Okay, one more thing about the immigration issue.
Rep. Dana Rohrabacher, whose district is just south of me in Orange County, said this the other day, as reported by Bill Kristol of all people: he "decried the Senate's guest worker proposal as 'the foul odor that's coming out of the United States Senate.' After all, he explained, if illegal aliens who do many farm jobs were deported, 'the millions of young men who are prisoners around our country can pick the fruits and vegetables. I say, let the prisoners pick the fruits.'"
Yep, now there's a plan. And if we make being in the country without documentation a felony, as the House's bill proposes, why then we can catch those immigrants, toss them in prison, and then we get the benefit of their labor anyway! It's perfect!
Rep. Rohrabacher was on Real Time With Bill Maher tonight, bloviating that immigrants depress the wages of poor Americans by working for below the minimum wage. He might have a point if he wasn't simultaneously extolling this idiotic "let the prisoners pick the fruits" idea, which would simply replace the below-minimum-wage immigrants with below-minimum-wage prisoners (who I believe get something like twenty cents per hour). So, then, it's not really about protecting poor Americans, and if it's not that, then what do you think he's really concerned about?
Also on Bill Maher's show tonight: Univision anchor Jorge Ramos, who noted that demographically, in X number of years (sorry, a transcript isn't available yet) Hispanics will be the majority population in the United States. You don't suppose that may be what gives Rep. Rohrabacher the heebie-jeebies, do ya?
Friday, March 31, 2006
La Migra, Part Two
What a huge subject this has turned out to be--I was so struck by the demonstrations last weekend that I felt compelled to blog about immigration, then quickly realized how little I know about it, and now I'm overwhelmed by the extent and the complexity of the problem. I'm half-tempted to just collect a bunch of quotes from different sources and let them speak for themselves, but since when have I ever allowed something to just speak for itself?
The first thing I did was to speak to a Latina friend of mine, a lawyer who is Cuban-born and married to a Mexican. She was the one who first told me about the bracero program, which in a nutshell was a twenty-year attempt to codify and regulate immigration practices. Mexican citizens were, or so I'm told, invited to do agricultural work in the U.S. for six-month stretches, then they would return to Mexico and, at some point, would be allowed back in for another six months. As my Latina friend put it, this was on the whole a pretty good program: Mexican workers were paid better than they would be at home, we got the benefit of cheap labor and could track who was coming and going, and the workers didn't get trapped in an alien country living in impoverished conditions. Not a perfect situation, but there was benefit on both sides.
The key assertion my Latina friend makes (I was tempted to use an acronym for "my Latina friend," but MLF already stands for something else and I just ain't goin' there) is that for the most part, Mexican workers don't actually want to live in the United States, they want to stay in Mexico. Where they grew up, where their extended families are, and so forth. The bracero program, she said, was therefore welcome: workers came by themselves for that six-month span rather than dragging their whole families with them over the border because they never knew when they might be able to get home again, if ever. This is something I haven't seen covered anywhere else: every commentary, article or editorial I've read seems to assume that all those workers would, as a matter of course, wish to remain in the United States. If my Latina friend is correct, that may be an overstatement.
Now, she admitted that there were abuses of bracero, "but then there will always be abuses of any program." Which is, of course, true. But the advantages are great, she said: since you are documenting who is coming and going, then obviously it becomes easier (though still not easy) to filter out the potential terrorists; plus, if you don't have that constant stream of people sneaking over the border, then any terrorists trying to sneak over the border stand out and are more easily caught. Good and good.
It all seems fairly reasonable (though it would be even better if there were some wage guarantees, and means of enforcing that employers treat their workers as they should). So it was quite a surprise to realize that President Bush's guest worker program sounds quite a lot like the old bracero program, because the idea of George Bush proposing anything sensible is, you know, absurd. And yet there it was, indisputably. It became one of those moments when I happily realized that I'm not one of those blinkered partisans: with perfect ease, I found myself in agreement with the President and accepted it. Okay-doke, easy as that.
Where I disagree is on this whole "amnesty" question. (For one thing, as the New York Times points out, it isn't amnesty.) Because when it comes right down to it, I firmly believe that if someone is contributing to the economic growth of the nation, that person ought to have the right to apply for citizenship if he wishes--to participate in the advantages of that growth. As my Latina friend suggests, maybe a lot of the workers really don't want to stay here, they just want to make good money and go home--but for those who want to stay, they should be entitled to ask. The process should be as hard as it is for anyone, I'm not suggesting that special privileges be accorded; but it just seems unassailably fair, inarguably American, that someone whose labor makes our lives better should be afforded the chance to make their own life better as well.
And now I'm out of time, and can't even comment on people like The National Review's Mark Krikorian, who says "What we’re seeing in the streets is a naked assertion of power by outsiders against the American nation. They demand that we comply with their wishes and submit our immigration policies for their approval, and implicitly threaten violence if their demands are not met." That's the sort of thing that just makes me mad, but as I said, I'm out of time. Maybe later.
The first thing I did was to speak to a Latina friend of mine, a lawyer who is Cuban-born and married to a Mexican. She was the one who first told me about the bracero program, which in a nutshell was a twenty-year attempt to codify and regulate immigration practices. Mexican citizens were, or so I'm told, invited to do agricultural work in the U.S. for six-month stretches, then they would return to Mexico and, at some point, would be allowed back in for another six months. As my Latina friend put it, this was on the whole a pretty good program: Mexican workers were paid better than they would be at home, we got the benefit of cheap labor and could track who was coming and going, and the workers didn't get trapped in an alien country living in impoverished conditions. Not a perfect situation, but there was benefit on both sides.
The key assertion my Latina friend makes (I was tempted to use an acronym for "my Latina friend," but MLF already stands for something else and I just ain't goin' there) is that for the most part, Mexican workers don't actually want to live in the United States, they want to stay in Mexico. Where they grew up, where their extended families are, and so forth. The bracero program, she said, was therefore welcome: workers came by themselves for that six-month span rather than dragging their whole families with them over the border because they never knew when they might be able to get home again, if ever. This is something I haven't seen covered anywhere else: every commentary, article or editorial I've read seems to assume that all those workers would, as a matter of course, wish to remain in the United States. If my Latina friend is correct, that may be an overstatement.
Now, she admitted that there were abuses of bracero, "but then there will always be abuses of any program." Which is, of course, true. But the advantages are great, she said: since you are documenting who is coming and going, then obviously it becomes easier (though still not easy) to filter out the potential terrorists; plus, if you don't have that constant stream of people sneaking over the border, then any terrorists trying to sneak over the border stand out and are more easily caught. Good and good.
It all seems fairly reasonable (though it would be even better if there were some wage guarantees, and means of enforcing that employers treat their workers as they should). So it was quite a surprise to realize that President Bush's guest worker program sounds quite a lot like the old bracero program, because the idea of George Bush proposing anything sensible is, you know, absurd. And yet there it was, indisputably. It became one of those moments when I happily realized that I'm not one of those blinkered partisans: with perfect ease, I found myself in agreement with the President and accepted it. Okay-doke, easy as that.
