Saturday, March 31, 2007
Elizabeth Wilcox
Read her book. Click on Monster.com and read her stuff. Google Strive magazine, the magazine Elizabeth started. Elizabeth Wilcox. Elizabeth Wilcox. Remember that name. Elizabeth Wilcox
As Dave Barry often writes, I am not making this up....
I posted a comment on Colin McEnroe's blog yesterday. He'd linked his readers to a story about folks sending shit through the mail. Not the kind of shit I wrote back in my advertising copywriting days, the crap we stuck in direct mail envelopes. Poo poo. Genuine #2. The real McCrap. That's what folks are sending. True story.
I commented. Said what I just said about me writing crap and sending the shit to unsuspecting direct mail victims. Back when I was a copywriter in Hartford, Connecticut. Said this story Colin linked us to is nothing new. Same old shit.
This morning I get up. Perform the A.M. ritual. The three S thing. Shave. Shower. Sit ( Down and read the morning paper ).
Before I sit down and read the morning paper, I have to walk down the driveway and pick up the papers. They're out there every morning, in plastic bags at the end of the driveway. We get the Times. That's wrapped in a blue plastic bag. Two actually. And we get the Providence Journal. That's wrapped in a clear plastic bag. Just one.
This morning, as I walked toward the end of the driveway, I noticed something different. Something was on top of the Journal.
A pile of dog shit.
As I said, I am not making this up. I know, I know. It's April Fools Day Eve. I just admitted to lying about " my cousin " Tom McCarthy. But I swear, this is true. There was a pile of dog shit on the Providence Journal.
Don't ask me if it was above or below the fold. I don't know. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was angry. I kicked the paper and it went a few yards. The shit fell off, but the plastic bag was still stained.
If this is someone's idea of an April Fools joke, I say this:
At least you seem to be reading my blog. Or my comments on McEnroe's blog. But please, don't pull that one on me again. Did I hear someone say, " That's not nice? "
No shit.
I posted a comment on Colin McEnroe's blog yesterday. He'd linked his readers to a story about folks sending shit through the mail. Not the kind of shit I wrote back in my advertising copywriting days, the crap we stuck in direct mail envelopes. Poo poo. Genuine #2. The real McCrap. That's what folks are sending. True story.
I commented. Said what I just said about me writing crap and sending the shit to unsuspecting direct mail victims. Back when I was a copywriter in Hartford, Connecticut. Said this story Colin linked us to is nothing new. Same old shit.
This morning I get up. Perform the A.M. ritual. The three S thing. Shave. Shower. Sit ( Down and read the morning paper ).
Before I sit down and read the morning paper, I have to walk down the driveway and pick up the papers. They're out there every morning, in plastic bags at the end of the driveway. We get the Times. That's wrapped in a blue plastic bag. Two actually. And we get the Providence Journal. That's wrapped in a clear plastic bag. Just one.
This morning, as I walked toward the end of the driveway, I noticed something different. Something was on top of the Journal.
A pile of dog shit.
As I said, I am not making this up. I know, I know. It's April Fools Day Eve. I just admitted to lying about " my cousin " Tom McCarthy. But I swear, this is true. There was a pile of dog shit on the Providence Journal.
Don't ask me if it was above or below the fold. I don't know. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was angry. I kicked the paper and it went a few yards. The shit fell off, but the plastic bag was still stained.
If this is someone's idea of an April Fools joke, I say this:
At least you seem to be reading my blog. Or my comments on McEnroe's blog. But please, don't pull that one on me again. Did I hear someone say, " That's not nice? "
No shit.
That post about Tom McCarthy being my cousin. It led to this:
I got an email from a writer this morning. I'd emailed him a few weeks ago mentioning that I liked a paper he had written about blogs and literature. I'd included the address of this blog in my note to him. I'd also asked S.H. if he knew my old friend Tom Lux. Luxy taught where S.H, teaches now. S.H. said he didn't know Tom. Then he went on to say that he played a role in getting Tom McCarthy's book, Remainder published.
I just bought Remainder yesterday and started reading the novel last night.
I thought the odds were good that S.H. would know Tom ( Lux ). But what are the odds that he would be closely connected to the writer I mentioned in my lame April Fools joke yesterday? What are the odds that that would be the book I started reading right after I posted the joke and right before I got that email from R.H.?
Life is strange. And if you try to stay awake and connect a few dots and let the dots get connected on their own...
It can be pretty damn intreresting as well.
I got an email from a writer this morning. I'd emailed him a few weeks ago mentioning that I liked a paper he had written about blogs and literature. I'd included the address of this blog in my note to him. I'd also asked S.H. if he knew my old friend Tom Lux. Luxy taught where S.H, teaches now. S.H. said he didn't know Tom. Then he went on to say that he played a role in getting Tom McCarthy's book, Remainder published.
I just bought Remainder yesterday and started reading the novel last night.
I thought the odds were good that S.H. would know Tom ( Lux ). But what are the odds that he would be closely connected to the writer I mentioned in my lame April Fools joke yesterday? What are the odds that that would be the book I started reading right after I posted the joke and right before I got that email from R.H.?
Life is strange. And if you try to stay awake and connect a few dots and let the dots get connected on their own...
It can be pretty damn intreresting as well.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Some thoughts that occurred to me this evening...
It's Donna's birthday. I gave her a CD, a Cindy Lauper CD. Cooked dinner for Donna. Cindy covers songs on the CD I gave Donna. The title:
At Last ( He's cooking for ME! )
Happy Birthday Bella Donna. Happy Birthday.
***
I heard from my old friend, Fred, who lives out near Reno, Nevada. Fred and I were stationed together at RAf Chicksands In England. We were a part of a circle of friends, who got to know London like the back of our hands.
Fred and I reconnected a few years ago. I emailed him and he emailed me.
This one email sticks in my mind. Fred lives in the mountains northwest of Las Vegas. That area gets snow like Buffalo get snow. Feet of it. Feet upon feet upon feet. Fred emailed me a few years ago. Said he has this tennis ball and this dog. He tosses the tennis ball, aims at the mailbox. The dog races towards the ball, retrieves it, brings it back to Fred. Fred throws the ball towards the mailbox again. The dog plows through the snow and gets the ball. Brings it back. The process is repeated again and again.
Pretty soon a path is cleared. Fred can walk easily from his house to the mailbox, and back to the house. Easy go. Easy come. Easy come. Easy go.
I think it's amazing. After all these years, Fred and I still are talking to each other. Via Email.
