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
Monday, July 28, 2008
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
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