I must admit I was worried when I first heard. The info came in a phone call from my brother some three plus years ago. My only nephew and his lovely bride were expecting a child...no, make that twins...oops, triplets...wait, there's one more, that's four...YIKES, QUADRUPLETS!!! It was astonishing information to say the least, and also a bit sobering. They had endured more than their share of difficulties in the often unsettled realm of procreation. For all intents and purposes, this was the last gasp prior to adoption. I was numb. I've never been married, and children rarely cross my brain scan as a concern or interest. This was different. It was family and it involved risk. The subsequent events have promoted a variety of positive emotions and created four junior rock stars.
The inspiration for this particular blog came directly from my nephew. Whereas his father and I can charitably be called technologically inept, he pushes all the right buttons. He and his wife made an early decision to start their own blog in order to keep friends and family up to date with quad progress, and also maintain a visual and written record of the pregnancy, birth, and experiences to come. Since the family resides in Sacramento, the blog (Welcome to Quadville: A Beautiful Place to Live) has been the direct line of communication for all interested parties. I never begin or end a week without a quick check of the latest pictures and updates. In essence you see the wee ones grow and develop before your eyes.
Being a teacher, I suppose I should be more enlightened as to child development and growth patterns. But until quad arrival in May, 2006, I had never given the subject a great deal of thought. Babies and young 'uns were all about the same to me. That attitude changed quickly when I first saw the new crew. We have had several face-to-face sessions since their arrival and each visit brings different insights and development. The evolution from babies to little people in such a short time is truly astonishing....kind of an 'If you blink you missed it' deal.
Those of us privileged to be related to or friends with the family may take some of this miracle for granted. I plead guilty on occasion. Yet I continue to be astounded by the absolute devotion, patience, love, and attention lavished on the Fab Four by the parents. Yes, I realize I'm biased -- so what? The thought of marriage always scared me (one huge reason I've never taken that plunge) because I feared the ominous responsibility of possible parenthood. Taking care of myself was enough of a burden. Watching nephew and bride deal with Quadland would inspire Scrooge Squared. In several years the three lasses and a lad will understand what remarkable parents they have acquired.
For the time being I'm going to be an interested observer. This is one spectator sport worth following on a regular basis.
Christmas is just around the corner.
MM
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
VOICES
Hypertension readings elevate. Fingernails suffer. Alcohol consumption rises. PETA panics. All are symptoms of the glorious or dreaded (depending on your point of view) "Big Game" syndrome enveloping the sports world as summer turns to fall. Baseball playoffs, Monday Night Football, and Rivalry Saturdays in the college pigskin schedule offer the respective fans a cornucopia of options for agony and ecstasy. As I began to formulate ideas for this rather tardy post, I kept attempting to find the right avenue. Writer's block dented my brain for several days until I finally elicited a breakthrough. Where would we be in sports (as in radio and television) without the voices describing these events?
I admit some bias here, having worked for a time as a play-by-play announcer (radio only), so my likes and dislikes may be slightly elevated beyond the norm. The never-ending drumbeat of advancing technology often makes former life staples (electric typewriters, cassette tapes etc.) completely obsolete. But there is a survivor, albeit modified. We still listen to radio, primarily because we can't watch videos while driving. That may change in the next 20 years or so, but for now listening equals driving entertainment. Music preferences have always been generational. Early Rolling Stones' fare receive discombobulated cornea rotations from any human under the age of 50. Conversely, I have continuing difficulty staying current with Puff Daddy's (or is it P Diddy's) latest name change. Totally understandable. But the one thing that hasn't changed, and won't in the foreseeable future, is radio play-by-play.
If sports are important in one's daily routine, then radio likely played a part in fostering that interest. I doubt there's a sports fan 60+ years old who didn't grow up with a radio influence. In my case it was a slight, unobtrusive Seattle resident named Leo Lassen who guided me through my formative springs and summers as the radio voice of the Seattle Rainiers'Pacific Coast League team. His voice was so distinctive, so authoritative, so perfect for the medium. He spoke with an odd, but firm nasal tone, hardly the basso profundo seemingly required today. It was his only broadcasting gig -- no other news or talk shows, or even TV when it fully arrived on the scene. But I still remember summer Sundays (the sun did shine in Seattle then). No matter where you went, the ball game echoed through car radios and portables with Lassen's marvelous blend of description and expertise. He was as much a part of the Queen City's social realm as any individual, but few people knew much about him. I eventually discovered that he never traveled with the team (most announcers didn't). Instead he recreated the road games through use of wire service reports and sound effects. Leo's perfect descriptions included gems like "The ice cream-colored sky beyond the left field fence here at Westgate Park (San Diego)." I was astounded when I later read that he had never been to San Diego, but he certainly fooled his listeners. My early desire to do play-by-play links directly to him
Today, one can still listen to baseball via radio in every major league city and most minor league venues as well. The same holds true for most major sports, college and pro. The announcers offer different voices, different levels of expertise, and most are enthused cheerleaders for the home team. But there is still one giant among the normals who spans all generations. His name is Vin Scully, now in his 59th year as the voice of the Los Angeles (formerly Brooklyn) Dodgers. At age 82, one could only expect him to have lost a little something over the years. Not the case. His knowledge, research, clarity, and descriptions still make the best of his contemporaries a distant second. Earlier this year I was watching a free major league preview on Comcast. As luck would have it I turned on the Rockies-Dodgers game just in time to hear Scully on television (He alternates between radio and TV). He called the entire game, had no color man or assistant, and never made a mistake. It was like listening to a sports deity. With the Dodgers now in the post season playoffs, Scully is once again receiving the attention he so richly deserves. There simply is no one like him, previously, presently, or in the foreseeable future.
The sports marketplace has expanded many times over since Leo Lassen (and Vin Scully), but despite High Def, Blu Ray, Rainbow Gold or whatever the latest incantation or invention happens to be, the only credible liaison between the field and fan is still the voice on the radio.
Ice cream skies never fade.
MM
I admit some bias here, having worked for a time as a play-by-play announcer (radio only), so my likes and dislikes may be slightly elevated beyond the norm. The never-ending drumbeat of advancing technology often makes former life staples (electric typewriters, cassette tapes etc.) completely obsolete. But there is a survivor, albeit modified. We still listen to radio, primarily because we can't watch videos while driving. That may change in the next 20 years or so, but for now listening equals driving entertainment. Music preferences have always been generational. Early Rolling Stones' fare receive discombobulated cornea rotations from any human under the age of 50. Conversely, I have continuing difficulty staying current with Puff Daddy's (or is it P Diddy's) latest name change. Totally understandable. But the one thing that hasn't changed, and won't in the foreseeable future, is radio play-by-play.
If sports are important in one's daily routine, then radio likely played a part in fostering that interest. I doubt there's a sports fan 60+ years old who didn't grow up with a radio influence. In my case it was a slight, unobtrusive Seattle resident named Leo Lassen who guided me through my formative springs and summers as the radio voice of the Seattle Rainiers'Pacific Coast League team. His voice was so distinctive, so authoritative, so perfect for the medium. He spoke with an odd, but firm nasal tone, hardly the basso profundo seemingly required today. It was his only broadcasting gig -- no other news or talk shows, or even TV when it fully arrived on the scene. But I still remember summer Sundays (the sun did shine in Seattle then). No matter where you went, the ball game echoed through car radios and portables with Lassen's marvelous blend of description and expertise. He was as much a part of the Queen City's social realm as any individual, but few people knew much about him. I eventually discovered that he never traveled with the team (most announcers didn't). Instead he recreated the road games through use of wire service reports and sound effects. Leo's perfect descriptions included gems like "The ice cream-colored sky beyond the left field fence here at Westgate Park (San Diego)." I was astounded when I later read that he had never been to San Diego, but he certainly fooled his listeners. My early desire to do play-by-play links directly to him
Today, one can still listen to baseball via radio in every major league city and most minor league venues as well. The same holds true for most major sports, college and pro. The announcers offer different voices, different levels of expertise, and most are enthused cheerleaders for the home team. But there is still one giant among the normals who spans all generations. His name is Vin Scully, now in his 59th year as the voice of the Los Angeles (formerly Brooklyn) Dodgers. At age 82, one could only expect him to have lost a little something over the years. Not the case. His knowledge, research, clarity, and descriptions still make the best of his contemporaries a distant second. Earlier this year I was watching a free major league preview on Comcast. As luck would have it I turned on the Rockies-Dodgers game just in time to hear Scully on television (He alternates between radio and TV). He called the entire game, had no color man or assistant, and never made a mistake. It was like listening to a sports deity. With the Dodgers now in the post season playoffs, Scully is once again receiving the attention he so richly deserves. There simply is no one like him, previously, presently, or in the foreseeable future.
The sports marketplace has expanded many times over since Leo Lassen (and Vin Scully), but despite High Def, Blu Ray, Rainbow Gold or whatever the latest incantation or invention happens to be, the only credible liaison between the field and fan is still the voice on the radio.
Ice cream skies never fade.
MM
Monday, September 22, 2008
MAN FOR ALL SEASONS
Unfortunately, the National Enquirer got this one right. I hate to admit it, but I always check the tabloid headlines while waiting in the supermarket checkout line. A couple of weeks ago I saw a blurb on the cover of NE, complete with a hideous picture of Paul Newman, including a caption that he had just weeks to live. I filed it away, not thinking much about it. After all, dire predictions and titillating gossip sell thousands of copies. I remembered that picture this morning when Newman's passing tornadoed its way across the media spectrum. While the entertainment industry often revels in controversial publicity, this particular story prompts only sadness. Paul Newman touched far more people and genres than his acting ability could ever reach. He most definitely qualifies as a man for all seasons.
Movies have always been the great escape. Whatever our disposition, another viewing of a "Casablanca", "Bull Durham", "Sound of Music", or "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" can calm, lighten, or change most dark moods. There remain certain actors and actresses whose talent, demeanor, and script choice always place them in our individual comfort zones. Names like Bogart, Rosalind Russell, James Garner, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jimmy Stewart, and yes, Mr. Newman rise to the top of my appreciation list. But Newman ocupies a separate category. I tried recalling all of his work, but that was futile. From "Somebody Up There Likes Me" through "Road to Perdition", his remarkable career spanned over 50 feature films, nine Academy Award nominations (only one win), and a variety of themes, roles, and performances that any group of five actors could never approach. His versatility bordered on the astounding. He was boxing's Rocky Graziano, a chain gang's Cool Hand Luke Jackson, cocky pool shooter Fast Eddie Felson (twice, over 20 years apart), yellow journalism victim Michael Colin Gallagher, cynical private detective Lew Harper (twice), alcoholic attorney Frank Galvin, con artist supreme Henry Gondorff, witty outlaw Butch Cassidy, immoral ranch hand Hud Bannon, implacable half-breed John Russell, aging gadfly Sully Sullivan, hockey coach Reg Dunlop, and aging Irish gangster John Rooney. Of course that list excludes about 40 other roles worthy of mention. Yet acting brilliance covers only a snippet of his complete life.
Despite consistent placement in the footlights, Newman eluded the glitz and gossip so prevalent throughout his profession. I remember his appearance following his only son Scott's death from a drug overdose. It was brief, poignant, and sincere. But it led to another facet of his life that subsequently emerged, philanthropic activities. Whether it was a drug rehab center, summer camps for sick children (all proceeds from his Newman's Own food products), or bequests to his alma mater, he gave freely of both time and money. The final tally for his generosity numbers in the many millions of dollars.
He had a distinct passion for auto racing as a driver and owner, was happily married to actress Joanne Woodward for some 50 years (three daughters), served with honor during a naval stint in World War II, and was active politically. But enough biography. Paul Newman entertained me.
Although "The Hustler" was released in 1961, I didn't see it until much later. It was during my first year at college. I returned to campus the day after Christmas because of a job commitment. The temperature was 26 degrees below zero when I arrived, with snow knee deep, and icicles on the INSIDE of my dorm windows. I was one of three people in the building (I didn't know the other two). Aside from work, I had nothing to occupy my time except the cold. On my third night back, I walked downtown to catch a movie. "The Hustler" was playing in a double feature at one of the theaters and I decided to see it. I was so stunned by Newman's performance as pool shark Fast Eddie Felson that I watched it four times in two days. His portrayal of the brash, selfish, stick man astonished me. The gritty black and white production introduced me to George C. Scott, Piper Laurie, and the gifted Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats. It wasn't pretty, the ending left one hanging, and Felson was hardly a sympathetic character, yet Paul Newman owned that role, not to mention the movie. It was and is the best film he ever made (only my opinion).
Near the end of his career he made another gem, "Nobody's Fool". No awards, not much publicity, and mediocre reviews. Yet it was pure Newman -- independent and in charge as an aging, stubborn small town handyman. The magic remained. I still watch it from time to time. He was the best.
I stopped at Safeway this morning to pick up some milk, and once again turned toward the tabloid rack as I waited my turn. Not much happening this time -- space aliens will be arriving soon, Laura Bush wants a divorce, and Jen still loves Brad. Just another week in gossip central.
Oh, I almost forgot. I bought a jar of Newman's Own marinara sauce too. If I keep eating pasta, another kid might go to camp.
Thanks, Paul.
MM
Movies have always been the great escape. Whatever our disposition, another viewing of a "Casablanca", "Bull Durham", "Sound of Music", or "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" can calm, lighten, or change most dark moods. There remain certain actors and actresses whose talent, demeanor, and script choice always place them in our individual comfort zones. Names like Bogart, Rosalind Russell, James Garner, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jimmy Stewart, and yes, Mr. Newman rise to the top of my appreciation list. But Newman ocupies a separate category. I tried recalling all of his work, but that was futile. From "Somebody Up There Likes Me" through "Road to Perdition", his remarkable career spanned over 50 feature films, nine Academy Award nominations (only one win), and a variety of themes, roles, and performances that any group of five actors could never approach. His versatility bordered on the astounding. He was boxing's Rocky Graziano, a chain gang's Cool Hand Luke Jackson, cocky pool shooter Fast Eddie Felson (twice, over 20 years apart), yellow journalism victim Michael Colin Gallagher, cynical private detective Lew Harper (twice), alcoholic attorney Frank Galvin, con artist supreme Henry Gondorff, witty outlaw Butch Cassidy, immoral ranch hand Hud Bannon, implacable half-breed John Russell, aging gadfly Sully Sullivan, hockey coach Reg Dunlop, and aging Irish gangster John Rooney. Of course that list excludes about 40 other roles worthy of mention. Yet acting brilliance covers only a snippet of his complete life.
Despite consistent placement in the footlights, Newman eluded the glitz and gossip so prevalent throughout his profession. I remember his appearance following his only son Scott's death from a drug overdose. It was brief, poignant, and sincere. But it led to another facet of his life that subsequently emerged, philanthropic activities. Whether it was a drug rehab center, summer camps for sick children (all proceeds from his Newman's Own food products), or bequests to his alma mater, he gave freely of both time and money. The final tally for his generosity numbers in the many millions of dollars.
He had a distinct passion for auto racing as a driver and owner, was happily married to actress Joanne Woodward for some 50 years (three daughters), served with honor during a naval stint in World War II, and was active politically. But enough biography. Paul Newman entertained me.
Although "The Hustler" was released in 1961, I didn't see it until much later. It was during my first year at college. I returned to campus the day after Christmas because of a job commitment. The temperature was 26 degrees below zero when I arrived, with snow knee deep, and icicles on the INSIDE of my dorm windows. I was one of three people in the building (I didn't know the other two). Aside from work, I had nothing to occupy my time except the cold. On my third night back, I walked downtown to catch a movie. "The Hustler" was playing in a double feature at one of the theaters and I decided to see it. I was so stunned by Newman's performance as pool shark Fast Eddie Felson that I watched it four times in two days. His portrayal of the brash, selfish, stick man astonished me. The gritty black and white production introduced me to George C. Scott, Piper Laurie, and the gifted Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats. It wasn't pretty, the ending left one hanging, and Felson was hardly a sympathetic character, yet Paul Newman owned that role, not to mention the movie. It was and is the best film he ever made (only my opinion).
Near the end of his career he made another gem, "Nobody's Fool". No awards, not much publicity, and mediocre reviews. Yet it was pure Newman -- independent and in charge as an aging, stubborn small town handyman. The magic remained. I still watch it from time to time. He was the best.
I stopped at Safeway this morning to pick up some milk, and once again turned toward the tabloid rack as I waited my turn. Not much happening this time -- space aliens will be arriving soon, Laura Bush wants a divorce, and Jen still loves Brad. Just another week in gossip central.
Oh, I almost forgot. I bought a jar of Newman's Own marinara sauce too. If I keep eating pasta, another kid might go to camp.
Thanks, Paul.
MM
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO...
A number of years ago I was fascinated by a series of books entitled "Whatever Happened To...? by Richard Lamparski. I'm not positive, but I think he wrote 11 of them chronicling former television, movie, and cultural stars, and their lives after the fame and fortune. Some sad, some surprising, some as expected, yet all interesting. The series also piqued my personal curiosity as I drifted back in time. In a previous post I mentioned attending a grammar school reunion some years back. Of the 50+ members of our class, nearly 35 attended, a high percentage indeed. Throughout the two-day festivities, names of the missing were bandied about, however several remained mysteries. I kept running through those halcyon days of my early youth, and one name kept inserting itself at each stop. I eventually asked the question: Whatever happened to Johnny Palmer?
I suppose everyone can remember best friends from the formative years. Mine was Johnny Palmer. I was blessed with a number of pals in grade school, but for some reason Johnny and I were just a bit closer. After the reunion I kept thinking about the lack of surety in the responses concerning his whereabouts. A couple of years ago, while preparing to teach, I looked at one of my class lists for the opening semester, and the name Johnny Palmer stared at me from the page. Obviously not the original, but a strange reminder. Why does this mean anything now? I guess we all want to relive or at least revisit the past, just to see if it was as much fun as we think we remember. It's hard to explain Johnny Palmer; he was different from the herd, what we call a maverick these days.