It's like a path has been cleared. Like a ball has been thrown. Like a dog running back and forth, tween the box and the house...
It's been 35 years since I laid eyes on old Fred. But we're talking.
Thanks to that dog.
It's Donna's birthday. I gave her a CD, a Cindy Lauper CD. Cooked dinner for Donna. Cindy covers songs on the CD I gave Donna. The title:
At Last ( He's cooking for ME! )
Happy Birthday Bella Donna. Happy Birthday.
***
I heard from my old friend, Fred, who lives out near Reno, Nevada. Fred and I were stationed together at RAf Chicksands In England. We were a part of a circle of friends, who got to know London like the back of our hands.
Fred and I reconnected a few years ago. I emailed him and he emailed me.
This one email sticks in my mind. Fred lives in the mountains northwest of Las Vegas. That area gets snow like Buffalo get snow. Feet of it. Feet upon feet upon feet. Fred emailed me a few years ago. Said he has this tennis ball and this dog. He tosses the tennis ball, aims at the mailbox. The dog races towards the ball, retrieves it, brings it back to Fred. Fred throws the ball towards the mailbox again. The dog plows through the snow and gets the ball. Brings it back. The process is repeated again and again.
Pretty soon a path is cleared. Fred can walk easily from his house to the mailbox, and back to the house. Easy go. Easy come. Easy come. Easy go.
I think it's amazing. After all these years, Fred and I still are talking to each other. Via Email.
It's like a path has been cleared. Like a ball has been thrown. Like a dog running back and forth, tween the box and the house...
It's been 35 years since I laid eyes on old Fred. But we're talking.
Thanks to that dog.
Remainder - By Tom McCarthy - Books - Review - New York Times
It's two days until April 1, 2007. For those readers expecting some tongue in cheek April Fools post on Sunday, I say this: Don't expect it. I'm beyond that, past that and above it. The thing I won't be is all over it. What will I be doing on Sunday? Trying to get in touch with my cousin, Tom, in London. I want to congratulate him on the rave reviews he's getting for his novel, Remainder. Not familiar with the book? Here's a review. It appeared on the front page of the New York Times book review recently
Remainder - By Tom McCarthy - Books - Review - New York Times
Remainder - By Tom McCarthy - Books - Review - New York Times
The Amber Alert has been cancelled for Ron Reagan.
Reagan, son of the late president Ronald Reagan, and co-host of MSNBC's ill fated " Coast to Coast " had not been seen nor heard from in months. He resurfaced today on MSNBC's " Hardball ( Without Chris Matthews ).
Mike Barnicle was filling in for Matthews today. Barnicle did not return calls which would have questioned whether Reagan would have appeared on the show if Matthews was there.
Maureen Dowd and Malcolm Gladwell continue to be among the disappeared. If anyone spots them, please call 1-800- THELMAS
Reagan, son of the late president Ronald Reagan, and co-host of MSNBC's ill fated " Coast to Coast " had not been seen nor heard from in months. He resurfaced today on MSNBC's " Hardball ( Without Chris Matthews ).
Mike Barnicle was filling in for Matthews today. Barnicle did not return calls which would have questioned whether Reagan would have appeared on the show if Matthews was there.
Maureen Dowd and Malcolm Gladwell continue to be among the disappeared. If anyone spots them, please call 1-800- THELMAS
What's news?
One of the definitions of news is that it's information that has a direct impact on our lives. Property taxes going up in the town in which you own a home? That's news. A tornado warning has been issued in your neck of the prairie? That's news. There's a sniper loose in your neighborhood? Picking off your neighbors as they mow their lawns and wash their cars?
You're starting to get it, aren't you?
Two months or so ago, there was news that certain batches of Peter Pan peanut butter were contaminated with salmonella. America was alerted. We were told to check our shelves. If the number 2111 appeared on any jars of Peter Pan we had...
DON'T EAT IT!!!!!!
We didn't learn that until three weeks after I had eaten some peanut butter from a contaminated jar we had purchased ( Bingo. It had that number ) - probably at Wal-Mart. I'd experienced stomach pain and severe diarrhea while we were on vacation in Florida. Ironically, I experienced these symptoms on a casino boat which offered a buffet lunch. We steered clear of the buffet because we had heard that a lot of people get sick after eating buffet meals on cruise ships.
I'm fine now, but what I was experiencing that day was salmonella.
Now we've stopped purchasing wet dog food. More than 60 millions cans and pouches have been recalled. Dogs and cats are dying. Vets are getting myriad calls from concerned pet owners.
So there's two national news stories that have had a direct impact on us. And they both have to do with contaminated food. Terrorism? Cutbacks in the FDA budget? Who knows? All I know is that these food stories are definitely on our radar screen.
Anna Nicole? Not unless she died after eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
One of the definitions of news is that it's information that has a direct impact on our lives. Property taxes going up in the town in which you own a home? That's news. A tornado warning has been issued in your neck of the prairie? That's news. There's a sniper loose in your neighborhood? Picking off your neighbors as they mow their lawns and wash their cars?
You're starting to get it, aren't you?
Two months or so ago, there was news that certain batches of Peter Pan peanut butter were contaminated with salmonella. America was alerted. We were told to check our shelves. If the number 2111 appeared on any jars of Peter Pan we had...
DON'T EAT IT!!!!!!
We didn't learn that until three weeks after I had eaten some peanut butter from a contaminated jar we had purchased ( Bingo. It had that number ) - probably at Wal-Mart. I'd experienced stomach pain and severe diarrhea while we were on vacation in Florida. Ironically, I experienced these symptoms on a casino boat which offered a buffet lunch. We steered clear of the buffet because we had heard that a lot of people get sick after eating buffet meals on cruise ships.
I'm fine now, but what I was experiencing that day was salmonella.
Now we've stopped purchasing wet dog food. More than 60 millions cans and pouches have been recalled. Dogs and cats are dying. Vets are getting myriad calls from concerned pet owners.
So there's two national news stories that have had a direct impact on us. And they both have to do with contaminated food. Terrorism? Cutbacks in the FDA budget? Who knows? All I know is that these food stories are definitely on our radar screen.
Anna Nicole? Not unless she died after eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
He was careful to have men under him who were not quite as bright as he was, and he particularly understood the dangers of talent... "
That's from Stephen Hunter's " Point of Impact " which is the 1993 novel upon which Mark Wahlberg's new movie " Shooter " is based. I'm reading that now. It's a terrific book. The writing reminds me of James Lee Burke's novels set in The Big Easy. It reminds me of Christopher Whitcomb. And, written 14 or so years ago, it's so very on target, relevant. At least that paragraph is.