Where I disagree is on this whole "amnesty" question. (For one thing, as the New York Times points out, it isn't amnesty.) Because when it comes right down to it, I firmly believe that if someone is contributing to the economic growth of the nation, that person ought to have the right to apply for citizenship if he wishes--to participate in the advantages of that growth. As my Latina friend suggests, maybe a lot of the workers really don't want to stay here, they just want to make good money and go home--but for those who want to stay, they should be entitled to ask. The process should be as hard as it is for anyone, I'm not suggesting that special privileges be accorded; but it just seems unassailably fair, inarguably American, that someone whose labor makes our lives better should be afforded the chance to make their own life better as well.
And now I'm out of time, and can't even comment on people like The National Review's Mark Krikorian, who says "What we’re seeing in the streets is a naked assertion of power by outsiders against the American nation. They demand that we comply with their wishes and submit our immigration policies for their approval, and implicitly threaten violence if their demands are not met." That's the sort of thing that just makes me mad, but as I said, I'm out of time. Maybe later.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
La Migra, Part One
So half a million people took to the streets of Los Angeles over the weekend to protest Congressional efforts to further restrict and criminalize illegal immigration; both Friday and Monday, students from L.A.-area schools walked out of classes and marched as well, including groups that went to City Hall to talk with Mayor Villaraigosa. In a democracy, numbers that big are hard to ignore, and the Senate panel contemplating these matters took serious notice. Good for them.
As a child of the Sixties, I have a visceral reaction to the sight of such completely peaceful mass protests: unalloyed delight. This right here, this is democracy in action. It is The People, making damn sure their voice is heard past all the baffles and blinders of official Washington. The marches instantly put me on the side of the protesters, and it took a couple days for me to be able to sit back and look at the whole issue from a more dispassionate perspective.
First off: there is, alas, no denying that there already exists in the United States a large and economically crucial underclass of cheap labor. Historically, this is nothing new: first we had slaves, then we had sharecroppers who were basically the same slaves with a different name and some "rights" they were rarely allowed to exercise, and now we have illegal immigrants performing that work. If you want to buy cheap oranges at the grocery store, you absolutely depend on the labor of these migrant workers--the purchase of a carton of orange juice is, in effect, your sanction and subsidy of what was once called slave labor. (In fact, according to a recent Pew Hispanic Center report, the majority of unauthorized workers are employed in construction--that summer house you're building, for example.) Can we, in our greatness, stop exploting these people? Sure, but there will be consequences: the prices of a whole lot of things will rise sharply; a number of American businesses will fail; and the economy of Mexico would take a drastic hit and could well collapse entirely. (Because the Mexican immigrants send money back home, which goes a long way toward invigorating their home country's national economy.)
I have written before about my Russian friend Tanya Kolosova; after I brought her to the U.S., she applied for and was granted a student visa, and did some maid work to help bring in cash. She told me once that sending back $50 U.S. to her family in Russia every month amounted to far more than she could possibly earn living there at home, and the same is true for Mexican workers. The dollar is a potent thing in a lot of places, and that money heading home makes a crucial difference in the lives of an awful lot of Mexican families.
The Drum Major Institute for Public Policy, created by former civil rights associates of Dr. King including Andrew Young, has put out a remarkable policy paper that summarizes the various issues far more effectively than I ever could. It is worth noting the very first bullet point of their executive summary:
The essential argument for stricter immigration policies has always been that "these people" (there's a hint right there) are creating a drain on local governmental resources by, for example, demanding health care they can't pay for. But the DMI's research clearly demonstrates that the opposite is true, that their contributions to the tax base more than outweigh any strain on resources. Bear in mind that anything these workers purchase here in the U.S. comes with a sales tax, which they pay; and that those who have fake Social Security numbers are in fact paying income taxes into the system.
Are these workers illegal? Yes they are. I'm not trying to deny that at all. But nonetheless, we rely on them and they rely on us--there is benefit on both sides. So isn't it better to seek to legitimize their efforts? Instead, Congressional efforts through last week all seemed to be about criminalizing and demonizing. I roundly applaud Cardinal Mahoney for taking a very strong position against the idea of making a criminal out of anyone who gives aid to illegal immigrants, including churches: that idea was about as unAmerican as anything I've ever heard, downright disgraceful, and bravo to Cardinal Mahoney for flat-out promising to ignore any such law if enacted.
It was this sort of absurd overreaching that prompted the weekend's demonstrations and, happily, the Congress seems to have hastily backed off. So for now, there seems to be real improvement--but Senator Frist could still upset the apple cart by ignoring the committee's recommendations and substituting for the Senate's consideration a more punitive bill of his own. And if such a thing should actually pass, well I can't imagine that the resulting demonstrations would remain peaceful for long.
Next time: the bracero program; plus, in a sign of the Apocalypse, I find myself agreeing with President Bush. Yikes!
As a child of the Sixties, I have a visceral reaction to the sight of such completely peaceful mass protests: unalloyed delight. This right here, this is democracy in action. It is The People, making damn sure their voice is heard past all the baffles and blinders of official Washington. The marches instantly put me on the side of the protesters, and it took a couple days for me to be able to sit back and look at the whole issue from a more dispassionate perspective.
First off: there is, alas, no denying that there already exists in the United States a large and economically crucial underclass of cheap labor. Historically, this is nothing new: first we had slaves, then we had sharecroppers who were basically the same slaves with a different name and some "rights" they were rarely allowed to exercise, and now we have illegal immigrants performing that work. If you want to buy cheap oranges at the grocery store, you absolutely depend on the labor of these migrant workers--the purchase of a carton of orange juice is, in effect, your sanction and subsidy of what was once called slave labor. (In fact, according to a recent Pew Hispanic Center report, the majority of unauthorized workers are employed in construction--that summer house you're building, for example.) Can we, in our greatness, stop exploting these people? Sure, but there will be consequences: the prices of a whole lot of things will rise sharply; a number of American businesses will fail; and the economy of Mexico would take a drastic hit and could well collapse entirely. (Because the Mexican immigrants send money back home, which goes a long way toward invigorating their home country's national economy.)
I have written before about my Russian friend Tanya Kolosova; after I brought her to the U.S., she applied for and was granted a student visa, and did some maid work to help bring in cash. She told me once that sending back $50 U.S. to her family in Russia every month amounted to far more than she could possibly earn living there at home, and the same is true for Mexican workers. The dollar is a potent thing in a lot of places, and that money heading home makes a crucial difference in the lives of an awful lot of Mexican families.
The Drum Major Institute for Public Policy, created by former civil rights associates of Dr. King including Andrew Young, has put out a remarkable policy paper that summarizes the various issues far more effectively than I ever could. It is worth noting the very first bullet point of their executive summary:
On average, immigrants pay more in taxes each year than they use in government services, and these taxes fund programs like Social Security that strengthen and expand the middle class.
