Rebecca and I caught the indie musical film Once the other night at the Broadway Theatre. Set in Dublin, Once is a warm, funny and charmingly platonic romance about a street musician and a Czech immigrant who meet, make music, become friends and recognize that they could easily fall in love, but ... he has never gotten over the love of his life, who is in London, and she left her husband in the Czech Republic to make a better life for their young daughter.
The guy (neither one is ever named) is played by Glen Hansard, a singer and guitarist for the successful band Frames in Ireland. Director John Carney was previously in the band as well, before leaving to become a movie maker, and Markéta Irglová, who plays the girl, recently recorded an album with Hansard. So the music was real and terrific. After big budget biopics with actors mimicking musicians (see Walk the Line, Ray) it's rather refreshing to see and hear real musicians taking a crack at acting.
Once may have lagged in places, but its low budget and inexperienced cast gave the film a raw and gritty realism, brimming with genuine emotions that covered the spectrum from curiosity, admiration, respect, lust, joy, embarrassment, awkwardness and anticipation. Carney tells a story of intersecting lives; about dreams, realities and regrets; about what might have been and what already is; and about perspective, consideration, responsibility and choices.
It was one of those movies that I enjoy more over time, and that I have thought back to again and again since watching it. It is refreshing to see two people connect, without the need for a storybook ending. And I prefer to see passion simmer on the screen and not boil over. I wish this kind of thing happened more than Once.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Daddy-Daughters
Last weekend we had a Daddy-Daughter canyoneering excursion. Angelica, Lanee and I spent two days in Cedar Mesa, and navigated both Fry Canyon and Gravel Canyon. Fry is a short but delightful canyon, with winding turns and narrow slots. It took us only four hours, but it was enough to make us weary and ready for a night under a beautiful star-filled sky. Gravel Canyon was a more challenging day, and included some difficult route-finding, extraordinary bouldering, ad hoc raps into the entry canyon, floating disconnects, frigid swims in groady water and a tough and uncertain canyon exit.
Overall, not the stuff for the weak-kneed or faint of heart. So I was very proud of my girls, who were brave, tireless and unwavering. And throughout the trip, there was plenty of laughter which made all the discomforts of a searingly hot summer hike pass like a gentle breeze. It is good to have strong and energetic daughters made of hardy stuff, and better yet when they make pleasant traveling companions. I do love adventure, but love it best with my kids, and feel far more blessed by their company than they are by mine.
Post Script: Three long-cherished outdoor companions may have taken their last hike. First, my Nalgene bottle cracked when dropped in a pack on a downclimb. It was the first one I owned, a plain white opaque model that was Nalgene's only choice before their marketing department discovered translucent plastic in vibrant colors. Also, my North Face shorts, which have lived long past any reasonably expected life span, and have survived countless days in sandstone canyons, the harshest test of all for pants. And finally, my Escalante cap is falling apart. The band long disappeared, and its red dye weathered, it somehow it always felt like it belonged in canyon country. I have become curiously attached to these inanimate items, not for their style or utility, but simply because we have been together so many times as we explored the back-country. Losing them reminds me that I am wearing out as well, and one day will make my final trip, either because I have cracked suddenly like the Nalgene or, as the shorts and cap, declined gradually, a fading casualty of heavy mileage and rugged terrain.
Overall, not the stuff for the weak-kneed or faint of heart. So I was very proud of my girls, who were brave, tireless and unwavering. And throughout the trip, there was plenty of laughter which made all the discomforts of a searingly hot summer hike pass like a gentle breeze. It is good to have strong and energetic daughters made of hardy stuff, and better yet when they make pleasant traveling companions. I do love adventure, but love it best with my kids, and feel far more blessed by their company than they are by mine.
Post Script: Three long-cherished outdoor companions may have taken their last hike. First, my Nalgene bottle cracked when dropped in a pack on a downclimb. It was the first one I owned, a plain white opaque model that was Nalgene's only choice before their marketing department discovered translucent plastic in vibrant colors. Also, my North Face shorts, which have lived long past any reasonably expected life span, and have survived countless days in sandstone canyons, the harshest test of all for pants. And finally, my Escalante cap is falling apart. The band long disappeared, and its red dye weathered, it somehow it always felt like it belonged in canyon country. I have become curiously attached to these inanimate items, not for their style or utility, but simply because we have been together so many times as we explored the back-country. Losing them reminds me that I am wearing out as well, and one day will make my final trip, either because I have cracked suddenly like the Nalgene or, as the shorts and cap, declined gradually, a fading casualty of heavy mileage and rugged terrain.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Fathers Day
One of the salubrious effects of holidays is that they sometimes cause us to ponder those things that matter most but are not timely and often ignored. So it was last Sunday, that in my quiet moments I reflected on my fathers. I thought most about my adopted father, I supposed because I spent my formative years in his company.
It was an interesting start to the relationship, because I chose to make him my father. Being adopted at such a late age (11) I had veto rights. But I had spent enough years in foster homes and orphanages and the like that the idea of permanently joining a family was so appealing that I was not inclined to be picky about such relatively trivial matters as culture, attitudes and interests.
As a result, I found myself a son to Fred Aho, who I then thought could not possibly be more unlike me than any man I had met. I loved sports, while his athletic interests were strictly limited to bowling and occasionally volleyball at church picnics and family reunions. I remember getting him a baseball glove as a gift, hoping it would inspire him to take up the game. It was a first baseman's mitt, which seemed appropriate for someone of his girth. Alas, our few efforts at playing catch ended in frustration (mine) as I'd have to dig in the hedges for all the balls that he had missed. He had given it the college try, but I was still disappointed and unfulfilled.
We were unlike in almost every other way. He was quiet, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I was loud, obnoxious and keenly intent on being the center of attention. He adored food, for which I could care less. His idea of a great Saturday night was visiting relatives at their farm and taking a sauna. I would have preferred activities that generated a little more adrenaline.
To the best of my recollection, we had only two things in common--playing cards and The Tonight Show. Even as a kid I was a night owl, and we used to stay up and watch Johnny Carson almost every night. It started at 10:30, and he rarely made it through the entire show (whereas I rarely missed any of it). It was the one shared ritual in our lives, neither one of us saying a word, him playing solitaire and me looking over a sports magazine. In retrospect, it was a rather meager form of bonding, but we were together and it was, I presumed, what fathers and sons did.
Dad also taught me to play cards--double-solitaire, spades, diamonds, rummy, cribbage and even bridge. Mom was a terrible card player, which used to frustrate him to no end. She just didn't see the point in it, and winning the game was never an important object for her. Further, she never grasped the strategic elements of the games. So their early efforts at social bridge were quickly aborted in favor of a longer marriage. I, on the other hand, loved playing cards with Dad, and he was always up for a game. We were competitive, but never bitterly so. I was neither upset when he won (because of his added experience and wisdom) nor surprised when I did (since even then I suffered from delusions of grandeur). So we played often, and when I would get bored and do something else, he would switch to solitaire, which I believe consumed at least 50% of the discretionary hours in the last 20 years of his life.
Despite our difference, I learned a lot from Dad, and wish I had learned more. He was always willing to work, and we spent many hours together in the garden. From him I learned how to plant and cultivate and weed. We would pick up aged manure from the country and mix it with soil when planting the tomatoes. Together we would pick rocks and turn soil. Every spring I had to till the garden, which only became fun after we got a gasoline-powered rototiller. And it wasn't just our yard that got our attention--we also mowed and trimmed and gardened at the church, and for widows and sick neighbors and others. I never enjoyed it at all, and did my best to get out of the responsibility, but he would have none of my excuses and so yard work become a habit. To my surprise, as an adult I have come to enjoy gardening in all its forms.