And one more thing. Sampson, the A.G.'s chief of staff, testified before congress today. Another Libby like chief of staff thrown to the wolves. There's a pattern here. Underlings falling on the sword. Remember what happened at that prison in Iraq. All those naked men. Those leashes. Those women. Who took the blame?
The evil doers. Not those who gave them their orders and condoned the evil they did.
That's from Stephen Hunter's " Point of Impact " which is the 1993 novel upon which Mark Wahlberg's new movie " Shooter " is based. I'm reading that now. It's a terrific book. The writing reminds me of James Lee Burke's novels set in The Big Easy. It reminds me of Christopher Whitcomb. And, written 14 or so years ago, it's so very on target, relevant. At least that paragraph is.
And one more thing. Sampson, the A.G.'s chief of staff, testified before congress today. Another Libby like chief of staff thrown to the wolves. There's a pattern here. Underlings falling on the sword. Remember what happened at that prison in Iraq. All those naked men. Those leashes. Those women. Who took the blame?
The evil doers. Not those who gave them their orders and condoned the evil they did.
It occurs to me that some might think the topic of that last post might not amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. If you're thinking that, good for you. You're thinking like those who would prefer that all stories, be they on blogs or TV, be big stories. About the international monetary fund, the budget deficit, Darfur. Stories like those. And look what I just did. Wrote about a petty thing like baseball. The American pastime. A distraction. A Red Sox herring that doesn't amount to a Bunker Hill of Boston beans in this crazy, crazy world.
Silly me.
Silly me.
I alluded in an earlier post to the ( alleged, by me ) liars, Papelbon and Epstein. A friend wrote a few minutes ago wanting to know the details of that story. Here they are: Papelbon was interviewed a lot early in spring training. He was thrilled to be in the starting rotation, a position he was expected to have last season. Circumstances thrust him into another role, that of closer. He was brilliant. Unbelievable. A larger than life character who walked out of the dugout, onto the pages of a Bernard Malamud story. That was then.
This is now, the 2007 preseason. Theo promises that Jonathan will be in the starting rotation. Jonathan couldn't be happier. This is what I was born to do he says, in so many words.
Theo says the Red Sox are far more comfortable with Jonathan pitching every fourth day. He has a bad shoulder. Pitching, as a closer does, two, three, maybe four days in a row, even though it's only one or two innings at a time, is bad for the young athlete's health. May damage him. May shorten his career. Mike Timlin, who is old enough to be Jonathan's father, ( and speaking of father figures, Theo's grandfather and grand uncle co-wrote the screenplay for " Casablanca, " which was, like all works of fiction, thick with lies. ) was named to be the closer. Five weeks into the spring training season. The big question in the papers, The Globe, The Providence Journal, etc. was: Who will be the closer? With a payroll like the Sox have, second only to the Yankees, it should be clear. Pardon me, but I'm going to mention Rummy.
The Sox go with the pitchers they have, not the ones they wish they had. Hasn't Theo ever heard of E-Bay?! Buy someone!
But no. It was Timlin who got the call in the late innings of the spring training season. And, of course, a Malamudian thing happened, as it happened in 2004 with Shilling's bloody foot.Timlin got hurt. And Papelbon got the call to come in, and relieve him. Jonathan is now saying he's happy with that, that it was " his " decision. Theo?
Of all the ballparks in all the baseball world, he had to walk into ours.
This is now, the 2007 preseason. Theo promises that Jonathan will be in the starting rotation. Jonathan couldn't be happier. This is what I was born to do he says, in so many words.
Theo says the Red Sox are far more comfortable with Jonathan pitching every fourth day. He has a bad shoulder. Pitching, as a closer does, two, three, maybe four days in a row, even though it's only one or two innings at a time, is bad for the young athlete's health. May damage him. May shorten his career. Mike Timlin, who is old enough to be Jonathan's father, ( and speaking of father figures, Theo's grandfather and grand uncle co-wrote the screenplay for " Casablanca, " which was, like all works of fiction, thick with lies. ) was named to be the closer. Five weeks into the spring training season. The big question in the papers, The Globe, The Providence Journal, etc. was: Who will be the closer? With a payroll like the Sox have, second only to the Yankees, it should be clear. Pardon me, but I'm going to mention Rummy.
The Sox go with the pitchers they have, not the ones they wish they had. Hasn't Theo ever heard of E-Bay?! Buy someone!
But no. It was Timlin who got the call in the late innings of the spring training season. And, of course, a Malamudian thing happened, as it happened in 2004 with Shilling's bloody foot.Timlin got hurt. And Papelbon got the call to come in, and relieve him. Jonathan is now saying he's happy with that, that it was " his " decision. Theo?
Of all the ballparks in all the baseball world, he had to walk into ours.
Another Amber Alert has been issued. This one for New Yorker writer, Malcolm Gladwell. Gladwell's the author of the best selling books, The Tipping Point and Blink. He also has a blog, but hasn't posted since January, when his last New Yorker piece appeared. A prolific writer, his stuff had been appearing in the magazine every few weeks.
Maybe he ran off with Maureen Dowd. She hasn't been seen nor heard from lately either.
Two authors on the loose, at large in America. Easy Writer redux.
Oh. That was " Rider? "
Maybe he ran off with Maureen Dowd. She hasn't been seen nor heard from lately either.
Two authors on the loose, at large in America. Easy Writer redux.
Oh. That was " Rider? "
YouTube - Vicious Underground - Busload of Faith (Lou Reed)
I'm slipping over that line that's drawn in the sand, the one that separates the cynics from the skeptics... As Mortimer Adler has written, a moderate degree of skepticism is healthy. Cynicism, or as Adler calls it, extreme skepticism ( Another word for it is Pyrrhonism, after that philosophical elder statesman Pyrro ) isn't so healthy. I'm getting to the point where I don't believe anyone anymore.
Take Jonathan Papelbon for example. And Theo Epstein. Who the hell are they? Are they philosophers? you might well ask. Are they politicians? No. Papelbon is a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox and Theo is the general manager. Theo is also the grandson and grandnephew of the screenwriters who penned " Casablanca. " That's thought by many film mavins to be the best screenplay of all time. So it comes as no surprise, or shouldn't that Theo's a major league liar. What is fiction and creative writing if not lie after lie after lie, one piled on top of the other. Did I mention? Theo's father is the head of the creative writing program at Boston University.