We attended a Catholic grammar school (grades K-8) located in a lower middle class, blue-collar, heavily Catholic neighborhood. Both Johnny and I lived on the border of the school's loosely drawn boundary line, but our families were members of the parish, just in case. I guess you could say we had an outsider-type kinship. We often walked to school, a long jaunt by any standards. It wasn't the five-miles-in-a-blizzard situation we all remember our parents and grandparents describing, and we could take the bus if we so desired. I liked to walk because that left me 15 cents to buy maple bars at the nearby bakery. Both of our dads were working men, to whom dollars were precious, and our moms toiled as homemakers. The concept of a two-paycheck family was still years away. Why Johnny and I became close remains a mystery. I loved sports; he tolerated them. He enjoyed building things; I reluctantly watched. Despite the monotony of wearing the always-popular salt and pepper cord pants, blue sweater, and white shirt every school day for eight consecutive years, I was fussy about my appearance, and Johnny could have cared less. He wore patrol boots (heavy, clunky high top work shoes) 24-7, while I always needed the latest model of white Red Ball Jets that made me run faster and jump higher. We were indeed a 50's version of the grammar school odd couple.
The age-old saying that opposites attract certainly applied to the two of us. In the sixth grade we both had stupendous crushes on a classmate named Barbara. I'm not sure why (who can ever understand young affairs of the heart), because she was about six inches taller than either of us. Somehow we overcame the competition, not to mention Barbara, at about the same time. On another occasion we decided to build a model hydroplane (racing boats were highly popular in Seattle), and enter it in a contest. If memory serves me right, it took us (mostly Johnny) at least a couple of months to construct. When the day came for the much-anticipated contest, we were most confident in our first-place chances. It didn't quite work out as planned. We placed the boat in the water and it promptly sank. Seems as though we didn't quite patch that gaping hole in the bottom of the hull. I hate to admit it, but I think that was my responsibility.We fussed and fumed for about 23 seconds, then marched on to our next adventure.
Our final bonding activity came in the eighth grade when I was our baseball team's best (and only) pitcher, and Johnny donned the catching equipment. Occasionally, he could catch a fastball, but he simply let curveballs hit the dirt and picked them up on the rebound. His less-than-20/20-glasses enhanced vision was a contributing factor, but that never really bothered me despite my competitive nature. To borrow from a common baseball saying of today, it was just Johnny being Johnny.
Our paths rarely crossed after grade school. He attended a public secondary institution and I ventured off to the area's new Catholic high school. We rarely saw each other then, but I would hear things from time to time. Johnny struggled with his education, at least that was the grapevine rumor. He had never been an honors student, and possibly developed other outlets. I don't think we visited more than twice during those subsequent years. I do remember two things about my friend: he was incredibly loyal, and marvelously independent. What you saw is always what you got. I learned from him, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Johnny Palmer was my first friend.
After asking the question at the reunion, there was no definitive answer. Finally, someone said, "I think he died." I stood nearby, stunned. There was no follow-up explanation, nothing concrete. Just those four saddening words. It seemed as if a sizable chunk of my childhood had been scratched and eliminated. I always wanted to apologize for not patching the hole in the boat. Sorry Johnny, it won't happen again.
No more reunions.
MM
I suppose everyone can remember best friends from the formative years. Mine was Johnny Palmer. I was blessed with a number of pals in grade school, but for some reason Johnny and I were just a bit closer. After the reunion I kept thinking about the lack of surety in the responses concerning his whereabouts. A couple of years ago, while preparing to teach, I looked at one of my class lists for the opening semester, and the name Johnny Palmer stared at me from the page. Obviously not the original, but a strange reminder. Why does this mean anything now? I guess we all want to relive or at least revisit the past, just to see if it was as much fun as we think we remember. It's hard to explain Johnny Palmer; he was different from the herd, what we call a maverick these days.
We attended a Catholic grammar school (grades K-8) located in a lower middle class, blue-collar, heavily Catholic neighborhood. Both Johnny and I lived on the border of the school's loosely drawn boundary line, but our families were members of the parish, just in case. I guess you could say we had an outsider-type kinship. We often walked to school, a long jaunt by any standards. It wasn't the five-miles-in-a-blizzard situation we all remember our parents and grandparents describing, and we could take the bus if we so desired. I liked to walk because that left me 15 cents to buy maple bars at the nearby bakery. Both of our dads were working men, to whom dollars were precious, and our moms toiled as homemakers. The concept of a two-paycheck family was still years away. Why Johnny and I became close remains a mystery. I loved sports; he tolerated them. He enjoyed building things; I reluctantly watched. Despite the monotony of wearing the always-popular salt and pepper cord pants, blue sweater, and white shirt every school day for eight consecutive years, I was fussy about my appearance, and Johnny could have cared less. He wore patrol boots (heavy, clunky high top work shoes) 24-7, while I always needed the latest model of white Red Ball Jets that made me run faster and jump higher. We were indeed a 50's version of the grammar school odd couple.
The age-old saying that opposites attract certainly applied to the two of us. In the sixth grade we both had stupendous crushes on a classmate named Barbara. I'm not sure why (who can ever understand young affairs of the heart), because she was about six inches taller than either of us. Somehow we overcame the competition, not to mention Barbara, at about the same time. On another occasion we decided to build a model hydroplane (racing boats were highly popular in Seattle), and enter it in a contest. If memory serves me right, it took us (mostly Johnny) at least a couple of months to construct. When the day came for the much-anticipated contest, we were most confident in our first-place chances. It didn't quite work out as planned. We placed the boat in the water and it promptly sank. Seems as though we didn't quite patch that gaping hole in the bottom of the hull. I hate to admit it, but I think that was my responsibility.We fussed and fumed for about 23 seconds, then marched on to our next adventure.
Our final bonding activity came in the eighth grade when I was our baseball team's best (and only) pitcher, and Johnny donned the catching equipment. Occasionally, he could catch a fastball, but he simply let curveballs hit the dirt and picked them up on the rebound. His less-than-20/20-glasses enhanced vision was a contributing factor, but that never really bothered me despite my competitive nature. To borrow from a common baseball saying of today, it was just Johnny being Johnny.
Our paths rarely crossed after grade school. He attended a public secondary institution and I ventured off to the area's new Catholic high school. We rarely saw each other then, but I would hear things from time to time. Johnny struggled with his education, at least that was the grapevine rumor. He had never been an honors student, and possibly developed other outlets. I don't think we visited more than twice during those subsequent years. I do remember two things about my friend: he was incredibly loyal, and marvelously independent. What you saw is always what you got. I learned from him, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Johnny Palmer was my first friend.
After asking the question at the reunion, there was no definitive answer. Finally, someone said, "I think he died." I stood nearby, stunned. There was no follow-up explanation, nothing concrete. Just those four saddening words. It seemed as if a sizable chunk of my childhood had been scratched and eliminated. I always wanted to apologize for not patching the hole in the boat. Sorry Johnny, it won't happen again.
No more reunions.
MM
Sunday, September 7, 2008
ARE YOU READY FOR...?
So much going on these days. The political campaigns have begun their final lap to November, gasoline prices are lower but not low, unemployment is up, the economy is shaky, Afghanistan has moved to the front burner, the Russians look like the bad guys again, and the housing crisis continues. However, none of that is terribly important in the grand scheme of things. Yes, we should all be concerned. Yes, we should pay attention to these headache-inducing problems...But seriously, ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBAWL?!! (spelling correct in conjunction with pronunciation) -- I mean what else could possibly matter? It took a full week, however I finally stopped worrying about the aforementioned trivialities and realized what's actually important.
As the days shorten noticeably, as the morning temperatures take a slight dip, as the school year entrenches in routine, only one thing seems to matter: that pigskin spheroid (sans lipstick), symbolic of weekends (and some weeks) spent in an HD stupor glued to that electronic signal sender-- eye level -- mid-living room. It might be a jailable (new word?) offense not to possess an over-sized recliner complete with drink holders and remote pockets (a side tray for snacks would certainly enhance the furniture).
Physical fitness, healthy eating habits, daily exercise, and a versatile social schedule comprise a popular formula for human longevity. Yet I think weekend dispensations merit strong consideration given the importance attached to this sacred passion. Let's face it, short of a 12.0 (on a big Richter Scale) trembler that takes out half the western hemisphere (particularly football stadiums), not much can dissuade or disturb the true fan from late August until late January. Whether the venue is high school, junior college, college Division I, II, III or 10, the NFL, and even Pee Wee,no outdoor activity approaches football for dedicated observers.
This past weekend qualifies as a perfect exemplar for my personal football fanaticism. On Friday night I arrived home just in time for the Navy-Ball State game on ESPN's Friday Night College tilt. I also changed channels to watch a live high school game (high school?). On Saturday morning I woke up just in time for ESPN's acclaimed College Gameday show where host Chris Fowler tries not to laugh at the silliness known as former coach, turned analyst, Lee Corso. At 9:00 it was time for Ohio State-Ohio and Michigan-Miami(the Ohio version). I wish they would stagger the starts so they didn't reach halftime simultaneously. That forces me to wander aimlessly for 20 minutes until the action renews. I checked off my signal calling to Encore Westerns as a short buffer. After halftime I displayed my manual dexterity with quick, decisive forcefulness on the remote, a talent developed through years of practice. Dedication hardly ends on the playing field. At noon BYU and Washington kicked off, followed at 12:30 By Notre Dame-San Diego State, Oregon State-Penn State, and Mississippi-Wake Forest. Oh, the decisions one has to make! But I like pressure situations such as thumb pressing fast enough to avoid commercials, a true art form. On to more action. At 1:30 West Virginia and East Carolina began their battle, and at 2:00 it was the Texas A&M-New Mexico clash. I saved my timeouts for the late games and caught South Florida-Central Florida as well as Alcorn State and Grambling at 4:00. The 5:00 shift began with Rice-Memphis and Florida-Miami. I started to feel the effects of blurred vision and leg cramps just before the day's finale, a 7:15 barn burner matching Texas and Texas-El Paso. At 10:00 I called it a day because I had to rest up for the NFL pre-game shows and three more games on Sunday. Talk about exhaustion. I was absolutely spent.
When you consider the fantasy leagues, food consumption (why didn't I open a sports bar?), clothing sales (I need my JaMarcus Russell jersey), and ticket revenues, the pig lobby probably wishes it had negotiated a better contract (call Babe that cute, smug British porker). How can one work during the season; it's such an annoying distraction.
Well, time to check the TV schedule; the weekend will be here before I realize it.
To quote the legendary Fats Domino: "Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday."
MM
As the days shorten noticeably, as the morning temperatures take a slight dip, as the school year entrenches in routine, only one thing seems to matter: that pigskin spheroid (sans lipstick), symbolic of weekends (and some weeks) spent in an HD stupor glued to that electronic signal sender-- eye level -- mid-living room. It might be a jailable (new word?) offense not to possess an over-sized recliner complete with drink holders and remote pockets (a side tray for snacks would certainly enhance the furniture).
Physical fitness, healthy eating habits, daily exercise, and a versatile social schedule comprise a popular formula for human longevity. Yet I think weekend dispensations merit strong consideration given the importance attached to this sacred passion. Let's face it, short of a 12.0 (on a big Richter Scale) trembler that takes out half the western hemisphere (particularly football stadiums), not much can dissuade or disturb the true fan from late August until late January. Whether the venue is high school, junior college, college Division I, II, III or 10, the NFL, and even Pee Wee,no outdoor activity approaches football for dedicated observers.
This past weekend qualifies as a perfect exemplar for my personal football fanaticism. On Friday night I arrived home just in time for the Navy-Ball State game on ESPN's Friday Night College tilt. I also changed channels to watch a live high school game (high school?). On Saturday morning I woke up just in time for ESPN's acclaimed College Gameday show where host Chris Fowler tries not to laugh at the silliness known as former coach, turned analyst, Lee Corso. At 9:00 it was time for Ohio State-Ohio and Michigan-Miami(the Ohio version). I wish they would stagger the starts so they didn't reach halftime simultaneously. That forces me to wander aimlessly for 20 minutes until the action renews. I checked off my signal calling to Encore Westerns as a short buffer. After halftime I displayed my manual dexterity with quick, decisive forcefulness on the remote, a talent developed through years of practice. Dedication hardly ends on the playing field. At noon BYU and Washington kicked off, followed at 12:30 By Notre Dame-San Diego State, Oregon State-Penn State, and Mississippi-Wake Forest. Oh, the decisions one has to make! But I like pressure situations such as thumb pressing fast enough to avoid commercials, a true art form. On to more action. At 1:30 West Virginia and East Carolina began their battle, and at 2:00 it was the Texas A&M-New Mexico clash. I saved my timeouts for the late games and caught South Florida-Central Florida as well as Alcorn State and Grambling at 4:00. The 5:00 shift began with Rice-Memphis and Florida-Miami. I started to feel the effects of blurred vision and leg cramps just before the day's finale, a 7:15 barn burner matching Texas and Texas-El Paso. At 10:00 I called it a day because I had to rest up for the NFL pre-game shows and three more games on Sunday. Talk about exhaustion. I was absolutely spent.
When you consider the fantasy leagues, food consumption (why didn't I open a sports bar?), clothing sales (I need my JaMarcus Russell jersey), and ticket revenues, the pig lobby probably wishes it had negotiated a better contract (call Babe that cute, smug British porker). How can one work during the season; it's such an annoying distraction.
Well, time to check the TV schedule; the weekend will be here before I realize it.
To quote the legendary Fats Domino: "Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday."
MM
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
BETTER LATE THAN....
One of my favorite pieces of writing is a column by Rick Reilly from the Dec. 19, 2000 edition of Sports Illustrated. Titled "The Thought That Counts," the piece is quite clever, going on at length about what to give his long-suffering, highly supportive wife for Christmas. The first 700 plus words described gift possibilities for and sterling examples of her wifely understanding and general goodness. The last sentence read, "So what do you give your best friend...?(etc) --THIS (referring to the column itself). It must not have struck a sentimental chord, because they were divorced a couple of years later. However, I find myself with a faintly similar conundrum.
I may be the world's worst at remembering important dates, especially birthdays. I've actually forgotten my own on more than one occasion (highly embarrassing). I sometimes remember my brother's, have no clue as to my niece and nephew's marking dates, and draw a complete blank on any close friends' b-days. The one I'm zeroing in on is the one that makes me feel most discomfited, my sister-in-law. For all our Irish sentimentality, tears at any movies, and loyalty to each other, we've never been a family that communicates our feelings with much candor. Hard to explain because none of us are shy. But this time I'm going to try my best.
I'm fairly sure her birthday is in the immediate vicinity, sometime between the 3rd and the 10th of September. The only reason I know that is because my brother's is definitely on the 22nd (that's another story), and her's is in the same month. Yet I babble on about numbers and dates -- not my intent here. She's been married to my brother for over 30 years, that's reason enough for praise. He is one of the world's characters, and just a bit eccentric in some respects. I'm sure he would tell you his life would be 99% less complete if she had said no to his proposal. Throughout their years of bliss, she has raised three wonderful children: two of her own as well as my brother. She's one of those rare people able to support, sacrifice, and love with equal fervor. There have been good days and bad, but she has always been front and center, offering comfort, advice, kindness, and the occasional admonishment. If there was a Wife and Mother Hall of Fame, she would be an automatic first ballot selection.
An overused, yet understood (by me anyway) saying these days is that a certain person, object, movie etc. is OLD SCHOOL. From my standpoint, the statement indicates a positive emanating from the past. My sister-in-law definitely earns that description. I've never told her this, but she reminds me greatly of my mother in that she fits with comfort and pride in any formal or social setting. My brother's friends are her friends. My brother's athletes and students (he teaches and coaches at the high school level) are her athletes and students. During the holidays numerous people stop by the house to say hello, dispense season's greetings, and renew acquaintances. She is a major reason why, making everyone feel at ease.
A number of years ago, my father passed away. I was working in the Bay Area as I still do, and spent about a week with my brother going through details, funeral arrangements, etc. I was forced to leave due to job responsibilities following the funeral, but my brother and sister-in-law stayed and sorted everything out. If it had been left up to me or him alone, it never would have been finished correctly. She was the catalyst. When my brother and his son had communication difficulties during the lad's senior year in high school, she was the one who maintained the buffer zone and kept the family solidified. I could mention about 20 additional instances where her intelligence and good sense overcame the familial temptation to err with compulsive reactions to obstacles.
She may not remember this, but several years ago, I attended a 40-year grammar school reunion in Seattle. I was profoundly affected by the event, seeing numerous former classmates for the first time in decades. I started to write some things down when I stopped by their house in Portland on my way home. For whatever reason, I needed someone to hear my thoughts and listen to those words. She patiently sat in the front room as I expounded for the next hour or so. It may seem like a small thing, but it was tremendously important to me at the time. A perfect example of her unique ability to support.
Well, I obviously will miss the b-day. For the many-numbered consecutive year, I failed to send a card. But I want her to know how much she is loved and how important she is to all of us fortunate to call her family. In the vernacular of the times, she rocks!
I'm not Rick Reilly, but it's the best I can do.
Don't count the candles, just the sentiments.
MM
I may be the world's worst at remembering important dates, especially birthdays. I've actually forgotten my own on more than one occasion (highly embarrassing). I sometimes remember my brother's, have no clue as to my niece and nephew's marking dates, and draw a complete blank on any close friends' b-days. The one I'm zeroing in on is the one that makes me feel most discomfited, my sister-in-law. For all our Irish sentimentality, tears at any movies, and loyalty to each other, we've never been a family that communicates our feelings with much candor. Hard to explain because none of us are shy. But this time I'm going to try my best.
I'm fairly sure her birthday is in the immediate vicinity, sometime between the 3rd and the 10th of September. The only reason I know that is because my brother's is definitely on the 22nd (that's another story), and her's is in the same month. Yet I babble on about numbers and dates -- not my intent here. She's been married to my brother for over 30 years, that's reason enough for praise. He is one of the world's characters, and just a bit eccentric in some respects. I'm sure he would tell you his life would be 99% less complete if she had said no to his proposal. Throughout their years of bliss, she has raised three wonderful children: two of her own as well as my brother. She's one of those rare people able to support, sacrifice, and love with equal fervor. There have been good days and bad, but she has always been front and center, offering comfort, advice, kindness, and the occasional admonishment. If there was a Wife and Mother Hall of Fame, she would be an automatic first ballot selection.