My dad was as honest as the day is long. He was humble and submissive. He was a great example to me, and though I may have been blessed with many talents that he lacked, I will labor all my days to match his examples of patience, charity and industry--traits that now, in the back half of my life, I view best over infinite horizons.
It was an interesting start to the relationship, because I chose to make him my father. Being adopted at such a late age (11) I had veto rights. But I had spent enough years in foster homes and orphanages and the like that the idea of permanently joining a family was so appealing that I was not inclined to be picky about such relatively trivial matters as culture, attitudes and interests.
As a result, I found myself a son to Fred Aho, who I then thought could not possibly be more unlike me than any man I had met. I loved sports, while his athletic interests were strictly limited to bowling and occasionally volleyball at church picnics and family reunions. I remember getting him a baseball glove as a gift, hoping it would inspire him to take up the game. It was a first baseman's mitt, which seemed appropriate for someone of his girth. Alas, our few efforts at playing catch ended in frustration (mine) as I'd have to dig in the hedges for all the balls that he had missed. He had given it the college try, but I was still disappointed and unfulfilled.
We were unlike in almost every other way. He was quiet, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I was loud, obnoxious and keenly intent on being the center of attention. He adored food, for which I could care less. His idea of a great Saturday night was visiting relatives at their farm and taking a sauna. I would have preferred activities that generated a little more adrenaline.
To the best of my recollection, we had only two things in common--playing cards and The Tonight Show. Even as a kid I was a night owl, and we used to stay up and watch Johnny Carson almost every night. It started at 10:30, and he rarely made it through the entire show (whereas I rarely missed any of it). It was the one shared ritual in our lives, neither one of us saying a word, him playing solitaire and me looking over a sports magazine. In retrospect, it was a rather meager form of bonding, but we were together and it was, I presumed, what fathers and sons did.
Dad also taught me to play cards--double-solitaire, spades, diamonds, rummy, cribbage and even bridge. Mom was a terrible card player, which used to frustrate him to no end. She just didn't see the point in it, and winning the game was never an important object for her. Further, she never grasped the strategic elements of the games. So their early efforts at social bridge were quickly aborted in favor of a longer marriage. I, on the other hand, loved playing cards with Dad, and he was always up for a game. We were competitive, but never bitterly so. I was neither upset when he won (because of his added experience and wisdom) nor surprised when I did (since even then I suffered from delusions of grandeur). So we played often, and when I would get bored and do something else, he would switch to solitaire, which I believe consumed at least 50% of the discretionary hours in the last 20 years of his life.
Despite our difference, I learned a lot from Dad, and wish I had learned more. He was always willing to work, and we spent many hours together in the garden. From him I learned how to plant and cultivate and weed. We would pick up aged manure from the country and mix it with soil when planting the tomatoes. Together we would pick rocks and turn soil. Every spring I had to till the garden, which only became fun after we got a gasoline-powered rototiller. And it wasn't just our yard that got our attention--we also mowed and trimmed and gardened at the church, and for widows and sick neighbors and others. I never enjoyed it at all, and did my best to get out of the responsibility, but he would have none of my excuses and so yard work become a habit. To my surprise, as an adult I have come to enjoy gardening in all its forms.
My dad was as honest as the day is long. He was humble and submissive. He was a great example to me, and though I may have been blessed with many talents that he lacked, I will labor all my days to match his examples of patience, charity and industry--traits that now, in the back half of my life, I view best over infinite horizons.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Zion Fatal
There were three deaths this week in Zion National Park. The first was a canyoneer from California in Heaps Canyon. Heaps is one of the most challenging canyons in Zion. The deceased had a lot of canyon experience in Utah and elsewhere, and was with two other experienced canyoneers. But Heaps makes for a long day, and they didn't get to the final rappel into one of the Emerald Pools until 10:30 at night. It was cold and dark, and they were all fatigued. The first two dropped safely, but going last, a rigging error caused him to fall 200 feet to his death.
The other two both occurred on Angel's Landing, a non-technical climb that is popular with more mainstream visitors, but involves some knife-edge precipices that require holding on to a guide chain to maintain control. Both deaths were the result of falls, one caused by a heart attack.
I have been in a canyoneering discussion group on the web, where there have been hundreds of emails offering condolences, analyzing the incident and gathering what might be learned from the experience. There has been a profound sense of shared tragedy, as if we have lost one of our own, and many have been left to contemplate our own mortality, and the risks we take descending these canyons armed with rope and hardware and our own devices.
The experience has affected me, and I have a healthier respect for the canyons, with perhaps a twinge of fear. And I have committed to get more training, to be more cautious and in the future to enter canyons better prepared for surprises, problems and unexpected contingencies.
I don't want a risk-free life, and I enjoy the adrenaline rush of experiences that challenge and even frighten me. But to meet these challenges, I prefer to rely on planning and preparation every bit as much as courage and confidence.
The other two both occurred on Angel's Landing, a non-technical climb that is popular with more mainstream visitors, but involves some knife-edge precipices that require holding on to a guide chain to maintain control. Both deaths were the result of falls, one caused by a heart attack.
I have been in a canyoneering discussion group on the web, where there have been hundreds of emails offering condolences, analyzing the incident and gathering what might be learned from the experience. There has been a profound sense of shared tragedy, as if we have lost one of our own, and many have been left to contemplate our own mortality, and the risks we take descending these canyons armed with rope and hardware and our own devices.
The experience has affected me, and I have a healthier respect for the canyons, with perhaps a twinge of fear. And I have committed to get more training, to be more cautious and in the future to enter canyons better prepared for surprises, problems and unexpected contingencies.
I don't want a risk-free life, and I enjoy the adrenaline rush of experiences that challenge and even frighten me. But to meet these challenges, I prefer to rely on planning and preparation every bit as much as courage and confidence.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Let's Make a Deal
I participated in a mediation meeting on Tuesday for some personal litigation. It's a funny little lawyer dance that, when well choreographed, can almost substitute for entertainment, given the rather limited range of the legal aesthetic.
At the center is the Mediator, generally a former lawyer with gray-haired credibility and the demeanor of a friendly uncle. He is hired by both sides and his job is to get the two parties to settle. (I asked ours if he "kept score," and he somewhat reluctantly admitted he did. I'm guessing he can compute his batting average quicker than a rookie outfielder standing on first base.) To be successful, a Mediator must be a master of both legal reasoning and litigant psychology. His prospects are significantly enhanced if each side thinks he favors its cause.
After starting with a little background, establishing a rapport, and giving a short-hand assessment of our case, he split us up in separate rooms and proceeded to move back and forth, shuttling offers and counter-offers, always coupled with friendly counsel, sage advice and "inside information," leading almost inexorably to a settlement. After a few of these dosey-dos, each side moving gradually together, we arrived somewhere near the middle, signed a few papers, pledged not to kiss and tell, and went home, relieved if not completely satisfied.
I like the idea of mediation. It skirts the courts and seeks agreement in a contentious environment. And it seems to me that in a world of perfect information--each side being rational and appropriately assessing the risks--you should almost always find a place to settle. It's simply more efficient--you avoid the time and legal expense of a trial. So I was happy to reach an agreement, but happier yet that this somewhat homespun system really worked, that we had managed to avoid the waste and formality and contentiousness of endless litigation.
I think a Mediator would be useful in other parts of life. Like maybe for Congress, or for families with teenagers, or perhaps in the Middle East. I've always had an idealist streak in me, but now that I've seen The Middle, I think it is a good place to meet.
At the center is the Mediator, generally a former lawyer with gray-haired credibility and the demeanor of a friendly uncle. He is hired by both sides and his job is to get the two parties to settle. (I asked ours if he "kept score," and he somewhat reluctantly admitted he did. I'm guessing he can compute his batting average quicker than a rookie outfielder standing on first base.) To be successful, a Mediator must be a master of both legal reasoning and litigant psychology. His prospects are significantly enhanced if each side thinks he favors its cause.
