope (another Catholic) to agree to be interviewed by NBC News.
The nostalgic Buffalo stories could be written of any major older American city, 40 to 50 years ago. I have thought about what Russert says about Buffalo. And I decided that, while it is moderately interesting, it is really only interesting to people from Buffalo. Who else cares about the names of the brands of sausage, or what drug store he went to, or about the Catholic high schools of the city.
I think this is a great book for Russert's kids. For the rest of us, it just shows Russert as an ordinary (very ordinary) guy. But.....that is the way he comes across on TV, so I guess that what you see, is what you get.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Weekend Notes in Brief
1. This was a big book sale weekend, and I went to sales at Bethesda Chevy Chase and Wilson High School, and the Georgetown and Cleveland Park libraries. I also went to some book stores over the past week. Best buys: a signed copy of Sir Thomas Beecham's autobiography, published in 1943 (none available, but his autograph is a fairly expensive item generally), a copy of Helen Gehagen Douglas' book about Eleanor Roosevelt, with an inscription from Douglas (former Congresswoman, scourge of Richard Nixon and wife of actor Melvyn Douglas) to Chester Bowles, former U.S. diplomat par excellance; and an autographed copy of Norman Mailer's book about Pablo Picasso. Those three books together are worth several hundred dollars. I paid $3 each.
2. We had two meals out. A terrific halibut at Sea Catch in Georgetown (and you can park free in the garage for 3 hours, even though we sat and talked with our friends for 3 1/2 and had to pay $7); and a paltry lamb stew at Clyde's in Friendship Heights (I think their quality has gone down).
3. Pure enjoyment and excitement in watching the George Mason Patriots beat UConn to go into the final four of the NCAA tournament.
2. We had two meals out. A terrific halibut at Sea Catch in Georgetown (and you can park free in the garage for 3 hours, even though we sat and talked with our friends for 3 1/2 and had to pay $7); and a paltry lamb stew at Clyde's in Friendship Heights (I think their quality has gone down).
3. Pure enjoyment and excitement in watching the George Mason Patriots beat UConn to go into the final four of the NCAA tournament.
Full House
"Full House" is the name of a book by Stephen Jay Gould that I recently read. Parts of it were easy to understand, other parts beyond me (like the relevance of the phrase 'full house' which he uses to depict something or other a number of times). The book was written in the 1990s. Let me try to tell you what I got from it.
1. Darwin was correct, but Darwinism does not necessarily denote progress, and Darwin was careful not to use the term progress. The identification of Darwin with progress, and the relationship of biological Darwinism to social Darwinism, are both the results of what today would be called spin doctors, who take unbiased information and bias it to support their own predelictions. The word 'evolution' should not be value driven, and the same word should not be used to define very different biological and sociological changes.
2. Trends are difficult to spot, and are generallly defined, as above, to support one's slant on things. Same is true with saying that things always evolve towards the more complex; in fact, often they trend towards the simplest.
3. Varieties do not necessarily increase. Look at horses, who evolved from a large variety of now extinct types. (I think the same could be said about apples.)
4. The fact that there are no more .400 hitters does not mean (a) that there won't be in the future, or (b) that it means that the older .400 hitters were better than those today. It may mean that the other players are better and there is a lesser chance of a .400 hitter. Also, you can't gauge the baseball statistics in a clear way because every time there was a trend to higher or lower batting averages, the game would do something to the rules, to bring things back to a happy median average of about .260. Also, if you graph baseball capacities, there would be a wall which would denote the maximum of human capability. As you near the wall, gains get smaller.
5. To say that the world changed from the age of bacteria, to fish, to animals, to humans (for example) is not quite accurate. Even today, bacteria remain the largest, and the simplest group of living creatures, and will probably at one point be the eventual survivors.
6. To say that humanity is the end result of an omnipresent God makes no sense other than as a product of human conceit.
7. The reason there are no more Mozarts today is only because humanity identifies with change so much, that someone writing in the manor of Mozart would be disregarded.
8. If you get sick, and the odds are, say, 50% chance of a 5 year survival, those odds mean nothing with regard to you, although you get closer if you limit the comparison group to people who share more and more characteristics (age, general health, attitude, location of residence, economic status, etc.)
I know that this is a simple explanation of a book that has much more to offer. But I am just a simple reader.
Gould, who was a paleontologist, died a year or so ago, about 20 years after being diagnosed with a disease which was to have taken its toll much, much sooner.
1. Darwin was correct, but Darwinism does not necessarily denote progress, and Darwin was careful not to use the term progress. The identification of Darwin with progress, and the relationship of biological Darwinism to social Darwinism, are both the results of what today would be called spin doctors, who take unbiased information and bias it to support their own predelictions. The word 'evolution' should not be value driven, and the same word should not be used to define very different biological and sociological changes.
2. Trends are difficult to spot, and are generallly defined, as above, to support one's slant on things. Same is true with saying that things always evolve towards the more complex; in fact, often they trend towards the simplest.
3. Varieties do not necessarily increase. Look at horses, who evolved from a large variety of now extinct types. (I think the same could be said about apples.)
4. The fact that there are no more .400 hitters does not mean (a) that there won't be in the future, or (b) that it means that the older .400 hitters were better than those today. It may mean that the other players are better and there is a lesser chance of a .400 hitter. Also, you can't gauge the baseball statistics in a clear way because every time there was a trend to higher or lower batting averages, the game would do something to the rules, to bring things back to a happy median average of about .260. Also, if you graph baseball capacities, there would be a wall which would denote the maximum of human capability. As you near the wall, gains get smaller.
5. To say that the world changed from the age of bacteria, to fish, to animals, to humans (for example) is not quite accurate. Even today, bacteria remain the largest, and the simplest group of living creatures, and will probably at one point be the eventual survivors.
6. To say that humanity is the end result of an omnipresent God makes no sense other than as a product of human conceit.
7. The reason there are no more Mozarts today is only because humanity identifies with change so much, that someone writing in the manor of Mozart would be disregarded.
8. If you get sick, and the odds are, say, 50% chance of a 5 year survival, those odds mean nothing with regard to you, although you get closer if you limit the comparison group to people who share more and more characteristics (age, general health, attitude, location of residence, economic status, etc.)
I know that this is a simple explanation of a book that has much more to offer. But I am just a simple reader.
Gould, who was a paleontologist, died a year or so ago, about 20 years after being diagnosed with a disease which was to have taken its toll much, much sooner.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
More Thoughts About Conversion from Islam
What if each Islamic country had an amnesty day?
It would work like this:
On the first Tuesday after Ramadan, any Moslem who wishes to convert from Islam is to come to the main square in front of the main mosque at 10 a.m. They should bring a toothbrush and one (only) small tube of toothpaste.
It would work like this:
On the first Tuesday after Ramadan, any Moslem who wishes to convert from Islam is to come to the main square in front of the main mosque at 10 a.m. They should bring a toothbrush and one (only) small tube of toothpaste.
Another confused couple ( 1 cent )
Remember my earlier posts about people that I confuse? Or rather, two people that I assume are the same people until I see them together, or seem them referenced together? Like the Andres Maurois and Malraux?
Add two more.
Did you know what Wright Morris is not Willie Morris? But which is who?
Add two more.
Did you know what Wright Morris is not Willie Morris? But which is who?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Malarial Stats
An article in the most recent Yale alumni magazine states that 10% of the world's population gets malaria each year, and that an African child dies of malaria every 30 seconds.
What does this say about anything?
What does this say about anything?
Spring in Paris
On a cold Tuesday, with the temperature in the mid-30s, and a drizzling dry sleet beginning to fall, the noon time concert at Epiphany Church by violinist Julie Savignon and pianist Cecilia Dunoyer, was titled "Spring in Paris" and featured 19th and early 20th century French compositions.
So we would not feel bad, though, at the start it was announced that the weather in Paris was 37 degrees, with dense fog, and a wind chill that made it feel like 31.
It was an outstanding program, with beautiful violin playing by Savignon, a young violinist who should have a real career ahead of her.
Familiar (by melody if not by name) works by Massenet (Meditation from Thais) and Faure (Sicilienne) set the stage for a beautifully melancholy program, more dedicated to lingering winter temperatures than to spring flowers. The highlight (highlight of highlights) was a performance of Poulenc's Sonata for Violin and Piano, written in memory of Frederico Garcia Lorca, who was executed by the Francists in Spain. A very powerful and beautiful piece. Debussy's Sonata for Violin and Piano was also nicely performed.
The final short piece was a habanera by Ravel, with Spanish rhythms, which I thought would end the concert on a lively note. Wrong. It was a melancholy habanera, a fitting conclusion.
So we would not feel bad, though, at the start it was announced that the weather in Paris was 37 degrees, with dense fog, and a wind chill that made it feel like 31.