An overused, yet understood (by me anyway) saying these days is that a certain person, object, movie etc. is OLD SCHOOL. From my standpoint, the statement indicates a positive emanating from the past. My sister-in-law definitely earns that description. I've never told her this, but she reminds me greatly of my mother in that she fits with comfort and pride in any formal or social setting. My brother's friends are her friends. My brother's athletes and students (he teaches and coaches at the high school level) are her athletes and students. During the holidays numerous people stop by the house to say hello, dispense season's greetings, and renew acquaintances. She is a major reason why, making everyone feel at ease.
A number of years ago, my father passed away. I was working in the Bay Area as I still do, and spent about a week with my brother going through details, funeral arrangements, etc. I was forced to leave due to job responsibilities following the funeral, but my brother and sister-in-law stayed and sorted everything out. If it had been left up to me or him alone, it never would have been finished correctly. She was the catalyst. When my brother and his son had communication difficulties during the lad's senior year in high school, she was the one who maintained the buffer zone and kept the family solidified. I could mention about 20 additional instances where her intelligence and good sense overcame the familial temptation to err with compulsive reactions to obstacles.
She may not remember this, but several years ago, I attended a 40-year grammar school reunion in Seattle. I was profoundly affected by the event, seeing numerous former classmates for the first time in decades. I started to write some things down when I stopped by their house in Portland on my way home. For whatever reason, I needed someone to hear my thoughts and listen to those words. She patiently sat in the front room as I expounded for the next hour or so. It may seem like a small thing, but it was tremendously important to me at the time. A perfect example of her unique ability to support.
Well, I obviously will miss the b-day. For the many-numbered consecutive year, I failed to send a card. But I want her to know how much she is loved and how important she is to all of us fortunate to call her family. In the vernacular of the times, she rocks!
I'm not Rick Reilly, but it's the best I can do.
Don't count the candles, just the sentiments.
MM
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
GIVE AND TAKE
It always fascinates me how this game of life so often engages in confluence. I received a message not long ago that a wonderful woman and mother of four had passed away after a long illness. It surprised me because I wasn't aware of her condition. I wish I could say we were close friends, but that wasn't the case. Her oldest son had been a basketball player during my time as a publicity director for a local university. Through him I eventually met mom, dad, and the three additional siblings. The family was/is remarkable, although I'm sure battered emotionally. Around the time of her passing, a friend, colleague, and former student was on the verge of giving birth to her first child (a beautiful baby boy who arrived within the past two weeks). I began to think (always dangerous) about the life cycle we all share from the euphoric to the funereal. These two women epitomize all the good things in that precious cycle.
The true test for any person inevitably becomes the reaction to adversity. Both individuals passed those exams. The older woman arrived here from Europe with a positive attitude and a future husband awaiting her arrival. She became the rock of the family while her husband built a successful business from the first shovel of dirt, working 12-15 hour days, seven days a week. All seemed smooth until her oldest son died in a tragic plane crash while en route from the Midwest with his fiancee. He had been a superb athlete, just finishing his second year as a future NBA star. His death completely devastated all who knew him, but his family above all. As the years rolled on, the strength of the family became obvious, with her as the inspiration.
My colleague and former student suffered through a similar situation with a close high school friend, not to mention the passing of several close relatives. Through it all she has remained the same hard-working, positive individual I first met when she was a ninth grader. In all the years I've known her, I can't ever remember seeing her upset, angry, or abrupt. As a teacher she was (is) patient, creative, and insightful. Whenever I walked by her room, I saw happy, engaged students.
It's sad to see friends depart, especially one so important to her loved ones. But life has strange compensations. By my count there are at least five grandchildren to help ease the transition. On the other side, I received an e-mail after the recent birth. The incredible smiles on the faces of mom and dad began the cycle once again.
Give and Take.
MM
The true test for any person inevitably becomes the reaction to adversity. Both individuals passed those exams. The older woman arrived here from Europe with a positive attitude and a future husband awaiting her arrival. She became the rock of the family while her husband built a successful business from the first shovel of dirt, working 12-15 hour days, seven days a week. All seemed smooth until her oldest son died in a tragic plane crash while en route from the Midwest with his fiancee. He had been a superb athlete, just finishing his second year as a future NBA star. His death completely devastated all who knew him, but his family above all. As the years rolled on, the strength of the family became obvious, with her as the inspiration.
My colleague and former student suffered through a similar situation with a close high school friend, not to mention the passing of several close relatives. Through it all she has remained the same hard-working, positive individual I first met when she was a ninth grader. In all the years I've known her, I can't ever remember seeing her upset, angry, or abrupt. As a teacher she was (is) patient, creative, and insightful. Whenever I walked by her room, I saw happy, engaged students.
It's sad to see friends depart, especially one so important to her loved ones. But life has strange compensations. By my count there are at least five grandchildren to help ease the transition. On the other side, I received an e-mail after the recent birth. The incredible smiles on the faces of mom and dad began the cycle once again.
Give and Take.
MM
Saturday, August 23, 2008
SCHOOL DAZE
It's the worst night of my year. I'm not talking about the April 14 tax anxieties or dreading the reality of another birthday morning (all downhill after 21). This particular evening makes the others pale in comparison. Yep, Monday night marks the eve of school year 2008-2009. According to my calculations (always unofficial), this will make my 17th consecutive worst night of the year. It appears as if I dislike the idea of school, but that's not the case. I love school and I love teaching. Sounds contradictory, but hopefully I can express a plausible explanation.
Years ago I came to one of those so-called "crossroads of life" situations. I had worked in athletics, both pro and college, for the extent of my post-educational, post-military existence. The experiences, acquaintances, and satisfactions I garnered during that time period both stimulated and satisfied my professional ambitions. However, the day arrived when the passion bucket emptied. I had two choices: continue taking a pay check for work I had ceased to enjoy, or start over with no idea of my future. I was over 40 at the time, so the decision had gargantuan potential for disaster. Nevertheless, I selected option number two. I gave my two weeks notice (surprising to all) and proceeded to hit golf balls for the next few months with an occasional free lance stipend for bill paying. The last thing I ever thought I would do is teach. But after numerous consultations with close friends, I began the process.
Earning a teaching credential is a daunting task. I had not been in a classroom for well over 20 years, and had hardly distinguished myself in that venue. I enrolled at Notre Dame de Namur in February, 1991. For the next 18 months I took classes, became frustrated, tended bar to pay the bills, and had no idea where it would lead. In the fall of 1992, I began my first student teaching assignment at a South Bay middle school. I have rarely been as frightened. My master teacher taught eighth grade English, five periods per day. I can't begin to express my appreciation for her unselfish, patient, encouraging efforts on my behalf. I teach now because of her.
After a few weeks spent observing, she asked if I would like to teach. I think I was too numb to decline and assumed control of three classes. My saving grace was a daily 2nd period meeting with my mentor to discuss the good, the bad, and the ugly (with deference to Clint Eastwood) of my endeavors. It didn't take long to discover what I know now. There's NOTHING like that classroom. Few days go by when I don't savor my position. I'm a devout self-critic, but I think I've taught a few, entertained a few, and hopefully disappointed only a few. What I have received in return, from that vast number of students, is almost impossible to explain. I've had moments in my classroom that for lack of a better term, were euphoric. The young lad who wrote his FIRST poem as a ninth grader and bubbled over with pride; the incredible project presentations, class discussions, brilliant essays, and intellectual maturation, have kept my fire burning since that first middle school day. Not all days are pearls, but the balance scale heavily tilts towards the positive.
This is year number 16 at the same location. I was most fortunate in securing a position at one of the state's best public high schools. It was a right place at the right time with the right people hiring. I've taught a little bit of everything and enjoyed it immensely. For several years I could remember every student, every name and every background, but the numbers have finally caught up with me. I actually blanked on a former student a couple of weeks ago. Highly embarrassing, but I guess understandable. My colleagues are among the finest, most generous people I've ever known. In the good days complimentary; in the down days compassionate and caring. No possible ways to repay the relationships. One constantly hears about teachers being underpaid. I would certainly agree. But aside from the direct deposit monthly check, the profession remunerates in undefinable ways. I've been asked on occasion to compare teaching with my previous vocations. My answer remains consistent. This is the best thing I've ever done.
Monday night approaches. My lack of sleep? Induced by eager anticipation and excitement for the coming year.
Does counting sheep still work?
MM
Years ago I came to one of those so-called "crossroads of life" situations. I had worked in athletics, both pro and college, for the extent of my post-educational, post-military existence. The experiences, acquaintances, and satisfactions I garnered during that time period both stimulated and satisfied my professional ambitions. However, the day arrived when the passion bucket emptied. I had two choices: continue taking a pay check for work I had ceased to enjoy, or start over with no idea of my future. I was over 40 at the time, so the decision had gargantuan potential for disaster. Nevertheless, I selected option number two. I gave my two weeks notice (surprising to all) and proceeded to hit golf balls for the next few months with an occasional free lance stipend for bill paying. The last thing I ever thought I would do is teach. But after numerous consultations with close friends, I began the process.
Earning a teaching credential is a daunting task. I had not been in a classroom for well over 20 years, and had hardly distinguished myself in that venue. I enrolled at Notre Dame de Namur in February, 1991. For the next 18 months I took classes, became frustrated, tended bar to pay the bills, and had no idea where it would lead. In the fall of 1992, I began my first student teaching assignment at a South Bay middle school. I have rarely been as frightened. My master teacher taught eighth grade English, five periods per day. I can't begin to express my appreciation for her unselfish, patient, encouraging efforts on my behalf. I teach now because of her.
After a few weeks spent observing, she asked if I would like to teach. I think I was too numb to decline and assumed control of three classes. My saving grace was a daily 2nd period meeting with my mentor to discuss the good, the bad, and the ugly (with deference to Clint Eastwood) of my endeavors. It didn't take long to discover what I know now. There's NOTHING like that classroom. Few days go by when I don't savor my position. I'm a devout self-critic, but I think I've taught a few, entertained a few, and hopefully disappointed only a few. What I have received in return, from that vast number of students, is almost impossible to explain. I've had moments in my classroom that for lack of a better term, were euphoric. The young lad who wrote his FIRST poem as a ninth grader and bubbled over with pride; the incredible project presentations, class discussions, brilliant essays, and intellectual maturation, have kept my fire burning since that first middle school day. Not all days are pearls, but the balance scale heavily tilts towards the positive.
This is year number 16 at the same location. I was most fortunate in securing a position at one of the state's best public high schools. It was a right place at the right time with the right people hiring. I've taught a little bit of everything and enjoyed it immensely. For several years I could remember every student, every name and every background, but the numbers have finally caught up with me. I actually blanked on a former student a couple of weeks ago. Highly embarrassing, but I guess understandable. My colleagues are among the finest, most generous people I've ever known. In the good days complimentary; in the down days compassionate and caring. No possible ways to repay the relationships. One constantly hears about teachers being underpaid. I would certainly agree. But aside from the direct deposit monthly check, the profession remunerates in undefinable ways. I've been asked on occasion to compare teaching with my previous vocations. My answer remains consistent. This is the best thing I've ever done.
Monday night approaches. My lack of sleep? Induced by eager anticipation and excitement for the coming year.
Does counting sheep still work?
MM
Sunday, August 17, 2008
THE LAND FISH
When Michael Phelps touched the wall for the final time, I imitated a Tiger Woods Fist Pump to celebrate. Hard to fathom how much skill, effort, and determination it takes to accomplish such feats. Phelps seems like the All-American Lad, and has apparently remained free from the evils of dreaded performance-enhancing substances. Aside from his endorsement of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, which has the Food Police in complete apoplexy, this remarkable Land Fish is as close to perfect as anyone can possibly be. But with all the joy, pride, and admiration Phelps has engendered, he still falls short on my hero list.
I realize that last comment may sound blasphemous, however something is missing from the biographical sketch. Yes, as much as I wish to anoint Michael the greatest human of all time, I discovered a distinct flaw. No, it's not something physical (despite his more than generous set of ears) as he is in sterling condition. And it has nothing to do with his mental acumen, which obviously remains strong. He has a pleasant, disarming, and humble personality that does nothing but endear him to the drooling masses of prospective agents and marketeers. No, none of the above. But I just can't overlook this seemingly minuscule chink in the Phelps biographical armor.
You see, my perception of an athletic Zeus goes a bit beyond Phelps' aquatic feats. Through years of training and observation my qualifications for hero/heroine go beyond the Wheaties (or Frosted Flakes) box. I demand perfection! Ted Williams hit over .300 every year EXCEPT one (.254 plagued with neck injuries in 1959). Bill Russell didn't win an NBA championship in TWO of his 13 seasons with the Celtics. Gale Sayers only played SEVEN seasons with the Bears because of knee injuries, Lee Trevino only won SEVEN major golf titles, and Chris Evert lost more than 50 tennis matches in her career. Flawed, all of them. But isn't Michael Phelps perfect? Didn't he win eight gold medals in eight events? True. Yet there remains the dark blemish on a supposedly pristine performance.
Alright, I've dragged this out interminably. The suspense and curiosity has moved toward fever pitch proportions. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MICHAEL PHELPS? Did you happen to notice that in his eight events, he set seven world records? What about the other one? It happened to be the 100-meter Butterfly, the last individual race, where he barely out-touched his Serbian rival. Okay, it was thrilling and dramatic and all those other adjectives the media used for description. But come on, Michael! Where was the eighth world record? There's just an empty space next to that entry on your sheet. How can you expect to be a hero when you lose focus in the 'fly?
I've let it out now and feel ever so much better -- cathartic would be the appropriate description. I guess Mr. Phelps will have to improve in 2012 to hear my full applause.
For what it's worth, I'm not actually that mean or demanding. His feats stand unmatched. A million quotes fit the moment, but I like this one by C.J. Weber: "Perfecting is our destiny, but perfection never our lot."
The Land Fish almost proved him wrong.
MM
I realize that last comment may sound blasphemous, however something is missing from the biographical sketch. Yes, as much as I wish to anoint Michael the greatest human of all time, I discovered a distinct flaw. No, it's not something physical (despite his more than generous set of ears) as he is in sterling condition. And it has nothing to do with his mental acumen, which obviously remains strong. He has a pleasant, disarming, and humble personality that does nothing but endear him to the drooling masses of prospective agents and marketeers. No, none of the above. But I just can't overlook this seemingly minuscule chink in the Phelps biographical armor.
You see, my perception of an athletic Zeus goes a bit beyond Phelps' aquatic feats. Through years of training and observation my qualifications for hero/heroine go beyond the Wheaties (or Frosted Flakes) box. I demand perfection! Ted Williams hit over .300 every year EXCEPT one (.254 plagued with neck injuries in 1959). Bill Russell didn't win an NBA championship in TWO of his 13 seasons with the Celtics. Gale Sayers only played SEVEN seasons with the Bears because of knee injuries, Lee Trevino only won SEVEN major golf titles, and Chris Evert lost more than 50 tennis matches in her career. Flawed, all of them. But isn't Michael Phelps perfect? Didn't he win eight gold medals in eight events? True. Yet there remains the dark blemish on a supposedly pristine performance.
Alright, I've dragged this out interminably. The suspense and curiosity has moved toward fever pitch proportions. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MICHAEL PHELPS? Did you happen to notice that in his eight events, he set seven world records? What about the other one? It happened to be the 100-meter Butterfly, the last individual race, where he barely out-touched his Serbian rival. Okay, it was thrilling and dramatic and all those other adjectives the media used for description. But come on, Michael! Where was the eighth world record? There's just an empty space next to that entry on your sheet. How can you expect to be a hero when you lose focus in the 'fly?
I've let it out now and feel ever so much better -- cathartic would be the appropriate description. I guess Mr. Phelps will have to improve in 2012 to hear my full applause.
For what it's worth, I'm not actually that mean or demanding. His feats stand unmatched. A million quotes fit the moment, but I like this one by C.J. Weber: "Perfecting is our destiny, but perfection never our lot."
The Land Fish almost proved him wrong.
MM
Saturday, August 9, 2008
SPECTATING
A couple of weeks ago I received an e-mail from a close friend asking if I would like to see a ballgame at AT&T Park. Although I generally avoid big crowds and high ticket prices, I thought why not and accepted the invitation. The game itself, surrounding environs, and engaging companions prompted thoughts of both present and past.
I compulsively fear being late. I don't know why, but I've always been a time freak. If I have a meeting at 2:00 p.m., I will arrive no later than 1:55; in fact that's bordering on tardiness. That was the first best part of the baseball outing. We reached the Park for the Giants-Nationals contest two hours before game time, and adjourned to a pleasant dining establishment near the premises for a relaxing repast. There were four of us, all long-time friends, and a good meal always prompts conviviality. With plenty of time left on the clock, we reached our seats and settled in. I should tell you about the seating because it actually sparked the idea for this post. Our tickets came courtesy of one member of our foursome. Suffice it to say he is among the most generous and unassuming individuals I know. It would take another 10 pages to adequately profile our benevolent host, but it would embarrass him greatly. The seats we occupied were four rows behind home plate on an elevated level with zero obstruction. One could literally have a conversation with the Giants' on-deck hitter or even the bat boy.
There's something different about spectating. I've seen so many events over the years that I have become a bit jaded. I hate traffic, crowds, and long lines. Thus my trusty Panasonic 26" television set generally works in a substitute capacity. It's not HD, but at least I'm thinking about it. However, I sporadically become motivated to actually attend games. On that particular night, I'm glad I did.
I won't belabor or repeat my love of baseball, yet I sometimes forget what makes it so enjoyable, especially at its highest level. Because of the pace of play, it lulls even its most ardent fans into a relaxed anticipation of results and outcomes. That evening I kicked myself several times for not remembering how talented the performers, and the relative ease with which they plied their trade. The superb vantage point allowed me to watch so much of the game I never see at home. It continues to boggle my mind how hitters ever connect with a pitch. Generally, they must face a large human standing on an elevated platform (the mound), propelling a small white sphere at speeds of nearly 100 MPH with hopeful accuracy. In addition, the large human can usually make the sphere curve, slice, drop, or rise at varying speeds, and doesn't have to tell the hitter ahead of time. Hitting a baseball successfully may be the only athletic endeavor where the individual can fail seven out of 10 times and be cheered. That night I rediscovered my appreciation for that particular skill. Late in the game the Gigantes trailed by a run, but had the tying and go-ahead runners on base. The Nationals' relief pitcher was a lefty whose fastball leveled off at about 95 MPH. The hitter was a popular veteran, known for his competitive nature. The baseball bull ring opened its gates for all to appreciate.
