June 2008 Archives
Just got my mail, and what do you know? There's a big envelope from Leonardo DiCaprio. Do you think he wants money? I mean, from me? That's a good one. Let's see...
OK, he's not directly asking me for money himself, but the appeal does come two or three pages in. They're worried about polar bears. I'm mildly concerned about the polar bears myself, but I have my own problems, Leonardo, and if they polar bears knew about them they'd probably be sending money to me. Will you help today? Send what you can to the Save the Freeman Foundation, General Delivery, Kennett Square, PA, 19348, USA. With your help, we can make a difference before it's too late.
OK, he's not directly asking me for money himself, but the appeal does come two or three pages in. They're worried about polar bears. I'm mildly concerned about the polar bears myself, but I have my own problems, Leonardo, and if they polar bears knew about them they'd probably be sending money to me. Will you help today? Send what you can to the Save the Freeman Foundation, General Delivery, Kennett Square, PA, 19348, USA. With your help, we can make a difference before it's too late.
Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof, and insufficient is the money, but I kept being struck by worthwhile stuff in the course of the day. The cat jumped up on my office desk and sat contentedly at the window, gazing at things outside that were of interest to a cat. Considering the trouble and expense we've gone to to keep the little fellow healthy, that's something of a triumph. And it's nice to live in a place where a cat feels content. Part of the way a cat gets through life is by judging whether there's trouble brewing, and when a cat feels content, things generally are calm. The alley he was looking out on was relatively free of things like rioting mobs, for example, and not everyone in the world can say that. Just birds, squirrels, normal peaceful stuff. So that's a couple of blessings to count right there. Then I went out for lunch and was struck by the intense scarlet of the flowers outside the town's Roman Catholic church. It was a red that just burned, even on a shady street. And then there was the taco I bought: rapturously delicious, for less than two bucks. Which helps when you're trying to economize, so the flavor and the price are both, again, blessings to count. So its a day like most days; you weigh the evil thereof and the good thereof, and find that both are sufficient and that's good enough for the likes of me.
It's nice to be confirmed in an unpopular opinion by even one person. I'm thinking this because the other day I was walking past a used bookstore and outside, in the cheapie racks, they had a paperback copy of MASH. I don't think everyone knows that before it was a series it was a film, and before it was a film it was a book. (Actually, these days I'm not sure that everyone knows it was a series.) I picked up the book when I was a kid and got a kick out of it, although I knew even then that it had many passages that aspired to be funnier than they were. I also failed to notice the homage it paid to Catch-22, even though I used to reread that all the time too. But MASH had an easygoing charm that I find still appealing, and both ooks were great for a teen back in the day—they had some intriguing (if by today's standards coy) allusions to human reproduction, they both had a good deal of wordplay going on, and they were both irreverent. This was catnip to a bookish teen in the '70s who considered most adults laughable fakes.
The unpopular opinion I always held was that the TV show wasn't very good. I have some Larry Gelbart fans among my dearest friends, but I've got to say that the jokes in the show struck me as corny gags. And the preaching! War Is Bad!* The beauty of the book was that it never strove to tell you war was bad. The author assumed you knew that, I suppose. But the TV show didn't—it kept nagging you about it, like you were stubbornly refusing to understand that war was bad and needed a constant harangue about it, and that if you achieved a tenuous, passing understanding that war was bad you needed constant reminding so that it wouldn't degenerate with disuse, like a golf swing or the ability to sight-read music. Alan Alda's nasal whine was a particular annoyance this way. I know, I know, people loved the show in general and Alan Alda's portrayal in particular. I used to think I was the only person who didn't. But now, reading up on it, I see there was one other person felt that way: the book's author.
No, the Hawkeye Pierce in the book was a smart guy and a good surgeon, and he figured that if he worked well enough he could get away with not suffering fools gladly. He never explicity or implicity said anything to the effect that war was bad, perhaps because he spent his working day repairing the damage caused by shell fragments and other missiles and spent his free time drinking and wisecracking. He was an appealing character, and I wish I'd once gotten around to writing the author and telling him so, but he died in 1997. Man, I hope he got some of that TV money!
*Among the people who've said War Is Bad was one Mohandas K. Gandhi, who famously suggested to the Jews of Europe that they should not resist the Nazi persecution violently, but should rather allow themselves to be martyred. Gandhi is another person who died before I could correspond with him and discuss that view, but in my own humble opinion, martyrdom is like celibacy or a tattoo: It's all very well to choose something like that for yourself, but you should hesitate to suggest it for others. If I were in imminent danger of being martyred, and Mr. G. sent an essay to the newspaper saying that I should go ahead and let myself be martyred, I would write to the paper myself and tell him to STFU.