It was an outstanding program, with beautiful violin playing by Savignon, a young violinist who should have a real career ahead of her.
Familiar (by melody if not by name) works by Massenet (Meditation from Thais) and Faure (Sicilienne) set the stage for a beautifully melancholy program, more dedicated to lingering winter temperatures than to spring flowers. The highlight (highlight of highlights) was a performance of Poulenc's Sonata for Violin and Piano, written in memory of Frederico Garcia Lorca, who was executed by the Francists in Spain. A very powerful and beautiful piece. Debussy's Sonata for Violin and Piano was also nicely performed.
The final short piece was a habanera by Ravel, with Spanish rhythms, which I thought would end the concert on a lively note. Wrong. It was a melancholy habanera, a fitting conclusion.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Capital Crime: Conversion from Islam
So, this poor guy may be murdered by the state for converting from Islam to Christianity. This is apparently normal for countries governed by Islamic law.
The three things that have preserved the U.S. best, perhaps, are: (a) the constitutional provisions that allow for transition of government, (b) the portions of the bill of rights dealing with free speech and freedom of religion, and (c) an independent judiciary with right to declare laws or administrative actions unconstitutional.
Don't you think, as a matter of spreading democracy, we could insist on a commitment to each from countries that we are helping?
The three things that have preserved the U.S. best, perhaps, are: (a) the constitutional provisions that allow for transition of government, (b) the portions of the bill of rights dealing with free speech and freedom of religion, and (c) an independent judiciary with right to declare laws or administrative actions unconstitutional.
Don't you think, as a matter of spreading democracy, we could insist on a commitment to each from countries that we are helping?
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Move Over, Rabbi O.J. (You know who I mean)
You have been joined by Israeli Rabbi David Basri, who says that avian bird flu spotted in Israel is God's answer to election ads suggesting support for gay marriage.
Another loon.
Another loon.
Where is the Amber Room (1 cent)
I ran through Hector Feliciano's "The Lost Museum", a book written about ten years ago about art stolen by the Nazis. Feliciano concentrates on five large French Jewish collections, some of which were confiscated by the Nazis, some hidden throughout the war, and some hidden until found. He talks about the Nazi collectors, such as Hitler and Goering, the storage of art work in varous places including the Jeu de Paume, about the art work brokered in Switzerland and in Paris during the Nazi years. He talks about the recovery of works after the war, about the works that have never been recovered, and about works that have been located and not returned. He talks a little about art work that was removed by the Russians into the USSR.
The book is interesting because it tells this story in a very straightforward way.
But, if you recall, I had recently read a book about the Amber Room, stolen from Pushkin (Tsarkoe Selo) by the Germans.
In that book, the Amber Room was clearly the most important piece stolen by the Germans during the war. In The Lost Museum (admittedly about private collections, not Soviet property), it does not even get a mention.
But what is consistent is the extraordinary attention that went to both the collection and the preservation of works of art by the Nazis, and how this effort was directed at the highest level, and involved large numbers of people, and great expenses, even as the war was raging. When you think about it, it is hard to comprehend, isn't it? All of this preservation in the midst of destruction?
The book is interesting because it tells this story in a very straightforward way.
But, if you recall, I had recently read a book about the Amber Room, stolen from Pushkin (Tsarkoe Selo) by the Germans.
In that book, the Amber Room was clearly the most important piece stolen by the Germans during the war. In The Lost Museum (admittedly about private collections, not Soviet property), it does not even get a mention.
But what is consistent is the extraordinary attention that went to both the collection and the preservation of works of art by the Nazis, and how this effort was directed at the highest level, and involved large numbers of people, and great expenses, even as the war was raging. When you think about it, it is hard to comprehend, isn't it? All of this preservation in the midst of destruction?
Sometimes I am Little Slow
Grant Wood and Rosanne Klass were both from Cedar Rapids.
That's a coincidence, isn't it?
That's a coincidence, isn't it?
Grant Wood (1 cent)
Grant Wood painted a picture of his sister (whom he aged by decades for the painting) and his dentist, asking them to stare straight ahead, his dentist holding a pitchfork. It became 'American Gothic'.
You wouldn't think of this painting as humorous,just looking at it, but if I had painted this painting some years ago with my sister and Dr. Lambrechts, I would have thought it quite amusing.
In fact, Wood put a rare sense of humor into much of his art. Take, for example, the country cupboard he built, with a drab green stain, onto the front of which (and under the stain) he plastered an actual pair of bib overalls. Or the wooden bench he made at the Cedar Rapids junior high school at which he taught for many years. The bench was to sit outside the principal's office, to serve as a way-station for misbehaving adolescents. On the back of the bench were carved the words: 'The way of all transgressors is hard'. The bench looked hard, too, and the three crying teenagers carved into it look none too happy.
And, for a final example, there is the door to his Cedar Rapids studio (preserved now for all time), with an opaque glass top, through which a hand, like the hand of a clock can be seen. Manipulated from inside, the hand can rest at one of four positions, all under the words "Grant Wood is......" The positions are 'in', 'out', 'having a party' or 'taking a bath'.
Wood was extraordinarily versatile. Working not only in oils and pastels, he was a master a copper work, wrought iron work, and wood. He was a disciple of the 'arts and crafts' school, it is said, and he was a 'regionalist' (which is why some of his works look like Thomas Hart Benton). But he also did landscapes (colorful, almost late Impressionist), and painted industrial themes, and sometimes his work looked like Grandma Moses. And he did commercial work, decorating an entire funeral parlor which belonged to perhaps his best friend, and a restaurant in a Cedar Rapids Hotel, where the mural covering each wall was a ochre-toned cornfield, which must have given quite an effect to Iowa diners.
There is much to see at this very enjoyable and informative show at the Renwick.
You wouldn't think of this painting as humorous,just looking at it, but if I had painted this painting some years ago with my sister and Dr. Lambrechts, I would have thought it quite amusing.
In fact, Wood put a rare sense of humor into much of his art. Take, for example, the country cupboard he built, with a drab green stain, onto the front of which (and under the stain) he plastered an actual pair of bib overalls. Or the wooden bench he made at the Cedar Rapids junior high school at which he taught for many years. The bench was to sit outside the principal's office, to serve as a way-station for misbehaving adolescents. On the back of the bench were carved the words: 'The way of all transgressors is hard'. The bench looked hard, too, and the three crying teenagers carved into it look none too happy.
And, for a final example, there is the door to his Cedar Rapids studio (preserved now for all time), with an opaque glass top, through which a hand, like the hand of a clock can be seen. Manipulated from inside, the hand can rest at one of four positions, all under the words "Grant Wood is......" The positions are 'in', 'out', 'having a party' or 'taking a bath'.
Wood was extraordinarily versatile. Working not only in oils and pastels, he was a master a copper work, wrought iron work, and wood. He was a disciple of the 'arts and crafts' school, it is said, and he was a 'regionalist' (which is why some of his works look like Thomas Hart Benton). But he also did landscapes (colorful, almost late Impressionist), and painted industrial themes, and sometimes his work looked like Grandma Moses. And he did commercial work, decorating an entire funeral parlor which belonged to perhaps his best friend, and a restaurant in a Cedar Rapids Hotel, where the mural covering each wall was a ochre-toned cornfield, which must have given quite an effect to Iowa diners.
There is much to see at this very enjoyable and informative show at the Renwick.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Moses Mendelson and Stephen S. Wise (1 cent)
It is well known that none of the children of Moses Mendelson, who in the 18th century decided that Judaism could be compatible with modern western society, remained Jewish.
I wonder about the children of Stephen S. Wise, the reform leader from Cincinnati, who lived in the last part of the 19th and earlier part of the 20th centuries. His son James wrote a short book I recently came across called "Liberalizing Liberal Judaism", published in 1924, when he was a very young man. It suggested that reform Judaism had atrophied, and needed to be made more attractive to the younger generation by, among other things, encouraging intermarriage, and recognizing Jesus as a non-divine teacher. He was convinced that ritual would completely vanish, and that the key to religion in the future would be as a guide for ethical conduct, and that this would be the case for Christianity as well.
Things of course have not worked out this was for Judaism, or for western society in general, for any number of reasons. I wonder what happened to James, and his Jewish identity, and to other Wise children.
I wonder about the children of Stephen S. Wise, the reform leader from Cincinnati, who lived in the last part of the 19th and earlier part of the 20th centuries. His son James wrote a short book I recently came across called "Liberalizing Liberal Judaism", published in 1924, when he was a very young man. It suggested that reform Judaism had atrophied, and needed to be made more attractive to the younger generation by, among other things, encouraging intermarriage, and recognizing Jesus as a non-divine teacher. He was convinced that ritual would completely vanish, and that the key to religion in the future would be as a guide for ethical conduct, and that this would be the case for Christianity as well.