Being that close to the plate, I "spectated" with far more interest than Panasonic vision. The concentration by pitcher, hitter, catcher, infielders, coaches, and even umpires became more palpable with each pitch, and there were many. The ball and strike count reached 3 and 2, but the hitter proceeded to foul off one, two, three...six pitches in succession, barely making contact with the steady fast ball diet he was given. It was one of those defining moments for any baseball-worshiping spectator. The ultimate challenge...can you hit this fastball, or can I make you miss?
I knew what would happen. I'm not sure why, except for my life-long Ph.D in spectating. The hitter triumphed with a line shot double to left center field. The two runs scored, and the Giants subsequently won the game.
We are often bored by excellence. The great producers in life set the bars high in their respective fields. Occasionally, one needs a dose of drama, effort, and ability to rekindle the excitement meter. I left the park totally satisfied. The company, the meal, the accommodations, and the reminder. The latter being a renewed understanding just how talented certain people are, and how challenging their pursuits. We don't live in a drab or dull society, but a periodic prodding keeps us energized for the special moments.
NOTE: Sorry about the delay. It's the time of the year when occupational demands become heightened.
MM
I compulsively fear being late. I don't know why, but I've always been a time freak. If I have a meeting at 2:00 p.m., I will arrive no later than 1:55; in fact that's bordering on tardiness. That was the first best part of the baseball outing. We reached the Park for the Giants-Nationals contest two hours before game time, and adjourned to a pleasant dining establishment near the premises for a relaxing repast. There were four of us, all long-time friends, and a good meal always prompts conviviality. With plenty of time left on the clock, we reached our seats and settled in. I should tell you about the seating because it actually sparked the idea for this post. Our tickets came courtesy of one member of our foursome. Suffice it to say he is among the most generous and unassuming individuals I know. It would take another 10 pages to adequately profile our benevolent host, but it would embarrass him greatly. The seats we occupied were four rows behind home plate on an elevated level with zero obstruction. One could literally have a conversation with the Giants' on-deck hitter or even the bat boy.
There's something different about spectating. I've seen so many events over the years that I have become a bit jaded. I hate traffic, crowds, and long lines. Thus my trusty Panasonic 26" television set generally works in a substitute capacity. It's not HD, but at least I'm thinking about it. However, I sporadically become motivated to actually attend games. On that particular night, I'm glad I did.
I won't belabor or repeat my love of baseball, yet I sometimes forget what makes it so enjoyable, especially at its highest level. Because of the pace of play, it lulls even its most ardent fans into a relaxed anticipation of results and outcomes. That evening I kicked myself several times for not remembering how talented the performers, and the relative ease with which they plied their trade. The superb vantage point allowed me to watch so much of the game I never see at home. It continues to boggle my mind how hitters ever connect with a pitch. Generally, they must face a large human standing on an elevated platform (the mound), propelling a small white sphere at speeds of nearly 100 MPH with hopeful accuracy. In addition, the large human can usually make the sphere curve, slice, drop, or rise at varying speeds, and doesn't have to tell the hitter ahead of time. Hitting a baseball successfully may be the only athletic endeavor where the individual can fail seven out of 10 times and be cheered. That night I rediscovered my appreciation for that particular skill. Late in the game the Gigantes trailed by a run, but had the tying and go-ahead runners on base. The Nationals' relief pitcher was a lefty whose fastball leveled off at about 95 MPH. The hitter was a popular veteran, known for his competitive nature. The baseball bull ring opened its gates for all to appreciate.
Being that close to the plate, I "spectated" with far more interest than Panasonic vision. The concentration by pitcher, hitter, catcher, infielders, coaches, and even umpires became more palpable with each pitch, and there were many. The ball and strike count reached 3 and 2, but the hitter proceeded to foul off one, two, three...six pitches in succession, barely making contact with the steady fast ball diet he was given. It was one of those defining moments for any baseball-worshiping spectator. The ultimate challenge...can you hit this fastball, or can I make you miss?
I knew what would happen. I'm not sure why, except for my life-long Ph.D in spectating. The hitter triumphed with a line shot double to left center field. The two runs scored, and the Giants subsequently won the game.
We are often bored by excellence. The great producers in life set the bars high in their respective fields. Occasionally, one needs a dose of drama, effort, and ability to rekindle the excitement meter. I left the park totally satisfied. The company, the meal, the accommodations, and the reminder. The latter being a renewed understanding just how talented certain people are, and how challenging their pursuits. We don't live in a drab or dull society, but a periodic prodding keeps us energized for the special moments.
NOTE: Sorry about the delay. It's the time of the year when occupational demands become heightened.
MM
Sunday, August 3, 2008
SANITY CHECK
Do you know ANYONE who doesn't like or have an appreciation for animals? I certainly don't, but lately (and locally) revulsion and disbelief follow a pair of stories in the SAN JOSE MERCURY NEWS. The first by Linda Goldston detailed the discovery of more than 40 starving, emaciated, and abused dogs at a residence in nearby Boulder Creek. I'll spare the gory details, but the neanderthal owner was apparently attempting to cross breed and eventually sell the 'best of the best' as Cane Corsos (Italian Mastiffs). Mr. Wonderful (owner Robert Brunette) fled the scene, but was later captured and charged with a couple of felonies and numerous counts of animal cruelty. He was incensed at those evil animal services people. "Animal services has injured a lot of my dogs," he whined during his arraignment.
The second incident in the same week occurred in Santa Cruz (stories by Mary Anne Ostrom and Joshua Molina). It seems some animal rights activists had run out of patience. They firebombed the house and car of two UC-Santa Cruz biomedical researchers because they continue to use animals in their lab testing procedures. Apparently a list of the scientists (including their addresses) who engage in such testing was distributed in the community. No arrests have been made, but I was stunned by this observation. Dr. Jerry Vlasak, a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Front based in Woodland Hills, called the attacks "necessary," similar to the fight against civil rights. He went on to express a complete lack of remorse for the family or children whose house was targeted, or the scientist whose car was obliterated.
This is what I see as opposite ends of the spectrum. Both incidents are completely unfathomable to me. We had several dogs and cats for pets while growing up. They were part of the family, had their own distinct personalities, and we cherished every year they were with us. I would love to have a dog or cat now, but it would be completely unfair to any prospective pet since I'm not home enough to take care of one. With the exception of the two million ants I slaughtered between the ages of 8 and 12 (I didn't want to mow the lawn, and that was a diversion), I have never thought about animals except in the kindest terms. I don't think I ever enjoyed anything more as a wee sprite than frequent trips to the zoo in Seattle. In my worst human moment I could not harm an animal, but at the same time I completely understand their value in lab research. Not only does research improve health care possibilities for humans, but animals as well.
It's difficult to imagine the brain damage it takes to abuse, maim, and kill dogs. The Michael Vick situation -- and now this one closer to home -- angers, appalls, and saddens anyone with a conscience. The community outpouring of donations and offers to adopt the remaining animals indicates the overwhelming disgust and compassion these stories engendered.
Conversely, to target legitimate scientists who dedicate themselves to their research in a completely legal and legitimate academic environment, conjures visions of totalitarian societies. It's one thing to disagree on issues. But it's completely wrong to break the law harming people and property with such disagreement. I've tried to look at this incident from all sides of the issue, but legitimacy for the actions fails to register on any meter.
What the creature population really needs is a spokesanimal to plead their case. Scanning my brain, I finally came up with the perfect choice. Is there any possibility LASSIE can be reincarnated? She made far more sense than the above mentioned perpetrators.
Maybe I should get a parrot?
MM
The second incident in the same week occurred in Santa Cruz (stories by Mary Anne Ostrom and Joshua Molina). It seems some animal rights activists had run out of patience. They firebombed the house and car of two UC-Santa Cruz biomedical researchers because they continue to use animals in their lab testing procedures. Apparently a list of the scientists (including their addresses) who engage in such testing was distributed in the community. No arrests have been made, but I was stunned by this observation. Dr. Jerry Vlasak, a spokesman for the Animal Liberation Front based in Woodland Hills, called the attacks "necessary," similar to the fight against civil rights. He went on to express a complete lack of remorse for the family or children whose house was targeted, or the scientist whose car was obliterated.
This is what I see as opposite ends of the spectrum. Both incidents are completely unfathomable to me. We had several dogs and cats for pets while growing up. They were part of the family, had their own distinct personalities, and we cherished every year they were with us. I would love to have a dog or cat now, but it would be completely unfair to any prospective pet since I'm not home enough to take care of one. With the exception of the two million ants I slaughtered between the ages of 8 and 12 (I didn't want to mow the lawn, and that was a diversion), I have never thought about animals except in the kindest terms. I don't think I ever enjoyed anything more as a wee sprite than frequent trips to the zoo in Seattle. In my worst human moment I could not harm an animal, but at the same time I completely understand their value in lab research. Not only does research improve health care possibilities for humans, but animals as well.
It's difficult to imagine the brain damage it takes to abuse, maim, and kill dogs. The Michael Vick situation -- and now this one closer to home -- angers, appalls, and saddens anyone with a conscience. The community outpouring of donations and offers to adopt the remaining animals indicates the overwhelming disgust and compassion these stories engendered.
Conversely, to target legitimate scientists who dedicate themselves to their research in a completely legal and legitimate academic environment, conjures visions of totalitarian societies. It's one thing to disagree on issues. But it's completely wrong to break the law harming people and property with such disagreement. I've tried to look at this incident from all sides of the issue, but legitimacy for the actions fails to register on any meter.
What the creature population really needs is a spokesanimal to plead their case. Scanning my brain, I finally came up with the perfect choice. Is there any possibility LASSIE can be reincarnated? She made far more sense than the above mentioned perpetrators.
Maybe I should get a parrot?
MM
Friday, August 1, 2008
BE SAFE
Summer works for me. The weather, the attitudes, the ambiance, the vacation, and baseball converge to make the time frame so pleasant. It also allows me to recharge the teaching batteries, reflect on what worked the previous year (or didn't), and where I am mentally and physically. With the much-expanded leisure time, I often try to make contact with friends and colleagues I have neglected for no valid reasons. This summer I've followed that script, more or less, until the other day. The end of July suddenly arrived and a little buzz motored through my brain before finally settling. I think it was a wire service story about decreasing casualties in Iraq that prompted it. Nearly forty years before marked my departure for Vietnam. I remember being numb in lieu of being scared, and subsequently most fortunate throughout my deployment. Returning unscathed, I got on with my life. There's more to that story, but this is about something else.
In the spring semester of 2007 I met a young lad in one of my classes whom I grew to admire in the ensuing months. He wasn't a 4.0 student, didn't participate in student government or community service organizations, and maintained a fairly low profile on campus. His one passion had been football, where he was a talented linebacker and solid team leader. He wasn't a discipline problem, completed his assignments on time, asked for help if he needed it, and eventually graduated this past May. Yet there was something about him that caught your attention. Several years ago an E.F. Hutton (financial company) TV commercial appeared with nauseating frequency on all the networks. The punch line in a group conversational setting stated, "When E.F. Hutton speaks, people listen." The staged group became a collective silent statue as this profundity was uttered. I've always thought of that marketing ploy in conjunction with our subject. He wasn't loud, ebullient, or overbearing. However, when he had something to say, his peers tended to pay attention. It's a subtle trait and worthy of unseen exaltation in today's young adult hierarchy.
As last year moved along, I would see him from time to time and we'd exchange pleasantries. One day in March we crossed paths during a lull in the daily proceedings. I realized I had not asked him about his post-high school plans. I was assuming he would be attending college in the fall, but had not heard any specifics. So I popped the question. He replied that he had joined the Marines and would be reporting for basic training in July. I was stunned, not because of any preconceived notions, but that it was such an unusual decision at our high school. Over 90% of the graduates attend either two-year or four-year colleges. He would certainly have qualified. The Iraq War can charitably be termed unpopular on our campus, yet he had made a conscious, and obviously well-researched choice, to possibly situate himself in harm's way. To my knowledge he is the only member of his class to enter the military .
The more I thought about his decision, the more I remembered my own. It wasn't easy then or now. The exceptional student magazine published a nice article about the lad, but not much more was said. The school year ended and summer took its place.
To be honest, I didn't think about him until the other day. Basic training dominates both mind and body, but he will adjust and thrive.
It's a strange world now and the military remains busy. I'm sure he will make his own distinct contribution, and being so far removed, I doubt we'll know much about it.
Only two words came to mind when I recalled his decision. BE SAFE.
MM
In the spring semester of 2007 I met a young lad in one of my classes whom I grew to admire in the ensuing months. He wasn't a 4.0 student, didn't participate in student government or community service organizations, and maintained a fairly low profile on campus. His one passion had been football, where he was a talented linebacker and solid team leader. He wasn't a discipline problem, completed his assignments on time, asked for help if he needed it, and eventually graduated this past May. Yet there was something about him that caught your attention. Several years ago an E.F. Hutton (financial company) TV commercial appeared with nauseating frequency on all the networks. The punch line in a group conversational setting stated, "When E.F. Hutton speaks, people listen." The staged group became a collective silent statue as this profundity was uttered. I've always thought of that marketing ploy in conjunction with our subject. He wasn't loud, ebullient, or overbearing. However, when he had something to say, his peers tended to pay attention. It's a subtle trait and worthy of unseen exaltation in today's young adult hierarchy.
As last year moved along, I would see him from time to time and we'd exchange pleasantries. One day in March we crossed paths during a lull in the daily proceedings. I realized I had not asked him about his post-high school plans. I was assuming he would be attending college in the fall, but had not heard any specifics. So I popped the question. He replied that he had joined the Marines and would be reporting for basic training in July. I was stunned, not because of any preconceived notions, but that it was such an unusual decision at our high school. Over 90% of the graduates attend either two-year or four-year colleges. He would certainly have qualified. The Iraq War can charitably be termed unpopular on our campus, yet he had made a conscious, and obviously well-researched choice, to possibly situate himself in harm's way. To my knowledge he is the only member of his class to enter the military .
The more I thought about his decision, the more I remembered my own. It wasn't easy then or now. The exceptional student magazine published a nice article about the lad, but not much more was said. The school year ended and summer took its place.
To be honest, I didn't think about him until the other day. Basic training dominates both mind and body, but he will adjust and thrive.
It's a strange world now and the military remains busy. I'm sure he will make his own distinct contribution, and being so far removed, I doubt we'll know much about it.
Only two words came to mind when I recalled his decision. BE SAFE.
MM
Monday, July 28, 2008
CLUTTER FRENZY
In a way this is like a New Year's resolution, only in summer. I have finally come to the conclusion that I am not perfect. I have detected flaws in my character and day-to-day existence. These are shortcomings based not on actions, but on inactions. To be specific, I am a pack rat with an 11 rating on a 10 scale. Occasionally, I shake my head at the density of my imperfection. To compound the situation, I am a disorganized pack rat, making me dangerous to myself and all available storage space. It's convenient to say this is a recent affliction, but that would be dishonest (or a disremberance to paraphrase baseball legend Roger Clemens). The bare naked truth can not be avoided; I have suffered this disease since birth.
Curiosity prompted me to research the official definition for my synonym. There were two in the Oxford American Dictionary. The first being, "A person who saves unnecessary objects, or hoards things." Yep, that's on the mark. The second struck me at the core: "A rat-like rodent that accumulates a mound of sticks and debris in the nest hole." My self-esteem dropped quicker than General Motors stock value. Most of my friends, peers, and colleagues have moved past the obvious visual evidence on daily display. I know the pile of miscellany on the desk in my classroom has crossed the line from messy to ridiculous when I can't see the students while sitting in my chair. That may be a positive for privacy, but a distinct negative for daily communication. I felt a little embarrassed last June when I discovered my class schedule from 2005 at the bottom of the mountain. The saying, "A place for everything, and everything in its place," has little or no meaning for yours truly. Each year I swear I will clean my desk daily before heading home. At the end of each year I start swearing because it never happened. However, the collection at school is a mere twig in the forest compared to the collective panorama I have accrued in the confines of my humble condominium. When vacation began several weeks ago, I firmly set my goal to attack and defeat my extreme case of PACKRATITIS.
As I sit typing away, I do so with mixed feelings. Three weeks to go before school starts yet again. On 8/08/08 I will "celebrate" 20 years of residence in my two-bedroom, two-bath version of the American Dream. Hard to imagine, but I think I still possess several shirts and a blue, gray, and white-checked sport coat from that first day. They've been hiding in plain sight. I have filled five of the largest heavy duty trash bags the HEFTY company produces. I have taken four computer-sized boxes of used books to the buy-them-back store. I have stacked my remaining 732 books (the ones I could never part with) according to subject. I have removed the cans of Dennison's Chili, Campbell's soups, and C&H Cane Sugar from the pantry . I would have taken them to a food bank, but I just missed the 1994 cut-off date. Not even C-Rations could last that long. I have riddled the communal trash bins with a collection of items long past the human consumptive threshold. I have tossed out old suitcases, a disabled vacuum cleaner, checkbook records from 1993, '94, and '95 (I think I'm safe with the IRS). But guess what? I'm barely HALF finished! It's not as bad as my former address where I needed two other people to help cart the old newspapers to the recycling center. However I keep getting this salmon-spawning feeling that I'm swimming upstream. My next mission is to battle the extra sofa in the living room. It has been disguised as both closet and book case in the recent past. I'm not quite sure about its true color. In the near future I hope to establish a solid presence on my ironing board (currently laden with an eclectic combination of shirts, books, bills, pictures, Cuisinart Mini-Chopper, steam iron, and the 137 pencils I discovered in various nooks and crannies). I think my school keys are there too, but that will take some digging.
From time to time I gaze longingly at the phone with tempting thoughts of dialing 1-800-GOT JUNK. It would be a simple solution to eliminate EVERYTHING and start over.
A few years ago my brother and his bride journeyed south from Portland and spent several days here. Their mission was two-fold. He was to paint the interior, and she had volunteered to organize my mess. When they finished it was like a new residence. I promised faithfully to maintain the results of their intensive labor.
The promise lasted about two weeks until I reverted. It's been downhill since. Although they are still a wonderfully generous and loving family, I know that deep down both are saddened by my failure.
Thus my plight. I'll continue to battle the elements. It's kind of like trying to cut the White House lawn with a pocket knife. AAARRRGH!!!