The essential argument for stricter immigration policies has always been that "these people" (there's a hint right there) are creating a drain on local governmental resources by, for example, demanding health care they can't pay for. But the DMI's research clearly demonstrates that the opposite is true, that their contributions to the tax base more than outweigh any strain on resources. Bear in mind that anything these workers purchase here in the U.S. comes with a sales tax, which they pay; and that those who have fake Social Security numbers are in fact paying income taxes into the system.
Are these workers illegal? Yes they are. I'm not trying to deny that at all. But nonetheless, we rely on them and they rely on us--there is benefit on both sides. So isn't it better to seek to legitimize their efforts? Instead, Congressional efforts through last week all seemed to be about criminalizing and demonizing. I roundly applaud Cardinal Mahoney for taking a very strong position against the idea of making a criminal out of anyone who gives aid to illegal immigrants, including churches: that idea was about as unAmerican as anything I've ever heard, downright disgraceful, and bravo to Cardinal Mahoney for flat-out promising to ignore any such law if enacted.
It was this sort of absurd overreaching that prompted the weekend's demonstrations and, happily, the Congress seems to have hastily backed off. So for now, there seems to be real improvement--but Senator Frist could still upset the apple cart by ignoring the committee's recommendations and substituting for the Senate's consideration a more punitive bill of his own. And if such a thing should actually pass, well I can't imagine that the resulting demonstrations would remain peaceful for long.
Next time: the bracero program; plus, in a sign of the Apocalypse, I find myself agreeing with President Bush. Yikes!
Friday, March 24, 2006
Coppers and Choppers
I was just winding down, thinking about going to bed after a pretty busy week. Sat down to watch an episode of My Name is Earl that I TiVod last night, but it was hard to hear the show on account of the helicopters whirring endlessly overhead. Eventually I put on some shoes and wandered outside to find out why in the world there was so much noise going on this late at night.
I found an LAPD motorcycle cop standing in the middle of the street, his bike blocking the road. Down at the intersection there was a cluster of people and more cops; and two police helicopters were circling, their spotlights stabbing the streets. The motorcycle cop told me that someone had been held up with a gun just down the road, and that they were looking for the bad dude with the gun. Officers, helicopters, dogs, everything, all out in force, and not about to relent until they found the guy. I thanked the officer, watched for another minute, and wandered back inside, behind my nice locked door.
Now, I take walks through this neighborhood all the time. And late-night walks are my favorite; almost never earlier than 9:30, and just Wednesday I walked home at one in the morning. I've never had a moment's trouble in all that walking around, and I guess now I know why. Apparently the LAPD believes in shock-and-awe policing: it's a fair bet that if they don't find the assailant tonight, that guy will think long and hard before coming back here again.
Kind of amazing, actually. I've never seen a police response this intense before; the liberal in me wonders whether parts of town that don't have quite as solid a tax base would get this sort of police turnout for a single robbery; and the part of me that wants to continue taking my nice safe walks at night is damned happy to have those choppers in the air.
I turned on the local news but there was nothing; I guess it's no big deal, citywide, just a neighborhood thing. Hope no one got hurt in the robbery, but I probably won't know anything more till I check the paper tomorrow. For now, I guess I just go to sleep and dream of dogs and police and the whirring of rotors in the air.
I found an LAPD motorcycle cop standing in the middle of the street, his bike blocking the road. Down at the intersection there was a cluster of people and more cops; and two police helicopters were circling, their spotlights stabbing the streets. The motorcycle cop told me that someone had been held up with a gun just down the road, and that they were looking for the bad dude with the gun. Officers, helicopters, dogs, everything, all out in force, and not about to relent until they found the guy. I thanked the officer, watched for another minute, and wandered back inside, behind my nice locked door.
Now, I take walks through this neighborhood all the time. And late-night walks are my favorite; almost never earlier than 9:30, and just Wednesday I walked home at one in the morning. I've never had a moment's trouble in all that walking around, and I guess now I know why. Apparently the LAPD believes in shock-and-awe policing: it's a fair bet that if they don't find the assailant tonight, that guy will think long and hard before coming back here again.
Kind of amazing, actually. I've never seen a police response this intense before; the liberal in me wonders whether parts of town that don't have quite as solid a tax base would get this sort of police turnout for a single robbery; and the part of me that wants to continue taking my nice safe walks at night is damned happy to have those choppers in the air.
I turned on the local news but there was nothing; I guess it's no big deal, citywide, just a neighborhood thing. Hope no one got hurt in the robbery, but I probably won't know anything more till I check the paper tomorrow. For now, I guess I just go to sleep and dream of dogs and police and the whirring of rotors in the air.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Molar! The Musical
Saturday night I'm lying there in bed, happily tired after my Cleesian excursion, and I thought that I felt something as my face pressed into the pillow. Digging a finger inside my cheek, running it along the gum, suddenly I really did feel something: a lump, right below the tooth that got worked on two weeks ago, and when I pressed on said lump it made me go "Yikes!" There was a metallic taste in my mouth, and I had noticed that the tooth seemed a little extra-sensitive to temperature. Plus, all along I had been feeling a stab of pressure any time I bit down on that tooth. I got out of bed, went to the computer, navigated to WebMD and looked at the list of symptoms for an abscess.
Then cursed and growled and went back to bed, but did not sleep.
As I turned it and turned it in my head, one thought gave me mild comfort: the location of that painful lump on the gum. When I got the fillings done, as you'll recall, I told Doc Gordon to "numb me the hell up," and he did. And after the novocaine wore off, the only spot that still hurt was where he had injected me with the needle that last time. For several days, that particular spot remained sore; and now there was a lump there. So maybe the needle had done something? Maybe some of the bacteria that live in the mouth had seen this lovely little tunnel and gone spelunking, causing an infection?
I went to see Dr. Gordon today, and here's the value of telling a doctor every symptom, no matter how weird: after describing everything else, I then said "And I could swear the tooth is up higher than it used to be." That turned out to be important.
He took a look, and as I tried to point out where the lump was, I realized it wasn't there anymore. There was a bit of mild tenderness, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly where. He poked me with a sharp instrument and it was no big deal; he took an x-ray and could no see abscess of any kind.
Our best guess? That two things were happening at once: (1) yes, something happened with the needle, but my immune system was already dealing with the infection, well enough that he didn't even see a need to prescribe antibiotics; and (2) my impression that the tooth was higher than it used to be indicated that in fact it was, so that every time I bit down it was getting compressed and, therefore, hurting. So he took his little drill, smoothed out the high spot, and the difference was much more dramatic than I would ever have expected. Go in peace, the doc said, and I did.
There's another lesson in all of this, though--eventually I will need a root canal. It's just one of those things that happen. Pain, it happens. And as you get older, it happens more. Muscle pain lingers longer (I got my first professional massage last week, and felt great for about a day, then it was back to normal). Your shoulder starts to hurt when you move it, and never stops. One day a simple fall will break something that had always been solid before. A hip will need replacing. A cold won't go away like it used to. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This stuff just happens. So at a certain point you have to just learn how to live with pain, to accept that it happens, and the longer you resist the harder it becomes to resist.