I won't bore you non baseball fans with the details about what happened with Jonathan Papelbon. Suffice it to say, telling the truth ain' t exactly in this guy Theo's DNA.
Where was I?
LiarLand. FibVille. Mudville. That's where.
I have this Tourette's like thing going whenever I get into a position where I'm slipping over some kind of line drawn in the sand. After my latest Fredo sighting on TV, I did what I do in cases like this:
I break out into poetry.
You're A Lyin' Sack of Shit
By Terrence McCarthy
I won't pull my punches
I'm going with my hunches
I saw you and heard you today.
There's so little doubt
You've abused your clout
And your " word? "
I don't Bee-Leeve it.
A sack of shit's what you are,
You're lyin'
And you do it, it seems, without even tryin'
You're a bag of wind,
And a fiend, too
I can't help but demean you
You lyin' sack of shit,
You don't care about IT,
IT being truth that's so rare in these days.
I hope someone gets ya
For these lies that you're tellin'
I hope I can calm down and stop all my yellin'
Will it happen?
Dunno
But I'm praying, I'm praying,
That come April you'll be doing title searches for folks buying haciendas
In Mexico.
I know, I know. Not exactly Robert Lowell. Maybe I should leave it to Lou to talk about lies, and faith and all that...
YouTube - Vicious Underground - Busload of Faith (Lou Reed)
Take Jonathan Papelbon for example. And Theo Epstein. Who the hell are they? Are they philosophers? you might well ask. Are they politicians? No. Papelbon is a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox and Theo is the general manager. Theo is also the grandson and grandnephew of the screenwriters who penned " Casablanca. " That's thought by many film mavins to be the best screenplay of all time. So it comes as no surprise, or shouldn't that Theo's a major league liar. What is fiction and creative writing if not lie after lie after lie, one piled on top of the other. Did I mention? Theo's father is the head of the creative writing program at Boston University.
I won't bore you non baseball fans with the details about what happened with Jonathan Papelbon. Suffice it to say, telling the truth ain' t exactly in this guy Theo's DNA.
Where was I?
LiarLand. FibVille. Mudville. That's where.
I have this Tourette's like thing going whenever I get into a position where I'm slipping over some kind of line drawn in the sand. After my latest Fredo sighting on TV, I did what I do in cases like this:
I break out into poetry.
You're A Lyin' Sack of Shit
By Terrence McCarthy
I won't pull my punches
I'm going with my hunches
I saw you and heard you today.
There's so little doubt
You've abused your clout
And your " word? "
I don't Bee-Leeve it.
A sack of shit's what you are,
You're lyin'
And you do it, it seems, without even tryin'
You're a bag of wind,
And a fiend, too
I can't help but demean you
You lyin' sack of shit,
You don't care about IT,
IT being truth that's so rare in these days.
I hope someone gets ya
For these lies that you're tellin'
I hope I can calm down and stop all my yellin'
Will it happen?
Dunno
But I'm praying, I'm praying,
That come April you'll be doing title searches for folks buying haciendas
In Mexico.
I know, I know. Not exactly Robert Lowell. Maybe I should leave it to Lou to talk about lies, and faith and all that...
YouTube - Vicious Underground - Busload of Faith (Lou Reed)
One thing that was predictable: It's hard to find a story now about the egregious treatment of veterans at Walter Reed and other vet hospitals nationwide. Typical 24 hour news cycle syndrome ( 24-HNCS ) . Makes one wonder what cable and network TV news execs were and are thinking.
OK. The Washington Post broke this story so we're going to have to do something with it. For a while. A very short while. We do, afterall, have to get back to what viewers really want to see:
Anna Nicole. American Idol. Amber alerts. People being rescued from falls into trenches. In other words, what really matters. What's easily understood. What lends itself to good video.
I said it before and I'll say it again.
Does the story have legs? No, it does not. It has one leg and one arm, and it'll be forgotten faster than you can say, " G.I. Blues. "
OK. The Washington Post broke this story so we're going to have to do something with it. For a while. A very short while. We do, afterall, have to get back to what viewers really want to see:
Anna Nicole. American Idol. Amber alerts. People being rescued from falls into trenches. In other words, what really matters. What's easily understood. What lends itself to good video.
I said it before and I'll say it again.
Does the story have legs? No, it does not. It has one leg and one arm, and it'll be forgotten faster than you can say, " G.I. Blues. "
My guess is that Fredo Gonzales is going to be doing title searches soon for folks buying houses in Mexico. Like Fredo in The Godfather III, he's going to get that last kiss on the mouth. Bet on it? After how I've been doing with the brackets, I wouldn't believe anything I predict.
If you really want to know what's likely to happen...
Ask Sarah.
If you really want to know what's likely to happen...
Ask Sarah.
YouTube - KARL ROVE DOES RAP AT CORRESPONDENTS DINNER
I'm a tough room; I smile as often as this year's Celtics win games. That said, who are these guys hired for this gig, The Corrrespondents Dinner? They are awful. Anyone who can make me feel some sympathy for Carl Rove is beyond contempt. Bring back Imus. YouTube - KARL ROVE DOES RAP AT CORRESPONDENTS DINNER
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
A blogger whose stuff I read regularly linked us to some comments made today on the Washington Post website. Horrific stuff written by haters. Terrible stuff written about Tony Snow's cancer. I'm glad Jake made me aware of this stuff. The concept of hate is often thought to be a problem the other side has.
I met the enemy today. And he is us, too.
I met the enemy today. And he is us, too.
YouTube - My Generation
" On January 1, 2046, the hardiest member of that noisy, 78 million member club known as The Baby Boomers will be celebrating their 100th birthday. "
From March 27, 2007 story in the New York Times.
Was I a Woodcock? What kind of question is that? I'm half Irish. McCar... What? Speak up why doncha! Oh. I'm sorry. No. I wasn't at Woodstock. I had a ticket, but that traffic! I get nervous in traffic and never liked crowds.
YouTube - My Generation
From March 27, 2007 story in the New York Times.
Was I a Woodcock? What kind of question is that? I'm half Irish. McCar... What? Speak up why doncha! Oh. I'm sorry. No. I wasn't at Woodstock. I had a ticket, but that traffic! I get nervous in traffic and never liked crowds.
YouTube - My Generation
YouTube - Loudon Wainwright III - The Swimming Song
There was a pond we kids swam in, we kids who went to Camp Anderson. I was nine years old. It was a Methodist camp near the shores of Lake Wyola in Shutesbury, Massachusetts. A Congregationalist, I wasn't quite sure why I was in the Methodist camp. My friend Bobby Adams was a Methodist. He talked me into talking my parents into letting me go.