Have to run; I just discovered another box of tax records from 1992. HELP!
MM
Curiosity prompted me to research the official definition for my synonym. There were two in the Oxford American Dictionary. The first being, "A person who saves unnecessary objects, or hoards things." Yep, that's on the mark. The second struck me at the core: "A rat-like rodent that accumulates a mound of sticks and debris in the nest hole." My self-esteem dropped quicker than General Motors stock value. Most of my friends, peers, and colleagues have moved past the obvious visual evidence on daily display. I know the pile of miscellany on the desk in my classroom has crossed the line from messy to ridiculous when I can't see the students while sitting in my chair. That may be a positive for privacy, but a distinct negative for daily communication. I felt a little embarrassed last June when I discovered my class schedule from 2005 at the bottom of the mountain. The saying, "A place for everything, and everything in its place," has little or no meaning for yours truly. Each year I swear I will clean my desk daily before heading home. At the end of each year I start swearing because it never happened. However, the collection at school is a mere twig in the forest compared to the collective panorama I have accrued in the confines of my humble condominium. When vacation began several weeks ago, I firmly set my goal to attack and defeat my extreme case of PACKRATITIS.
As I sit typing away, I do so with mixed feelings. Three weeks to go before school starts yet again. On 8/08/08 I will "celebrate" 20 years of residence in my two-bedroom, two-bath version of the American Dream. Hard to imagine, but I think I still possess several shirts and a blue, gray, and white-checked sport coat from that first day. They've been hiding in plain sight. I have filled five of the largest heavy duty trash bags the HEFTY company produces. I have taken four computer-sized boxes of used books to the buy-them-back store. I have stacked my remaining 732 books (the ones I could never part with) according to subject. I have removed the cans of Dennison's Chili, Campbell's soups, and C&H Cane Sugar from the pantry . I would have taken them to a food bank, but I just missed the 1994 cut-off date. Not even C-Rations could last that long. I have riddled the communal trash bins with a collection of items long past the human consumptive threshold. I have tossed out old suitcases, a disabled vacuum cleaner, checkbook records from 1993, '94, and '95 (I think I'm safe with the IRS). But guess what? I'm barely HALF finished! It's not as bad as my former address where I needed two other people to help cart the old newspapers to the recycling center. However I keep getting this salmon-spawning feeling that I'm swimming upstream. My next mission is to battle the extra sofa in the living room. It has been disguised as both closet and book case in the recent past. I'm not quite sure about its true color. In the near future I hope to establish a solid presence on my ironing board (currently laden with an eclectic combination of shirts, books, bills, pictures, Cuisinart Mini-Chopper, steam iron, and the 137 pencils I discovered in various nooks and crannies). I think my school keys are there too, but that will take some digging.
From time to time I gaze longingly at the phone with tempting thoughts of dialing 1-800-GOT JUNK. It would be a simple solution to eliminate EVERYTHING and start over.
A few years ago my brother and his bride journeyed south from Portland and spent several days here. Their mission was two-fold. He was to paint the interior, and she had volunteered to organize my mess. When they finished it was like a new residence. I promised faithfully to maintain the results of their intensive labor.
The promise lasted about two weeks until I reverted. It's been downhill since. Although they are still a wonderfully generous and loving family, I know that deep down both are saddened by my failure.
Thus my plight. I'll continue to battle the elements. It's kind of like trying to cut the White House lawn with a pocket knife. AAARRRGH!!!
Have to run; I just discovered another box of tax records from 1992. HELP!
MM
Saturday, July 26, 2008
ENDANGERED SPECIES
I've noticed something alarming in recent years. Reading skills appear to be suffering a gradual erosion. As a high school teacher, one becomes familiar with the rotating panoply of buzz words and phrases used to emphasize both district and state-wide goals. It would take far longer to list and decipher said acronyms, but suffice it to say that literacy dominates most discussions. It sounds simple -- just teach all students to read. For a variety of reasons progress remains sluggish, and as a lifelong beneficiary of the aforementioned skill, I find that sad. I realize my bias (advance apologies to all math and science teachers), however reading opens the lock to knowledge, enjoyment, and ambition. It's the key to any future. Before any young lad or lass achieves success in math or science, reading proficiency qualifies as the prerequisite.
With each passing year I frequently ruminate about my past -- upbringing, family, living conditions, entertainment, and education. It's impossible to compare eras, something each generation eventually realizes. We remain products of our time. Babe Ruth vs. Barry Bonds -- impossible and irrelevant. But the major carryover from one era to the next has always been reading skill. Technology boggles the mind. It offers a million tools to enhance our lives and futures, but no computer or machine has yet been invented to infuse the population with the ability to read. That must be taught and developed the old-fashioned way. Why the downturn? What are the causes?
It took a few hundred years for me to understand the generation gap. It's catching up to me now, seeing blank looks on my students' faces when I bring up famous names or events from the 60s and 70s. The Vietnam War and Ted Williams are too far removed from sight and sound for registering with the vast majority of today's youth. I'm not criticizing, but information can be obtained in seconds on the 'net, and depth hardly matters. Somehow, the patience, solitude, and time formerly allocated to a meaningful reading session has given way to the text message, iPod format. Translated, that means no reading unless one's favorite musical mix or text talk co-habitates with the printed word. Hard to compartmentalize and concentrate in unison.
The word "time" seems big here. In simpler, pre-high tech days, reading doubled as both teaching tool and entertainment. Before the remote control appeared, changing TV channels involved manual exertion. Fingertip knowledge was yet to arrive, and the printed word had little competition. One other change has contributed to the subject. During my growth years, I had the privilege of my mother's daily company. In the 50s, most married women stayed home to raise their kiddies. The economy allowed for a one income household. I learned to read from my mother, who read to me, instructed me, and listened to me. My first book wasn't Dr. Seuss, but J.G. Taylor Spink's Official Baseball Guide, and mom helped me navigate both prose and fine print. I was hooked and have been since. When I was stationed overseas, boredom enveloped my situation. My mother solved the problem. In addition to the welcomed batches of cookies, she also mailed me boxes of books that she had scrounged from various locales. They became my outlet, and I haven't stopped yet. I can't sleep unless I read to relax.
By nature I'm not a cynical person, yet I worry about reading's future. Will parents have time to read with their offspring? Will technology come full circle and place an emphasis on the skill? One can only hope.
Must get some sleep.. I only have 75 pages left in my latest choice -- ROME, 1960 -- by David Maraniss. Fascinating, but it takes a little patience.
MM
With each passing year I frequently ruminate about my past -- upbringing, family, living conditions, entertainment, and education. It's impossible to compare eras, something each generation eventually realizes. We remain products of our time. Babe Ruth vs. Barry Bonds -- impossible and irrelevant. But the major carryover from one era to the next has always been reading skill. Technology boggles the mind. It offers a million tools to enhance our lives and futures, but no computer or machine has yet been invented to infuse the population with the ability to read. That must be taught and developed the old-fashioned way. Why the downturn? What are the causes?
It took a few hundred years for me to understand the generation gap. It's catching up to me now, seeing blank looks on my students' faces when I bring up famous names or events from the 60s and 70s. The Vietnam War and Ted Williams are too far removed from sight and sound for registering with the vast majority of today's youth. I'm not criticizing, but information can be obtained in seconds on the 'net, and depth hardly matters. Somehow, the patience, solitude, and time formerly allocated to a meaningful reading session has given way to the text message, iPod format. Translated, that means no reading unless one's favorite musical mix or text talk co-habitates with the printed word. Hard to compartmentalize and concentrate in unison.
The word "time" seems big here. In simpler, pre-high tech days, reading doubled as both teaching tool and entertainment. Before the remote control appeared, changing TV channels involved manual exertion. Fingertip knowledge was yet to arrive, and the printed word had little competition. One other change has contributed to the subject. During my growth years, I had the privilege of my mother's daily company. In the 50s, most married women stayed home to raise their kiddies. The economy allowed for a one income household. I learned to read from my mother, who read to me, instructed me, and listened to me. My first book wasn't Dr. Seuss, but J.G. Taylor Spink's Official Baseball Guide, and mom helped me navigate both prose and fine print. I was hooked and have been since. When I was stationed overseas, boredom enveloped my situation. My mother solved the problem. In addition to the welcomed batches of cookies, she also mailed me boxes of books that she had scrounged from various locales. They became my outlet, and I haven't stopped yet. I can't sleep unless I read to relax.
By nature I'm not a cynical person, yet I worry about reading's future. Will parents have time to read with their offspring? Will technology come full circle and place an emphasis on the skill? One can only hope.
Must get some sleep.. I only have 75 pages left in my latest choice -- ROME, 1960 -- by David Maraniss. Fascinating, but it takes a little patience.
MM
Monday, July 21, 2008
A SPECIFIC PROTEST
I hate to admit this, but I was a smoker for many eons. Don't scream in horror; I've been tobacco-free for nearly 20 years. At one time smoking was a common habit, socially accepted, and relatively inexpensive. Eventually, modern science said it was time for a change. Illnesses such as cancer, emphysema, and heart disease got a big boost from tobacco usage. In simple terms, quashing the cigarette craving was the single hardest challenge I have ever faced. After numerous false starts, I finally went cold turkey as they say. To satisfy the oral fixation, I sucked on hundreds of different hard candies. Stock in Pearson's Coffee Nips rose five points during one of the tougher periods. But I finally triumphed and made it stick. Yet life is replete with obstacles. I now find myself faced with a new battle.
Today marks number 19. Yes, I know it seems beyond belief, but another "X" found its way on the calendar. I finally decided to boycott ESPN (full name: Entertainment and Sports Programming Network). I suppose it was inevitable, but it shouldn't be necessary. After all, what would my life be without televised sports? I'm happy to report no behavior changes to this point, far more selectivity in my viewing habits, and a drop in blood pressure from a reduction in stress-causing activity. I do understand the gravity of this decision, and the possible consequences, but the severing of ties has become more than necessary. Why? I'll do my best to explain.
In 1979 the world as we know it was much different -- no PCs (or Macs), no DVDs, no cell phones, and no venue for national sports coverage. I didn't know what I was missing with the technology, but I soaked up every newspaper and local TV sports report available to cover my void of information. Then, as if by magic, as if I invented it for myself, came the arrival of the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network! The world was finally saved, at least my part of it. Hard to imagine now because of ESPN's grip on the viewing sports public, but at that time the network was so new, so different, so far in front of the parade that I worried about its staying power. Then, as now, it hit the TV screens 24 hours a day. The much-venerated Sportscenter was always prevalent, and the remainder of the programming exhausted all avenues. When insomnia came to visit, the 2:00 a.m. Australian Rules Football became my faithful companion.It didn't matter. For the first time, sports news moved beyond a newspaper section and requisite three-minute report at 11:00 p.m. What we see now is space age compared to the early years. I savored it all -- the young and enthusiastic anchors, nationwide highlights, live college football and basketball coverage, and everything associated with its development. The rapid growth, lack of meaningful competition, and a corporate marriage with ABC have gradually eroded the gee whiz freshness of its beginnings. I have finally reached my boiling point.
I know I'm being selfish. I had always thought ESPN left out two letters in the acronym that translated to Entertainment and Sports Network For Mac, But that would be a bit awkward. After a 29+ year evolution process, the current version leaves the educated sports fan lamenting the past. The network saturates the market. You can watch ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, ESPNU, ESPN Deportes, and probably three or four additional ESPN's I haven't yet discovered. Baked, broiled, sauteed, poached, grilled, steamed, or deep-fried -- nothing left to viewer chance. There's an old saying that applies to any skill-dominated activity, "Repetition equals success." With this operation the end result is just the opposite. Every daily program is aired live, re-aired, re-aired again, and the re-aired version is re-aired. Case in point: Brett Favre. No sports story in recent memory has been so heavily scrutinized and dissected. I realize he dominates the quarterback position, but each day the viewers are privy to whether Brett had Wheaties or Cheerios at breakfast, how many gallons of gas he purchased on his return from running errands, and which secret phone call he made to which secret team, clandestinely seeking his services. If you watch the 7:00 a.m Sportscenter and missed a segment, fear not. It will restart every hour until noon.
A myriad of nameless, faceless anchors and reporters, an endless stream of meaningless statistics ("That was a National League record for most runs scored in one game by a second baseman with green eyes and a mustache.") inane poll questions ("Who do you think will win the 2011 Super Bowl?"), and a constant drumbeat of worshipful plaudits to undeserving participants. The capper was last year when one play-by-play man, who shall remain anonymous, suggested that Dodgers' second baseman Jeff Kent may be the best who ever played the position. Kent is obviously a talented player with solid career statistics, but the best who ever played the position? Whoa there. I won't belabor the silliness, but every player is great, every game is the best, and no well-known sports cliche ever escapes usage on any telecast. Toss in the bloated over-promotion of events such as the ESPYs (their version of a self-created sports Oscar), and the finished recipe has plenty of color and crunch, but a dreadful lack of seasoning.
My insomnia cure has changed with the times. I've gone cold turkey once again. I now turn to the Encore Westerns channel. THE RIFLEMAN episodes at 2:00 a.m. are a bit more predictable than Aussie Rules Football and they never leave an aftertaste.
The countdown continues.
MM
Today marks number 19. Yes, I know it seems beyond belief, but another "X" found its way on the calendar. I finally decided to boycott ESPN (full name: Entertainment and Sports Programming Network). I suppose it was inevitable, but it shouldn't be necessary. After all, what would my life be without televised sports? I'm happy to report no behavior changes to this point, far more selectivity in my viewing habits, and a drop in blood pressure from a reduction in stress-causing activity. I do understand the gravity of this decision, and the possible consequences, but the severing of ties has become more than necessary. Why? I'll do my best to explain.
In 1979 the world as we know it was much different -- no PCs (or Macs), no DVDs, no cell phones, and no venue for national sports coverage. I didn't know what I was missing with the technology, but I soaked up every newspaper and local TV sports report available to cover my void of information. Then, as if by magic, as if I invented it for myself, came the arrival of the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network! The world was finally saved, at least my part of it. Hard to imagine now because of ESPN's grip on the viewing sports public, but at that time the network was so new, so different, so far in front of the parade that I worried about its staying power. Then, as now, it hit the TV screens 24 hours a day. The much-venerated Sportscenter was always prevalent, and the remainder of the programming exhausted all avenues. When insomnia came to visit, the 2:00 a.m. Australian Rules Football became my faithful companion.It didn't matter. For the first time, sports news moved beyond a newspaper section and requisite three-minute report at 11:00 p.m. What we see now is space age compared to the early years. I savored it all -- the young and enthusiastic anchors, nationwide highlights, live college football and basketball coverage, and everything associated with its development. The rapid growth, lack of meaningful competition, and a corporate marriage with ABC have gradually eroded the gee whiz freshness of its beginnings. I have finally reached my boiling point.
I know I'm being selfish. I had always thought ESPN left out two letters in the acronym that translated to Entertainment and Sports Network For Mac, But that would be a bit awkward. After a 29+ year evolution process, the current version leaves the educated sports fan lamenting the past. The network saturates the market. You can watch ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, ESPNU, ESPN Deportes, and probably three or four additional ESPN's I haven't yet discovered. Baked, broiled, sauteed, poached, grilled, steamed, or deep-fried -- nothing left to viewer chance. There's an old saying that applies to any skill-dominated activity, "Repetition equals success." With this operation the end result is just the opposite. Every daily program is aired live, re-aired, re-aired again, and the re-aired version is re-aired. Case in point: Brett Favre. No sports story in recent memory has been so heavily scrutinized and dissected. I realize he dominates the quarterback position, but each day the viewers are privy to whether Brett had Wheaties or Cheerios at breakfast, how many gallons of gas he purchased on his return from running errands, and which secret phone call he made to which secret team, clandestinely seeking his services. If you watch the 7:00 a.m Sportscenter and missed a segment, fear not. It will restart every hour until noon.
A myriad of nameless, faceless anchors and reporters, an endless stream of meaningless statistics ("That was a National League record for most runs scored in one game by a second baseman with green eyes and a mustache.") inane poll questions ("Who do you think will win the 2011 Super Bowl?"), and a constant drumbeat of worshipful plaudits to undeserving participants. The capper was last year when one play-by-play man, who shall remain anonymous, suggested that Dodgers' second baseman Jeff Kent may be the best who ever played the position. Kent is obviously a talented player with solid career statistics, but the best who ever played the position? Whoa there. I won't belabor the silliness, but every player is great, every game is the best, and no well-known sports cliche ever escapes usage on any telecast. Toss in the bloated over-promotion of events such as the ESPYs (their version of a self-created sports Oscar), and the finished recipe has plenty of color and crunch, but a dreadful lack of seasoning.
My insomnia cure has changed with the times. I've gone cold turkey once again. I now turn to the Encore Westerns channel. THE RIFLEMAN episodes at 2:00 a.m. are a bit more predictable than Aussie Rules Football and they never leave an aftertaste.
The countdown continues.
MM
Thursday, July 17, 2008
GENERATION BEFORE
Who invented movies? I honestly have no idea, and I'm too lazy to check the ever-accurate Wikipedia. Thousands share in the success and development of the motion picture industry. It's hard to imagine anyone who hasn't run an emotional gamut through a century plus of watching films. The so-called big screen has thrilled, saddened, provoked, inspired, and brightened at least a couple of billion people in the last 100 years or so. But for the first time I noticed something different this summer. There hasn't been one new movie I really wanted to see. I've paid attention, but the anticipation meter failed to jump even slightly this time. The easy answer leans toward a generation gap, as in I'm too old to appreciate the flash, dazzle, and suspense of super heroes, F-bombs, and Batman #15 (Good Joker, Bad Joker??). Reasons abound for my movie lethargy, and I think I owe the audience an explanation.
For many years movies maintained a position as the preferred casual entertainment vehicle. We tend to forget the medium's role in assisting the country's survival through the Great Depression and World War II. No matter how bad life seemed, the nickel or dime admission price for a newsreel, cartoon, previews of coming attractions, AND a double-feature lightened the burdens of everyday struggles. Through the 50's and early 60's that status didn't change as television plodded through its pioneer existence. In our family, we frequently journeyed to downtown and neighborhood theaters for the visual treats. I accompanied my mother to GONE WITH THE WIND, my father to THE JIMMY PIERSALL STORY (Anthony Perkins' baseball skills needed work), and my brother to see John Wayne's worst movie, GENGHIS KHAN. The Neptune Theater, near the University of Washington, became the destination for my first date, and I was far too nervous to enjoy Frank Sinatra in NEVER SO FEW( I also dropped a box of Milk Duds and watched them roll down the aisle). For all those decades, the movie industry supplied our preferred leisure activity through a varied assortment of escapist productions -- dramas, comedies, musicals, biographies, action, adventure -- that satiated our eagerness for affordable diversions. In the current time frame, numerous technological options compete for that diversion dollar.