Things of course have not worked out this was for Judaism, or for western society in general, for any number of reasons. I wonder what happened to James, and his Jewish identity, and to other Wise children.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
"Land of the High Flags" - Afghanistan
I picked up this 1964 book by Rosanne Klass, talking about her time in Afghanistan in the early 1950s, when she and her new husband took teaching jobs. Afghanistan was different then from today in at least two ways: you couldn't just fly into Kabul on a whim; you had to go to Pakistan and drive (if you could get a ride) through the Hindu Kush on narrow, unpaved roads. And, although there were bandits on the open road, a foreigner did not fear for his life and, in fact, it appeared that Afghanistan was on the beginning of a trek towards progress, with hope in the air.
The book itself stays away from politics (and hardly mentions Klass' husband), but talks of her experiences with her friends, her household staff and her students and fellow teachers at the boarding school on the outskirts of Kabul. It is meant to be a personal book, and it is. But the picture it gives of the country and the Afghans she meets is very interesting, and she writes well. Kabul was a city of cultured Afghans, members of the foreign communities, household servants of various types, teachers, market merchants, the undifferentiated masses and women in purdahs, hidden away behind high walls. The country side consisted of barren rock, extraordinary mountain ranges, and occasional garden spots (where water could be found, and the world's largest variety of grapes could be grown). Virtually nothing about Afghan government or foreign policy; virtually nothing about religion, except for the acknowledgement that it permeates everything. There are several chapters on trips taken through the country, including one to see the giant Buddhas (now destroyed) at Bamian, and one to see a buzkashi match.
After a couple of years, the couple return to the U.S., and Klass becomes a New York City public school teacher. But Afghanistan calls, and she goes back in the mid-1960s, this time as a representative of the New York Times, and then she becomes an activist, working at Freedom House in New York, and studying and writing on the Afghan situation until, with the advent of the Soviet invasion, she is recognized as an expert. She has recently donated her collection of written material on the country to Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. Quite a journey for a young girl from Cedar Rapids.
The book itself stays away from politics (and hardly mentions Klass' husband), but talks of her experiences with her friends, her household staff and her students and fellow teachers at the boarding school on the outskirts of Kabul. It is meant to be a personal book, and it is. But the picture it gives of the country and the Afghans she meets is very interesting, and she writes well. Kabul was a city of cultured Afghans, members of the foreign communities, household servants of various types, teachers, market merchants, the undifferentiated masses and women in purdahs, hidden away behind high walls. The country side consisted of barren rock, extraordinary mountain ranges, and occasional garden spots (where water could be found, and the world's largest variety of grapes could be grown). Virtually nothing about Afghan government or foreign policy; virtually nothing about religion, except for the acknowledgement that it permeates everything. There are several chapters on trips taken through the country, including one to see the giant Buddhas (now destroyed) at Bamian, and one to see a buzkashi match.
After a couple of years, the couple return to the U.S., and Klass becomes a New York City public school teacher. But Afghanistan calls, and she goes back in the mid-1960s, this time as a representative of the New York Times, and then she becomes an activist, working at Freedom House in New York, and studying and writing on the Afghan situation until, with the advent of the Soviet invasion, she is recognized as an expert. She has recently donated her collection of written material on the country to Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. Quite a journey for a young girl from Cedar Rapids.
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, at the Studio Theater, seems to be getting (almost) universally poor reviews, based upon the casting of Sarah Marshall (generally recipient of rave reviews) as the central character. Jean Brodie teaches at a girls school in Scotland in the 1930s. She is unmarried, because school teachers have to be, but she is "in her prime" and her girls are all the "creme de la creme". She has had her flings, which she unsuccessfully tries to hide as more innocent relationships - the soldier lying in Flanders fields, the married artist for whom she poses, and the unmarried fellow teacher with whom she (and her girls) share Sunday afternoons. Jean Brodie is a repressed woman, whose repression results in an exaggerated version of a teacher, to whose students she imparts in her teaching the excitement she wishes for her life, and over whom she has enormous power and influence. All fine and dandy, perhaps, until she turns political, extolling power in general, especiallly as exercised by Mussolini and Franco.
The reviews say that Sarah Marshall is too old, and more the commedienne than the actress, and does not pull off the role. I disagree. You do have to accept her as she is (not glamorous or sexually alluring), but women of all physical types get involved in such doings, don't they?
And, do you recall the story of my high school teachers posted a month or so ago? When I spoke about the English teacher who ran off with the married assistant principal? She was certainly no beauty, and not particularly young or alluring. And her name was Sarah, and his name was Marshall, and after they married, she became - yes, indeed - Sarah Marshall.
So who says Sarah Marshall cannot play this role?
The reviews say that Sarah Marshall is too old, and more the commedienne than the actress, and does not pull off the role. I disagree. You do have to accept her as she is (not glamorous or sexually alluring), but women of all physical types get involved in such doings, don't they?
And, do you recall the story of my high school teachers posted a month or so ago? When I spoke about the English teacher who ran off with the married assistant principal? She was certainly no beauty, and not particularly young or alluring. And her name was Sarah, and his name was Marshall, and after they married, she became - yes, indeed - Sarah Marshall.
So who says Sarah Marshall cannot play this role?
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Carl Rux and the 16 Year Old Trumpeter (11 cents)
I had bought a copy of "Asphalt" by musician/poet/novelist Carl Rux (about whom I knew nothing) and started to read it, got lost trying to figure out what was going on, and put it aside.
But it called me back, and I went through the same exercise two more times, never finishing the book (or even getting far into it), but always keeping it on the top of a pile, in full view.
Switch to our week at Klezkamp in December:
You may recall that we took a 9 a.m. beginning Yiddish class (guaranteed that we would know as much at the end of the week as we did when we started). One of our fellow students was a 16 year old high school student from California, who came with her elderly grandparents. She had taken the same class the year before. While the rest of us were somewhat serious about what we were doing, she was, or appeared, not to have a serious bone in her (somewhat exposed) body, as she talked out throughout the class about whatever came into her (equally exposed) mind. She was annoying in the extreme (and - truth be known - our bet was that her grandmother was the same way 60 or 65 years ago).
One day, coming to class in pajama bottoms and a shirt that only came down part way, she sat in front of me and, lo and behold, she was carrying a paperback version of "Asphalt". The book is impossible to understand. It is filled with allusions which can be appreciated only by Mensa members. Its drug and sex scenes are way too much for a 16 year old (even from California). What can she be doing with that book, I asked myself? Probably, nothing.
Then, she turns to me and says: "Have you read this? It is terrific!"
I still don't know what to make of it. I don't know if she really read it. Or if she understood it, rather than simply being bowled over by Rux's intense, idiosyncratic, reality/fantasy style. To me, she was a 16 year old adolescent who needed years to get her behavior in order; I imagined her acting in Beginning Yiddish the same way she acted in high school in Oakland.
Later in the week, there was a concert at which the Klezkamp campers/musicians played in their various ensembles. I was surprised to see her on stage in a small group, holding a trumpet (or perhaps a coronet; I was pretty far back). I was more surprised when she played as part of the jazz/klezmer group. She is extraordinarily talented.
So, I said, well, maybe her musical talent is an indication of all sorts of talents, including talent to understand "Asphalt".
At any rate, I came back and read the book, cover to cover. If there is a plot, I don't know what it is. It takes place in Brooklyn after the next war, when it has been cut off from Manhattan, and appears to have been severely damaged so that only squatters remain in what had been respectable apartments. There are a lot of drugs, some strange sex, but mainly memories, tales, conversations, weaving in and out, back and forth.
I looked in up on Amazon, and read the professional editorial reviews, which were, I would say, very respectful of the author, but mixed on the book. Then I read the 14 reader reviews, each of which (without exception) gave it 5 stars, and spoke of its mesmerizing qualities. I am not sure anyone picked up a story line, but that did not seem important. It was the context and the language that bowled each of the reviewers over.
A paragraph picked at random, to give you a feel. Page 189: "By day it was a road, a long line gashed up the shaven earth where daily travelers have stopped wearily alongside the trimmings of grass and slept unbothered, others have dashed the scorching trail without stopping - waving lazy palms at passing trucks and field hands picking through the groves. By night, it was an anomalous staircase steeped toward an uncertain destiny. A path your feet had to know better than your eyes. He ran it. Photographs of shortcuts and landmarks flashed vivid colors in his head, but the world around him was one shade of darkness. Land requiring visceral exploration. The first mile, up the gravelly course, was aimless. The feet ran with the speed and clumsiness of a boy outrunning ghosts and ghouls and God. The second mile, through the serrated colony of cornstalks, was pursuant. He was heading toward the hill, the tree, the rock, the water; the place he knew."