But enough with the life lessons. Let's just mention that I saw V For Vendetta last night and liked it a lot, and that now I'm going to get back to Beaudry and do some touch-up work before doing a reading/critique session with Marc and Buffie on Friday.
Then cursed and growled and went back to bed, but did not sleep.
As I turned it and turned it in my head, one thought gave me mild comfort: the location of that painful lump on the gum. When I got the fillings done, as you'll recall, I told Doc Gordon to "numb me the hell up," and he did. And after the novocaine wore off, the only spot that still hurt was where he had injected me with the needle that last time. For several days, that particular spot remained sore; and now there was a lump there. So maybe the needle had done something? Maybe some of the bacteria that live in the mouth had seen this lovely little tunnel and gone spelunking, causing an infection?
I went to see Dr. Gordon today, and here's the value of telling a doctor every symptom, no matter how weird: after describing everything else, I then said "And I could swear the tooth is up higher than it used to be." That turned out to be important.
He took a look, and as I tried to point out where the lump was, I realized it wasn't there anymore. There was a bit of mild tenderness, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly where. He poked me with a sharp instrument and it was no big deal; he took an x-ray and could no see abscess of any kind.
Our best guess? That two things were happening at once: (1) yes, something happened with the needle, but my immune system was already dealing with the infection, well enough that he didn't even see a need to prescribe antibiotics; and (2) my impression that the tooth was higher than it used to be indicated that in fact it was, so that every time I bit down it was getting compressed and, therefore, hurting. So he took his little drill, smoothed out the high spot, and the difference was much more dramatic than I would ever have expected. Go in peace, the doc said, and I did.
There's another lesson in all of this, though--eventually I will need a root canal. It's just one of those things that happen. Pain, it happens. And as you get older, it happens more. Muscle pain lingers longer (I got my first professional massage last week, and felt great for about a day, then it was back to normal). Your shoulder starts to hurt when you move it, and never stops. One day a simple fall will break something that had always been solid before. A hip will need replacing. A cold won't go away like it used to. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This stuff just happens. So at a certain point you have to just learn how to live with pain, to accept that it happens, and the longer you resist the harder it becomes to resist.
But enough with the life lessons. Let's just mention that I saw V For Vendetta last night and liked it a lot, and that now I'm going to get back to Beaudry and do some touch-up work before doing a reading/critique session with Marc and Buffie on Friday.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Not an Ocelot in Sight
It's no secret that the Monty Python crew are among my personal heroes. So when I heard that John Cleese was doing a California tour with a one-man show called Seven Ways to Skin an Ocelot, there was no question: I was going. And I took my compatriot and fellow Python-obsessive, Marc Rosenbush, as a late birthday present. (Marc enjoyed it so much that when our friend Buffie comes to town this week, he may take her down to Cleese's next performance in Long Beach.)
Quite a number of years ago, Cleese delivered a Rectorial Address to the students of St. Andrews, which is apparently a school somewhere on Earth. In it, he said:
Apparently he got over it. Or his private life has become so humiliating that he felt he had no choice but to go out in public and do some compensating. Certainly the dominant figure mentioned in his peroration is his mother, about whom he has nothing whatsoever nice to say--except to thank her for making his life so rotten that he had no choice but to become a comedian. Indeed, almost the entire show consisted of an onstage autobiography, moving more-or-less chronologically from birth in the stupefyingly dull "seaside resort" of Weston-Super-Mare through the Python days, Fawlty Towers, and on into the later career, with deliciously biting mentions of Fierce Creatures and poor Graham Chapman's boondoggle Yellowbeard. Now even I will readily admit that little of this was what you might call brilliant writing--it was wry, it had some bite, it was all consistently amusing, but little of it was out-of-the-park funny. (Two notable exceptions: a section in which he statistically analyzed how many members of the audience would die from various ailments, indicating with a flashlight how many rows would be done in by heart disease or car crashes; and the concluding section on how completely fucking hopeless the world is nowadays. Trust me, it was hysterical.) In short: it would be easy to look upon this show as one of those pieces that actors sometimes do, late in life when they don't have the energy for an all-out play, to pick up some money on the hustings. (Cary Grant died in the middle of one such tour.)
Not that it matters. I've said for years that Cleese is one of the funniest men on the planet, and the fact that he was doing ordinary material only demonstrated how astonishingly good his comedic skills are. Of course, something else might be true: since I've spent so many years watching and rewatching his work, listening to the records, buying and reading the script books, imitating his cadences and his timing, I'm probably primed to respond positively to anything he does. I might, in fact, laugh like crazy at his reading of a phone book. So perhaps I'm not the best person to judge; but if I'm not, then neither was anyone else in the crowd, because everyone seemed to be having a pretty great time.
There was a moment when Cleese did an audience read-along, in which we all read off a screen the words we might say if we were to meet him in person one day (so that, if we ever do actually meet him, we won't have to bother him by saying any of it). Naturally it all turns nasty, so that we ended up collectively saying some quite rude things as he affected shock and dismay. But I realized during the show that he was quite right--having seen this show, if I ever were to meet the man, the sorts of questions I would be inclined to ask were pretty much covered during the show (which included a Q&A session afterward). It's like meeting the man, and getting everything I could want from him, without having met him. Nice for me, and I'm sure delightful for him. Happy happy on both sides.
Next time: That Pesky Molar, Part Two. In which my delightful buzz after the Cleese performance went right down the tubes.
Quite a number of years ago, Cleese delivered a Rectorial Address to the students of St. Andrews, which is apparently a school somewhere on Earth. In it, he said:
I've always had the strongest dislike of public speeches of almost any kind. Why I should have this prejudice against public speaking I don't know. Perhaps, because many years ago I noticed that on pages of advertisement in newspapers, offers of tuition in the art of public speaking always seemed to be sandwiched between cures for stammering and blushing on one hand, and recommended treatments for haemorrhoids and nocturnal enuresis on the other. This association has remained so strongly in my mind that I think I may subconsciously assume that people speak in public only to compensate for the humiliating nature of their private lives.
Apparently he got over it. Or his private life has become so humiliating that he felt he had no choice but to go out in public and do some compensating. Certainly the dominant figure mentioned in his peroration is his mother, about whom he has nothing whatsoever nice to say--except to thank her for making his life so rotten that he had no choice but to become a comedian. Indeed, almost the entire show consisted of an onstage autobiography, moving more-or-less chronologically from birth in the stupefyingly dull "seaside resort" of Weston-Super-Mare through the Python days, Fawlty Towers, and on into the later career, with deliciously biting mentions of Fierce Creatures and poor Graham Chapman's boondoggle Yellowbeard. Now even I will readily admit that little of this was what you might call brilliant writing--it was wry, it had some bite, it was all consistently amusing, but little of it was out-of-the-park funny. (Two notable exceptions: a section in which he statistically analyzed how many members of the audience would die from various ailments, indicating with a flashlight how many rows would be done in by heart disease or car crashes; and the concluding section on how completely fucking hopeless the world is nowadays. Trust me, it was hysterical.) In short: it would be easy to look upon this show as one of those pieces that actors sometimes do, late in life when they don't have the energy for an all-out play, to pick up some money on the hustings. (Cary Grant died in the middle of one such tour.)