The unpopular opinion I always held was that the TV show wasn't very good. I have some Larry Gelbart fans among my dearest friends, but I've got to say that the jokes in the show struck me as corny gags. And the preaching! War Is Bad!* The beauty of the book was that it never strove to tell you war was bad. The author assumed you knew that, I suppose. But the TV show didn't—it kept nagging you about it, like you were stubbornly refusing to understand that war was bad and needed a constant harangue about it, and that if you achieved a tenuous, passing understanding that war was bad you needed constant reminding so that it wouldn't degenerate with disuse, like a golf swing or the ability to sight-read music. Alan Alda's nasal whine was a particular annoyance this way. I know, I know, people loved the show in general and Alan Alda's portrayal in particular. I used to think I was the only person who didn't. But now, reading up on it, I see there was one other person felt that way: the book's author.
No, the Hawkeye Pierce in the book was a smart guy and a good surgeon, and he figured that if he worked well enough he could get away with not suffering fools gladly. He never explicity or implicity said anything to the effect that war was bad, perhaps because he spent his working day repairing the damage caused by shell fragments and other missiles and spent his free time drinking and wisecracking. He was an appealing character, and I wish I'd once gotten around to writing the author and telling him so, but he died in 1997. Man, I hope he got some of that TV money!
*Among the people who've said War Is Bad was one Mohandas K. Gandhi, who famously suggested to the Jews of Europe that they should not resist the Nazi persecution violently, but should rather allow themselves to be martyred. Gandhi is another person who died before I could correspond with him and discuss that view, but in my own humble opinion, martyrdom is like celibacy or a tattoo: It's all very well to choose something like that for yourself, but you should hesitate to suggest it for others. If I were in imminent danger of being martyred, and Mr. G. sent an essay to the newspaper saying that I should go ahead and let myself be martyred, I would write to the paper myself and tell him to STFU.
Would all you Russian people please stop trying to sell Celebrex in the comments section of my blog? I'm glad you're embracing capitalism and I wish you much joy of it, but get your own damn blog if you want to sell Celebrex. I'm not accusing each and every Russian of doing this but there are times when it certainly seems like it. Sheesh!
There was an idea abroad when I was a kid to the effect that if you learned about a thing, if you "analyzed" it, we said, you would lose the pleasure of it, much the way that dissecting a frog kills it in the process. We got this mistaken idea by listening to boring teachers, so you might say we came by it honestly, but it was no less mistaken for that.
And yet—well, this morning I was up early, and heard the birds singing at 4 a.m., before I could see any light beginning to glow in the east. They're the first thing I hear in the morning, the first sign that the day is beginning. First a few, then more join in. And of course I laid there wondering how they know. I tell people I'd like to travel with a cadre of experts who would follow at a respectful distance, as if I were the president, but would step forward when summoned (I'd do it in a friendly way, that's just me) and explain things I'd like explained. I usually envision this on hikes, when I'm curious about things. At home, obviously you just google that stuff up. But I was lying there, and I decided that although I'm curious, I did not at that particular moment particularly care to know how the birds know. Leave it an unanswered question, I thought, just for now. In the light of day, I may look it up. But in the dark, it was pleasant to simply muse upon the knowings of birds and let that one thing continue as a mystery.
And yet—well, this morning I was up early, and heard the birds singing at 4 a.m., before I could see any light beginning to glow in the east. They're the first thing I hear in the morning, the first sign that the day is beginning. First a few, then more join in. And of course I laid there wondering how they know. I tell people I'd like to travel with a cadre of experts who would follow at a respectful distance, as if I were the president, but would step forward when summoned (I'd do it in a friendly way, that's just me) and explain things I'd like explained. I usually envision this on hikes, when I'm curious about things. At home, obviously you just google that stuff up. But I was lying there, and I decided that although I'm curious, I did not at that particular moment particularly care to know how the birds know. Leave it an unanswered question, I thought, just for now. In the light of day, I may look it up. But in the dark, it was pleasant to simply muse upon the knowings of birds and let that one thing continue as a mystery.