But it called me back, and I went through the same exercise two more times, never finishing the book (or even getting far into it), but always keeping it on the top of a pile, in full view.
Switch to our week at Klezkamp in December:
You may recall that we took a 9 a.m. beginning Yiddish class (guaranteed that we would know as much at the end of the week as we did when we started). One of our fellow students was a 16 year old high school student from California, who came with her elderly grandparents. She had taken the same class the year before. While the rest of us were somewhat serious about what we were doing, she was, or appeared, not to have a serious bone in her (somewhat exposed) body, as she talked out throughout the class about whatever came into her (equally exposed) mind. She was annoying in the extreme (and - truth be known - our bet was that her grandmother was the same way 60 or 65 years ago).
One day, coming to class in pajama bottoms and a shirt that only came down part way, she sat in front of me and, lo and behold, she was carrying a paperback version of "Asphalt". The book is impossible to understand. It is filled with allusions which can be appreciated only by Mensa members. Its drug and sex scenes are way too much for a 16 year old (even from California). What can she be doing with that book, I asked myself? Probably, nothing.
Then, she turns to me and says: "Have you read this? It is terrific!"
I still don't know what to make of it. I don't know if she really read it. Or if she understood it, rather than simply being bowled over by Rux's intense, idiosyncratic, reality/fantasy style. To me, she was a 16 year old adolescent who needed years to get her behavior in order; I imagined her acting in Beginning Yiddish the same way she acted in high school in Oakland.
Later in the week, there was a concert at which the Klezkamp campers/musicians played in their various ensembles. I was surprised to see her on stage in a small group, holding a trumpet (or perhaps a coronet; I was pretty far back). I was more surprised when she played as part of the jazz/klezmer group. She is extraordinarily talented.
So, I said, well, maybe her musical talent is an indication of all sorts of talents, including talent to understand "Asphalt".
At any rate, I came back and read the book, cover to cover. If there is a plot, I don't know what it is. It takes place in Brooklyn after the next war, when it has been cut off from Manhattan, and appears to have been severely damaged so that only squatters remain in what had been respectable apartments. There are a lot of drugs, some strange sex, but mainly memories, tales, conversations, weaving in and out, back and forth.
I looked in up on Amazon, and read the professional editorial reviews, which were, I would say, very respectful of the author, but mixed on the book. Then I read the 14 reader reviews, each of which (without exception) gave it 5 stars, and spoke of its mesmerizing qualities. I am not sure anyone picked up a story line, but that did not seem important. It was the context and the language that bowled each of the reviewers over.
A paragraph picked at random, to give you a feel. Page 189: "By day it was a road, a long line gashed up the shaven earth where daily travelers have stopped wearily alongside the trimmings of grass and slept unbothered, others have dashed the scorching trail without stopping - waving lazy palms at passing trucks and field hands picking through the groves. By night, it was an anomalous staircase steeped toward an uncertain destiny. A path your feet had to know better than your eyes. He ran it. Photographs of shortcuts and landmarks flashed vivid colors in his head, but the world around him was one shade of darkness. Land requiring visceral exploration. The first mile, up the gravelly course, was aimless. The feet ran with the speed and clumsiness of a boy outrunning ghosts and ghouls and God. The second mile, through the serrated colony of cornstalks, was pursuant. He was heading toward the hill, the tree, the rock, the water; the place he knew."
Friday, March 17, 2006
It's Marvelous
Marvelous Market, a local bakery/gourmet food chain, was sold several months ago and its new owner closed its bakery and started buying breads from Uptown Bakers. It was like selling the Bentley and buying a Daihatsu. The victims were the Friday challah purchasers, whose Shabbat tables were made the poorer by Uptown's bland bread.
But today, there is joy in Mudville. The old baker, Mr. Dachman, is back supplying the chain's Bethesda and Chevy Chase store from his new Falls Church bakery. The Jews rejoice.
But today, there is joy in Mudville. The old baker, Mr. Dachman, is back supplying the chain's Bethesda and Chevy Chase store from his new Falls Church bakery. The Jews rejoice.
Don Jacobo Lerner and Everything Else
I finished reading Isaac Goldemberg's "The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner" this morning. It was published in 1976. I am not sure who Goldemberg is, or what he has done since. He wrote the book in Spanish; he is a native of Peru, where the book is set in the 1930s.
Lerner's life was fragmented, but so was the life of everyone who is both a character in the book and in the Jewish community of Peru. Lerner himself was born in Staraya Ushitza, somewhere under the control of the tsar. He emigrates to Peru, wanders quite a bit, ekes out a living in Lima and then in a village where he marries the daughter of a formerly rich father, has a son, and abandons his family. More wandering, and then after becoming a partner in a brothel in Lima (much to everyone's shame), he dies at 42, from what appears to be some form of cancer.
That does not tell you much about the book, about Lerner's only son (slightly demented), his brother and his wife, his best friend from home, his lover, his ex-fiancee, or anyone else. You have to read the book.
In a way, Lerner is Leopold Bloom, a stranger in a strange society, of it yet apart. But, while Bloom is the only Bloom in "Ulysses", everyone in this book is somewhat of a Bloom.
The style is unique - first person, third person, excerpts from books and newspapers, yearly news highlights.
Now to tie things together.
First, there is a dybbuk and an exorcism, reminding me of course of the current Hannah/Theater J production. The dybbuk is Lerner's old boyhood friend and then fellow Peruvian, Leon Mitrani. "The rabbi, who lived about four blocks away from the synagogue, received Jacobo with great warmth and offered Jacobo lodging in his house until the exorcism began to take effect. It would be a difficult task. While the maid prepared a room, he told Jacobo with excitement that it had been a long time since he had had a chance to deal with a dybbuk. The last time had been in Poland, in 1915, when he practiced an exorcism on a young girl who thought herself possessed by the spirit of a whore..........On the third night, Jacobo began to feel a change. Mitrani's spirit suddenly became imperious. Jacobo's condition worsened; for seven days and seven nights his body was racked by tremors; he saw strange images in front of his eyes......But although he was regaining his sanity, he was sunk into a deeper depression than ever, because all these images were of a reality that he did not want to confront."
Then, there is the Amazon River town of Leticia, now in Columbia, where I had traveled in the mid-1970s. I did not know that at one time Leticia was in Peru: "On the morning of September 1st, Alferez Diaz, carrying two pieces of light artillery, takes up a position on an island approximately 1500 yards from the town of Leticia, on the Amazon River....After firing a few rounds, the machine gun jams, and he gives orders for the fusiliers to advance...Afterward, the flag of Peru is flown from city hall......On June 19, the Commission from the League of Nations hands over the Amazon Territory to Columbian authorities." (I need to write about my trip)
And, finally, my cousin Al Jolson. "When it was announced that the film "The Singing Fool", with Al Jolson in the title role, would be shown in the city [Lima], many members mistook this movie for another, already exhibited in several South American countries, in which Al Jolson sings several Jewish songs....Though disappointed when they realized that Jolson would not sing any Jewish songs, they all enjoyed what turned out to be an intensely dramatic movie."
It all comes together.
Lerner's life was fragmented, but so was the life of everyone who is both a character in the book and in the Jewish community of Peru. Lerner himself was born in Staraya Ushitza, somewhere under the control of the tsar. He emigrates to Peru, wanders quite a bit, ekes out a living in Lima and then in a village where he marries the daughter of a formerly rich father, has a son, and abandons his family. More wandering, and then after becoming a partner in a brothel in Lima (much to everyone's shame), he dies at 42, from what appears to be some form of cancer.
That does not tell you much about the book, about Lerner's only son (slightly demented), his brother and his wife, his best friend from home, his lover, his ex-fiancee, or anyone else. You have to read the book.
In a way, Lerner is Leopold Bloom, a stranger in a strange society, of it yet apart. But, while Bloom is the only Bloom in "Ulysses", everyone in this book is somewhat of a Bloom.
The style is unique - first person, third person, excerpts from books and newspapers, yearly news highlights.
Now to tie things together.
First, there is a dybbuk and an exorcism, reminding me of course of the current Hannah/Theater J production. The dybbuk is Lerner's old boyhood friend and then fellow Peruvian, Leon Mitrani. "The rabbi, who lived about four blocks away from the synagogue, received Jacobo with great warmth and offered Jacobo lodging in his house until the exorcism began to take effect. It would be a difficult task. While the maid prepared a room, he told Jacobo with excitement that it had been a long time since he had had a chance to deal with a dybbuk. The last time had been in Poland, in 1915, when he practiced an exorcism on a young girl who thought herself possessed by the spirit of a whore..........On the third night, Jacobo began to feel a change. Mitrani's spirit suddenly became imperious. Jacobo's condition worsened; for seven days and seven nights his body was racked by tremors; he saw strange images in front of his eyes......But although he was regaining his sanity, he was sunk into a deeper depression than ever, because all these images were of a reality that he did not want to confront."