After starting with a little background, establishing a rapport, and giving a short-hand assessment of our case, he split us up in separate rooms and proceeded to move back and forth, shuttling offers and counter-offers, always coupled with friendly counsel, sage advice and "inside information," leading almost inexorably to a settlement. After a few of these dosey-dos, each side moving gradually together, we arrived somewhere near the middle, signed a few papers, pledged not to kiss and tell, and went home, relieved if not completely satisfied.
I like the idea of mediation. It skirts the courts and seeks agreement in a contentious environment. And it seems to me that in a world of perfect information--each side being rational and appropriately assessing the risks--you should almost always find a place to settle. It's simply more efficient--you avoid the time and legal expense of a trial. So I was happy to reach an agreement, but happier yet that this somewhat homespun system really worked, that we had managed to avoid the waste and formality and contentiousness of endless litigation.
I think a Mediator would be useful in other parts of life. Like maybe for Congress, or for families with teenagers, or perhaps in the Middle East. I've always had an idealist streak in me, but now that I've seen The Middle, I think it is a good place to meet.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Escalante
Just returned from a long weekend in Escalante with Merritt, Sam and Dave Jarvi. Second Annual Canyons for Guys Memorial Day Weekend, and hopefully many more to come. Arrived late Thursday night after driving about 50 miles of the lonely and desolate Hole-in-the-Rock road by moonlight. Found a spot to lay out our bags and enjoyed an extraordinary star-filled night.
Friday we hiked Llewelyn, a friendly little canyon with plenty of clamboring, a nerve-wracking climb out (OK, for climbers it's easy, but even a 5.2 on an exposed pitch with hiking shoes gets my heart beating), and a torturous, seemingly endless up-and-down traverse back to the trailhead. Found a cool little half-pipe that reminded us of The Subway, and a nifty slide into a pool at the end, which made for a refreshing swim before the climb out.
We were bushed Friday night so opted to sleep on the mesa, leaving a long day in and out of Neon Canyon for Saturday. Neon is a stunningly beautiful canyon, with a gorgeous approach hike all the way in. Once at the Escalante River, we had to climb back up to enter the canyon from the top. It's a canyoneer's dream, with plenty of interesting challenges, cold swims, narrow chimneys, potbelly caverns, meandering climbs, ravens-at-guard, keeper potholes and a transcendent rappel through a hole through the rock and into Golden Cathedral. There we were met by the Sirens of Neon, who beckoned us with the promise of real food. We were undeterred, and pressed forward, with Merritt battling deer flies and Dave and Sam taking an unplanned detour up-river, but all finally arriving on top.
The next day was almost as good, starting at Upper Calf Creek Falls and walking in the river to the Lower Falls, where we set up a rappel and dropped 165 feet into the waterfall, which at times felt as if a torrential force was pounding on your head. It was a glorious rap, and we felt all the more manly by the crowd of swimmers and hikers who had come up from the campground and gathered to applaud our derring-do and photograph our exploits. Met a librarian from Salt Lake City who kindly gave us a ride to our car, thinking wistfully about the lack of adventure in his life, I think.
Decided that Egypt 3 wasn't right for Monday, so on a lark we packed up and drove to Bryce Canyon and hiked about six miles, which was extraordinarily, mystically, magically, enticingly beautiful. We got an early start, before the crowds hit, and got back on top for lunch and the long drive home.
And every day I was thinking of how beautiful this land is and what a joy it is to venture into it, and how different it is climb into its hidden places while the masses park, point and click. I would like to share my discoveries with more of the world. But the sacrifice required is a higher price than most are willing to pay. I am secretly glad for that, so these canyons can remain wild and remote and I can still find solitude there, nestled in my bag with the howl of coyotes in the distance, resting my head on a rolled-up sweatshirt and gazing wondrously at the Milky Way above.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." --Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
Friday we hiked Llewelyn, a friendly little canyon with plenty of clamboring, a nerve-wracking climb out (OK, for climbers it's easy, but even a 5.2 on an exposed pitch with hiking shoes gets my heart beating), and a torturous, seemingly endless up-and-down traverse back to the trailhead. Found a cool little half-pipe that reminded us of The Subway, and a nifty slide into a pool at the end, which made for a refreshing swim before the climb out.
We were bushed Friday night so opted to sleep on the mesa, leaving a long day in and out of Neon Canyon for Saturday. Neon is a stunningly beautiful canyon, with a gorgeous approach hike all the way in. Once at the Escalante River, we had to climb back up to enter the canyon from the top. It's a canyoneer's dream, with plenty of interesting challenges, cold swims, narrow chimneys, potbelly caverns, meandering climbs, ravens-at-guard, keeper potholes and a transcendent rappel through a hole through the rock and into Golden Cathedral. There we were met by the Sirens of Neon, who beckoned us with the promise of real food. We were undeterred, and pressed forward, with Merritt battling deer flies and Dave and Sam taking an unplanned detour up-river, but all finally arriving on top.
The next day was almost as good, starting at Upper Calf Creek Falls and walking in the river to the Lower Falls, where we set up a rappel and dropped 165 feet into the waterfall, which at times felt as if a torrential force was pounding on your head. It was a glorious rap, and we felt all the more manly by the crowd of swimmers and hikers who had come up from the campground and gathered to applaud our derring-do and photograph our exploits. Met a librarian from Salt Lake City who kindly gave us a ride to our car, thinking wistfully about the lack of adventure in his life, I think.
Decided that Egypt 3 wasn't right for Monday, so on a lark we packed up and drove to Bryce Canyon and hiked about six miles, which was extraordinarily, mystically, magically, enticingly beautiful. We got an early start, before the crowds hit, and got back on top for lunch and the long drive home.
And every day I was thinking of how beautiful this land is and what a joy it is to venture into it, and how different it is climb into its hidden places while the masses park, point and click. I would like to share my discoveries with more of the world. But the sacrifice required is a higher price than most are willing to pay. I am secretly glad for that, so these canyons can remain wild and remote and I can still find solitude there, nestled in my bag with the howl of coyotes in the distance, resting my head on a rolled-up sweatshirt and gazing wondrously at the Milky Way above.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." --Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Whoops
The thing about technology is that you really don't know how it's going to turn out. I'm not talking about practical applications for pure research, which could fill volumes, but rather the unexpected consequences of technology products that are introduced into the marketplace.
I remember when email was first introduced in the business world. Prior to that, every day many of us battled to make telephone contact, sometimes exchanging messages a half dozen times in an effort to connect with another busy executive. Email solved that, like a true labor-saving technological innovation. But what was never expected, never talked about, never warned against, was that email would create much MORE communication. We communicate more frequently with more people on more topics, most of them unwanted (spam) and many others unnecessary. I bet I spend 2-3 hours a day just reading and replying to emails. And did anyone think that email would so quickly erode our national collective skills in grammar, punctuation and spelling? I don't think so.
When cell phones were introduced, did anyone predict there would be more traffic accidents? Or that it would change the way most people think about photography--taking a lot more photos, virtually all of them awful? Only about seven years ago I did a consulting project and wireless suppliers were all wondering what cell features were going to be popular and marketable. It's amazing how things like text messaging takes off (as it did in Europe and Asia long before the U.S.), leading again, to "always on" communications with more people, but at a much shallower depth.
I have observed another unintended consequence at my local health club. Because everyone wears iPods, no one talks anymore. It used to be that the gym was a more social place, and friendly strangers connected with those around them. Not any more, because even the smallest of comments is a communications event--someone stops, wonders if you said something, pulls the earpiece out so you can repeat it, then awkwardly waits for this interrupting exchange to be finished so he can reconnect. No more small talk.
I love technology, and daily marvel at its capabilities, but I am more afraid of it than ever, because I see it wearing off the edges of our humanity in ways we can't foretell.