It's a minor hassle not having TV when news is, or may be, breaking. Like for instance, there's a helicopter hovering over town at this very moment. (I'd have video for you, but I couldn't pull it in well enough with my one video camera. Life is unfair.) What's going on? Bad accident? Hostage drama? Godzilla? No idea. I'll tell you when I know, but since I'm always the last to know things, you'll know already.
Out with friends last night to the annual Fireworks at Hagley, which is well done because Hagley is the site of the original gunpowder mill that became DuPont and I suppose the tradition inspires them to do it right. We did the tailgate thing, lots of food and wine, and I've seen some decent fireworks over the years but these really were impressive. Without further ado...
OK, so, I blush to even bring this up, but the writer's group had a
tiny little writing contest, and I entered a tiny little piece of
fiction and won a tiny little prize tonight. My first. Very tiny. But
it's the first affirmation from strangers I've gotten and I'm actually
a little pleased. I'd like to have the Pulitzer, the Booker, the Prix
Goncourt, the Nobel would be OK too, but shoot, gotta start somewhere.
Plus which I had a celebratory drink with the outgoing president who's
a great buddy and on the way back to my car I found six bucks on the
street. So things went well today. : )
From a job listing:
"You must be able to work with a team and proofreader your own work."
"You must be able to work with a team and proofreader your own work."
Sorry for the light blogging lately; I've been—all together now—busy!
John Donne put it this way:
"The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit; but not the busied man."
I'm not sure; lots of busy people seem to be in relationships. It's a question of motivation, I suppose. But although I'm not all that false, I'm certainly poor and foul and busy and it does play hob with the blogging. John Donne had no way to predict that but it's true.
John Donne put it this way:
"The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit; but not the busied man."
I'm not sure; lots of busy people seem to be in relationships. It's a question of motivation, I suppose. But although I'm not all that false, I'm certainly poor and foul and busy and it does play hob with the blogging. John Donne had no way to predict that but it's true.
People will tell you that work is, or ought to be, a pleasure, and that's sometimes true. Tying trout flies in front of the TV comes to mind. You do it because you want to, not because you have to, and you work slowly, meticulously, producing delicate feathery nothings, a dozen at a time, all alike, destined to float down a gin-clear stream and be eaten by a beautiful fish amid lushly gorgeous surroundings. Yeah, no problem there.
And then there was cutting the lawn yesterday. Temperature and humidity in the high 90s, thunderstorm looming to the west, but it had to be done. It was not a pleasure—I made myself do it in the spirit of duty and necessity with which, I imagine, a frostbitten mountain climber will take a hunting knife and cut off a couple of his own toes. But it looks nice this morning, I must admit.
And then there was cutting the lawn yesterday. Temperature and humidity in the high 90s, thunderstorm looming to the west, but it had to be done. It was not a pleasure—I made myself do it in the spirit of duty and necessity with which, I imagine, a frostbitten mountain climber will take a hunting knife and cut off a couple of his own toes. But it looks nice this morning, I must admit.
Had to smile at the automated checkout machine yesterday. I was feeding it coins, and it spat a dime back out. Fed the dime in again, saw it come out again. Picked it up, and you know, it felt just a tiny bit light. Looked at it. And it wasn't the slick, greasy, brassy shine of the clad composition of cupronickel (that's what Wikipedia told me to say) dimes that have been in use since 1965. This dime had the soft, burnished glow of moonlight on the snow. And of course, if you have much experience with precious metals, that look is pretty much a clue. The machine spat this weird, funky, unusual dime out, in effect said "You can't fool me!" and insisted on a real dime, because the dime I was trying to give it was made in 1961. It was made, in other words, out of silver. Silly machine!
Got up yesterday and took pictures of my little town in the misty morning, because it was going to be a bastardly hot day soon enough and I'd have no interest in being out in it. But I did struggle up the stairs with the window unit, the new one from last year to replace the wheezing, wimpy old one, the new one that has the wonderful timer that saves energy while allowing the cat and you to be comfortable when you need the comfort. Struggled up the stairs, bruising my thighs, hurting my stomach, straining my arms, my hands freezing into claws on the damn thing. Wrestle it into the window, sliding the louvery things around, and finally, panting miserably in a puddle of sweat, I'm done.
Today I turned it on for the first time in the morning. Looked for the timer.
No timer.
Unreality sets in.
And then reality sets in.
I brought up the old air conditioner yesterday.
Sigh.