The pond we swam in was thick with leeches. We kids would jump in, swim around for a few minutes, then emerge from the not so clear water with leeches attached to our skinny bodies. The counselors would pour salt onto the leeches and peel them off our skin.
It was an awful, ugly, painful experience.
That's one of the things I remember about going to Camp Anderson. Another thing I remember is how torn up I was about having to leave. I'd come down with a bad tooth that needed to be pulled. My parents drove up to Shutesbury, which is about an hour's drive from where we lived. It was a two week camp. There were a couple more days before I was scheduled to go home. But I was leaving early. I remember crying. I didn't want to leave the new friends I had made at the camp.
As I think back on that week and a half at Camp Anderson, I wonder: Was there a method to the madness of the counselors making us swim in that leech filled pond? Everything else I remember about the camp was fun stuff. Playing games and singing songs around the campfire. That kind of stuff. But that pond and those leeches. We campers had to experience that, as well as the fun. And that's the one thing I remember - aside from the tooth that was killing me.
I said I made some new good friends at the camp. I wonder if that would have happened - if it had been nothing but laughs and songs around that crackling fire in the field.
YouTube - Loudon Wainwright III - The Swimming Song
The pond we swam in was thick with leeches. We kids would jump in, swim around for a few minutes, then emerge from the not so clear water with leeches attached to our skinny bodies. The counselors would pour salt onto the leeches and peel them off our skin.
It was an awful, ugly, painful experience.
That's one of the things I remember about going to Camp Anderson. Another thing I remember is how torn up I was about having to leave. I'd come down with a bad tooth that needed to be pulled. My parents drove up to Shutesbury, which is about an hour's drive from where we lived. It was a two week camp. There were a couple more days before I was scheduled to go home. But I was leaving early. I remember crying. I didn't want to leave the new friends I had made at the camp.
As I think back on that week and a half at Camp Anderson, I wonder: Was there a method to the madness of the counselors making us swim in that leech filled pond? Everything else I remember about the camp was fun stuff. Playing games and singing songs around the campfire. That kind of stuff. But that pond and those leeches. We campers had to experience that, as well as the fun. And that's the one thing I remember - aside from the tooth that was killing me.
I said I made some new good friends at the camp. I wonder if that would have happened - if it had been nothing but laughs and songs around that crackling fire in the field.
YouTube - Loudon Wainwright III - The Swimming Song
Monday, March 26, 2007
Last year 3,100,000 people entered ESPN.com's NCAA men's college basketball tournament pool. Of those, four ( 4 ) people got the Final Four right.
The odds aren't good. They're bloody awful. They're almost as bad as the odds that Anna Nicole will come back from the dead, call a press conference, and announce: " Never mind. "
The odds are not good. Yet my 86 year old mother in law, up until yesterday, had all four of her teams still in the running. Sure, we had to talk her out of, when she was filling out her brackets, picking Brandeis and Yeshiva...
" They're not in it this year, Sarah. Their RPIs were more like RIPs. Maybe next year. "
Sarah's more into football, than basketball. Her late husband, Danny watched a lot of football on the TV. Her eldest son, Michael, who lives out near Santa Cruz, runs a pool in which Sarah has participated since Danny died ten years ago. Carrying on the tradition.
It's like my Mom. Never was a Red Sox fan, until my father died. Dad was a fan. Oh boy was he ever. I can remember times when he had to be restrained, kept by force from throwing the Philco out the window. After the Sox lost a close one in the late innings at Fenway.
But Sarah. She got game ( That's an old Jewish way of putting it; the other guys stole it ) And don't even think about sayin' Jewish folks can't jump. You put the mah jongg tiles up there on the top shelf when the men are watching sports on TV...
Just watch the Sarahs, the Estelles and the Rachels spread their wings and leap.
So Sarah's not doing as well as she was yesterday. She doesn't have all four teams, but she has three. She's a player...
But she probably can't wait til this is over next week. She probably can't wait to get back to the game she's really good at.
Mah Jongg anyone?
The odds aren't good. They're bloody awful. They're almost as bad as the odds that Anna Nicole will come back from the dead, call a press conference, and announce: " Never mind. "
The odds are not good. Yet my 86 year old mother in law, up until yesterday, had all four of her teams still in the running. Sure, we had to talk her out of, when she was filling out her brackets, picking Brandeis and Yeshiva...
" They're not in it this year, Sarah. Their RPIs were more like RIPs. Maybe next year. "
Sarah's more into football, than basketball. Her late husband, Danny watched a lot of football on the TV. Her eldest son, Michael, who lives out near Santa Cruz, runs a pool in which Sarah has participated since Danny died ten years ago. Carrying on the tradition.
It's like my Mom. Never was a Red Sox fan, until my father died. Dad was a fan. Oh boy was he ever. I can remember times when he had to be restrained, kept by force from throwing the Philco out the window. After the Sox lost a close one in the late innings at Fenway.
But Sarah. She got game ( That's an old Jewish way of putting it; the other guys stole it ) And don't even think about sayin' Jewish folks can't jump. You put the mah jongg tiles up there on the top shelf when the men are watching sports on TV...
Just watch the Sarahs, the Estelles and the Rachels spread their wings and leap.
So Sarah's not doing as well as she was yesterday. She doesn't have all four teams, but she has three. She's a player...
But she probably can't wait til this is over next week. She probably can't wait to get back to the game she's really good at.
Mah Jongg anyone?
John and Elizabeth Edwards were on 60 Minutes last night. It was the second time they made a joiunt appearance this week. The first time, of course, was when they announced that Elizabeth's cancer had returned. As I watched them handle questions about that a few days ago I thought: His numbers are going to go up because of this.
Edwards last night said that he does not want " sympathy votes. " There is a book out. It's very popular, and it's about how to convince people to do what you want them to do. It's called Don't Think of an Elephant.
The concept is: Tell the people whom you want to think of an elephant not to think of an elephant. They won't be able to get an elephant out of their minds.
Edwards asked for no sympathy votes. But the elephant was sitting right there in the room. Right there next to him.
I'm hoping I'm reading too much into this. But this is a man who wants to be president. And we all know about that level of ambition. Men would run over their grandmothers with an armored personnel carrier to win that Prize. And some men would do the same to their wives.
I hope Edwards goes back to campaigning alone. With Elizabeth where she was, in the background. We'll see. Time will tell, as it always does.