Not that it matters. I've said for years that Cleese is one of the funniest men on the planet, and the fact that he was doing ordinary material only demonstrated how astonishingly good his comedic skills are. Of course, something else might be true: since I've spent so many years watching and rewatching his work, listening to the records, buying and reading the script books, imitating his cadences and his timing, I'm probably primed to respond positively to anything he does. I might, in fact, laugh like crazy at his reading of a phone book. So perhaps I'm not the best person to judge; but if I'm not, then neither was anyone else in the crowd, because everyone seemed to be having a pretty great time.
There was a moment when Cleese did an audience read-along, in which we all read off a screen the words we might say if we were to meet him in person one day (so that, if we ever do actually meet him, we won't have to bother him by saying any of it). Naturally it all turns nasty, so that we ended up collectively saying some quite rude things as he affected shock and dismay. But I realized during the show that he was quite right--having seen this show, if I ever were to meet the man, the sorts of questions I would be inclined to ask were pretty much covered during the show (which included a Q&A session afterward). It's like meeting the man, and getting everything I could want from him, without having met him. Nice for me, and I'm sure delightful for him. Happy happy on both sides.
Next time: That Pesky Molar, Part Two. In which my delightful buzz after the Cleese performance went right down the tubes.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Funny Scary Sad Maybe
Funny Scary
This link is to a very funny flash animation, sponsored by the ACLU. It's funny and it's scary; scary because it's true, and funny because it's scary (laughter being, after all, the shock of recognition). It wouldn't take much for this animation to move from satire to documentary.
Sad Maybe
Senator Russell Feingold on Monday introduced a resolution in the Senate, calling for the censure of President Bush over the NSA's illegal wiretapping. This drew the expected response from Republicans; but, sadly, it has also drawn no support whatsoever from Feingold's fellow Democrats. (Or rather, non-support support: a condescending indulgence, as if the other Senators are older and wiser, while Sen. Feingold is too naive to know any better.)
Me, I think it's a pretty good idea. I am already on record as opposing impeachment proceedings against the President, and that opinion hasn't changed; but censure is a good idea, a proportional response if you will, calling out the President on his illegal activities without the wrenching upset of impeachment. It has no practical value but it would have some political impact, and would (ideally) represent a clear statement that presidents must observe the rule of law.
(Of course you know how the argument will run: eventually, after years of court fights, the NSA's warrantless domestic wiretapping will in fact be ruled unconstitutional; but because the President ran the program through the White House counsel's office, he has his cover already in place: his lawyers may have been adjudged wrong, but proving they acted in bad faith is nearly impossible, and since the President acted on advice of counsel he cannot be held officially culpable. That, practically speaking, is why impeachment will never work; it also suggests that, with someone sufficiently pliable as White House counsel--and Harriet Myers is certainly that--a president can essentially break any law he wants and then he claims he did so in good faith, on advice of counsel. This is particularly pernicious, and I see no way of stopping it.)
The censure resolution will probably fail, which is sad; but it has made me sit up and take notice of Senator Feingold, and I find him to be, in the 2008 presidental sweepstakes, a serious Maybe. Republicans immediately suggested that his censure resolution was a stunt to improve his presidential aspirations; if it was, it worked. But his history suggests that all along he has been a maverick following his own conscience, frequently voting against the Democratic majority, making his censure resolution seem completely in keeping with the character of the man. Obviously it's a long, long way till the 2008 elections, and there are other Maybes to consider, Wesley Clark and Joe Biden in particular. (Even Al Gore, if he can be induced to try again.) But Sen. Feingold seems immune to the sort of pandering that has so infected Hillary Clinton of late, and in my book that stands as a huge plus in his column.
This link is to a very funny flash animation, sponsored by the ACLU. It's funny and it's scary; scary because it's true, and funny because it's scary (laughter being, after all, the shock of recognition). It wouldn't take much for this animation to move from satire to documentary.
Sad Maybe
Senator Russell Feingold on Monday introduced a resolution in the Senate, calling for the censure of President Bush over the NSA's illegal wiretapping. This drew the expected response from Republicans; but, sadly, it has also drawn no support whatsoever from Feingold's fellow Democrats. (Or rather, non-support support: a condescending indulgence, as if the other Senators are older and wiser, while Sen. Feingold is too naive to know any better.)
Me, I think it's a pretty good idea. I am already on record as opposing impeachment proceedings against the President, and that opinion hasn't changed; but censure is a good idea, a proportional response if you will, calling out the President on his illegal activities without the wrenching upset of impeachment. It has no practical value but it would have some political impact, and would (ideally) represent a clear statement that presidents must observe the rule of law.
(Of course you know how the argument will run: eventually, after years of court fights, the NSA's warrantless domestic wiretapping will in fact be ruled unconstitutional; but because the President ran the program through the White House counsel's office, he has his cover already in place: his lawyers may have been adjudged wrong, but proving they acted in bad faith is nearly impossible, and since the President acted on advice of counsel he cannot be held officially culpable. That, practically speaking, is why impeachment will never work; it also suggests that, with someone sufficiently pliable as White House counsel--and Harriet Myers is certainly that--a president can essentially break any law he wants and then he claims he did so in good faith, on advice of counsel. This is particularly pernicious, and I see no way of stopping it.)
The censure resolution will probably fail, which is sad; but it has made me sit up and take notice of Senator Feingold, and I find him to be, in the 2008 presidental sweepstakes, a serious Maybe. Republicans immediately suggested that his censure resolution was a stunt to improve his presidential aspirations; if it was, it worked. But his history suggests that all along he has been a maverick following his own conscience, frequently voting against the Democratic majority, making his censure resolution seem completely in keeping with the character of the man. Obviously it's a long, long way till the 2008 elections, and there are other Maybes to consider, Wesley Clark and Joe Biden in particular. (Even Al Gore, if he can be induced to try again.) But Sen. Feingold seems immune to the sort of pandering that has so infected Hillary Clinton of late, and in my book that stands as a huge plus in his column.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Hey, I Know an Oscar Winner!
Way the hell back in third grade, I was in some dopey play in which I had only one line ("I am at the back of the bus!"), standing behind a painted cardboard bus. Rather than print up programs, at the end of the play they decided to simply have the principal take center stage, read off the characters' names, and then whoever played that part would step forward, take a bow, and exit through the audience. In no time at all, the principal got to my character. "Mr. Brown," she said, and nothing happened. I stood there. "Mr. Brown," she said again (having no idea who had played the part), and still I stood there. In my head I was thinking, and this is absolutely true, "I wonder who this idiot is who played Mr. Brown? It can't be me, I played Mr. Brown. (One, two, three.) Oh, shit!" Then, after all that time, I had to step forward and exit through the audience as absolutely everybody thought "Geez, what a maroon!" But sometimes the brain just misses something really incredibly obvious, what can I say?