There remains IMHO (showing off my text messaging lingo -- in my honest opinion), another variance between old movie, new movie -- the writing. With technology's advancements, the visual has become even more dominant. In studio thinking, special effects must surpass the video game in terms of shock, colors, and stimulation. What suffers are the scripts. My brother and I saw NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN several months ago. It received the Oscar for Best Picture, and had a sterling cast. I'm not sure as to the length of the script, but I'm guessing about 10 pages. Visually enticing, with requisite quantities of blood, bullets, bodies, and explosions, but not much dialogue until the final scene when Tommy Lee Jones babbles for several minutes and the screen fades to black. Now, my brother is a movie freako and much more analytical than me. So I looked at him, he to me, and we both said in unison, "What just happened?" It seemed the perfect example of modern style, but quality dialogue vacated the production.
This summer I have become addicted to a cable station, Turner Classic Movies. I think it may have prompted this posting because I've watched so many great videos from the past. Last week I visually inhaled Billy Wilder's gem, WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION, with Charles Laughton, Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power, and Elsa Lanchester (You can look them up; they all possessed impeccable acting credentials). The movie is a court room thriller set in London, but the dominant factor throughout the performance remains Wilder's script and the cast's remarkable interpretation of same. No explosions, one death at the end (no blood and cheered by most), no car chases through downtown London, no sidewalks destroyed by careening vehicles and spontaneous combustion, AND (gasp!) it was filmed in black and white. But, the WRITING displayed itself better than any five Javier Bardem's assasinations in NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN.
As always, I seem to have gone off the deep end. Yes, I realize I'm showing my age. However, I'm not castigating Hollywood, because every generation has different tastes. Even though my summer attendance doesn't look encouraging, I still revere and enjoy movies. I know what I'm missing, but does this generation of moviegoers?
Tonight should be wonderful. TCM (Turner Classic Movies) will be airing three Fatty Arbuckle silent films. You should see the dialogue.
My own tastes vary, but I conjured a Top Ten list (at least until I think of 100 more that I love), and placed it adjacent to this text.
MM
For many years movies maintained a position as the preferred casual entertainment vehicle. We tend to forget the medium's role in assisting the country's survival through the Great Depression and World War II. No matter how bad life seemed, the nickel or dime admission price for a newsreel, cartoon, previews of coming attractions, AND a double-feature lightened the burdens of everyday struggles. Through the 50's and early 60's that status didn't change as television plodded through its pioneer existence. In our family, we frequently journeyed to downtown and neighborhood theaters for the visual treats. I accompanied my mother to GONE WITH THE WIND, my father to THE JIMMY PIERSALL STORY (Anthony Perkins' baseball skills needed work), and my brother to see John Wayne's worst movie, GENGHIS KHAN. The Neptune Theater, near the University of Washington, became the destination for my first date, and I was far too nervous to enjoy Frank Sinatra in NEVER SO FEW( I also dropped a box of Milk Duds and watched them roll down the aisle). For all those decades, the movie industry supplied our preferred leisure activity through a varied assortment of escapist productions -- dramas, comedies, musicals, biographies, action, adventure -- that satiated our eagerness for affordable diversions. In the current time frame, numerous technological options compete for that diversion dollar.
There remains IMHO (showing off my text messaging lingo -- in my honest opinion), another variance between old movie, new movie -- the writing. With technology's advancements, the visual has become even more dominant. In studio thinking, special effects must surpass the video game in terms of shock, colors, and stimulation. What suffers are the scripts. My brother and I saw NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN several months ago. It received the Oscar for Best Picture, and had a sterling cast. I'm not sure as to the length of the script, but I'm guessing about 10 pages. Visually enticing, with requisite quantities of blood, bullets, bodies, and explosions, but not much dialogue until the final scene when Tommy Lee Jones babbles for several minutes and the screen fades to black. Now, my brother is a movie freako and much more analytical than me. So I looked at him, he to me, and we both said in unison, "What just happened?" It seemed the perfect example of modern style, but quality dialogue vacated the production.
This summer I have become addicted to a cable station, Turner Classic Movies. I think it may have prompted this posting because I've watched so many great videos from the past. Last week I visually inhaled Billy Wilder's gem, WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION, with Charles Laughton, Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power, and Elsa Lanchester (You can look them up; they all possessed impeccable acting credentials). The movie is a court room thriller set in London, but the dominant factor throughout the performance remains Wilder's script and the cast's remarkable interpretation of same. No explosions, one death at the end (no blood and cheered by most), no car chases through downtown London, no sidewalks destroyed by careening vehicles and spontaneous combustion, AND (gasp!) it was filmed in black and white. But, the WRITING displayed itself better than any five Javier Bardem's assasinations in NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN.
As always, I seem to have gone off the deep end. Yes, I realize I'm showing my age. However, I'm not castigating Hollywood, because every generation has different tastes. Even though my summer attendance doesn't look encouraging, I still revere and enjoy movies. I know what I'm missing, but does this generation of moviegoers?
Tonight should be wonderful. TCM (Turner Classic Movies) will be airing three Fatty Arbuckle silent films. You should see the dialogue.
My own tastes vary, but I conjured a Top Ten list (at least until I think of 100 more that I love), and placed it adjacent to this text.
MM
Monday, July 14, 2008
A DIFFERENT WORLD
I hate planning for the future. Yeah, I know it's a necessity, but that doesn't make futurethought any more pleasant. Recently, I have begun the dreaded process of investigating retirement. No, it won't happen for several years, but I thought it prudent to see if I could possibly make ends meet despite my ignorance of anything financial. It amazes me that more insurance agents, investment "professionals", and Nigerian banking scammers haven't contacted me. They would immediately think dollar signs and easy mark. To avoid reader's malaise, I checked things out, made a couple of adjustments to enhance my bottom line, and I think I'll survive if I move to Eagle Point, Montana and buy that one-room cabin with the outhouse and kerosene lamps. California isn't cheap, and with our beloved politicians and government managers on the job, the state should be fiscally solvent around the time dinosaurs return.
What oath do peace officers take upon being sworn in? The short form is "Serve and Protect," if I'm not mistaken. Unfortunately, it seems the majority of governators at both local and state levels added a few words to that oath. For that rather large and insulated group it now reads, "Serve (myself), Protect (my cash flow, retirement and benefits), and Pass (the bill onto us who pay taxes). This isn't a democrat or republican thing, but a general, "I deserve mine and you should be happy to pay it" thing.
I think I understand politics on a surface level. Whichever party is in control can't wait to finance pet projects for their constituents and heavy donors, not to mention themselves. Campaign rhetoric is just that -- rhetoric. Several years ago in the state's election for Governor, Gray Davis, a veteran Democrat with over 20 years of state government experience, soundly defeated Republican Dan Lundgren, who exhibited the intellectual depth and personal charm of a Bart Station parking lot. Time to rest easy? Wrong! Davis completely lost control of his party (not to mention his senses), and promptly placed the state into a budget deficit numbering in the untold billions. Excuses and blame circulated ad nauseum, but for the first time in state history, a sitting governor was recalled by the voters. In came Hollywood strong man Arnold Schwarzenegger to save the state. Guess where we are now? In nearly the exact same financial spot we were with Coach Davis. On top of that, the California Legislature (House and Senate)is a few months late submitting the state budget (as usual) because they can't agree on how to cover their spending addictions and avoid blame. Some things never change.
I have a sneaky premonition that if I biked to my friendly Wells Fargo branch, and explained that I needed several thousand dollars more in my account to cover my dreams of a beach condo and Giants' season tickets, they would either find the request laughable or have me committed. The world just doesn't work that way. Do you remember the House Banking Scandal in Washington, D.C. a few years back? It took me awhile to understand that, but in essence a large number of U.S. Representatives had developed a habit of cashing checks with their in-house bank. That was perfectly understandable, except that in many cases they didn't have enough cash in their accounts to cover the checks they wrote. The huffing, puffing, bloviations, and posturing that resulted would have topped any Johnny Carson monologue. Eventually, it all quieted down with promises of ethical purity in the immediate future. Somehow, I don't think banking establishments, outside the U.S. House of Representatives, would have extended the same courtesies to Joe and Janet Taxpayer.
It's not that I have any personal animosity for government movers and shakers. After all, I'm a state employee (teacher) myself. But I think many who enter the world of elections and appointments, deem themselves highly important and thus insulated from the mundane norms of everyday "civilian" functions. One of the most perplexing issues of this (and previous) elections continues to be health care. In a perfect world all medical expenses would be covered, all citizens would have complete access and be able to choose their own doctors and providers. The big rub is how to pay for this. It is bothersome for all politicians because there is no solution that satisfies all constituencies. Ironically, the one location that offers this medicinal valhalla is the Congress. Everything is paid for, including doctor choice and full access. If the rest of the citizenry could simply fall in behind the country's lawmakers and sign up, there would be one less campaign issue and both parties would have lower collective blood pressure. Any chance? Don't think so.
My final rant involves a story I first read about this past May. We have here (as do most other well-populated areas) a government agency, the Santa Clara Valley Water District. If I had known 20 years ago what I just discovered, I would have been sorely tempted to change career paths and take a civil service exam. The water district's primary function provides drinking water and flood protection for the million plus Santa Clara County residents. It manages to scrape by with a meager $364 million annual budget which is accrued through water bills and property taxes.
Well it seems there have been concerns and even complaints about excess spending and exorbitant salaries at the venerable SCVWD. Former CEO Stan Williams got the ball rolling when he hired then-board member Greg Zlotnick for a brand spanking new position at the modest salary of $184,000 per year. Stan forgot to advertise the position or tell any of the other board members (They must have been peeved at not getting the job). Eventually, Stan the Man resigned under fire, but not before the board gave him a 7% raise to a tidy $250,000, which coincidentally helped raise his pension. But the true heartwarming tale involves Stan's successor, Olga Martin Steele. She was piped aboard the ship as a TEMPORARY CEO in January. Her salary -- a meager $252,000. But she only works 32 hours a week and is considered a part-time employee. Why? Because she is also drawing a $180,000 per year pension from her previous government positions. If she worked full-time she would have to give that up. But don't think Olga isn't making sacrifices. She will have to make a decision on job or pension this coming January, because under state rules, she's only allowed to have BOTH for one year. In addition, she receives NO BENEFITS, has to pay for her own health care insurance, and gets NO VACATION. She was even denied the $750 per month car allowance old Stan received.Olga is a certain candidate for political sainthood. What a trooper! I love board chair Rosemary Kanei's comments in defending this mess. "...I think she's doing an excellent job. In a very short time frame she has been able to do a lot of good things," she babbled. Can you be a little more generic, Rosemary?
If Olga decides to hang it up and struggle along on her measly pension after January, I wonder what my chances would be of taking her place? I'd settle for $200,000, but I couldn't survive without the vacay and car swag. Incidentally, the board is planning on raising the "pump tax" (the fee to city agencies and farmers for pumping groundwater) an additional 9.5% this year. That particular "fee" has doubled over the past 10 years. Makes sense; after all the Stans and Olgas need their perks.
Before steam starts coming out of my ears, I should pay homage to writer Paul Rogers of the San Jose Mercury News. His diligence and reporting expertise provided the two articles that prompted this diatribe.
So I guess I should go back to the planning table and start selling pencils door-to-door in my spare time. After all, retirement is just around the corner. Should I call my representative and check on a car allowance?
Frustration!
MM
What oath do peace officers take upon being sworn in? The short form is "Serve and Protect," if I'm not mistaken. Unfortunately, it seems the majority of governators at both local and state levels added a few words to that oath. For that rather large and insulated group it now reads, "Serve (myself), Protect (my cash flow, retirement and benefits), and Pass (the bill onto us who pay taxes). This isn't a democrat or republican thing, but a general, "I deserve mine and you should be happy to pay it" thing.
I think I understand politics on a surface level. Whichever party is in control can't wait to finance pet projects for their constituents and heavy donors, not to mention themselves. Campaign rhetoric is just that -- rhetoric. Several years ago in the state's election for Governor, Gray Davis, a veteran Democrat with over 20 years of state government experience, soundly defeated Republican Dan Lundgren, who exhibited the intellectual depth and personal charm of a Bart Station parking lot. Time to rest easy? Wrong! Davis completely lost control of his party (not to mention his senses), and promptly placed the state into a budget deficit numbering in the untold billions. Excuses and blame circulated ad nauseum, but for the first time in state history, a sitting governor was recalled by the voters. In came Hollywood strong man Arnold Schwarzenegger to save the state. Guess where we are now? In nearly the exact same financial spot we were with Coach Davis. On top of that, the California Legislature (House and Senate)is a few months late submitting the state budget (as usual) because they can't agree on how to cover their spending addictions and avoid blame. Some things never change.
I have a sneaky premonition that if I biked to my friendly Wells Fargo branch, and explained that I needed several thousand dollars more in my account to cover my dreams of a beach condo and Giants' season tickets, they would either find the request laughable or have me committed. The world just doesn't work that way. Do you remember the House Banking Scandal in Washington, D.C. a few years back? It took me awhile to understand that, but in essence a large number of U.S. Representatives had developed a habit of cashing checks with their in-house bank. That was perfectly understandable, except that in many cases they didn't have enough cash in their accounts to cover the checks they wrote. The huffing, puffing, bloviations, and posturing that resulted would have topped any Johnny Carson monologue. Eventually, it all quieted down with promises of ethical purity in the immediate future. Somehow, I don't think banking establishments, outside the U.S. House of Representatives, would have extended the same courtesies to Joe and Janet Taxpayer.
It's not that I have any personal animosity for government movers and shakers. After all, I'm a state employee (teacher) myself. But I think many who enter the world of elections and appointments, deem themselves highly important and thus insulated from the mundane norms of everyday "civilian" functions. One of the most perplexing issues of this (and previous) elections continues to be health care. In a perfect world all medical expenses would be covered, all citizens would have complete access and be able to choose their own doctors and providers. The big rub is how to pay for this. It is bothersome for all politicians because there is no solution that satisfies all constituencies. Ironically, the one location that offers this medicinal valhalla is the Congress. Everything is paid for, including doctor choice and full access. If the rest of the citizenry could simply fall in behind the country's lawmakers and sign up, there would be one less campaign issue and both parties would have lower collective blood pressure. Any chance? Don't think so.
My final rant involves a story I first read about this past May. We have here (as do most other well-populated areas) a government agency, the Santa Clara Valley Water District. If I had known 20 years ago what I just discovered, I would have been sorely tempted to change career paths and take a civil service exam. The water district's primary function provides drinking water and flood protection for the million plus Santa Clara County residents. It manages to scrape by with a meager $364 million annual budget which is accrued through water bills and property taxes.
Well it seems there have been concerns and even complaints about excess spending and exorbitant salaries at the venerable SCVWD. Former CEO Stan Williams got the ball rolling when he hired then-board member Greg Zlotnick for a brand spanking new position at the modest salary of $184,000 per year. Stan forgot to advertise the position or tell any of the other board members (They must have been peeved at not getting the job). Eventually, Stan the Man resigned under fire, but not before the board gave him a 7% raise to a tidy $250,000, which coincidentally helped raise his pension. But the true heartwarming tale involves Stan's successor, Olga Martin Steele. She was piped aboard the ship as a TEMPORARY CEO in January. Her salary -- a meager $252,000. But she only works 32 hours a week and is considered a part-time employee. Why? Because she is also drawing a $180,000 per year pension from her previous government positions. If she worked full-time she would have to give that up. But don't think Olga isn't making sacrifices. She will have to make a decision on job or pension this coming January, because under state rules, she's only allowed to have BOTH for one year. In addition, she receives NO BENEFITS, has to pay for her own health care insurance, and gets NO VACATION. She was even denied the $750 per month car allowance old Stan received.Olga is a certain candidate for political sainthood. What a trooper! I love board chair Rosemary Kanei's comments in defending this mess. "...I think she's doing an excellent job. In a very short time frame she has been able to do a lot of good things," she babbled. Can you be a little more generic, Rosemary?
If Olga decides to hang it up and struggle along on her measly pension after January, I wonder what my chances would be of taking her place? I'd settle for $200,000, but I couldn't survive without the vacay and car swag. Incidentally, the board is planning on raising the "pump tax" (the fee to city agencies and farmers for pumping groundwater) an additional 9.5% this year. That particular "fee" has doubled over the past 10 years. Makes sense; after all the Stans and Olgas need their perks.
Before steam starts coming out of my ears, I should pay homage to writer Paul Rogers of the San Jose Mercury News. His diligence and reporting expertise provided the two articles that prompted this diatribe.
So I guess I should go back to the planning table and start selling pencils door-to-door in my spare time. After all, retirement is just around the corner. Should I call my representative and check on a car allowance?
Frustration!
MM
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
STILL THE SAME
A few nights ago I couldn't get to sleep. The major factor was the 125 degree heat that permeated my air-conditionless condo. I exaggerate the temperature, but it felt a bit sticky. I read for awhile, answered a couple of e-mails, then moved to phase three: TV channel surfing, a sport with which I am most familiar. I usually go through all the programming options at least twice before getting frustrated, but that night I stopped abruptly during the first rotation. I began watching an old HBO baseball documentary, "When it Was a Game 3." I have it in my collection and had actually viewed it once. But on this particular night at that particular time, it was the perfect antidote for my increasing discomfort.
I love baseball. It's not an obsession, but I honestly love the game. At my advancing age, I still have occasional longings to take batting practice and play catch. It's in my blood. "When it Was a Game 3" (there were two previous WiWaG, numbers 1 and 2) rekindled my baseball origins. It was a brilliant and original idea. The producers gathered a humongous collection of home movies and film footage (no DVDs then) from former players and fans of three separate eras, and weaved it all together with commentary from writers, players, poets, broadcasters, and fans to tell baseball's story. Mesmerizing. In that nostalgic, yet perspirated late night setting, I found myself revisiting my first and only favorite sport. It could digress in several directions at this point, however I will strive mightily to stay on topic.