Then, there is the Amazon River town of Leticia, now in Columbia, where I had traveled in the mid-1970s. I did not know that at one time Leticia was in Peru: "On the morning of September 1st, Alferez Diaz, carrying two pieces of light artillery, takes up a position on an island approximately 1500 yards from the town of Leticia, on the Amazon River....After firing a few rounds, the machine gun jams, and he gives orders for the fusiliers to advance...Afterward, the flag of Peru is flown from city hall......On June 19, the Commission from the League of Nations hands over the Amazon Territory to Columbian authorities." (I need to write about my trip)
And, finally, my cousin Al Jolson. "When it was announced that the film "The Singing Fool", with Al Jolson in the title role, would be shown in the city [Lima], many members mistook this movie for another, already exhibited in several South American countries, in which Al Jolson sings several Jewish songs....Though disappointed when they realized that Jolson would not sing any Jewish songs, they all enjoyed what turned out to be an intensely dramatic movie."
It all comes together.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Eat Drink Man Woman (1 cent)
"Eat Drink Man Woman" is a food based, Taiwanese movie depicting a widowed master chef and his daughters coping with the passage of time and its effect on their individual and collective lives. It was directed by Ang Lee and filmed in 1994, when it was nominated for an Oscar. It is a good movie, and its best feature is the food cooked by the father, both at work and in his home, even when cooking for himself only.
We watched the movie on On Demand last night, pretty much by chance. It was not a movie we remembered at all.
But last summer, in Vienna, we ate at a very upscale Italian/Continental restuarant called Fabio's. It's motto, on the menus, the match boxes and its website is "eat drink man woman". It baffled us then, and still does now. We do not know if it comes from the movie (would seem more appropriate for an oriental restaurant, if so), if the movie was named after Fabio's motto (doubtful), whether they both come from the same mysterious source, or whether this is just a phrase that everyone knows but us or a coincidence.
Fabio's is, as I said, an Italian restaurant in Vienna, but its motto is 'eat drink man woman', not 'ess trink Mann Frau' and note 'mange bibe Uomo Contessa' (or whatever it would be in Italian, clearly a language that I only know by instinct and intonation). The movie's original title is, we assume, in Chinese, although maybe it is in English as well, but written in Chinese pictographs.
What a mystery, yet to be solved.
We watched the movie on On Demand last night, pretty much by chance. It was not a movie we remembered at all.
But last summer, in Vienna, we ate at a very upscale Italian/Continental restuarant called Fabio's. It's motto, on the menus, the match boxes and its website is "eat drink man woman". It baffled us then, and still does now. We do not know if it comes from the movie (would seem more appropriate for an oriental restaurant, if so), if the movie was named after Fabio's motto (doubtful), whether they both come from the same mysterious source, or whether this is just a phrase that everyone knows but us or a coincidence.
Fabio's is, as I said, an Italian restaurant in Vienna, but its motto is 'eat drink man woman', not 'ess trink Mann Frau' and note 'mange bibe Uomo Contessa' (or whatever it would be in Italian, clearly a language that I only know by instinct and intonation). The movie's original title is, we assume, in Chinese, although maybe it is in English as well, but written in Chinese pictographs.
What a mystery, yet to be solved.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The Museums, as Promised
1. The Museum of the American Indian, on the Mall, is perhaps a little different from anticipated. It has basically three permanent exhibits, as I understand it, and one special exhibit, which appears to be there indefinitely. It has nice yellow stone architecture that is unrelated to anything else on the Mall, and an extraordinary amount of empty space, particularly in the center of the musuem which looks up to a large white dome. It has two stores and a very nice cafe.
The two top floor exhibits are on the history of the American Indian (this includes natives of the entire continent, not just U.S. territory), and on American Indian spirituality. to accompany the myth (?) that we are all one people, while the displays in the exhiibits are by tribe, the tribes are mixed up, so you may go from Mexico to Alaska to New York State to Guatamala. A little disconcerting.
The history exhibit, which does contain a lot of material, is basically a holocaust exhibit. A big holocaust exhibit. "We lived here and were happy. They came. They killed most of us and then kicked us out. Now they live there". Every story is basically the same. And, while it teaches a valuable lesson, it is not what you call uplifting and my reaction was "get me out of here."
The exhibit on spirituality, set up similarly to the history exhibit and quite attractive, left me cold. I just did not know what anything was talking about. Without context the stories and myths and beliefs are just floating around like leaves in autumn.
On the second floor, there are also two exhibits. The exhibit on Indians today is like: "See Indians farm. See Indians practice medicine. See Indians teach." You get the picture. And they sure did not concentrate on the casinos. Or on Jack Abramoff, for that matter. The final exhibit was on the Indians of the Northwest, and it was the best of all, but by then I was tired of Indian museums.
The first floor shop is "better jewelry and textiles" and the second floor is souvenirs and books. Nothing I need.
The cafe has five stations - each representing a different Indian cuisine. Northwest, meso-America, the Great Plains, the Southwest and another. We had salmon, a squash/raisin cold side dish, stewed tomatoes and chestnut pudding. I don't care for chestnut pudding, so cannot vouch for the quality.
2. The Hokusai exhibit at the Sackler is a two floor exhibit that shows prints, books and paintings chronologically through his very long career. A major exhibit worth looking at.
3. The Museum of American History rarely gets a visit from me, but it did a week or so ago. A quick one, entering from the Constitution Avenue vestibule, and not going very far. I walked through an exhibit (noted to be good for all ages) of the history of American science, and I thought that it was a very good exhibit, in that it told a number of stories, and did not overwhelm you with too many items on display (take note, Indian museum).
Starting with a debate between two German/American (like so many scientists) 19th century Johns Hopkins scientists on whether scientific research should be pure, or should help support the public weal, you are quickly led through exhibits on James Murie of Hampton Institute, part Pawnee Indian and the growth of American ethnography; Charles Frederick Chandler and sanitation in New York in light of increasing immigration, Ellen Swallow Richards, the first woman to attend (and teach at) MIT; Harry Washington Wiley, who at the Department of Agriculture, developed standards of food safety; The Scopes monkey trial; Gilbert chemistry sets; the development of nylon at DuPont, after gunpowder did not seem enough to sustain the company; science at the 1939 NY world's fair; the development of Oak Ridge as a federal laboratory; penicillin; the MIT radiation lab and Vannever Bush; B.F. Skinner's unsuccessful attempt to train pigeons to be spies during the early years of WW II; the development of rocketry for military and other purposes; the Manhattan project; Hiroshima and Nagasaki; geodetic mapping; atomic toys and fallout shelters; modern kitchen equipment and garden tools; the Pill; Rachel Carson and the environment; genetic engineering; the super collider to help understand the basic building blocks of nature; ozone and CFCs; and the future.
Even the listing is interesting.
4. As a lucky strike extra, let it be known that I did not get to see the King Tut exhibit in Ft. Lauderdale. The museum opens every morning at 8, and closes late. Demand for tickets is great. Same day tickets not available.
The two top floor exhibits are on the history of the American Indian (this includes natives of the entire continent, not just U.S. territory), and on American Indian spirituality. to accompany the myth (?) that we are all one people, while the displays in the exhiibits are by tribe, the tribes are mixed up, so you may go from Mexico to Alaska to New York State to Guatamala. A little disconcerting.
The history exhibit, which does contain a lot of material, is basically a holocaust exhibit. A big holocaust exhibit. "We lived here and were happy. They came. They killed most of us and then kicked us out. Now they live there". Every story is basically the same. And, while it teaches a valuable lesson, it is not what you call uplifting and my reaction was "get me out of here."
The exhibit on spirituality, set up similarly to the history exhibit and quite attractive, left me cold. I just did not know what anything was talking about. Without context the stories and myths and beliefs are just floating around like leaves in autumn.
On the second floor, there are also two exhibits. The exhibit on Indians today is like: "See Indians farm. See Indians practice medicine. See Indians teach." You get the picture. And they sure did not concentrate on the casinos. Or on Jack Abramoff, for that matter. The final exhibit was on the Indians of the Northwest, and it was the best of all, but by then I was tired of Indian museums.
The first floor shop is "better jewelry and textiles" and the second floor is souvenirs and books. Nothing I need.
The cafe has five stations - each representing a different Indian cuisine. Northwest, meso-America, the Great Plains, the Southwest and another. We had salmon, a squash/raisin cold side dish, stewed tomatoes and chestnut pudding. I don't care for chestnut pudding, so cannot vouch for the quality.