Edwards last night said that he does not want " sympathy votes. " There is a book out. It's very popular, and it's about how to convince people to do what you want them to do. It's called Don't Think of an Elephant.
The concept is: Tell the people whom you want to think of an elephant not to think of an elephant. They won't be able to get an elephant out of their minds.
Edwards asked for no sympathy votes. But the elephant was sitting right there in the room. Right there next to him.
I'm hoping I'm reading too much into this. But this is a man who wants to be president. And we all know about that level of ambition. Men would run over their grandmothers with an armored personnel carrier to win that Prize. And some men would do the same to their wives.
I hope Edwards goes back to campaigning alone. With Elizabeth where she was, in the background. We'll see. Time will tell, as it always does.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
My wife and I are all over the NCAA tournament. Remember that post more than a week ago? The one in which I described how Donna was trying to explain filling out the brackets to her 86 year old mother? How Sarah was having trouble keeping it all straight. Confusing Gonzaga with ( Attorney General ) Gonzales. Hearing Pitt and thinking Donna was saying Mitt ( Romney )
Stuff like that. Well anyway. Donna called her today and was reminded by Sarah that all the teams she picked to get into the Final Four are still in the running. All four of Donna's picks are history. I have two left.
Sarah? She's freakin' Billy Packer all of a sudden.
Stuff like that. Well anyway. Donna called her today and was reminded by Sarah that all the teams she picked to get into the Final Four are still in the running. All four of Donna's picks are history. I have two left.
Sarah? She's freakin' Billy Packer all of a sudden.
I combined the last two posts, made some revisions, and shipped the following out to a few newspapers.
Sixty is the Hardest Word
By Terrence McCarthy
Reginald Kenneth Dwight, AKA Elton John celebrated his 60th birthday recently at a small party with a few friends...In Madison Square Garden.
Reggie and I are the same age. Well, to be more precise - he's 60. As I write this, I'm 59 years, 11 months and 361 days. But who's counting? I'm going to be honest here. I hate the thought of turning 60. There will be no parties and I'm discouraging people from sending cards. Flowers would be appropriate, since I'm going to be dead before you can say, " Too old to die young. "
Sixty? The mere thought of that number gives me ( I guess that’s why they call them ) the blues. It's worse than 13. It's worse than 666. It's worse than whatever draft lottery number you got back during that war in southeast Asia.
Sixty. I'm going to be 60! I know, I know. This isn't exactly the right attitude. It shows a lack of maturity ( That’s a BAD thing? ) But someone once wrote that getting old is like a long, slow, slog through enemy territory.
Tell me about it. It gets longer and slower every day. And not just for me. Remember when we baby boomers ran 26 mile marathons? Now “ Half marathons “ are in vogue. Deep into the second leg of our lives, we’re still running, but able to handle only the first leg of the race.
If that.
I watched Elton John on TV the other night. I don't know. I think I look better than Elton. I'm just ten pounds heavier than I was in high school. I still have ( my own ) hair. Yes, I wear glasses. But not the kind of glasses he wears. And I don't have a thousand pair in a room just for them. But he's handling turning 60 a lot better than I am. Throwing a party in Madison Square Garden. Televising it.
Me? I'm in the closet. With all those old ties ( Older than my nieces and nephews ) With all those old shoes. With those bell bottom pants I wore in the...60s.
Maybe I should try to be more like him. Change my ways. Change my look. Have Elton John surgery. I know, I know. That's about as insider baseball as it gets. The only ones who might get it are the genius from Jacksonville, Terry #1, Jake and Jane. And, of course, Donna.
But who cares? I'm in the last throes of my fifties and anything goes.I can't be worried about people not getting the joke. It comes with the territory. We geezers say what's on our minds, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Onward! Press ahead!
Yeah, but my knees are killing me. It's gonna be a very long, very slow slog, but I'll get there. Slouching and limping toward Bethlehem. That’ll be me.
Or maybe, if the legs fail me, just somewhere south of Pawtucket is as far as I’ll get.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in Rhode Island
Sixty is the Hardest Word
By Terrence McCarthy
Reginald Kenneth Dwight, AKA Elton John celebrated his 60th birthday recently at a small party with a few friends...In Madison Square Garden.
Reggie and I are the same age. Well, to be more precise - he's 60. As I write this, I'm 59 years, 11 months and 361 days. But who's counting? I'm going to be honest here. I hate the thought of turning 60. There will be no parties and I'm discouraging people from sending cards. Flowers would be appropriate, since I'm going to be dead before you can say, " Too old to die young. "
Sixty? The mere thought of that number gives me ( I guess that’s why they call them ) the blues. It's worse than 13. It's worse than 666. It's worse than whatever draft lottery number you got back during that war in southeast Asia.
Sixty. I'm going to be 60! I know, I know. This isn't exactly the right attitude. It shows a lack of maturity ( That’s a BAD thing? ) But someone once wrote that getting old is like a long, slow, slog through enemy territory.
Tell me about it. It gets longer and slower every day. And not just for me. Remember when we baby boomers ran 26 mile marathons? Now “ Half marathons “ are in vogue. Deep into the second leg of our lives, we’re still running, but able to handle only the first leg of the race.
If that.
I watched Elton John on TV the other night. I don't know. I think I look better than Elton. I'm just ten pounds heavier than I was in high school. I still have ( my own ) hair. Yes, I wear glasses. But not the kind of glasses he wears. And I don't have a thousand pair in a room just for them. But he's handling turning 60 a lot better than I am. Throwing a party in Madison Square Garden. Televising it.
Me? I'm in the closet. With all those old ties ( Older than my nieces and nephews ) With all those old shoes. With those bell bottom pants I wore in the...60s.
Maybe I should try to be more like him. Change my ways. Change my look. Have Elton John surgery. I know, I know. That's about as insider baseball as it gets. The only ones who might get it are the genius from Jacksonville, Terry #1, Jake and Jane. And, of course, Donna.
But who cares? I'm in the last throes of my fifties and anything goes.I can't be worried about people not getting the joke. It comes with the territory. We geezers say what's on our minds, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Onward! Press ahead!
Yeah, but my knees are killing me. It's gonna be a very long, very slow slog, but I'll get there. Slouching and limping toward Bethlehem. That’ll be me.
Or maybe, if the legs fail me, just somewhere south of Pawtucket is as far as I’ll get.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in Rhode Island
I don't know. I think I look better than Elton. I'm just ten pounds heavier than I was in high school. I still have ( my own ) hair. Yes, I wear glasses. But not the kind of glasses he wears. And I don't have a thousand pair in a room just for them. But he's handling turning 60 a lot better than I am. Throwing a party in Madison Square Garden. Televising it.