As a wee lad, I began playing catch with my father before I could walk. He was quite sure about two of my future goals (I was a bit young for consultation), a college degree and a long playing career with the Boston Red Sox (see My Favorites). I accomplished the first, but failed miserably with the second. Not that I didn't try. I played ball every day, each spring and summer for eight years with varying degrees of modest success. For five of those years, my father coached me. It promoted a tenuous familial relationship, occasional hard feelings, and an eventual year away from the game (10th grade). I did return the following season, primarily to earn a varsity letter, which allowed the purchase of the coveted letterman's jacket, a virtual guarantee for exalted social status. But after high school, I gave up the sport for more leisurely and less intense extracurricular pursuits. My passion for the game slowly evaporated. Too many years have passed since my last active participation, but I've found a gradual, exhilarating appreciation for baseball's many positive facets.
A common complaint from casual observers states that baseball is boring. If I have heard that once, I've heard it a hundred times. We all have different tastes and built-in excitement meters, yet for me, baseball is anything but boring. Dan Patrick, former ESPN anchor and current radio talk show host, recently made the following on-air statement referencing the generic sports fan: "What we love is now." I think he's right. It's a high tech world and we've become attuned to instant knowledge, analysis, and results. Baseball doesn't quite fit that stereotype and I'm glad.
In this fast-faster-now society, baseball is the only major team sport without a time limit. The game proceeds at the pace of the day. Two hours, three hours, four hours has no bearing on the nine inning schedule. The game is played outdoors (for the most part) during the best weather months of each year, and strategy changes with every pitch. One can be either engaged or detached in the game -- individual choice, and it's hard to turn away from hot dogs, cold beverages, peanuts,and Cracker Jacks. I've been fortunate to sit in the press box during a World Series, as well as the bleachers for Rookie League contests. It doesn't matter, the GAME is the attraction.
The sport remains as it always has: timeless, cerebral, stimulating, and ephemeral. Each game offers a myriad of moods and experiences. I think it is often criticized unfairly because the unrabid fan sees baseball in a television screen. The size of the screen, whether 26", 32", 46", 52" HD, or black and white becomes irrelevant because camera angles are limited to pitcher, hitter, catcher, fielder. Ballparks contain so much more. Countless books, poems, historical references, essays, and critiques testify to the interest and fascination with this oddly crafted exhibition. For all its wonder and potential, the internet can't recreate the atmosphere of that ballpark. A visit to Fenway Park in Boston, Yankee Stadium in New York, or Wrigley Field in Chicago reaffirms the attitude and ambiance only baseball can provide. I once attended a three-game weekend series at Fenway. Nothing in sports has ever approached that weekend's enjoyment for me.
----
I finally turned off the set that night, but not until I watched the entire documentary yet again. Sleep eventually arrived, but baseball still dominated my thoughts.
Sorry, but I have to go. the Red Sox-Orioles game is about to start on WTBS, and I have two hot dogs and a lemonade left in the refrigerator. Yes!
MM
p.s. I didn't quite make my three-post weekly goal. Luckily, my editor is me.
I'll try to do better.
I love baseball. It's not an obsession, but I honestly love the game. At my advancing age, I still have occasional longings to take batting practice and play catch. It's in my blood. "When it Was a Game 3" (there were two previous WiWaG, numbers 1 and 2) rekindled my baseball origins. It was a brilliant and original idea. The producers gathered a humongous collection of home movies and film footage (no DVDs then) from former players and fans of three separate eras, and weaved it all together with commentary from writers, players, poets, broadcasters, and fans to tell baseball's story. Mesmerizing. In that nostalgic, yet perspirated late night setting, I found myself revisiting my first and only favorite sport. It could digress in several directions at this point, however I will strive mightily to stay on topic.
As a wee lad, I began playing catch with my father before I could walk. He was quite sure about two of my future goals (I was a bit young for consultation), a college degree and a long playing career with the Boston Red Sox (see My Favorites). I accomplished the first, but failed miserably with the second. Not that I didn't try. I played ball every day, each spring and summer for eight years with varying degrees of modest success. For five of those years, my father coached me. It promoted a tenuous familial relationship, occasional hard feelings, and an eventual year away from the game (10th grade). I did return the following season, primarily to earn a varsity letter, which allowed the purchase of the coveted letterman's jacket, a virtual guarantee for exalted social status. But after high school, I gave up the sport for more leisurely and less intense extracurricular pursuits. My passion for the game slowly evaporated. Too many years have passed since my last active participation, but I've found a gradual, exhilarating appreciation for baseball's many positive facets.
A common complaint from casual observers states that baseball is boring. If I have heard that once, I've heard it a hundred times. We all have different tastes and built-in excitement meters, yet for me, baseball is anything but boring. Dan Patrick, former ESPN anchor and current radio talk show host, recently made the following on-air statement referencing the generic sports fan: "What we love is now." I think he's right. It's a high tech world and we've become attuned to instant knowledge, analysis, and results. Baseball doesn't quite fit that stereotype and I'm glad.
In this fast-faster-now society, baseball is the only major team sport without a time limit. The game proceeds at the pace of the day. Two hours, three hours, four hours has no bearing on the nine inning schedule. The game is played outdoors (for the most part) during the best weather months of each year, and strategy changes with every pitch. One can be either engaged or detached in the game -- individual choice, and it's hard to turn away from hot dogs, cold beverages, peanuts,and Cracker Jacks. I've been fortunate to sit in the press box during a World Series, as well as the bleachers for Rookie League contests. It doesn't matter, the GAME is the attraction.
The sport remains as it always has: timeless, cerebral, stimulating, and ephemeral. Each game offers a myriad of moods and experiences. I think it is often criticized unfairly because the unrabid fan sees baseball in a television screen. The size of the screen, whether 26", 32", 46", 52" HD, or black and white becomes irrelevant because camera angles are limited to pitcher, hitter, catcher, fielder. Ballparks contain so much more. Countless books, poems, historical references, essays, and critiques testify to the interest and fascination with this oddly crafted exhibition. For all its wonder and potential, the internet can't recreate the atmosphere of that ballpark. A visit to Fenway Park in Boston, Yankee Stadium in New York, or Wrigley Field in Chicago reaffirms the attitude and ambiance only baseball can provide. I once attended a three-game weekend series at Fenway. Nothing in sports has ever approached that weekend's enjoyment for me.
----
I finally turned off the set that night, but not until I watched the entire documentary yet again. Sleep eventually arrived, but baseball still dominated my thoughts.
Sorry, but I have to go. the Red Sox-Orioles game is about to start on WTBS, and I have two hot dogs and a lemonade left in the refrigerator. Yes!
MM
p.s. I didn't quite make my three-post weekly goal. Luckily, my editor is me.
I'll try to do better.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
IT'S NEVER EASY
I hate goodbyes. I can't think of anything less pleasant than bidding adieu to students, family, friends, or colleagues. It happens so many times in one's life, you would think it becomes routine. Not the case. In the past month a number of remarkable people exited my everyday world. The placating response often states, "Don't be sad, you'll get together again." Comforting words but reality dictates otherwise. Since I've never been loquacious with parting, face-to-face niceisms (another word invention-- only 3,000 more and I'll catch up with that guy Shakespeare), it's only reasonable to use cyberworld as a farewell podium.
As a teacher, I'm often asked whether I look forward to graduation day. The normal reply would be an affirmative, "Yes," with a sigh, reinforcing that end-of-school exhaustion. But I continue to have a bittersweet attitude about commencement. Part of it is pure selfishness. Having developed a teacher-student bond with a number of graduates, it's difficult to turn them loose, so to speak. It's also the final time I will see many of them, as only a small percentage ever return to campus. I rarely make it through the day, ceremony, and reception without at least one sad thought or several tears. I know, guys aren't supposed to cry, but they forgot to tell those of us who are sentimental Irish.
My family isn't large. I have a brother, sister-in-law, nephew (his bride), niece (her boyfriend), and my sister-in-law's mother. Years ago my brother and I had an argument about something long since forgotten, and we didn't speak for nearly two years. It was stupid, we both realized it, and our stubbornness took over. When we finally came to our senses, we began calling each other every week, which has kept us close. Unfortunately, we only see each other once (at Christmas), possibly twice a year. This past spring he visited for three days to do some observing at my school. I enjoyed the time, as always, but the goodbye at the airport was short and bland. I wish I could write a speech and deliver it eloquently about how much I love and appreciate him, but it's the wrong stage and time.
I'm awful when leaving friends. A few years ago I drove to Spokane to visit several college buds. One of my closest friend's daughter was getting married, offering me a perfect excuse for the journey. I was there for a week, socialized with him and his family, as well as several others living in the area. The wedding culminated my sojourn, and was a joyous gathering, almost a reunion of sorts. But as the day/evening wore on, I dreaded the thought of leaving and the requisite parting platitudes. I hate to admit it, but I finally snuck out the door and sent a letter after I returned home. It was both silly and childish, but I abhorred the task of saying the words without emphasizing my feelings.
I've now been a teacher for 15 years, and enjoy it immensely. I'm fortunate to work at a good school and teach in an English Department with bright, creative, generous colleagues. In recent years, I have sadly watched a number of those colleagues either retire or move on to other avenues. They must all wonder if I have any appreciation for them, because I have rarely said much prior to their departure. It's simply too difficult. About a month ago, two great teachers left for retirement and marriage respectively. The lady who retired taught for well over 30 years and was truly an inspiration. I can't count the times she gave me advice and tips that made my tasks easier. I also can't count the number of students who praised her for helping them understand and improve. She did her job without fanfare, but with remarkable expertise. The other teacher was with us for five years. I've never seen anyone work harder under tougher conditions. She never cheated her students, and most had no idea how many hours she spent trying to attain the right combination. I relate this because I never said a proper goodbye to either of them. I could never verbally express to them my great appreciation and admiration for their unique talents.
I'm not sure this makes much sense, but we all have our own quirks and foibles. The old saying, "Parting is such sweet sorrow," (Shakespeare again?) doesn't quite cover my base. It's much more sorrow than sweet.
I resolve to do better in the future.
MM
As a teacher, I'm often asked whether I look forward to graduation day. The normal reply would be an affirmative, "Yes," with a sigh, reinforcing that end-of-school exhaustion. But I continue to have a bittersweet attitude about commencement. Part of it is pure selfishness. Having developed a teacher-student bond with a number of graduates, it's difficult to turn them loose, so to speak. It's also the final time I will see many of them, as only a small percentage ever return to campus. I rarely make it through the day, ceremony, and reception without at least one sad thought or several tears. I know, guys aren't supposed to cry, but they forgot to tell those of us who are sentimental Irish.
My family isn't large. I have a brother, sister-in-law, nephew (his bride), niece (her boyfriend), and my sister-in-law's mother. Years ago my brother and I had an argument about something long since forgotten, and we didn't speak for nearly two years. It was stupid, we both realized it, and our stubbornness took over. When we finally came to our senses, we began calling each other every week, which has kept us close. Unfortunately, we only see each other once (at Christmas), possibly twice a year. This past spring he visited for three days to do some observing at my school. I enjoyed the time, as always, but the goodbye at the airport was short and bland. I wish I could write a speech and deliver it eloquently about how much I love and appreciate him, but it's the wrong stage and time.
I'm awful when leaving friends. A few years ago I drove to Spokane to visit several college buds. One of my closest friend's daughter was getting married, offering me a perfect excuse for the journey. I was there for a week, socialized with him and his family, as well as several others living in the area. The wedding culminated my sojourn, and was a joyous gathering, almost a reunion of sorts. But as the day/evening wore on, I dreaded the thought of leaving and the requisite parting platitudes. I hate to admit it, but I finally snuck out the door and sent a letter after I returned home. It was both silly and childish, but I abhorred the task of saying the words without emphasizing my feelings.
I've now been a teacher for 15 years, and enjoy it immensely. I'm fortunate to work at a good school and teach in an English Department with bright, creative, generous colleagues. In recent years, I have sadly watched a number of those colleagues either retire or move on to other avenues. They must all wonder if I have any appreciation for them, because I have rarely said much prior to their departure. It's simply too difficult. About a month ago, two great teachers left for retirement and marriage respectively. The lady who retired taught for well over 30 years and was truly an inspiration. I can't count the times she gave me advice and tips that made my tasks easier. I also can't count the number of students who praised her for helping them understand and improve. She did her job without fanfare, but with remarkable expertise. The other teacher was with us for five years. I've never seen anyone work harder under tougher conditions. She never cheated her students, and most had no idea how many hours she spent trying to attain the right combination. I relate this because I never said a proper goodbye to either of them. I could never verbally express to them my great appreciation and admiration for their unique talents.
I'm not sure this makes much sense, but we all have our own quirks and foibles. The old saying, "Parting is such sweet sorrow," (Shakespeare again?) doesn't quite cover my base. It's much more sorrow than sweet.
I resolve to do better in the future.
MM
Friday, July 4, 2008
COMPETITION ENVY
It happens every summer. The weather turns warm, hot even at times; the barbecue gets cleaned in preparation, and Independence Day arrives. Families and friends gather around the pool, in the park, or at the resort. The fireworks commence as the sun disappears, and all is well in River City. But in recent years another 4th of July tradition has blossomed for all to enjoy: The annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island in Brooklyn. Until the advent of ESPN and a dearth of games or matches available to televise, the "Contest" was somewhat provincial. Enthusiastic local crowds observed the proceedings, but let's face it, this is an event tailor-made for the gazillions of television viewers panting with curiosity. The rules for the NHDEC are fairly simple. Whoever snarfs down the most hot dogs (and buns) in 10 minutes is the winner. No upchucking allowed. This year's battle was reduced from the usual 12-minute competition after research discovered the original event in 1916 to have been 10 minutes in duration. I guess tradition speaks volumes.
The Entertainment and Sports Network takes its production duties seriously. Anchor Paul Page, color commentator Richard Shea, and "sideline" reporter Jimmy Dykes comprise the on-air talent. All three have impeccable credentials for this assignment. Page hosted ABC's coverage of of the Indianapolis 500 from 1988-2004 before being unceremoniously demoted. This is his comeback event. Shea is the co-founder of the International Federation of Competitive Eaters (IFCE for you acronym lovers), who better to discuss these gluttons. Dykes both played and coached college basketball and does commentary for the network's hoop presentations. Who could possibly understand more about 'athletic' effort and determination than Jimmy. The hour-long broadcast was smooth and professional, but one fact remains more than impressive. Page, Shea, and Dykes completed the entire production without so much as a giggle. That's what I call professionalism. Keeping a straight face for one hour throughout this pigfest borders on the amazing. On to the competitors.
Although 20 competitors "qualified for the NHDEC (I'm sorry, acronyms excite me), the true race to the stomach involved two magic names in nibbling annals: six-time former champion Takeru Kobayashi, and defending titleist Joey Chestnut from right here in San Jose. The former is a world-wide consumptive legend and the acknowledged emperor of eating until his close loss to Chestnut a year ago. Joey shattered Kobayashi's world record in that match with 66 gut plugs in the 12-minute allotment. But he is nothing if not versatile, holding numerous records such as wolfing on separate occasions 118 jalapeno peppers, 47 grilled cheese sammies, 241 chcken wings in Wing Bowl XVI this past February, and 103 Krystal hamburgers (in 8 minutes). I don't detect a weakness here. As the number one-ranked feedbag fanatic, Chestnut holds the coveted Mustard Yellow Championship Belt.
I won't dwell on the often hilarious 60-minute program that included a running tally window in the upper left corner of the screen, and countless shots of the contestants ramming bun, dog, and water through the old pie hole. No such thing as table manners on this show. But it could not have been better choreographed. As they counted off the final seconds, champion and challenger swallowed furiously finishing in an absolute dead heat with 59 of those all-beef beauties in the waist container. the regulation battle was referred to as a "chow-down" and the subsequent fastest-to-five dog overtime's official moniker was 'eat-off." Chestnut prevailed by mere seconds. When asked to comment, this was his reply: "He wanted it, but I needed it...It was crazy. I'm just a normal guy eating hot dogs on the Fourth. You can't overcomplicate it." No Joey, you can't. How nutritional was this stomach stretcher? Dr. Marc Siegel, a professor at NYU's School of Medicine related the truth when referring to the main course, "One is bad for you, five's worse and 50 is terrible. Ya think?
But what about the common citizen? How would I, for instance, measure up? Two nights ago I splurged for din-din and inhaled not one, but TWO 97% fat-free Hebrew National all-beef dogies. I even put a little cheese on them, slurped down a tureen of tomato soup, and glugged a ginger ale for good measure. I thought about Chestnut's record, but even with my considerable storage basket I could only dream of reaching the Big Leagues. There was a time in the halcyon days of my youth when I ate a dozen chocolate-covered doughnuts at a single sitting, and on another occasion four pounds of steamed clams, complete with rice, veggies, salad, and bread. But that was long ago and far away. The true giants of the sport are far more committed to epicurean overload.
I do like to compare eras though. Last January one of my boyhood (or at least early malehood) idols passed on. Eddie "Bozo" Miller lived to the ripe old age of 89 after an unbeaten (and seldom threatened) competitive career that spanned 50 years from 1931 to 1981 (Guinness Book of Records). At his peak Bozo was 5'7" tall and tipped the scales at a biscuit over 300 lbs. He was equally adept with a knife and fork or a glass. He once ate 27 two-pound chickens and washed them down with two bottles of whiskey in ONE hour. The "compact" Bozo liked pasta so much he vacuumed up 324 raviolis in 1963. He enjoyed baseball games, especially extra inning tilts, because he could eat more hot dogs. But his greatest achievement (in my admiring eyes) was the night he walked into a San Francisco waterfront restaurant (Tarantino's I believe), The waiter brought him a menu and took out his pencil and pad for the order. His 25,000 calorie per day training regimen prompted Bozo to scan the menu, put it down, and tell the waiter, "Looks good, I think I'll take it." He proceeded to eat the entire menu. It's hard to imagine, but the causes of his death were reportedly complications from heart disease and diabetes. Say it ain't so, Bozo.
I think the next step is to create one of those computer programs to match the old with the new. Joey versus Bozo, a gastronomic battle for the ages.
May I be excused from the table?