I remember when email was first introduced in the business world. Prior to that, every day many of us battled to make telephone contact, sometimes exchanging messages a half dozen times in an effort to connect with another busy executive. Email solved that, like a true labor-saving technological innovation. But what was never expected, never talked about, never warned against, was that email would create much MORE communication. We communicate more frequently with more people on more topics, most of them unwanted (spam) and many others unnecessary. I bet I spend 2-3 hours a day just reading and replying to emails. And did anyone think that email would so quickly erode our national collective skills in grammar, punctuation and spelling? I don't think so.
When cell phones were introduced, did anyone predict there would be more traffic accidents? Or that it would change the way most people think about photography--taking a lot more photos, virtually all of them awful? Only about seven years ago I did a consulting project and wireless suppliers were all wondering what cell features were going to be popular and marketable. It's amazing how things like text messaging takes off (as it did in Europe and Asia long before the U.S.), leading again, to "always on" communications with more people, but at a much shallower depth.
I have observed another unintended consequence at my local health club. Because everyone wears iPods, no one talks anymore. It used to be that the gym was a more social place, and friendly strangers connected with those around them. Not any more, because even the smallest of comments is a communications event--someone stops, wonders if you said something, pulls the earpiece out so you can repeat it, then awkwardly waits for this interrupting exchange to be finished so he can reconnect. No more small talk.
I love technology, and daily marvel at its capabilities, but I am more afraid of it than ever, because I see it wearing off the edges of our humanity in ways we can't foretell.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Dreaming
Woke up this Sunday morning at 4:50 and went downstairs to read in the quiet. While engaged in McCullough's excellent 1776, I fell asleep and dreamed a dream:
I had taken a job back as at Pizza Hut and was beginning my training in a restaurant in Buffalo, NY. As is often done in these situations, my executive status in the company was kept low-key, so my fellow employees assumed I was a new restaurant manager trainee. This Pizza Hut was actually a converted house (a situation I have never seen before) and so I was continually discovering elements that were quite "homey," including made beds and the like. At one point I recall stepping outside and seeing a line-up of rooms that housed elderly people, open to the outside, and watched over by distinguished servants. The location was distinctly reminiscent of one corner of Jackson Square in New Orleans.
Back in the Pizza House I quickly became an object of curiosity and interest. Unfortunately, as has been the case in my dreams many times, I realized I was dressed quite inappropriately for work, and was wearing skinny-legged blue jeans with holes and acid-wash streaks and zippers on the legs. I have never owned pants like this, so I could only presume I had accidentally put on someone else's. In any event, I felt quite self-conscious, being in management and all (plus, you know, completely out of style).
I still looked good in comparison to the rest of the crew, however, which was stranger than any I had remembered from my previous Pizza Hut years. One guy had no teeth, and another 50-ish man came in to get his check wearing a full-length see-through lacey dress that clearly revealed his bright-colored undies.
Overall, it struck me that things had changed and one can never go back, and once awake I was left to contemplate the subconscious meaning of it all: Whether I am facing facing seven fat years or lean years, or whether I was prepared to reenter the food service industry, or at least had the proper clothing to do so.
I had taken a job back as at Pizza Hut and was beginning my training in a restaurant in Buffalo, NY. As is often done in these situations, my executive status in the company was kept low-key, so my fellow employees assumed I was a new restaurant manager trainee. This Pizza Hut was actually a converted house (a situation I have never seen before) and so I was continually discovering elements that were quite "homey," including made beds and the like. At one point I recall stepping outside and seeing a line-up of rooms that housed elderly people, open to the outside, and watched over by distinguished servants. The location was distinctly reminiscent of one corner of Jackson Square in New Orleans.
Back in the Pizza House I quickly became an object of curiosity and interest. Unfortunately, as has been the case in my dreams many times, I realized I was dressed quite inappropriately for work, and was wearing skinny-legged blue jeans with holes and acid-wash streaks and zippers on the legs. I have never owned pants like this, so I could only presume I had accidentally put on someone else's. In any event, I felt quite self-conscious, being in management and all (plus, you know, completely out of style).
I still looked good in comparison to the rest of the crew, however, which was stranger than any I had remembered from my previous Pizza Hut years. One guy had no teeth, and another 50-ish man came in to get his check wearing a full-length see-through lacey dress that clearly revealed his bright-colored undies.
Overall, it struck me that things had changed and one can never go back, and once awake I was left to contemplate the subconscious meaning of it all: Whether I am facing facing seven fat years or lean years, or whether I was prepared to reenter the food service industry, or at least had the proper clothing to do so.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Glenn Beck
Glenn Beck was in town and met with us at our offices on Saturday afternoon. He's a customer and fan of our concept, and several times has mentioned us on his radio show (which is the third most listened to show in the country). Beyond that, he really likes what we do and would like to help, to be involved in some way.
Glenn is as personable, charming and genuine live as he is on TV. He brought his daughter, Mary, with him (about 20 years old) and they held hands, which was very sweet. He is a good story-teller, which made for one of the more entertaining meetings we have had.
We have benefited by people interested in our company and willing to help. And always, it seems, there are the same circumstances. Someone wants to help. Someone really believes in the potential of the company. Someone has what we need at the time. Maybe Glenn is another someone in the line.
It is gratifying to be the beneficiary of such helpfulness, but more satisfying to be that someone that unexpectedly knocks on the door and volunteers to help.
Glenn is as personable, charming and genuine live as he is on TV. He brought his daughter, Mary, with him (about 20 years old) and they held hands, which was very sweet. He is a good story-teller, which made for one of the more entertaining meetings we have had.
We have benefited by people interested in our company and willing to help. And always, it seems, there are the same circumstances. Someone wants to help. Someone really believes in the potential of the company. Someone has what we need at the time. Maybe Glenn is another someone in the line.
It is gratifying to be the beneficiary of such helpfulness, but more satisfying to be that someone that unexpectedly knocks on the door and volunteers to help.
Moonage Daydream
I woke up sick yesterday morning and stayed home from work, which is very rare for me. I think I caught the same bug Rebecca and Lanee had last weekend, which had them worshipping at the porcelain throne for a day and a half. I have a heartier constitution and it didn't hit me quite so hard, but there was plenty of gurgling and churgling inside of me and I was pretty wiped out for about 24 hours.
Mostly I slept. In fact, no matter what activity I engaged in, I would fall asleep. I'd start to read, and fall asleep. Put on my iPod, fall asleep. Watch a movie, asleep. For a guy who rarely sleeps more than six hours a night, this amounts to a surreal experience.
I remember getting sick as a kid, and falling in and out of a dream-like stupor. Then my sleep-sickness would have a theme, almost like a hallucinatory experience. I remember one in particular that took place on a harbor, at night, with ships passing and foghorns blasting. After two days of sweating in bed I could almost feel the sea-air, and struggled to distinguish reality from my visions of darkness.
I didn't have a theme this time, although I did find myself frequently repeating lines from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album, which probably reveals something about my psyche, although I shall not attempt an interpretation.
Sickness is the body's effort to cleanse itself, and our natural desires to sleep and drink liquids and not eat are all part of the healing and cleansing process. And I suppose the dreams and hallucinations are the brain's reaction to toxins moving through the system. But I prefer to think of them like the medicine man, inducing a dream-like stupor with herbs and heat and wood-smoke, to have a vision of the world from the inside out, even if it is only to see Ziggy Stardust.
Mostly I slept. In fact, no matter what activity I engaged in, I would fall asleep. I'd start to read, and fall asleep. Put on my iPod, fall asleep. Watch a movie, asleep. For a guy who rarely sleeps more than six hours a night, this amounts to a surreal experience.