2. The Hokusai exhibit at the Sackler is a two floor exhibit that shows prints, books and paintings chronologically through his very long career. A major exhibit worth looking at.
3. The Museum of American History rarely gets a visit from me, but it did a week or so ago. A quick one, entering from the Constitution Avenue vestibule, and not going very far. I walked through an exhibit (noted to be good for all ages) of the history of American science, and I thought that it was a very good exhibit, in that it told a number of stories, and did not overwhelm you with too many items on display (take note, Indian museum).
Starting with a debate between two German/American (like so many scientists) 19th century Johns Hopkins scientists on whether scientific research should be pure, or should help support the public weal, you are quickly led through exhibits on James Murie of Hampton Institute, part Pawnee Indian and the growth of American ethnography; Charles Frederick Chandler and sanitation in New York in light of increasing immigration, Ellen Swallow Richards, the first woman to attend (and teach at) MIT; Harry Washington Wiley, who at the Department of Agriculture, developed standards of food safety; The Scopes monkey trial; Gilbert chemistry sets; the development of nylon at DuPont, after gunpowder did not seem enough to sustain the company; science at the 1939 NY world's fair; the development of Oak Ridge as a federal laboratory; penicillin; the MIT radiation lab and Vannever Bush; B.F. Skinner's unsuccessful attempt to train pigeons to be spies during the early years of WW II; the development of rocketry for military and other purposes; the Manhattan project; Hiroshima and Nagasaki; geodetic mapping; atomic toys and fallout shelters; modern kitchen equipment and garden tools; the Pill; Rachel Carson and the environment; genetic engineering; the super collider to help understand the basic building blocks of nature; ozone and CFCs; and the future.
Even the listing is interesting.
4. As a lucky strike extra, let it be known that I did not get to see the King Tut exhibit in Ft. Lauderdale. The museum opens every morning at 8, and closes late. Demand for tickets is great. Same day tickets not available.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Ft. Lauderdale (1 cent)
Guess where I am?
I flew here yesterday on Spirit(less) Air Line, which flies from DC to Detroit and Ft. Lauderdale only, but leaves here to go to the Turks and Caicos and the Cayman Islands. It is really dull. For a 7:30 a.m. 2 1/2 hour flight, you get a drink but no food.
The Ft. Lauderdale airport was very, very crowded (more tourists in FL this March than ever before, they say). I was surprised that the rental car agencies have all been consolidated into a new facility (that works fairly well), and you no longer have to drive off-site; what surprised me is that the facilities that existed were all large and state of the art, and looked like they would be there forever.
I went to Hollywood (a sad looking town) because I wanted to stop at Trader John's Used Book Store. Had not been there in over a year. It is a very sad looking book store, with an old inventory and a lot of old book smells. When John retires (he looks to be 80), my guess is that no one else will take over the store, or buy the inventory. I bought one book.
I then had lunch (there are a lot of fancy restaurants in FL) at the Hollywood Cafe, where I wanted a caesar salad with salmon, which they were unable to make (only make it with chicken), but I could get a grilled salmon sandwich without the bread and a caesar salad. On second thought, I did not have to get the caesar salad, because the salmon came with a salad. But what kind of a salad? Romaine and tomatoes. If I wanted, they could make it a caesar salad (that meant leaving off the tomatoes). So I had romaine lettuce, no tomatoes, salmon, and a little carton of "caesar" dressing. $8 and no one should have to eat there.
Then I went to the beach in Hollywood. That means, because I had an extra hour, I decided to drive a couple of blocks east and park the car. The area off Highway 101 in Hollywood is non-descript commercial, two blocks of small houses/hotellettes (which look like each should have a sign saying "You don't want to stay here)a boardwalk with concrete instead of a board, and the beach. A typical nice FL beach, with four billion people on it. Average age of the beachgoers is about 85. No kidding.
The drive to my client in Sunrise takes you about 30-45 minutes due west to the border of the Everglades (literally). I keep forgetting how far it really is
Then we went to the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, a joint venture of Hard Rock Cafes and a 500 member offshoot of the Seminoles. Imagine Las Vegas without Las Vegas. The architecture looks sort of like Las Vegas. There are thousands of slot machines and you can play poker. But no blackjack, no roulette, etc. And no big Las Vegas shows. Fancy guitars on all the walls, restaurants that look second rate, and why would anyone want to be here? It is on the Turnpike, probably 6-7 miles from the beach or from anything very interesting.
So, I am coming down the elevator and a woman is checking out with a lot of baggage, saying to the bellman. "Wow, what a great hotel! You could stay here a week and never be bored". Yawn.
I flew here yesterday on Spirit(less) Air Line, which flies from DC to Detroit and Ft. Lauderdale only, but leaves here to go to the Turks and Caicos and the Cayman Islands. It is really dull. For a 7:30 a.m. 2 1/2 hour flight, you get a drink but no food.
The Ft. Lauderdale airport was very, very crowded (more tourists in FL this March than ever before, they say). I was surprised that the rental car agencies have all been consolidated into a new facility (that works fairly well), and you no longer have to drive off-site; what surprised me is that the facilities that existed were all large and state of the art, and looked like they would be there forever.
I went to Hollywood (a sad looking town) because I wanted to stop at Trader John's Used Book Store. Had not been there in over a year. It is a very sad looking book store, with an old inventory and a lot of old book smells. When John retires (he looks to be 80), my guess is that no one else will take over the store, or buy the inventory. I bought one book.
I then had lunch (there are a lot of fancy restaurants in FL) at the Hollywood Cafe, where I wanted a caesar salad with salmon, which they were unable to make (only make it with chicken), but I could get a grilled salmon sandwich without the bread and a caesar salad. On second thought, I did not have to get the caesar salad, because the salmon came with a salad. But what kind of a salad? Romaine and tomatoes. If I wanted, they could make it a caesar salad (that meant leaving off the tomatoes). So I had romaine lettuce, no tomatoes, salmon, and a little carton of "caesar" dressing. $8 and no one should have to eat there.
Then I went to the beach in Hollywood. That means, because I had an extra hour, I decided to drive a couple of blocks east and park the car. The area off Highway 101 in Hollywood is non-descript commercial, two blocks of small houses/hotellettes (which look like each should have a sign saying "You don't want to stay here)a boardwalk with concrete instead of a board, and the beach. A typical nice FL beach, with four billion people on it. Average age of the beachgoers is about 85. No kidding.
The drive to my client in Sunrise takes you about 30-45 minutes due west to the border of the Everglades (literally). I keep forgetting how far it really is
Then we went to the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, a joint venture of Hard Rock Cafes and a 500 member offshoot of the Seminoles. Imagine Las Vegas without Las Vegas. The architecture looks sort of like Las Vegas. There are thousands of slot machines and you can play poker. But no blackjack, no roulette, etc. And no big Las Vegas shows. Fancy guitars on all the walls, restaurants that look second rate, and why would anyone want to be here? It is on the Turnpike, probably 6-7 miles from the beach or from anything very interesting.
So, I am coming down the elevator and a woman is checking out with a lot of baggage, saying to the bellman. "Wow, what a great hotel! You could stay here a week and never be bored". Yawn.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Skipping Town
I am skipping town for a few days, and am not sure how much time I will have to update.
So you know what is coming:
The Hokusai exhibit at the Sackler.
The History of American Science exhibit at the American History Museum
The first visit to the Museum of the American Indian
A review of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie at the Studio Theater
The United States Chamber of Commerce Building
Review of "Asphalt" by Carl Rux
Review of "The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner" by Isaac Goldemberg
So you know what is coming:
The Hokusai exhibit at the Sackler.
The History of American Science exhibit at the American History Museum
The first visit to the Museum of the American Indian
A review of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie at the Studio Theater
The United States Chamber of Commerce Building
Review of "Asphalt" by Carl Rux
Review of "The Fragmented Life of Don Jacobo Lerner" by Isaac Goldemberg
Chipotle (45 cents)
I had never eaten in a Chipotle, because I always assumed the food would be bad. I ate in one this evening, and I was right.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Two Anecdotes (2 cents)
Anecdote Number 1. A panhandler on the street this morning, sitting down, cup in had. Man walks by and says to him, "how are you today?" The panhandler responds: "thank God it's Friday". [Connecticut and L, NW]
Anecdote Number 2. [Told to me by old friend] When my friend was in law school, he had a classmate named (not his real name) George Smith. Smith was a very poor student, constantly struggling, barely making it through the three years. Before graduation, the law school administration put a list of all students on the bulletin board, with the note: "this is the way your name will appear on your diploma. if it is not correct, let the office know immediately".