MM
The Entertainment and Sports Network takes its production duties seriously. Anchor Paul Page, color commentator Richard Shea, and "sideline" reporter Jimmy Dykes comprise the on-air talent. All three have impeccable credentials for this assignment. Page hosted ABC's coverage of of the Indianapolis 500 from 1988-2004 before being unceremoniously demoted. This is his comeback event. Shea is the co-founder of the International Federation of Competitive Eaters (IFCE for you acronym lovers), who better to discuss these gluttons. Dykes both played and coached college basketball and does commentary for the network's hoop presentations. Who could possibly understand more about 'athletic' effort and determination than Jimmy. The hour-long broadcast was smooth and professional, but one fact remains more than impressive. Page, Shea, and Dykes completed the entire production without so much as a giggle. That's what I call professionalism. Keeping a straight face for one hour throughout this pigfest borders on the amazing. On to the competitors.
Although 20 competitors "qualified for the NHDEC (I'm sorry, acronyms excite me), the true race to the stomach involved two magic names in nibbling annals: six-time former champion Takeru Kobayashi, and defending titleist Joey Chestnut from right here in San Jose. The former is a world-wide consumptive legend and the acknowledged emperor of eating until his close loss to Chestnut a year ago. Joey shattered Kobayashi's world record in that match with 66 gut plugs in the 12-minute allotment. But he is nothing if not versatile, holding numerous records such as wolfing on separate occasions 118 jalapeno peppers, 47 grilled cheese sammies, 241 chcken wings in Wing Bowl XVI this past February, and 103 Krystal hamburgers (in 8 minutes). I don't detect a weakness here. As the number one-ranked feedbag fanatic, Chestnut holds the coveted Mustard Yellow Championship Belt.
I won't dwell on the often hilarious 60-minute program that included a running tally window in the upper left corner of the screen, and countless shots of the contestants ramming bun, dog, and water through the old pie hole. No such thing as table manners on this show. But it could not have been better choreographed. As they counted off the final seconds, champion and challenger swallowed furiously finishing in an absolute dead heat with 59 of those all-beef beauties in the waist container. the regulation battle was referred to as a "chow-down" and the subsequent fastest-to-five dog overtime's official moniker was 'eat-off." Chestnut prevailed by mere seconds. When asked to comment, this was his reply: "He wanted it, but I needed it...It was crazy. I'm just a normal guy eating hot dogs on the Fourth. You can't overcomplicate it." No Joey, you can't. How nutritional was this stomach stretcher? Dr. Marc Siegel, a professor at NYU's School of Medicine related the truth when referring to the main course, "One is bad for you, five's worse and 50 is terrible. Ya think?
But what about the common citizen? How would I, for instance, measure up? Two nights ago I splurged for din-din and inhaled not one, but TWO 97% fat-free Hebrew National all-beef dogies. I even put a little cheese on them, slurped down a tureen of tomato soup, and glugged a ginger ale for good measure. I thought about Chestnut's record, but even with my considerable storage basket I could only dream of reaching the Big Leagues. There was a time in the halcyon days of my youth when I ate a dozen chocolate-covered doughnuts at a single sitting, and on another occasion four pounds of steamed clams, complete with rice, veggies, salad, and bread. But that was long ago and far away. The true giants of the sport are far more committed to epicurean overload.
I do like to compare eras though. Last January one of my boyhood (or at least early malehood) idols passed on. Eddie "Bozo" Miller lived to the ripe old age of 89 after an unbeaten (and seldom threatened) competitive career that spanned 50 years from 1931 to 1981 (Guinness Book of Records). At his peak Bozo was 5'7" tall and tipped the scales at a biscuit over 300 lbs. He was equally adept with a knife and fork or a glass. He once ate 27 two-pound chickens and washed them down with two bottles of whiskey in ONE hour. The "compact" Bozo liked pasta so much he vacuumed up 324 raviolis in 1963. He enjoyed baseball games, especially extra inning tilts, because he could eat more hot dogs. But his greatest achievement (in my admiring eyes) was the night he walked into a San Francisco waterfront restaurant (Tarantino's I believe), The waiter brought him a menu and took out his pencil and pad for the order. His 25,000 calorie per day training regimen prompted Bozo to scan the menu, put it down, and tell the waiter, "Looks good, I think I'll take it." He proceeded to eat the entire menu. It's hard to imagine, but the causes of his death were reportedly complications from heart disease and diabetes. Say it ain't so, Bozo.
I think the next step is to create one of those computer programs to match the old with the new. Joey versus Bozo, a gastronomic battle for the ages.
May I be excused from the table?
MM
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
TIMELESS
For my own sanity and a modicum of health reasons, I try to walk between 30 and 40 minutes each day. With sore knees, creeping arthritis, and multiple calories, the exercise therapizes (new word? If not, it is now) me. The other advantage is a daily opportunity to conjure thought topics and make advance plans. It always astonishes me how one's mind can explore, recall, and create. Yesterday's thoughts centered on music. In the interest of full disclosure, my musical talents are nil. I played some drums during my last year and a half of college, but I would hardly put that on a resume. Yet music signifies our rites of passage, personal development, and range of interests. One can't live in the past, despite what the fictional Gatsby thought. However, it's fun to retrace our musical (and often social) timelines.
My brother, five years younger, but ten times smarter, knows my likes, dislikes, and passions perhaps better than I do. In recent times he has kept me notified concerning the whereabouts and appearances in and around Portland of groups I followed during my high school tenure. First and foremost was a band called PAUL REVERE and the RAIDERS. Paul Revere was supposedly the leader's real name, although that is open for debate. The group was comprised of five men, including a keyboard player (Revere), lead guitarist, bass, drummer and a lead singer named Mark Lindsay.In my own rebellious stage, I admired those with similar approaches to society. The Raiders were my kind of rebels.
Growing up in Seattle was similar, I'm sure, to most larger cities in the late 50's and early 60's. I attended the first coed Catholic high school in the state of Washington (more on that at a later date). Social life revolved around weekend teen dances at numerous venues -- schools, parish halls, and commercial clubs. The Seattle area was a mecca for early rock groups with big sounds and flashy attire (matching suits, bright colors). One night at Parker's Ballroom during my sophomore year, my friends and I saw Paul Revere and the Raiders. They were loud, frenzied, uninhibited, and intimidating. They all wore matching revolutionary war uniforms, including high black boots, waistcoats, and three-point hats. The rumor at the time was that they all quaffed repeatedly from a large container of white wine hidden on the stage (never visually confirmed, but likely). Lindsay towered above everyone with a dominant stage air. He was at least 6'2", and owned his territory, replete with elongated hair and a ponytail. The main reason I was so enraptured though, was the SOUND-- big, loud, raucous, organ/drums dominant, and the raspy, compelling voice and presence of Lindsey. I had never seen anything like it. Parker's (the North Seattle mecca of live music), was packed, a fire inspector's nightmare. To say I was (at age 16) transfixed would be an understatement. I became PR&Rs' biggest fan, bought all their records (still have most), and saw them at least 10 times in the next few years. They eventually went commercial with a pop contemporary sound and multiple appearances on a variety of Dick Clark productions. But I was never disappointed with them -- they were my first in a manner of speaking, and still among the best live shows I've ever seen.
Through the decades I've developed a far more eclectic appreciation of music ranging from jazz to blues to country and everything in between. The enjoyment of different styles equals the maturation process. I still have my favorites. A few years ago, one of my good friends called to tell me that Delbert McClinton was coming to Petaluma, and wondered if I would like tickets. I was in a Delbert phase then (and still), and had most of his recordings. But I had never seen him live. For those unfamiliar, Delbert McClinton's music is a mix of rock, country, blues, and grit. He is well into his 60s, and has toured for over 40 years. His other claim to fame was that he taught John Lennon how to play the harmonica. But I digress. He and his group played at a remodeled movie theater turned nightclub called McNeil's. I arrived well in advance to beat traffic jams across the bay, and drifted around scenic Petaluma for a couple of hours until show time. Delbert finally began his set at 9:00. As the next two plus hours unfolded, I found myself drifting back in time. Not since Parker's Ballroom had I been that enthralled with a performance. It was one of those nights when everything worked, and even at my advancing age I found myself clapping, shouting, and stomping throughout. Those times of sheer joy are rare, thus treasured.
Last Christmas my brother surprised me. I flew to Portland for a week-long stay over the holidays. On a Saturday night he told me to get ready because we were going out to dinner. Eating has never promoted shyness on my part, so I was eager to oblige. He took me to a local restaurant. The name spurred my memories -- Mark Lindsay's Rock&Roll Cafe. The meal was good, and the ambiance better. On every wall, long-ago photos reminded me what I had experienced. As we left the cafe, my brother pointed to a smallish broadcast studio in the front of the building. A live show was obviously in progress. Behind the microphone sat Mark Lindsay emceeing his weekly oldies gig. The ponytail was still there, although nearly silver in color, and the face displayed the inevitable wrinkles of age. For just a moment I felt that same charge of emotion from so many years ago. It wasn't the same, but time hadn't tarnished the memory.
Music works.
MM
My brother, five years younger, but ten times smarter, knows my likes, dislikes, and passions perhaps better than I do. In recent times he has kept me notified concerning the whereabouts and appearances in and around Portland of groups I followed during my high school tenure. First and foremost was a band called PAUL REVERE and the RAIDERS. Paul Revere was supposedly the leader's real name, although that is open for debate. The group was comprised of five men, including a keyboard player (Revere), lead guitarist, bass, drummer and a lead singer named Mark Lindsay.In my own rebellious stage, I admired those with similar approaches to society. The Raiders were my kind of rebels.
Growing up in Seattle was similar, I'm sure, to most larger cities in the late 50's and early 60's. I attended the first coed Catholic high school in the state of Washington (more on that at a later date). Social life revolved around weekend teen dances at numerous venues -- schools, parish halls, and commercial clubs. The Seattle area was a mecca for early rock groups with big sounds and flashy attire (matching suits, bright colors). One night at Parker's Ballroom during my sophomore year, my friends and I saw Paul Revere and the Raiders. They were loud, frenzied, uninhibited, and intimidating. They all wore matching revolutionary war uniforms, including high black boots, waistcoats, and three-point hats. The rumor at the time was that they all quaffed repeatedly from a large container of white wine hidden on the stage (never visually confirmed, but likely). Lindsay towered above everyone with a dominant stage air. He was at least 6'2", and owned his territory, replete with elongated hair and a ponytail. The main reason I was so enraptured though, was the SOUND-- big, loud, raucous, organ/drums dominant, and the raspy, compelling voice and presence of Lindsey. I had never seen anything like it. Parker's (the North Seattle mecca of live music), was packed, a fire inspector's nightmare. To say I was (at age 16) transfixed would be an understatement. I became PR&Rs' biggest fan, bought all their records (still have most), and saw them at least 10 times in the next few years. They eventually went commercial with a pop contemporary sound and multiple appearances on a variety of Dick Clark productions. But I was never disappointed with them -- they were my first in a manner of speaking, and still among the best live shows I've ever seen.
Through the decades I've developed a far more eclectic appreciation of music ranging from jazz to blues to country and everything in between. The enjoyment of different styles equals the maturation process. I still have my favorites. A few years ago, one of my good friends called to tell me that Delbert McClinton was coming to Petaluma, and wondered if I would like tickets. I was in a Delbert phase then (and still), and had most of his recordings. But I had never seen him live. For those unfamiliar, Delbert McClinton's music is a mix of rock, country, blues, and grit. He is well into his 60s, and has toured for over 40 years. His other claim to fame was that he taught John Lennon how to play the harmonica. But I digress. He and his group played at a remodeled movie theater turned nightclub called McNeil's. I arrived well in advance to beat traffic jams across the bay, and drifted around scenic Petaluma for a couple of hours until show time. Delbert finally began his set at 9:00. As the next two plus hours unfolded, I found myself drifting back in time. Not since Parker's Ballroom had I been that enthralled with a performance. It was one of those nights when everything worked, and even at my advancing age I found myself clapping, shouting, and stomping throughout. Those times of sheer joy are rare, thus treasured.
Last Christmas my brother surprised me. I flew to Portland for a week-long stay over the holidays. On a Saturday night he told me to get ready because we were going out to dinner. Eating has never promoted shyness on my part, so I was eager to oblige. He took me to a local restaurant. The name spurred my memories -- Mark Lindsay's Rock&Roll Cafe. The meal was good, and the ambiance better. On every wall, long-ago photos reminded me what I had experienced. As we left the cafe, my brother pointed to a smallish broadcast studio in the front of the building. A live show was obviously in progress. Behind the microphone sat Mark Lindsay emceeing his weekly oldies gig. The ponytail was still there, although nearly silver in color, and the face displayed the inevitable wrinkles of age. For just a moment I felt that same charge of emotion from so many years ago. It wasn't the same, but time hadn't tarnished the memory.
Music works.
MM
Monday, June 30, 2008
LOYALTY SPURNED
It's a Monday morning and a million things are going through my head. Aside from being in the classroom, the best perk in the teaching profession has to be summer vacation. I know teachers don't make corporate-sized cash (unions and government render that impossible), but the 9-10 weeks each June, July, and August make up the difference. Thus my Monday thought process. This is a general improvement summer -- clean up the horrendous clutter that engulfs my condo, fix the garage door, clean the heating vents (never done in nearly 20 years), buy a new car, and prepare for fall classes. At least it all sounds good.
Something happened last week that prompted my anger but eventual contentment. I have a great friend who happens to be an exceptional coach. Those in the know regard him as one of the better minds in his field. He worked at a nearby university (former employer of mine as well) for over 30 years as both an assistant and head coach, the latter for 15 years.His teams won far more than they lost, his players graduated, and he was perhaps the most loyal individual (to school, colleagues, players, and supporters) I've ever met. I can speak from personal experience having benefited from numerous acts of kindness and support over the years. College athletics, especially at the top echelons, seldom promote long term loyalty.
In the midst of a successful season last year, one that would see his team finish second in the league and win 21 games, he was forced to retire. The company line was that he had made his own decision. Reality said otherwise. It seems that several big money types expressed their disappointment that the team had failed to reach the NCAA tournament in the recent past. They wanted change and promised open checkbooks if that change occurred. The president of the school, disregarding loyalty and competence, forced the retirement with the team in first place and four games left in the regular season schedule. Despite the ignorance, disloyalty, and embarrassment, my friend refused to assess blame or make contrary remarks. His loyalty never wavered. Those in the know showered him with recognition, packing the pavilion for his last home game, and attending two functions held in his honor. One long-time friend wrote a detailed, moving biography of his life, publishing it at his own expense.
For a number of different reasons, he remained at the university in a largely ceremonial fund raising capacity while the new coach (with no previous head coaching experience at any level)operated with relaxed admissions procedures, TRIPLE the previous salary and budget, and virtual carte blanche access to any perceived needs of the program. Communication between the past and present did not exist for obvious reasons. My friend desperately wanted to continue coaching, but familial obligations limited his options to local institutions.
Two weeks ago I received a phone call from him. Out of the blue he had been recommended for an assistant head coaching position at one of America's finest schools. It's private , in the Bay Area, and a member of one of the best and most competitive conferences in the land. It seems the newly-appointed head coach was searching for an individual with experience and expertise since he had no previous head coaching on his resume. With my friend, ego is not and never will be a factor. He interviewed for the position and was subsequently hired. The ensuing phone call was among the most pleasant I have fielded. He was happy, exuberant may be a better word, and at his advancing age, completely revitalized. We discussed his situation and he waxed enthusiastically about how challenging this position would be. I know he wasn't worried about the periphery, he simply wanted to do the one thing, aside from his family, that marked his passion -- coaching.
There remains one truism about this situation. His new boss made a great decision. From his latest hiring, he'll receive a full day's work and then some, unusual expertise from years of toil, and implacable loyalty. That's something others should emulate.
MM
Something happened last week that prompted my anger but eventual contentment. I have a great friend who happens to be an exceptional coach. Those in the know regard him as one of the better minds in his field. He worked at a nearby university (former employer of mine as well) for over 30 years as both an assistant and head coach, the latter for 15 years.His teams won far more than they lost, his players graduated, and he was perhaps the most loyal individual (to school, colleagues, players, and supporters) I've ever met. I can speak from personal experience having benefited from numerous acts of kindness and support over the years. College athletics, especially at the top echelons, seldom promote long term loyalty.
In the midst of a successful season last year, one that would see his team finish second in the league and win 21 games, he was forced to retire. The company line was that he had made his own decision. Reality said otherwise. It seems that several big money types expressed their disappointment that the team had failed to reach the NCAA tournament in the recent past. They wanted change and promised open checkbooks if that change occurred. The president of the school, disregarding loyalty and competence, forced the retirement with the team in first place and four games left in the regular season schedule. Despite the ignorance, disloyalty, and embarrassment, my friend refused to assess blame or make contrary remarks. His loyalty never wavered. Those in the know showered him with recognition, packing the pavilion for his last home game, and attending two functions held in his honor. One long-time friend wrote a detailed, moving biography of his life, publishing it at his own expense.
For a number of different reasons, he remained at the university in a largely ceremonial fund raising capacity while the new coach (with no previous head coaching experience at any level)operated with relaxed admissions procedures, TRIPLE the previous salary and budget, and virtual carte blanche access to any perceived needs of the program. Communication between the past and present did not exist for obvious reasons. My friend desperately wanted to continue coaching, but familial obligations limited his options to local institutions.
Two weeks ago I received a phone call from him. Out of the blue he had been recommended for an assistant head coaching position at one of America's finest schools. It's private , in the Bay Area, and a member of one of the best and most competitive conferences in the land. It seems the newly-appointed head coach was searching for an individual with experience and expertise since he had no previous head coaching on his resume. With my friend, ego is not and never will be a factor. He interviewed for the position and was subsequently hired. The ensuing phone call was among the most pleasant I have fielded. He was happy, exuberant may be a better word, and at his advancing age, completely revitalized. We discussed his situation and he waxed enthusiastically about how challenging this position would be. I know he wasn't worried about the periphery, he simply wanted to do the one thing, aside from his family, that marked his passion -- coaching.
There remains one truism about this situation. His new boss made a great decision. From his latest hiring, he'll receive a full day's work and then some, unusual expertise from years of toil, and implacable loyalty. That's something others should emulate.
MM
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