I remember getting sick as a kid, and falling in and out of a dream-like stupor. Then my sleep-sickness would have a theme, almost like a hallucinatory experience. I remember one in particular that took place on a harbor, at night, with ships passing and foghorns blasting. After two days of sweating in bed I could almost feel the sea-air, and struggled to distinguish reality from my visions of darkness.
I didn't have a theme this time, although I did find myself frequently repeating lines from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album, which probably reveals something about my psyche, although I shall not attempt an interpretation.
Sickness is the body's effort to cleanse itself, and our natural desires to sleep and drink liquids and not eat are all part of the healing and cleansing process. And I suppose the dreams and hallucinations are the brain's reaction to toxins moving through the system. But I prefer to think of them like the medicine man, inducing a dream-like stupor with herbs and heat and wood-smoke, to have a vision of the world from the inside out, even if it is only to see Ziggy Stardust.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Grand Canyon
Last weekend we hiked the Grand Canyon, down the Grandview Trail. I had been in the Canyon once before, with Sam on the much more popular Bright Angel Trail. The Grandview is much less traveled, in rougher condition, somewhat less protected and generally more rugged. Naturally, I liked it much better.
It was originally a copper mining trail, around the turn of the 19th century, and later became one of the early tourist attractions in the Grand Canyon. There is still much evidence of mining down on Horseshoe Mesa, including rusted-out tin cans, evidence of an earlier time when rough men in the wild relied on canned food for survival—mostly beans and fruit, I think. I did the same in my early days of camping, lugging cans into the woods and opening them with big knives, which was immensely satisfying and made me feel like the grizzled men of a more primitive era.
Millions of people visit the Grand Canyon every year, coming from all around the world to stand at some of the many lookouts and gaze down in awe at its grandeur, the extraordinary vastness of it all. It is almost unimaginable to fathom that the ravages of time and the Colorado River could carve a sculpture of such scale. I watched some visitors last week. They look down first in stunned silence, trying to take it all in. Then they reflexively reach for their cameras, despite knowing intuitively that no photograph could possible do justice to the spectacle in front of them.
It is a wonderful thing to hike down into the depths of the Canyon, which only the rarest of visitors take the time to experience. Curiously, it makes the Canyon seem smaller to me, and more intimate. I begin to get a feel for its history, for the ecosystem, the springs and creeks of fresh, clean water that feed ribbons of green vegetation and empty into the surging Colorado. I listen to the territorial caw of the Canyon ravens, and wonder if they have ever been out above the rim. I marvel at the stunning beauty of the cactus flowers, which bloom with increasing frequency as we descend to warmer elevations below. I observe the wildflowers, just starting to reemerge, and how many more appeared on the way back up the trail, after a few warm days in May.
There are countless glories in this world of ours, the Grand Canyon being one of the greatest. I am grateful that it took me in for a few days, and shared with me a few of its secret splendors.
It was originally a copper mining trail, around the turn of the 19th century, and later became one of the early tourist attractions in the Grand Canyon. There is still much evidence of mining down on Horseshoe Mesa, including rusted-out tin cans, evidence of an earlier time when rough men in the wild relied on canned food for survival—mostly beans and fruit, I think. I did the same in my early days of camping, lugging cans into the woods and opening them with big knives, which was immensely satisfying and made me feel like the grizzled men of a more primitive era.
Millions of people visit the Grand Canyon every year, coming from all around the world to stand at some of the many lookouts and gaze down in awe at its grandeur, the extraordinary vastness of it all. It is almost unimaginable to fathom that the ravages of time and the Colorado River could carve a sculpture of such scale. I watched some visitors last week. They look down first in stunned silence, trying to take it all in. Then they reflexively reach for their cameras, despite knowing intuitively that no photograph could possible do justice to the spectacle in front of them.
It is a wonderful thing to hike down into the depths of the Canyon, which only the rarest of visitors take the time to experience. Curiously, it makes the Canyon seem smaller to me, and more intimate. I begin to get a feel for its history, for the ecosystem, the springs and creeks of fresh, clean water that feed ribbons of green vegetation and empty into the surging Colorado. I listen to the territorial caw of the Canyon ravens, and wonder if they have ever been out above the rim. I marvel at the stunning beauty of the cactus flowers, which bloom with increasing frequency as we descend to warmer elevations below. I observe the wildflowers, just starting to reemerge, and how many more appeared on the way back up the trail, after a few warm days in May.
There are countless glories in this world of ours, the Grand Canyon being one of the greatest. I am grateful that it took me in for a few days, and shared with me a few of its secret splendors.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
More than a Tragedy
The past week the media has been in a perpetual frenzy over the tragic mass killing last Monday of 32 people at Virginia Tech University by Korean-born VT student Seung-Hui Cho. The story has been told and retold on every show of every station. Teams of reporters scrambled to be the first to introduce the tiniest of details. And a steady stream of opinionated hosts and guests sounded off on the culpability of all parties intersecting with Mr. Cho before and during his horrendous killing spree: His parents should have known, his classmates should have been kinder, his teachers more alarmist, those he harassed should have prosecuted, the police should have intervened, the Virginia Tech administration should have been more proactive and NBC News more discrete.
I have very few opinions on these subjects. I don't know the participants or the details well enough to make a judgment. I doubt that there was willful negligence from anyone. We love to assign blame, but sometimes very bad things just happen.
And I am a little embarrassed to admit that it's difficult for me to share the pain of the victims. If I stop to think about it, it saddens me to consider the senseless loss of life and the grieving families. But since I was old enough to understand the tragedies of this world, I have built an emotional wall of defense that protects me from profound depression: I can think about these things intellectually, but don't let myself feel the suffering or the grief of others. It's too much to bear.
Consider not so ancient history in this world of ours: It's been estimated that 10 million Africans were shipped to the Americas in the slave trade. Maybe a third died in their first year due to disease and acclimatization. (Some estimate that as many as 30-50 million Africans died from slavery worldwide.) Looking for something more recent? Just over 50 years ago, seven million Jews died in the Holocaust. Let that one sink in a little. Want to bring it up to date? The Rwandan genocide of 1994 resulted in the deaths of nearly one million people--mostly Tutsis. Or consider this: An estimated 16,000 people in this world die from hunger every day--that's about one every five seconds, while 60% of Americans are overweight, and one in five is obese.
It seems to me that in the relative comfort of my home, sitting at my laptop while digesting my Sunday dinner, that I had better direct my attention to happier thoughts, because if I dwell on these any further I will be overcome with guilt for doing so little, for not making a meaningful contribution to solving these problems, or alleviating this suffering, for not doing what little good that I could do.
I am sorry for the tragedy at Virginia Tech. But in my quiet hour of contemplation, I weep for all the world, for my own insignificance, and for my silent contribution to man's inhumanity to man.
I have very few opinions on these subjects. I don't know the participants or the details well enough to make a judgment. I doubt that there was willful negligence from anyone. We love to assign blame, but sometimes very bad things just happen.
And I am a little embarrassed to admit that it's difficult for me to share the pain of the victims. If I stop to think about it, it saddens me to consider the senseless loss of life and the grieving families. But since I was old enough to understand the tragedies of this world, I have built an emotional wall of defense that protects me from profound depression: I can think about these things intellectually, but don't let myself feel the suffering or the grief of others. It's too much to bear.
Consider not so ancient history in this world of ours: It's been estimated that 10 million Africans were shipped to the Americas in the slave trade. Maybe a third died in their first year due to disease and acclimatization. (Some estimate that as many as 30-50 million Africans died from slavery worldwide.) Looking for something more recent? Just over 50 years ago, seven million Jews died in the Holocaust. Let that one sink in a little. Want to bring it up to date? The Rwandan genocide of 1994 resulted in the deaths of nearly one million people--mostly Tutsis. Or consider this: An estimated 16,000 people in this world die from hunger every day--that's about one every five seconds, while 60% of Americans are overweight, and one in five is obese.