George Smith's name was listed as George H. Smith. But his middle name was James, so he went to the office to tell them that the diploma should read George J. Smith. The registrar was very surprised, and said that all of their records showed him as George H. She checked back three years, and discovered that there were two George Smiths who applied for admission. George J. was to be rejected; George H. was to be accepted. They reversed the letters, and George J. received the admission, entered, and barely made it.
Anecdote Number 2. [Told to me by old friend] When my friend was in law school, he had a classmate named (not his real name) George Smith. Smith was a very poor student, constantly struggling, barely making it through the three years. Before graduation, the law school administration put a list of all students on the bulletin board, with the note: "this is the way your name will appear on your diploma. if it is not correct, let the office know immediately".
George Smith's name was listed as George H. Smith. But his middle name was James, so he went to the office to tell them that the diploma should read George J. Smith. The registrar was very surprised, and said that all of their records showed him as George H. She checked back three years, and discovered that there were two George Smiths who applied for admission. George J. was to be rejected; George H. was to be accepted. They reversed the letters, and George J. received the admission, entered, and barely made it.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Must See Photography Exhibit at the Hirshhorn (2 cents)
I had not been to the Hirshhorn in a while. I did not go looking for anything particular. I went down the escalator and saw that there was a video exhibit in a small room apparently now dedicated to video displays. This one was by a young man named Hiraki Sawa. This is not the must-see exhibit.
Hiraki Sawa makes short black and white films, silent, in houses, where unusual critters move about. I saw portions of two of the five or six they are showing seriatum. In one, there were shadow camels (and an occasional shadow elephant) moving all around the house. In the other, there were tiny passanger jets taking off and landing on tables, kitchen counters, and book cases. Too odd for me.
But upstairs, there is a very large photography exhibit by 57 year old Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. THIS EXHIBIT IS EXTRAORDINARY. And it is displayed perfectly, taking up over half of second floor of the gallery.
The photos are all black and white; they are all oversized; they have been taken over the past 30 years. Each room has a limited amount of photos of one kind. There is no room with photos from more than one series.
Here they are: photos of wildlife diaramas from museums, where the wildlife look more real than if they were real; photos of Henry VIII and his wives, also looking more real than real, except that they are photos taken at Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in London; photos of major architectural masterpieces, but fuzzy to get the idea, but not the actuality of buildings (in this case, therefore, less real than real); photos of seascapes, where the light and the clouds are the only variations; photos of the inside of movie theaters, where the shutter has been open for entire movies (that is, real as to subject, but unreal as to time); the same photo of a buddha, but multiplied into an intricate design; photos of shapes that are the materialization of complex (and identified) mathematical formulas; one photo of Emperor Hirohito.
You have to see thiese photos. They will be there through mid-May.
Hiraki Sawa makes short black and white films, silent, in houses, where unusual critters move about. I saw portions of two of the five or six they are showing seriatum. In one, there were shadow camels (and an occasional shadow elephant) moving all around the house. In the other, there were tiny passanger jets taking off and landing on tables, kitchen counters, and book cases. Too odd for me.
But upstairs, there is a very large photography exhibit by 57 year old Japanese photographer Hiroshi Sugimoto. THIS EXHIBIT IS EXTRAORDINARY. And it is displayed perfectly, taking up over half of second floor of the gallery.
The photos are all black and white; they are all oversized; they have been taken over the past 30 years. Each room has a limited amount of photos of one kind. There is no room with photos from more than one series.
Here they are: photos of wildlife diaramas from museums, where the wildlife look more real than if they were real; photos of Henry VIII and his wives, also looking more real than real, except that they are photos taken at Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in London; photos of major architectural masterpieces, but fuzzy to get the idea, but not the actuality of buildings (in this case, therefore, less real than real); photos of seascapes, where the light and the clouds are the only variations; photos of the inside of movie theaters, where the shutter has been open for entire movies (that is, real as to subject, but unreal as to time); the same photo of a buddha, but multiplied into an intricate design; photos of shapes that are the materialization of complex (and identified) mathematical formulas; one photo of Emperor Hirohito.
You have to see thiese photos. They will be there through mid-May.
A Little Humor (11 cents)
Word is that the 9 churches in Alabama burnt to the ground were set afire only as a prank, a joke.
A new defense tactic perhaps?
Maybe Bush can use it to explain Iraq.
By the way, on C-Span this morning, they had a call-in for Republicans on how they view our president. One lady gave him a B/B+, saying that his biggest problem was the he was "misunderestimated". And I guess he suffers from "delusions of adequacy" as well.
A new defense tactic perhaps?
Maybe Bush can use it to explain Iraq.
By the way, on C-Span this morning, they had a call-in for Republicans on how they view our president. One lady gave him a B/B+, saying that his biggest problem was the he was "misunderestimated". And I guess he suffers from "delusions of adequacy" as well.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
"The Trials of Maria Barbella"
Another book I picked up by chance. The author is Idanna Pucci. The book resulted from a rather typical quest for family history.
The author's great grandmother, an American married to a wealthy Italian, was a woman of several 'causes', one of which was the case of illiterate Italian immigrant Maria Barbella, who murdered the man who failed to come through on his marriage promise, and who was convicted and sentenced to become the first woman ever to die in the newly invented electric chair. Encouraging publicity and good counsel, great-grandma enabled Maria to get a new trial, where her epilepsy was raised as a defense, and where a new jury found her not guilty, based on the judge's charge that the jury must find whether she was of 'unsound mind'.
Obviously, this is quite a story, and while the book itself is not literary masterpiece, it was worth reading.
Ms. Pucci, it seemed to me, did not really have enough material for a full length book, so there are very long excerpts from the trial transcripts, newspaper articles, etc. Not that this is bad, but it would probably have come out differently in the hands of a more experienced biographer.
The book tells a good sociological story of New York around the turn of the century. The interest in crime was certainly then what it is today. And the position of Italian immigrants presents a good lesson for all.
One of the most intriguing portions of the book, to me, was the epilogue. There, the author gives a short sentence or two to each participant in the story, and what their future life course would be. Certainly a lesson to be learned there.
Maria herself came back into the public eye when she saved a woman who had set herself on fire in a cooking accident, eventually married, but dropped out of public view. Whether she has any descendants, the author does not know.
The great-grandmother, when in her early 40s, went inexplicably insane and spent the next forty years in a mental institution.
The first judge was forced to leave the bench. The prosecutor flourished and eventually himself became a judge.
The chief defense attorney had a successful career, but forgot to mail a premium for his life insurance policy. He told his clerk to deliver it. His clerk asked why not just mail it. The attorney, Emanuel Friend, said: because I might drop dead tomorrow. And he did, at age 51.
The defense attorney who championed the introduction of psychiatric evidence himself became a champion - a chess champion.
The third defense lawyer became a municipal judge and tried 300,000 traffic cases in New York.
The editor of the New York World, Charles Chapin, who was antagonistic to Maria, himself was convicted of murder and died in Sing Sing.
Rebecca Foster, who was a protector to all women arrested in New York and known as the "Tombs Angel" died in a fire at the Park Avenue hotel, advertised as "the most fire-proof hotel in America".
And then there was, of course, Moshe Ha-Levi Ish Hurwitz, the "great Yiddish playwright", who attended the trial religiously and wrote a play based on Maria Barbella's story, which became a great hit in the Yiddish Theater. Wouldn't you know it?
The author's great grandmother, an American married to a wealthy Italian, was a woman of several 'causes', one of which was the case of illiterate Italian immigrant Maria Barbella, who murdered the man who failed to come through on his marriage promise, and who was convicted and sentenced to become the first woman ever to die in the newly invented electric chair. Encouraging publicity and good counsel, great-grandma enabled Maria to get a new trial, where her epilepsy was raised as a defense, and where a new jury found her not guilty, based on the judge's charge that the jury must find whether she was of 'unsound mind'.
Obviously, this is quite a story, and while the book itself is not literary masterpiece, it was worth reading.
Ms. Pucci, it seemed to me, did not really have enough material for a full length book, so there are very long excerpts from the trial transcripts, newspaper articles, etc. Not that this is bad, but it would probably have come out differently in the hands of a more experienced biographer.
The book tells a good sociological story of New York around the turn of the century. The interest in crime was certainly then what it is today. And the position of Italian immigrants presents a good lesson for all.
One of the most intriguing portions of the book, to me, was the epilogue. There, the author gives a short sentence or two to each participant in the story, and what their future life course would be. Certainly a lesson to be learned there.
Maria herself came back into the public eye when she saved a woman who had set herself on fire in a cooking accident, eventually married, but dropped out of public view. Whether she has any descendants, the author does not know.
The great-grandmother, when in her early 40s, went inexplicably insane and spent the next forty years in a mental institution.