You've heard the expression "10 feet tall and bulletproof," a folk expression for being invulnerable. Me, I'm about 6, built OK but not a bruiser, and vulnerable to bullets and all kinds of other things besides.
But the other morning, I notice that they've got a guy outside with a power washer, hosing the building down, and
pretty soon he's going to hit the window of my second-floor office. Pow! It's pretty cool, actually.
I remember watching various media incarnations of Superman in the obligatory scene where they're firing automatic weapons at him and the bullets are simply bouncing off his chest as he stands there, grinning merrily. I didn't feel exactly like that when the guy blasted his spray at the window and I just sat there in my chair, gazing calmly at the furious white froth bouncing off the window. Not exactly the feeling of 10 feet tall and bulletproof, but as close as I'm likely to get, I suppose.
5:51 a.m., with a bit of time to get things done, and the question arises: What to do? The answer: Take a second and note how nice it was to wake last night to the sound of rain after a muggy day, and the feel of the cool, moist breeze flowing through the open window.
Next thing: Bills, I think. Bye for now.
Next thing: Bills, I think. Bye for now.
I was contentedly sitting on my back porch when some sawdust fell into my wine glass. I didn't even bother to look up. The carpenter bees are at it again, turning the porch roof into Swiss cheese. I'll take steps, murderous steps, trust me. But it seemed wrong, having sawdust fall into my wine straight from a bee's mouth. It's offputting. I still drank the wine. It was pretty good wine. And it was only a little sawdust. Judgment call, right?
OK, I was in a bit of a gloomy mood for a while but I've gotten over it. Up and at 'em! Do it with thy might, all that good stuff. That really is the answer, when you're blue—just get doing something constructive. Plus, it's June. Isn't June (well, for Americans anyway) one of the months that everyone likes? Reasonable weather, no onerous holidays, kids out of school, the crack of the baseball bat, the sizzle of the hot dog? June rocks.
Speaking of valleys, I was in the valley of the Wissahickon Sunday, hiking along its streamside trails. You're in
the heart of Philadelphia, but you'd hardly know it. The stream itself meanders poetically, and the deep, lushly vegetated valley is decorated with fantastically varied rock formations made out of what's called Wissahickon schist, which I dare you to say ten times fast. And at one point you look up at this immense structure—a bridge with massive supports that rise to beautiful arches, away up in the sky. This thing emerges out of the green like a monument from some unutterably powerful civilization whose existence you were unaware of until that moment. You've seen such things in movies—I was about to say "films," but that would be wrong—where the explorers are going deeper and deeper into the jungle, pursuing some rumored lost city, and then suddenly they see it, and they say heilige scheiss, just look at that. The bridge is like Kong, you might say—more graceful, maybe, and less grabby, but just as impressive.
So that's what I did Sunday. It wasn't expecially hot, because it was only the first day of June, but I got fairly heated up and tired and when I had my first sip of beer afterward, I was reminded of the line from Slaughterhouse-Five, when the underfed prisoner Billy Pilgrim steals a bit of food. "Every cell in Billy's body shook him with ravenous gratitude and applause," it goes. When I'm hot and tired and I tilt that bottle back for the first time, the cells in my own body know just how Billy's felt.
Speaking of valleys, I was in the valley of the Wissahickon Sunday, hiking along its streamside trails. You're in
the heart of Philadelphia, but you'd hardly know it. The stream itself meanders poetically, and the deep, lushly vegetated valley is decorated with fantastically varied rock formations made out of what's called Wissahickon schist, which I dare you to say ten times fast. And at one point you look up at this immense structure—a bridge with massive supports that rise to beautiful arches, away up in the sky. This thing emerges out of the green like a monument from some unutterably powerful civilization whose existence you were unaware of until that moment. You've seen such things in movies—I was about to say "films," but that would be wrong—where the explorers are going deeper and deeper into the jungle, pursuing some rumored lost city, and then suddenly they see it, and they say heilige scheiss, just look at that. The bridge is like Kong, you might say—more graceful, maybe, and less grabby, but just as impressive.So that's what I did Sunday. It wasn't expecially hot, because it was only the first day of June, but I got fairly heated up and tired and when I had my first sip of beer afterward, I was reminded of the line from Slaughterhouse-Five, when the underfed prisoner Billy Pilgrim steals a bit of food. "Every cell in Billy's body shook him with ravenous gratitude and applause," it goes. When I'm hot and tired and I tilt that bottle back for the first time, the cells in my own body know just how Billy's felt.