It seems to me that in the relative comfort of my home, sitting at my laptop while digesting my Sunday dinner, that I had better direct my attention to happier thoughts, because if I dwell on these any further I will be overcome with guilt for doing so little, for not making a meaningful contribution to solving these problems, or alleviating this suffering, for not doing what little good that I could do.
I am sorry for the tragedy at Virginia Tech. But in my quiet hour of contemplation, I weep for all the world, for my own insignificance, and for my silent contribution to man's inhumanity to man.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
New York Ditty
I spent a few days last week in New York, which never fails to fascinate me. Yes, New York is uniquely American--with the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, The Empire State Building, Broadway, the U.N. Plaza and Ground Zero. And at the same time, there are many things I can't stand--crazy traffic, crowded streets, nasty smells and outrageous prices. But what always intrigues me is the people.
New York is the Brazilian taxi driver, who works seven days a week, but is buying a dry cleaning store in Sao Paulo and hopes to retire and start a family before he is 40. Or the Nigerian cabbie, talking in his native tongue on his cell phone, while he races wildly through Manhattan, wearing his driving recklessness like a badge of honor.
New York is two black guys, one with a green Yankees cap, walking slowly down the sidewalk, talking loudly and profanely, as if all the world was their audience. Or the woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase and walking rapidly through the crowd, eyes straight ahead, confident that a path through the bodies will be opened up if she refuses to break stride.
New York is an Iranian woman who says she is "Persian," or a white guy who must quickly tell you he's Italian.
New York is a sanitation worker who loads garbage in his truck with a swagger, or a bearded African-American wearing a beret, with serious intent, carrying around a Norman Mailer novel that might be too big for his satchel; or two guys with skinny-legged jeans and nouveau haircuts that now must wear rainbow scarves to distinguish themselves from all the straight guys dressing metrosexual.
New York is Japanese businessmen looking serious, architectural students looking up, and fashion-model women looking glamorous.
New York is a street musician chanting in an unknown tongue, a hot dog vendor yelling to a friend across the street, or a taxi driver honking madly at the car in front, which has paused a nanosecond too long at the light.
New York is everyone and New York is no one. New York is people who will be happy to give you their opinions on Rudy Giuliani, terrorism or the New York Yankees, but are clearly irritated if you ask them for directions.
New York is eight million people living a world apart; a third foreign-born, speaking 170 languages and all in endless pursuit of love, happiness and a good-paying job. That's life in New York, and everywhere else as well.
New York is the Brazilian taxi driver, who works seven days a week, but is buying a dry cleaning store in Sao Paulo and hopes to retire and start a family before he is 40. Or the Nigerian cabbie, talking in his native tongue on his cell phone, while he races wildly through Manhattan, wearing his driving recklessness like a badge of honor.
New York is two black guys, one with a green Yankees cap, walking slowly down the sidewalk, talking loudly and profanely, as if all the world was their audience. Or the woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase and walking rapidly through the crowd, eyes straight ahead, confident that a path through the bodies will be opened up if she refuses to break stride.
New York is an Iranian woman who says she is "Persian," or a white guy who must quickly tell you he's Italian.
New York is a sanitation worker who loads garbage in his truck with a swagger, or a bearded African-American wearing a beret, with serious intent, carrying around a Norman Mailer novel that might be too big for his satchel; or two guys with skinny-legged jeans and nouveau haircuts that now must wear rainbow scarves to distinguish themselves from all the straight guys dressing metrosexual.
New York is Japanese businessmen looking serious, architectural students looking up, and fashion-model women looking glamorous.
New York is a street musician chanting in an unknown tongue, a hot dog vendor yelling to a friend across the street, or a taxi driver honking madly at the car in front, which has paused a nanosecond too long at the light.
New York is everyone and New York is no one. New York is people who will be happy to give you their opinions on Rudy Giuliani, terrorism or the New York Yankees, but are clearly irritated if you ask them for directions.
New York is eight million people living a world apart; a third foreign-born, speaking 170 languages and all in endless pursuit of love, happiness and a good-paying job. That's life in New York, and everywhere else as well.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Race to Racism
A couple of items in the news have caused me to ponder our irrational phobia about racism in America. The scandal du jour, which has kept the talk show engines humming, is the firing of Don Imus, who quipped on his national radio and television show that the black, tattooed Rutgers womens basketball team that played for the NCAA championship looked like a bunch of "nappy-headed hos." He was trying to be funny. He was completely in character, eschewing the PC perspective for shock-jock candor. And of course, as everyone realizes (and none more so than Imus himself), he went way over the line.
Like clockwork Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out, as unofficial spokespeople for all African-Americans, to jostle for media time and credibility. (As an aside, I bet those two hate each other.) Fearing that they might be accused of insensitivity, or even the support of racism, advertisers started pulling out in droves. And under broadscale attack from prominent blacks nationwide, the networks grudgingly let the axe fall on Mr. Imus' head.
Now here is the thing: No one really thinks Don Imus is a racist. I have heard the tape of the ill-fated show, and I think he was just trying to be funny, before a live national audience, and his brain fell a couple of steps behind his mouth. First, one must be more circumspect when the target of one's humor is female college students, not to mention minorities. These girls are not quite public figures, and are still entitled to that modicum of decency that we all too quickly disregard for celebrities of Hollywood or athletic fame. One certainly does not refer to youthful amateur athletes as "hos," even in jest.
Second, one could pounce upon the term "nappy-headed," which has come to describe kinky and unkempt hair, generally on African-Americans. I heard one black woman on television describe this term as blatantly racially offensive, and I think most of us that are sensitive and exposed to this type of social etymology would avoid using the term to describe blacks. Although, we should admit that this sensitivity is not universally shared. A second woman on the same talk show thought the whole "nappy" hub-bub was related to the slang British term for a diaper, a point of ignorance which I doubt that she will ever in her life live down. And of course, such terms are always subject to a double standard, depending on who is saying them, meaning that rapper Playa Fly can without impunity record the song Nappy Hair and Gold Teeth ("If you growing nappy rolls you and playa super down ...") and turn a profit, presumably selling mostly to blacks.
But most damning in the Imus statement is the subtle link of superficialities common to the African-American culture with moral degradation. Black basketball players have broadly taken to tattoos, which in my personal taste are generally applied in excess. It's only natural that at least some black female basketball players, copying the moves and style of the men, would likely want a few tats of their own. Suggesting that this makes them look like whores is a dangerously implicit generalization about a race and a culture, the kind we are all vulnerable to and must guard against, but particularly those that speak in public forums, like Mr. Imus.
Having gone on too long about this, I have no objection to Imus being fired. But I am intrigued by the double-standard from those that are protesting most loudly. Rap music has taken the debasement of women, particularly black women, and turned it into an art form--and "nappy-headed hos" might be considered a term of endearment compared to some of the lyrics, which have explicitly and graphically advocated violence and sexual abuse to women. Where are the advertisers throwing themselves dramatically in front of the wheels of commerce to "do the right thing"? Where are Messrs. Sharpton and Jackson, expressing outrage and calling for boycotts? Where are the Hollywood liberals, condemning the state of today's rap music as base and perverse? Possibly all waiting for an invitation to one of those legendary parties hosted by top-tier rappers.
Frankly, Don Imus is an easier target. He's one guy. He's getting old, and all claims to cool have passed him by. And, of course, he's white.
Like clockwork Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out, as unofficial spokespeople for all African-Americans, to jostle for media time and credibility. (As an aside, I bet those two hate each other.) Fearing that they might be accused of insensitivity, or even the support of racism, advertisers started pulling out in droves. And under broadscale attack from prominent blacks nationwide, the networks grudgingly let the axe fall on Mr. Imus' head.