Marc Rosenbush called me this afternoon and said "Why didn't you tell me Corinne won an Oscar?" and I suddenly felt just as I had in third grade. See, Marc was on a plane Sunday night so he didn't see the Oscar ceremonies, but I did, and when he called later I told him the major winners. But I didn't tell him Corinne was one of the winners because I simply hadn't noticed.
Here's a picture of what I saw but did not register:
That's director Eric Simonson on the left, and producer Corinne Marrinan on the right, clutching her Oscar. They won for Best Documentary Short, for A Note of Triumph: The Golden Age of Norman Corwin (which I have not yet seen). Eric Simonson is a noted stage director, a Tony nominee some years ago, and I met him once, maybe twice back in Chicago. So on the Oscars, when Eric's name was called I immediately said "Wait a second, is that the same Eric Simonson?" Because the name is just common enough that I couldn't be sure. And then when they won, and went up onstage, I was still stuck in trying to figure out if that Eric Simonson was the same Eric Simonson from Chicago. He looked like him, but I still wasn't entirely sure. This process was so absorbing that I completely failed to notice that the person standing next to him, whose name had also been called, was someone who in fact I do know.
It's not that I know Corinne all that well--for a while she dated my friend Marc Vann, who is also a Chicago guy, so I had met Corinne several times through him, plus Marc Rosenbush hired her to stage manage the big Beckett festival that Splinter Group mounted ten years ago. I last saw Corinne when she and Marc Vann held a joint birthday party here in L.A., maybe two years ago. But she is an absolute gem, I always liked her plenty, and since her name is of course far more distinctive than Eric Simonson's, how on earth did I completely fail to notice her even when she was standing up there on international TV?
Because I once played Mr. Brown, that's why.
Congratulations to Corinne. Very richly deserved.
Marc Rosenbush called me this afternoon and said "Why didn't you tell me Corinne won an Oscar?" and I suddenly felt just as I had in third grade. See, Marc was on a plane Sunday night so he didn't see the Oscar ceremonies, but I did, and when he called later I told him the major winners. But I didn't tell him Corinne was one of the winners because I simply hadn't noticed.
Here's a picture of what I saw but did not register:
That's director Eric Simonson on the left, and producer Corinne Marrinan on the right, clutching her Oscar. They won for Best Documentary Short, for A Note of Triumph: The Golden Age of Norman Corwin (which I have not yet seen). Eric Simonson is a noted stage director, a Tony nominee some years ago, and I met him once, maybe twice back in Chicago. So on the Oscars, when Eric's name was called I immediately said "Wait a second, is that the same Eric Simonson?" Because the name is just common enough that I couldn't be sure. And then when they won, and went up onstage, I was still stuck in trying to figure out if that Eric Simonson was the same Eric Simonson from Chicago. He looked like him, but I still wasn't entirely sure. This process was so absorbing that I completely failed to notice that the person standing next to him, whose name had also been called, was someone who in fact I do know.
It's not that I know Corinne all that well--for a while she dated my friend Marc Vann, who is also a Chicago guy, so I had met Corinne several times through him, plus Marc Rosenbush hired her to stage manage the big Beckett festival that Splinter Group mounted ten years ago. I last saw Corinne when she and Marc Vann held a joint birthday party here in L.A., maybe two years ago. But she is an absolute gem, I always liked her plenty, and since her name is of course far more distinctive than Eric Simonson's, how on earth did I completely fail to notice her even when she was standing up there on international TV?
Because I once played Mr. Brown, that's why.
Congratulations to Corinne. Very richly deserved.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Finished It's Finished
The script for Beaudry is done. Or rather, the script for Beaudry 7.0 is done. And believe me, there will be a Beaudry 7.1, and probably a 7.2, etc., before I can start sending it out to agents. Because, as George Lucas wisely noted, "Films aren't released, they escape," and the same is true of a screenplay--given my druthers, I could tinker with this thing for years to come. But at a certain point it will start screaming at me to send it out into the world, and I will do so.
I already know there are some structural problems. The midpoint of the script is on page 60, but the script in toto is only 104 pages. What that reflects is probably my stage background: your first act will almost always be longer than your second act. Build to a peak, send the audience out to get liquored up, and then drive drive drive toward the conclusion. The Beaudry script perfectly reflects that kind of thinking (except that the audience won't be sent out for intermission): once a certain turning point is reached, everything starts to move very fast indeed.
Which works for me, but the trick comes in remembering that the thing first has to be sold, and there are, beyond question, lots and lots of readers in town whose first response to any new script is to open it to page 12, then page 24 or 25, then to page 55, and so forth. They want to see big events happening on those pages; they want the assurance that the script conforms to the standard structure and is, therefore, professional enough to merit their time. If I fail to meet that test, it is not just possible but likely that no matter whatever the other merits of the script, it will get tossed away.
So there's work still to be done. But considering that this version 7.0 represented probably a 75% rewrite, there came a point when I just needed to let the story find its groove and thrash itself out. I wrote over twenty pages in the last two days--more than 4,000 words. Most of that came very fast--I had earlier sketched out what would happen, from scene to scene, and then it was a matter of just sinking into it and letting it happen. I like what I've got, quite a bit, but I've said that before with prior versions of this script. (Particularly version 6.0, the one that got a 75% rewrite.)
So the trick now is to just let it sit for a few days, then read the whole thing and see if any structural solutions offer themselves. Then I have people read it, particularly some wise friends who have read previous drafts, and hear what they have to say, and make those changes. After that? Maybe get a bunch of actors together for a formal reading, some more changes, and then--then, it will be time to start sending to agents.
Should only be a matter of a couple more months, then, before I can do that. My goal this year, of getting an agent and selling a script, is reasonably on track. A fine day for me, then, to happily and proudly proclaim that it's finished.
Now, on to the next.
I already know there are some structural problems. The midpoint of the script is on page 60, but the script in toto is only 104 pages. What that reflects is probably my stage background: your first act will almost always be longer than your second act. Build to a peak, send the audience out to get liquored up, and then drive drive drive toward the conclusion. The Beaudry script perfectly reflects that kind of thinking (except that the audience won't be sent out for intermission): once a certain turning point is reached, everything starts to move very fast indeed.
Which works for me, but the trick comes in remembering that the thing first has to be sold, and there are, beyond question, lots and lots of readers in town whose first response to any new script is to open it to page 12, then page 24 or 25, then to page 55, and so forth. They want to see big events happening on those pages; they want the assurance that the script conforms to the standard structure and is, therefore, professional enough to merit their time. If I fail to meet that test, it is not just possible but likely that no matter whatever the other merits of the script, it will get tossed away.
So there's work still to be done. But considering that this version 7.0 represented probably a 75% rewrite, there came a point when I just needed to let the story find its groove and thrash itself out. I wrote over twenty pages in the last two days--more than 4,000 words. Most of that came very fast--I had earlier sketched out what would happen, from scene to scene, and then it was a matter of just sinking into it and letting it happen. I like what I've got, quite a bit, but I've said that before with prior versions of this script. (Particularly version 6.0, the one that got a 75% rewrite.)