Me? I'm in the closet. With all those old ties ( Older than my nieces and nephews. Older than my couson Judy's kids ) With all those old shoes. With those bell bottom pants I wore in the...
60s.
Maybe I should try to be more like him. Change my ways. Change my look. Have Elton John surgery.
I know, I know. That's about as insider baseball as it gets and nobody, except the genius in Jacksonville ( And maybe Terry #1 and his pal Jake ) are gonna get it. But who cares? I'm in the last throes of my fifties and anything goes.
I can't be worried about people not getting the joke. It comes with the territory. We geezers say what's on our minds, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Onward! Press ahead!
But my knees are killing me. It's gonna be a very long, very slow slog, but I'll get there.
There being somewhere nearBethlehem. Or maybe south of Pawtucket.
Me? I'm in the closet. With all those old ties ( Older than my nieces and nephews. Older than my couson Judy's kids ) With all those old shoes. With those bell bottom pants I wore in the...
60s.
Maybe I should try to be more like him. Change my ways. Change my look. Have Elton John surgery.
I know, I know. That's about as insider baseball as it gets and nobody, except the genius in Jacksonville ( And maybe Terry #1 and his pal Jake ) are gonna get it. But who cares? I'm in the last throes of my fifties and anything goes.
I can't be worried about people not getting the joke. It comes with the territory. We geezers say what's on our minds, damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Onward! Press ahead!
But my knees are killing me. It's gonna be a very long, very slow slog, but I'll get there.
There being somewhere nearBethlehem. Or maybe south of Pawtucket.
YouTube - Elton John I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues new ver
Reginald Dwight, AKA Elton John will be celebrating his 60th birthday this evening at a small party with a few friends...
At Madison Square Garden.
Reggie and I are the same age. Well, to be more precise - he's 60. I'm 59 years, 11 months and 361 days. But who's counting? I'm gonna be honest here. I hate the thought of turning 60. There will be no parties and I'm discouraging people from sending cards. Flowers would be appropriate, since I'm going to be dead before you can say, " Too old to die young. "
Sixty? The mere thought of that number gives me the blues. It's worse than 13. It's worse than 666. Sixty. Jesus, Mary and Joseph ( All dead before they turned 40 ) I'm gonna be 60. I know, I know. This isn't exactly the right attitude. But someone once wrote that getting old is like a long, slow slog through enemy territory.
I cannot improve upon that, so I'll sign off. Watch this. Listen to this. I wonder if he'll be singing it tonight. In Madison Square Garden.
Happy Birthday Reggie. Happy freakin' birthday. YouTube - Elton John I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues new ver
At Madison Square Garden.
Reggie and I are the same age. Well, to be more precise - he's 60. I'm 59 years, 11 months and 361 days. But who's counting? I'm gonna be honest here. I hate the thought of turning 60. There will be no parties and I'm discouraging people from sending cards. Flowers would be appropriate, since I'm going to be dead before you can say, " Too old to die young. "
Sixty? The mere thought of that number gives me the blues. It's worse than 13. It's worse than 666. Sixty. Jesus, Mary and Joseph ( All dead before they turned 40 ) I'm gonna be 60. I know, I know. This isn't exactly the right attitude. But someone once wrote that getting old is like a long, slow slog through enemy territory.
I cannot improve upon that, so I'll sign off. Watch this. Listen to this. I wonder if he'll be singing it tonight. In Madison Square Garden.
Happy Birthday Reggie. Happy freakin' birthday. YouTube - Elton John I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues new ver
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Elizabeth Edwards. Her cancer has returned. White House spokesman Tony Snow is asked about this, how it might, if it might have an affect on the campaign. The very next day, Snow has an announcement of his own. A colon cancer survivor, he has a suspicious growth in his stomach. He's having it surgically removed on Monday and will be out of work for " A few weeks. "
As I write this, I'm watching the Uconn-North Carolina State womens basketball game. NC State coach Beth Mowins has breast cancer. It's the story within the story of tonight's NCAA Tournament contest.
I wrote a three page letter to my cousin the other day. Her 32 year old son is a cancer survivor. Had leukemia twenty years ago, and has been experiencing lots of pain in his legs lately. Had tests done. Turned out to be something bad, but it was the A word, not the C word. Arthritis.
But J. has another problem. Her doctor picked up some problems with her lymph nodes...
Just exactly at what point in time do we call this a plague? This cancer that's eating away at every family, every single family. When do we start using the E word?
Epidemic?
Are we in denial? Are we not seeing what's in front of our noses?
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
There, I've said it. Spoken the unspeakable. Uttered the unutterable. I've said it and I'll say it again:
Cancer.
If this isn't a plague, what the fook is?
As I write this, I'm watching the Uconn-North Carolina State womens basketball game. NC State coach Beth Mowins has breast cancer. It's the story within the story of tonight's NCAA Tournament contest.
I wrote a three page letter to my cousin the other day. Her 32 year old son is a cancer survivor. Had leukemia twenty years ago, and has been experiencing lots of pain in his legs lately. Had tests done. Turned out to be something bad, but it was the A word, not the C word. Arthritis.
But J. has another problem. Her doctor picked up some problems with her lymph nodes...
Just exactly at what point in time do we call this a plague? This cancer that's eating away at every family, every single family. When do we start using the E word?
Epidemic?
Are we in denial? Are we not seeing what's in front of our noses?
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
There, I've said it. Spoken the unspeakable. Uttered the unutterable. I've said it and I'll say it again:
Cancer.
If this isn't a plague, what the fook is?
Into the Blogosphere: Rhetoric, Community, and Culture of Weblogs: The Labyrinth Unbound: Weblogs as Literature
At the risk of sounding not only self-indulgent, but also pretentious...
Here's another take on blogs. Into the Blogosphere: Rhetoric, Community, and Culture of Weblogs: The Labyrinth Unbound: Weblogs as Literature
Here's another take on blogs. Into the Blogosphere: Rhetoric, Community, and Culture of Weblogs: The Labyrinth Unbound: Weblogs as Literature
The amber alert for New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd has been canceled.
Ms. Dowd, AKA MoDO, Mo Dimaggio, Reen & The Blue State Redhead contacted authorities Friday and diclosed her whereabouts, which she described as being" Somewhere south of Pawtucket, Rhode Island. "
Details are sketchy, but here is what we know at this point in this developing, late breaking story.