The first judge was forced to leave the bench. The prosecutor flourished and eventually himself became a judge.
The chief defense attorney had a successful career, but forgot to mail a premium for his life insurance policy. He told his clerk to deliver it. His clerk asked why not just mail it. The attorney, Emanuel Friend, said: because I might drop dead tomorrow. And he did, at age 51.
The defense attorney who championed the introduction of psychiatric evidence himself became a champion - a chess champion.
The third defense lawyer became a municipal judge and tried 300,000 traffic cases in New York.
The editor of the New York World, Charles Chapin, who was antagonistic to Maria, himself was convicted of murder and died in Sing Sing.
Rebecca Foster, who was a protector to all women arrested in New York and known as the "Tombs Angel" died in a fire at the Park Avenue hotel, advertised as "the most fire-proof hotel in America".
And then there was, of course, Moshe Ha-Levi Ish Hurwitz, the "great Yiddish playwright", who attended the trial religiously and wrote a play based on Maria Barbella's story, which became a great hit in the Yiddish Theater. Wouldn't you know it?
Weekend Roundup (5 cents)
1. The Dybbuk. To round out the Ultimate Dybbuk Experience (which had consisted of two viewings of the play at Theater J, an artistic roundtable with the co-adapter, and attending a presentation by Orie Saltis on the Jews of Georgia), we went to a reading of a play by Aaron Mack Schloff based on the life of Anski (and called "Anski") and had supper with the playwright, and then I saw the movie version of the Dybbuk, filmed in Poland in 1937. "Anski" is a bio-play that basically shows the interface between Anski the enthnographer, and the mess that was Russia in the days right before the Communist revolution and during World War I, and Anski's ever changing relationship to being Jewish. I think it is a good play, if a little hard to follow. But that might have been because it was a reading.
The film "Dybbuk", in Yiddish with English subtitles, restored about fifteen years ago is, I think, a surprisingly good movie. It runs well over two hours (as opposed to the 90 minute adaptation at the Theater, and tells a very good story, not too stylized, not at all contemporary. With musical interludes that vanish as the intensity of the story grows. It was particularly interesting for those of us who saw the Theater J presentation, showing the differences between the movie version and the most recent adaptation; now I need to read the original dramatic script, to see how the movie changed Anski's play. Anski had been dead over 15 years when the movie was made.
2. Munich. Spielberg's "Munich" did not win any academy awards, and that was probably for the better. The movie was well put together, very well acted, and very easy to follow. (At least, easy to follow as opposed to the other middle eastern hit of 2005, "Syriana", which could have won an award for most convoluted and hard to recall plot; yet both "Munich" and "Syriana" were telling complicated stories about an increasingly complicated part of the world.)
But I don't think there was anything profound about the message of "Munich", and certainly nothing socially redeeming about it. Perhaps its best feature is its cinematography; the shots on location in Israel, New York, and various European cities are worthy of National Geographic or Burton Holmes. Perhaps its most disconcerting was the portrayal of Golda Meier, by a rather thin woman, who looked much more like Olive Oyl.
3. Purity. "Purity" is an hour long Israeli documentary on ritual purity, and use of the mikveh. We had seen it at the Jewish Film Festival here a few years ago. It has been telecast on the Sundance Channel. It is absolutely worth seeing, even if you have no interest in the subject, even if only to show you why you have no interest in the subject.
4. McCormick and Schmick. The one thing you can say about McCormick and Schmick is that it is consistent. Wrong. We had supper in Bethesday and M & S; it was crowded, but we found two nice bar seats. Our waiter seemed harrassed and was very new to the job. He must have thought that a dry martini has extra vermouth, because he had to make one three times and it still was not acceptable. And, my wife and I each ordered the same dish (cod, quite good), but only hers came. He kept telling me mine was on its way (she was done by then), but it turned out he had never placed the order. Everyone was duly apologetic. But we probably won't be back soon.
The film "Dybbuk", in Yiddish with English subtitles, restored about fifteen years ago is, I think, a surprisingly good movie. It runs well over two hours (as opposed to the 90 minute adaptation at the Theater, and tells a very good story, not too stylized, not at all contemporary. With musical interludes that vanish as the intensity of the story grows. It was particularly interesting for those of us who saw the Theater J presentation, showing the differences between the movie version and the most recent adaptation; now I need to read the original dramatic script, to see how the movie changed Anski's play. Anski had been dead over 15 years when the movie was made.
2. Munich. Spielberg's "Munich" did not win any academy awards, and that was probably for the better. The movie was well put together, very well acted, and very easy to follow. (At least, easy to follow as opposed to the other middle eastern hit of 2005, "Syriana", which could have won an award for most convoluted and hard to recall plot; yet both "Munich" and "Syriana" were telling complicated stories about an increasingly complicated part of the world.)
But I don't think there was anything profound about the message of "Munich", and certainly nothing socially redeeming about it. Perhaps its best feature is its cinematography; the shots on location in Israel, New York, and various European cities are worthy of National Geographic or Burton Holmes. Perhaps its most disconcerting was the portrayal of Golda Meier, by a rather thin woman, who looked much more like Olive Oyl.
3. Purity. "Purity" is an hour long Israeli documentary on ritual purity, and use of the mikveh. We had seen it at the Jewish Film Festival here a few years ago. It has been telecast on the Sundance Channel. It is absolutely worth seeing, even if you have no interest in the subject, even if only to show you why you have no interest in the subject.
4. McCormick and Schmick. The one thing you can say about McCormick and Schmick is that it is consistent. Wrong. We had supper in Bethesday and M & S; it was crowded, but we found two nice bar seats. Our waiter seemed harrassed and was very new to the job. He must have thought that a dry martini has extra vermouth, because he had to make one three times and it still was not acceptable. And, my wife and I each ordered the same dish (cod, quite good), but only hers came. He kept telling me mine was on its way (she was done by then), but it turned out he had never placed the order. Everyone was duly apologetic. But we probably won't be back soon.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Two Items of Note
1. The new James Bond cannot drive a stick shift car, and gets sick on speed boats.
2. "The Washington Diplomat", a free monthly, has the ambassador from Israel and the Palestinean representative to Washington on the cover under the headline "Middle East Peace Illusive". Sounds like a must-read article. Wonder how they figured that out?
2. "The Washington Diplomat", a free monthly, has the ambassador from Israel and the Palestinean representative to Washington on the cover under the headline "Middle East Peace Illusive". Sounds like a must-read article. Wonder how they figured that out?
A Death in the (Almost) Family
We had some terrible news last week. My uncle Sam's niece Marcia died on Wednesday. Marcia was not officially related to me (my uncle being the husband of my mother's sister), but we treated each other as if we were. Marcia was a retired professor of mechanical engineering at the University of Tennessee and, over the years, a fairly regular visitor to Washington, and often a house guest. She was in her early 60s, not married, and had no children. She continued to live in Knoxville after she left teaching.
Marcia's two brothers live in Indianapolis and she had told my wife via email last week that she was going there for a short vacation. She had driven her sister to Kokomo for the day, and was on her way to Lafayette for a short visit to her alma mater Purdue, when her car veered off the highway into a wall. It is thought that she may have had a heart attack or stroke, and been unconcious at the time, although we will never know for sure. There was no sign that she was swerving to avoid something, or that she tried to pull her car back on course.
Her funeral is in Chicago on Monday, where her parents are buried. Her Indianapolis family and Chicago family will be there; her St. Louis family will not be able to make it. At the time of her death, one of her brothers was in Japan on business and had to take the double red-eye back, while her nephew, who is in the Secret Service, had to take an emergency flight back from New Delhi, where he was with the president's travel party.
She leaves behind a lot of memories, as well as a DeLorean, which she won several years ago at a UT raffle. This is not the way it was supposed to end. She will be missed.
Marcia's two brothers live in Indianapolis and she had told my wife via email last week that she was going there for a short vacation. She had driven her sister to Kokomo for the day, and was on her way to Lafayette for a short visit to her alma mater Purdue, when her car veered off the highway into a wall. It is thought that she may have had a heart attack or stroke, and been unconcious at the time, although we will never know for sure. There was no sign that she was swerving to avoid something, or that she tried to pull her car back on course.
Her funeral is in Chicago on Monday, where her parents are buried. Her Indianapolis family and Chicago family will be there; her St. Louis family will not be able to make it. At the time of her death, one of her brothers was in Japan on business and had to take the double red-eye back, while her nephew, who is in the Secret Service, had to take an emergency flight back from New Delhi, where he was with the president's travel party.
She leaves behind a lot of memories, as well as a DeLorean, which she won several years ago at a UT raffle. This is not the way it was supposed to end. She will be missed.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Psst. Wanna See Some Pictures? (1 cent)
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.
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.
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.
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