Now here is the thing: No one really thinks Don Imus is a racist. I have heard the tape of the ill-fated show, and I think he was just trying to be funny, before a live national audience, and his brain fell a couple of steps behind his mouth. First, one must be more circumspect when the target of one's humor is female college students, not to mention minorities. These girls are not quite public figures, and are still entitled to that modicum of decency that we all too quickly disregard for celebrities of Hollywood or athletic fame. One certainly does not refer to youthful amateur athletes as "hos," even in jest.
Second, one could pounce upon the term "nappy-headed," which has come to describe kinky and unkempt hair, generally on African-Americans. I heard one black woman on television describe this term as blatantly racially offensive, and I think most of us that are sensitive and exposed to this type of social etymology would avoid using the term to describe blacks. Although, we should admit that this sensitivity is not universally shared. A second woman on the same talk show thought the whole "nappy" hub-bub was related to the slang British term for a diaper, a point of ignorance which I doubt that she will ever in her life live down. And of course, such terms are always subject to a double standard, depending on who is saying them, meaning that rapper Playa Fly can without impunity record the song Nappy Hair and Gold Teeth ("If you growing nappy rolls you and playa super down ...") and turn a profit, presumably selling mostly to blacks.
But most damning in the Imus statement is the subtle link of superficialities common to the African-American culture with moral degradation. Black basketball players have broadly taken to tattoos, which in my personal taste are generally applied in excess. It's only natural that at least some black female basketball players, copying the moves and style of the men, would likely want a few tats of their own. Suggesting that this makes them look like whores is a dangerously implicit generalization about a race and a culture, the kind we are all vulnerable to and must guard against, but particularly those that speak in public forums, like Mr. Imus.
Having gone on too long about this, I have no objection to Imus being fired. But I am intrigued by the double-standard from those that are protesting most loudly. Rap music has taken the debasement of women, particularly black women, and turned it into an art form--and "nappy-headed hos" might be considered a term of endearment compared to some of the lyrics, which have explicitly and graphically advocated violence and sexual abuse to women. Where are the advertisers throwing themselves dramatically in front of the wheels of commerce to "do the right thing"? Where are Messrs. Sharpton and Jackson, expressing outrage and calling for boycotts? Where are the Hollywood liberals, condemning the state of today's rap music as base and perverse? Possibly all waiting for an invitation to one of those legendary parties hosted by top-tier rappers.
Frankly, Don Imus is an easier target. He's one guy. He's getting old, and all claims to cool have passed him by. And, of course, he's white.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Plane Truth
On a flight to Phoenix the other day, Lanee and I sat next to a lady from Idaho--a first-grade schoolteacher who is retiring this spring after forty years in the classroom. Besides being chatty, opinionated and funny ("I had to quit golf because I swear too much!"), she had a lot to say about the effects of legislation and regulation on education.
What's new in the world of education, according to our traveling companion?
1. Because of education reform, she has to publish all of her lesson plans a week in advance. So if the class fails to understand a principle, the teacher isn't supposed to adapt to conditions, but must hold to the pre-ordained schedule or risk violating policy.
2. Some astute observer of the fire code pushed forth the law that a maximum of 20% of classroom wall space can have paper hanging in it, and none in the school hallways. So the teacher can't hang up student papers and the children are denied the one thing they universally need--recognition.
3. Teachers can't hug kids anymore, a law that I suppose was designed to suppress the seeds of abuse. So these little six-year-olds who are neglected at home can't be touched. And when her students say "I love you" and try to give a hug, our teacher's dictated response is to push the child away and say "thank you."
I am reminded of Philip K. Howard's stirring book, "The Death of Common Sense: How Law is Suffocating America." The problem isn't the bureaucrats, it's the philosophy of excessive and controlling regulation that hamstrings the bureaucrats, that takes away their decision-making authority, the opportunity for common sense to intervene. It's the notion that the answer to every problem lies in the legislative process, and that it is possible to virtually eliminate such life fundamentals as risk and injustice given sufficient space in the legal code.
I suspect that most laws do more harm than good. I think we're all for protecting our personal rights and property, but those rather modest aims could be accomplished with but a small percentage of our legislative text. I have seen the process of law-making, and it is no surprise to me that most laws are bad laws--flawed by someone's self-interest, by political wrangling, and, most commonly, by unforeseen consequences.
I think maybe there ought to be a one-year review period for new legislation--so generally the same political powers are in place. But give everyone that has been affected a chance to tell their stories, and let us all reconsider, and be given the opportunity to vote again, this time a little more enlightened by the reality of its consequences.
And I think the world is a better place when a first-grade teacher can hug her kids.
What's new in the world of education, according to our traveling companion?
1. Because of education reform, she has to publish all of her lesson plans a week in advance. So if the class fails to understand a principle, the teacher isn't supposed to adapt to conditions, but must hold to the pre-ordained schedule or risk violating policy.
2. Some astute observer of the fire code pushed forth the law that a maximum of 20% of classroom wall space can have paper hanging in it, and none in the school hallways. So the teacher can't hang up student papers and the children are denied the one thing they universally need--recognition.
3. Teachers can't hug kids anymore, a law that I suppose was designed to suppress the seeds of abuse. So these little six-year-olds who are neglected at home can't be touched. And when her students say "I love you" and try to give a hug, our teacher's dictated response is to push the child away and say "thank you."
I am reminded of Philip K. Howard's stirring book, "The Death of Common Sense: How Law is Suffocating America." The problem isn't the bureaucrats, it's the philosophy of excessive and controlling regulation that hamstrings the bureaucrats, that takes away their decision-making authority, the opportunity for common sense to intervene. It's the notion that the answer to every problem lies in the legislative process, and that it is possible to virtually eliminate such life fundamentals as risk and injustice given sufficient space in the legal code.
I suspect that most laws do more harm than good. I think we're all for protecting our personal rights and property, but those rather modest aims could be accomplished with but a small percentage of our legislative text. I have seen the process of law-making, and it is no surprise to me that most laws are bad laws--flawed by someone's self-interest, by political wrangling, and, most commonly, by unforeseen consequences.
I think maybe there ought to be a one-year review period for new legislation--so generally the same political powers are in place. But give everyone that has been affected a chance to tell their stories, and let us all reconsider, and be given the opportunity to vote again, this time a little more enlightened by the reality of its consequences.
And I think the world is a better place when a first-grade teacher can hug her kids.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
24/7
I'm one of those snooty guys who self-righteously proclaims that he hardly ever watches TV. Other than sports, I don't spend much time with the boob tube. Never seen OC, Lost, Cold Case, Veronica Mars, etc. I've watched Office a couple of times. House once or twice. And occasionally Jeopardy, or reruns of The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Everyone Loves Raymond or King of the Hill.
And for the most part, I've even avoided the DVD collections of TV series. But last week someone gave me a season of 24. I started the first episode Friday night at 11 p.m., and finished the 24th episode exactly seven days and three hours later. This was 'Crack TV' and I was a hopeless addict. I wanted to watch into the wee hours of the morning, even on weekdays. I missed two trips to the gym because I was up late the night before. Twice I watched an episode in the morning before work. And almost every day the thought crossed my mind that I could skip work for the day and binge my way into a 24-induced stupor.
I started to dream about Jack Bauer saving the world. I was ready to sign up to volunteer for David Palmer's campaign, except that I was so disgusted by his wife. I started looking at everyone in my real life with a suspicious eye, wondering if they were part of a conspiracy against me, or worse, against all things good in the world as we know them.
I can no longer look down my nose at Lanee for religously turning to Gilmore Girls every Tuesday night. I can't shake my head at friends or family who talk about who made the cut on Survivor, The Apprentice or Dancing with the Stars. No, because now I have faced the fiendish television addiction, with no signs of recovery.
It's 10 o'clock at night. Season Three is in the cabinet. And my hands are shaking.