So the trick now is to just let it sit for a few days, then read the whole thing and see if any structural solutions offer themselves. Then I have people read it, particularly some wise friends who have read previous drafts, and hear what they have to say, and make those changes. After that? Maybe get a bunch of actors together for a formal reading, some more changes, and then--then, it will be time to start sending to agents.
Should only be a matter of a couple more months, then, before I can do that. My goal this year, of getting an agent and selling a script, is reasonably on track. A fine day for me, then, to happily and proudly proclaim that it's finished.
Now, on to the next.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
That Pesky Molar
For months now, I've been having trouble with a tooth, a molar on the right lower jaw. Biting down, I would often feel a sharp stab of pain. For a while, I pretended it wasn't a big deal. But at some point the words "root canal" took up residence in my head, and I went even further into denial. Because I am, to put it mildly, a great big chicken when it comes to dental work. But the stabs of pain kept coming; and then I started having a more or less constant taste of metal in my mouth.
Last August, I had a little filling done, and I worked up my courage and asked the dentist to take a look at that pesky molar. He said that it seemed an old silver filling was degrading, and that a little slot may have opened up through which a new cavity might be forming. I screwed my courage up a little further and asked whether it would need a root canal. "I don't expect so," he said--but then said further that he couldn't be sure till he drilled out the old filling and took a look.
And then, right there, he said that as long as he was doing the one little filling, he could go ahead and take care of the molar as well. I just couldn't do it. One filling (on the other side of the mouth) was bad enough; I simply couldn't handle any more that day. Knowing that it was stupid to let the problem linger, I let the problem linger.
Last night, Monday evening, I went back and dealt with it. All these months I kept trying to hold onto my dentist's assertion that he "didn't expect" my problem to require a root canal, but of course what I really obsessed over was his uncertainty on that score. Besides, having given the problem another six-plus months to get worse, even if it wasn't that bad before, surely it would be now. All through the weekend I kept a running countdown--not of the days and hours till the appointment was to begin, but of that moment when the appointment would be past. I can't think of a time when I have so longed for it to be Tuesday.
And after all that? It wasn't really a big deal. I asked my dentist (the marvelous Randall Gordon, DDS) to "numb the hell out of me." He injected me once with the novocaine and the effect was only so-so. "Really," I said to him. "I don't care if I can't eat till tomorrow." So he did two more injections, and then he went to work.
You know, every once in a while I lament that I was born in the wrong century. I should have been born during the Enlightement, when the world actually cared about learning and accomplishment. When Willoughby makes Kate Winslet's character swoon in Sense and Sensibility because he carries along a little volume of Shakespeare, I lament all over again that I was born in a time when that would just seem kinda gay. But whenever I go to the dentist, I exult in the wonders of the year 2006, and would not wish to be anywhere else. Novocaine, man, that's some of the best stuff on earth!
(Plumbing, too. Modern toilets and hot showers are pretty damn great.)
Dr. Gordon went at that tooth with a vengeance; drilled out the three fillings that had accumulated over the years, and replaced them with some material that is colored the same as my tooth, so it even looks better than it did. (That must be an L.A. thing, because I didn't ask for it, he just did it.) I walked home through the rain feeling completely thrilled--but also more than a little shocked that it really was over.
Turns out I really couldn't eat till the next day--by 10:00 p.m. the numbness had only just begun to subside, enough that I could manage some cottage cheese, and that was my dinner for the night. With the numbness gone there came some pain, because he really had been grinding away at that tooth for a while, but I took an Advil and went to bed and by morning it was mostly all better.
And now it's all done, and I have nothing more to worry about. Which only means this: now I will sit there dreading what the next thing will be. This is how a hypochondriac is born, isn't it?
Last August, I had a little filling done, and I worked up my courage and asked the dentist to take a look at that pesky molar. He said that it seemed an old silver filling was degrading, and that a little slot may have opened up through which a new cavity might be forming. I screwed my courage up a little further and asked whether it would need a root canal. "I don't expect so," he said--but then said further that he couldn't be sure till he drilled out the old filling and took a look.
And then, right there, he said that as long as he was doing the one little filling, he could go ahead and take care of the molar as well. I just couldn't do it. One filling (on the other side of the mouth) was bad enough; I simply couldn't handle any more that day. Knowing that it was stupid to let the problem linger, I let the problem linger.
Last night, Monday evening, I went back and dealt with it. All these months I kept trying to hold onto my dentist's assertion that he "didn't expect" my problem to require a root canal, but of course what I really obsessed over was his uncertainty on that score. Besides, having given the problem another six-plus months to get worse, even if it wasn't that bad before, surely it would be now. All through the weekend I kept a running countdown--not of the days and hours till the appointment was to begin, but of that moment when the appointment would be past. I can't think of a time when I have so longed for it to be Tuesday.
And after all that? It wasn't really a big deal. I asked my dentist (the marvelous Randall Gordon, DDS) to "numb the hell out of me." He injected me once with the novocaine and the effect was only so-so. "Really," I said to him. "I don't care if I can't eat till tomorrow." So he did two more injections, and then he went to work.
You know, every once in a while I lament that I was born in the wrong century. I should have been born during the Enlightement, when the world actually cared about learning and accomplishment. When Willoughby makes Kate Winslet's character swoon in Sense and Sensibility because he carries along a little volume of Shakespeare, I lament all over again that I was born in a time when that would just seem kinda gay. But whenever I go to the dentist, I exult in the wonders of the year 2006, and would not wish to be anywhere else. Novocaine, man, that's some of the best stuff on earth!
(Plumbing, too. Modern toilets and hot showers are pretty damn great.)
Dr. Gordon went at that tooth with a vengeance; drilled out the three fillings that had accumulated over the years, and replaced them with some material that is colored the same as my tooth, so it even looks better than it did. (That must be an L.A. thing, because I didn't ask for it, he just did it.) I walked home through the rain feeling completely thrilled--but also more than a little shocked that it really was over.
Turns out I really couldn't eat till the next day--by 10:00 p.m. the numbness had only just begun to subside, enough that I could manage some cottage cheese, and that was my dinner for the night. With the numbness gone there came some pain, because he really had been grinding away at that tooth for a while, but I took an Advil and went to bed and by morning it was mostly all better.
And now it's all done, and I have nothing more to worry about. Which only means this: now I will sit there dreading what the next thing will be. This is how a hypochondriac is born, isn't it?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Can't Live Without iTunes
I never thought I would listen to music on the computer. It offended the purist in me: compressed files by definition lose part of the music, and after spending money on a decent stereo why on earth would I then throw all that aside to listen to music on cheap computer speakers?
Turns out convenience is everything. And being able to turn on iTunes, set it to Shuffle, and have it play for the next three weeks without repeating a track is so appealing that all other questions became irrelevant. Then I found music blogs that offered free legal downloads, to help keep me current with new music, and I even became a downloader. Another thing I never thought I'd be. Life is long, and full of surprises.