And for the most part, I've even avoided the DVD collections of TV series. But last week someone gave me a season of 24. I started the first episode Friday night at 11 p.m., and finished the 24th episode exactly seven days and three hours later. This was 'Crack TV' and I was a hopeless addict. I wanted to watch into the wee hours of the morning, even on weekdays. I missed two trips to the gym because I was up late the night before. Twice I watched an episode in the morning before work. And almost every day the thought crossed my mind that I could skip work for the day and binge my way into a 24-induced stupor.
I started to dream about Jack Bauer saving the world. I was ready to sign up to volunteer for David Palmer's campaign, except that I was so disgusted by his wife. I started looking at everyone in my real life with a suspicious eye, wondering if they were part of a conspiracy against me, or worse, against all things good in the world as we know them.
I can no longer look down my nose at Lanee for religously turning to Gilmore Girls every Tuesday night. I can't shake my head at friends or family who talk about who made the cut on Survivor, The Apprentice or Dancing with the Stars. No, because now I have faced the fiendish television addiction, with no signs of recovery.
It's 10 o'clock at night. Season Three is in the cabinet. And my hands are shaking.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Home Field
Now that the snow is finally gone for another year, I walked the lawn to survey conditions before I jumped in with with rakes and hoes and a stream of trips to the nursery.
Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.
I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.
And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.
I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.
Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.
I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.
And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.
I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Interviews
This week I interviewed a number of individuals for jobs in our company. All of them were for professional positions, paying over $50,000 per year. And without exaggeration, these things really were said by candidates:
--"I assume that all companies are going to be bad."
--"I didn't really leave that company on good terms. My boss was a schmuck."
--"My wife and I have had problems."
--"I have no expectations of longevity in any job I take."
--"When my father-in-law lends me money, he always calls me a loser."
What else? Let's see, someone brought a two-year old child, who was barefoot and wandered around the office while we interviewed in another room. Someone else broke down and cried in my office. One person came in wearing glasses with only one bow.
At times it felt like I was living a Kafka novel. And in case you were wondering, none of them will be joining us.
--"I assume that all companies are going to be bad."
--"I didn't really leave that company on good terms. My boss was a schmuck."
--"My wife and I have had problems."
--"I have no expectations of longevity in any job I take."
--"When my father-in-law lends me money, he always calls me a loser."
What else? Let's see, someone brought a two-year old child, who was barefoot and wandered around the office while we interviewed in another room. Someone else broke down and cried in my office. One person came in wearing glasses with only one bow.
At times it felt like I was living a Kafka novel. And in case you were wondering, none of them will be joining us.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Spring in My Step
A row of crocuses appeared in my garden this week, welcomed in by the 75-degree temperatures and announcing with their muted fanfare that Spring has once again arrived. There are many signs of Spring, but I can think of no better than the dainty crocus, with its slender leaves and lavender blossoms. The first days of Spring are a time of rebirth, and best accompanied by classical music and a comfortable pace. Spring needs no artificial adornment. Just pick up the flotsam and jetsam left by the falling tide of melting snow and let nature's splendor reveal herself again.
One should pay attention at this time of the year; walk slowly and repeatedly over the same course, noting the new arrivals of the day. Listen to the birds as they return and build their nests. Walk out in the morning and feel the change in the air. Wait for the first daffodil, the perennial second-place finisher, that rises taller to look down upon the crocus line, already in formation.
It was different when I was young. Then Spring was fast-moving water and building dams and muddy shoes and t-shirts well before the actual temperature might suggest them. Spring was two days off of school and Easter candy and Opening Day of the baseball season. But most important, Spring meant that summer vacation was only a few months away, which was the time of year we all really looked forward to.
I don't look past Spring any more. In fact, I don't look past any time or season. As I approach my 50th year I try to appreciate the simple pleasures of the days I have been given. So I welcome the arrival of the crocuses, and smile as I pass them every day, noting that yet another has sprung up to join his mates. He does not require my approbation, and though it means nothing to him, I yet mark his arrival with an approving eye as I make my self-appointed rounds.
One should pay attention at this time of the year; walk slowly and repeatedly over the same course, noting the new arrivals of the day. Listen to the birds as they return and build their nests. Walk out in the morning and feel the change in the air. Wait for the first daffodil, the perennial second-place finisher, that rises taller to look down upon the crocus line, already in formation.
It was different when I was young. Then Spring was fast-moving water and building dams and muddy shoes and t-shirts well before the actual temperature might suggest them. Spring was two days off of school and Easter candy and Opening Day of the baseball season. But most important, Spring meant that summer vacation was only a few months away, which was the time of year we all really looked forward to.
I don't look past Spring any more. In fact, I don't look past any time or season. As I approach my 50th year I try to appreciate the simple pleasures of the days I have been given. So I welcome the arrival of the crocuses, and smile as I pass them every day, noting that yet another has sprung up to join his mates. He does not require my approbation, and though it means nothing to him, I yet mark his arrival with an approving eye as I make my self-appointed rounds.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
My Vegetative State: Final
For the health of it. It's healthier to go meatless. Healthier in theory. Healthier in practice. And there is a mountain of data to support this.
Vegetarians have less obesity, less heart disease, less diabetes, less hypertension, less cancer, less osetoperosis and fewer gall stones. And they live longer. I can't say they all run without weariness, but they generally have more energy because their bodies run on cleaner fuel.
I suppose that if you scrupulously avoided the modern meat factories, and only ate what you killed, then eating meat wouldn't be quite so bad for you. But the fact is, virtually all meateaters in this country eat factory beef, factory pork, factory poultry or some other type of factorized hormone-injected hyper-grown sodium nitrate-infused scientifically-modeled production-efficient meat.
Our bodies weren't built for meat. Our teeth aren't right. Our colons are way too long. And our blood vessels don't like it. Don't talk to me about the need for protein and all of that nonsense--I don't believe a word of it. I've gone for a year eating just fruit and was perfectly healthy and happy. And you can now get all the protein you need as a supplement--in chocolate no less.
I think we'd be better off without milk and dairy as well, but it's hard for me to live without cereal (and I'm greatly looking forward to switching to raw milk).
Thus endeth this series. I try not to preach. I almost never criticize. I am deeply grateful that I have a wife who has been kind enough to make me alternatives at meal time for so many years. I have many dietary faults, and I make no allowance for them. I never claimed to have it all right. But this is one thing I do, for numerous reasons, which are now available for public consumption, and at least as easily digested as your average hamburger.
Vegetarians have less obesity, less heart disease, less diabetes, less hypertension, less cancer, less osetoperosis and fewer gall stones. And they live longer. I can't say they all run without weariness, but they generally have more energy because their bodies run on cleaner fuel.
I suppose that if you scrupulously avoided the modern meat factories, and only ate what you killed, then eating meat wouldn't be quite so bad for you. But the fact is, virtually all meateaters in this country eat factory beef, factory pork, factory poultry or some other type of factorized hormone-injected hyper-grown sodium nitrate-infused scientifically-modeled production-efficient meat.
Our bodies weren't built for meat. Our teeth aren't right. Our colons are way too long. And our blood vessels don't like it. Don't talk to me about the need for protein and all of that nonsense--I don't believe a word of it. I've gone for a year eating just fruit and was perfectly healthy and happy. And you can now get all the protein you need as a supplement--in chocolate no less.
I think we'd be better off without milk and dairy as well, but it's hard for me to live without cereal (and I'm greatly looking forward to switching to raw milk).
Thus endeth this series. I try not to preach. I almost never criticize. I am deeply grateful that I have a wife who has been kind enough to make me alternatives at meal time for so many years. I have many dietary faults, and I make no allowance for them. I never claimed to have it all right. But this is one thing I do, for numerous reasons, which are now available for public consumption, and at least as easily digested as your average hamburger.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)