Here, apropos of nothing at all, are the last ten songs, picked by iTunes entirely at random from the 7,598 tracks I own, that have played this morning:
Beatles, "Please Please Me"
Steve Miller Band, "True Fine Love"
The Byrds, "Mr. Spaceman"
Janis Joplin, "Tell Mamma"
Lou Reed, "Wild Child"
Arctic Monkeys, "Knock a Door Run"
Diane Cluck, "Hover Not"
Peter Gabriel, "The Promise of Shadows"
Paul Simon, "Can't Run But"
U2, "Surrender"
And Billie Holiday is playing right now, singing "I Wished on the Moon," a song composed partly by Dorothy Parker, of all people. The thing that fascinates is me is trying to find patterns in the supposedly-random Shuffling of my music, but I suspect that has more to do with how I look for patterns in everything, and not with the algorithms that randomize my music files.
Okay. Things to do, so off I go.
Turns out convenience is everything. And being able to turn on iTunes, set it to Shuffle, and have it play for the next three weeks without repeating a track is so appealing that all other questions became irrelevant. Then I found music blogs that offered free legal downloads, to help keep me current with new music, and I even became a downloader. Another thing I never thought I'd be. Life is long, and full of surprises.
Here, apropos of nothing at all, are the last ten songs, picked by iTunes entirely at random from the 7,598 tracks I own, that have played this morning:
Beatles, "Please Please Me"
Steve Miller Band, "True Fine Love"
The Byrds, "Mr. Spaceman"
Janis Joplin, "Tell Mamma"
Lou Reed, "Wild Child"
Arctic Monkeys, "Knock a Door Run"
Diane Cluck, "Hover Not"
Peter Gabriel, "The Promise of Shadows"
Paul Simon, "Can't Run But"
U2, "Surrender"
And Billie Holiday is playing right now, singing "I Wished on the Moon," a song composed partly by Dorothy Parker, of all people. The thing that fascinates is me is trying to find patterns in the supposedly-random Shuffling of my music, but I suspect that has more to do with how I look for patterns in everything, and not with the algorithms that randomize my music files.
Okay. Things to do, so off I go.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Not About Politics
A friend of mine was looking over the blog recently (there's one!) and said that she liked the pictures, which reminded me that I haven't put up any pictures in a long time. So here, for no other reason than that, is one from Alaska:
And to accompany it, a wee story about those halcyon Alaska days of yore. I took the picture about ten years ago, in Glacier Bay, on a trip with the family; but for me it was a return. When I was only a few months old, my dad needed a good job, and his Navy credentials hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped. But then RCA hired him for a very good job--trouble was, it was way deep in Alaska. Eighty miles southwest of Fairbanks, to be specific, deep in the interior, at the Clear Air Force Base. He was hired to service radar terminals watching for those pesky Soviet missiles that never came, so we piled everything we owned (and by we I mean my parents, because I was, as I said, a little young to be piling things other than poop) into and on top of a VW bug, and took off--for New Jersey. (Training first, for a couple months.) After that, then we drove on to Alaska. I leave it to you to decide whether Alaska or Jersey is the wilder place.
(And by the way: if you remember what the VW bug was shaped like, let me just say that strapping a big wooden toy chest filled with your stuff on top of the car doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore when you're going up a very steep hill, you know what I'm saying?)
We were there for a year and a half, all those miles away from Fairbanks, which is where the nearest grocery store was. So you shopped once a month and bought a lot of powdered milk. There was a river between here and there, and no bridge, only a ferry in the summer or a place to drive across the ice in the winter; so if the ice was either forming or breaking up, you did not get across the river for a while and had better hope you bought enough food the last time you went to the store.
Dad had a job; Mom didn't. And there wasn't much to do where we lived (even when I went back ten years ago, the place was little better than a trailer park outside the AFB). When I knocked the radio off the table, afterward it would only get Russian radio, so Mom learned some Russian because believe me, she had the time for it. Television was mostly soap operas and travel documentaries on places like, say, Miami. I think Mom once said that for a while she found herself teaching Spanish to the natives, so if you're ever up there and you encounter a fiftyish Athabascan who speaks Spanish, now you know why.
Snow drifts so high we could open our second-floor windows and go for a walk; bears that would come up and knock on the front door because they wanted to share your nice warm apartment with you; days of eternal sunshine, and nights that would never end. After about a year and a half, we went back to Miami and that was the end of that. But for Dad, it had done what it was supposed to: once he had RCA on his CV, he was pretty much all set.
And for me, despite the fact that I can't remember a bit of it (that's why the trip back was so important to me), Alaska has always had a romantic appeal that no other place on earth has. For me, at least--I don't think Mom feels quite the same, but then she has real memories and not just the amusing stories that substitute for memory in my head.
And to accompany it, a wee story about those halcyon Alaska days of yore. I took the picture about ten years ago, in Glacier Bay, on a trip with the family; but for me it was a return. When I was only a few months old, my dad needed a good job, and his Navy credentials hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped. But then RCA hired him for a very good job--trouble was, it was way deep in Alaska. Eighty miles southwest of Fairbanks, to be specific, deep in the interior, at the Clear Air Force Base. He was hired to service radar terminals watching for those pesky Soviet missiles that never came, so we piled everything we owned (and by we I mean my parents, because I was, as I said, a little young to be piling things other than poop) into and on top of a VW bug, and took off--for New Jersey. (Training first, for a couple months.) After that, then we drove on to Alaska. I leave it to you to decide whether Alaska or Jersey is the wilder place.
(And by the way: if you remember what the VW bug was shaped like, let me just say that strapping a big wooden toy chest filled with your stuff on top of the car doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore when you're going up a very steep hill, you know what I'm saying?)
We were there for a year and a half, all those miles away from Fairbanks, which is where the nearest grocery store was. So you shopped once a month and bought a lot of powdered milk. There was a river between here and there, and no bridge, only a ferry in the summer or a place to drive across the ice in the winter; so if the ice was either forming or breaking up, you did not get across the river for a while and had better hope you bought enough food the last time you went to the store.
Dad had a job; Mom didn't. And there wasn't much to do where we lived (even when I went back ten years ago, the place was little better than a trailer park outside the AFB). When I knocked the radio off the table, afterward it would only get Russian radio, so Mom learned some Russian because believe me, she had the time for it. Television was mostly soap operas and travel documentaries on places like, say, Miami. I think Mom once said that for a while she found herself teaching Spanish to the natives, so if you're ever up there and you encounter a fiftyish Athabascan who speaks Spanish, now you know why.
Snow drifts so high we could open our second-floor windows and go for a walk; bears that would come up and knock on the front door because they wanted to share your nice warm apartment with you; days of eternal sunshine, and nights that would never end. After about a year and a half, we went back to Miami and that was the end of that. But for Dad, it had done what it was supposed to: once he had RCA on his CV, he was pretty much all set.
And for me, despite the fact that I can't remember a bit of it (that's why the trip back was so important to me), Alaska has always had a romantic appeal that no other place on earth has. For me, at least--I don't think Mom feels quite the same, but then she has real memories and not just the amusing stories that substitute for memory in my head.
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