In February of this year, Ms. Dowd had established an email relationship with a man in Rhode Island. Shortly after this, the Pulitzer Prize winning writer disappeared from the op-ed page of the New York Times, where her columns had been running Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Ms. Dowd's column had been running for years on Wednesdays and Sundays. Sources close to the Op-Ed page report that Ms. Dowd was distraught over the change in days on which her column appeared.
" Wednesday and Sunday is great, " said one source ( Not Judy Miller ) . " Tuesday's not bad, but Saturday? Nobody reads the Times on Saturday. They're all out playing golf and mah jongg or preparing for their parties that night. "
Sources also say that Dowd lost interest in writing her 750 word essays.
" She started writing back and forth to this guy in Rhode Island, " a source ( Not Frank Rich ) said. He made her laugh. She emailed him back with ' Funny. ' And ' That's funny. ' She was loving it. Her mood was better than ever, and she was writing the kinds of things she always wanted to write. Heartfelt stuff. None of those pun filled things she'd been laboring on for years. And short! One word and two word messages. 749, 748 words less than her column. "
Another source ( Not David Brooks ) said, " So she decides to pack in in, hop in her car and drive to Rhode Island. The email thing played itself out. She wanted more than just a cyberspace relationship with this guy. She wanted to get into his real space, which is somewhere south of Pawtucket. "
Dowd revealed today that she and the man from Rhode Island have been " traveling " for the past three weeks. She declined to reveal the man's name.
" He's rather shy and doesn't want the attention, " Dowd said. " He's the least self-indulgent person I've ever met. "
She did say that the man is a writer and that he has a blog.
" But it's not what you might think, " she said. " It's not a MySpace kind of blog at all. It's so much better than that. Like if Joyce Carol Oates had a blog. Or Don DeLillo, or Montaigne ya know? "
Dowd said that she and he rented a car and " Headed west. "
" He'd never driven cross country, " Dowd said. " And neither had I. So off we went. He drove. He's a very nervous passenger and had a couple of panic attacks as we drove through some tunnels and over some bridges. I thought he was going to stop the car and jump from that bridge in St. Louis. You know,the one that crosses the Mississippi? "
Dowd describes the adventure as being, " Like Thelma and Dom DeLouise. "
" But it wasn't a Thunderbird, it was a Toyota Corolla. And we didn't drive over the edge of a cliff, although there were times as we were driving over the Rockies that I thought that might happen. He was SO nervous driving through those canyons. "
Asked whether she planned to resume her column in the Times, Dowd said, " I'm up in the air about that right now. We'll see what happens. I'd still like to be near Rich on Sundays. "
Frank Rich writes a weekly 1,500 word essay - accompanied by a graphic - in the Sunday Times. He was not immediately available for comment concerning this story.
Ms. Dowd, AKA MoDO, Mo Dimaggio, Reen & The Blue State Redhead contacted authorities Friday and diclosed her whereabouts, which she described as being" Somewhere south of Pawtucket, Rhode Island. "
Details are sketchy, but here is what we know at this point in this developing, late breaking story.
In February of this year, Ms. Dowd had established an email relationship with a man in Rhode Island. Shortly after this, the Pulitzer Prize winning writer disappeared from the op-ed page of the New York Times, where her columns had been running Tuesdays and Saturdays.
Ms. Dowd's column had been running for years on Wednesdays and Sundays. Sources close to the Op-Ed page report that Ms. Dowd was distraught over the change in days on which her column appeared.
" Wednesday and Sunday is great, " said one source ( Not Judy Miller ) . " Tuesday's not bad, but Saturday? Nobody reads the Times on Saturday. They're all out playing golf and mah jongg or preparing for their parties that night. "
Sources also say that Dowd lost interest in writing her 750 word essays.
" She started writing back and forth to this guy in Rhode Island, " a source ( Not Frank Rich ) said. He made her laugh. She emailed him back with ' Funny. ' And ' That's funny. ' She was loving it. Her mood was better than ever, and she was writing the kinds of things she always wanted to write. Heartfelt stuff. None of those pun filled things she'd been laboring on for years. And short! One word and two word messages. 749, 748 words less than her column. "
Another source ( Not David Brooks ) said, " So she decides to pack in in, hop in her car and drive to Rhode Island. The email thing played itself out. She wanted more than just a cyberspace relationship with this guy. She wanted to get into his real space, which is somewhere south of Pawtucket. "
Dowd revealed today that she and the man from Rhode Island have been " traveling " for the past three weeks. She declined to reveal the man's name.
" He's rather shy and doesn't want the attention, " Dowd said. " He's the least self-indulgent person I've ever met. "
She did say that the man is a writer and that he has a blog.
" But it's not what you might think, " she said. " It's not a MySpace kind of blog at all. It's so much better than that. Like if Joyce Carol Oates had a blog. Or Don DeLillo, or Montaigne ya know? "
Dowd said that she and he rented a car and " Headed west. "
" He'd never driven cross country, " Dowd said. " And neither had I. So off we went. He drove. He's a very nervous passenger and had a couple of panic attacks as we drove through some tunnels and over some bridges. I thought he was going to stop the car and jump from that bridge in St. Louis. You know,the one that crosses the Mississippi? "
Dowd describes the adventure as being, " Like Thelma and Dom DeLouise. "
" But it wasn't a Thunderbird, it was a Toyota Corolla. And we didn't drive over the edge of a cliff, although there were times as we were driving over the Rockies that I thought that might happen. He was SO nervous driving through those canyons. "
Asked whether she planned to resume her column in the Times, Dowd said, " I'm up in the air about that right now. We'll see what happens. I'd still like to be near Rich on Sundays. "
Frank Rich writes a weekly 1,500 word essay - accompanied by a graphic - in the Sunday Times. He was not immediately available for comment concerning this story.
Friday, March 23, 2007
I was issued a new debit card today. Got it in the snailmail. I knew it was coming. Was looking out for it, expecting the name of the bank that issued it would be printed on the envelope.
It wasn't. Almost threw it away. Didn't. Opened the envelope and there it was. The card, the plastic card, another card, another PIN #. One more notch on the bedpost, more plastic proof the act we're in is the last one.
Drove to the bank,pulled up to the ATM. Inserted the card into the slot. Punched in the PIN # I'd punched into the system on Monday...
The card was ejected, rejected, inserted, rejected, ejected, inserted again. Nothing was happening. I wasn't getting what I wanted. This was so UnAmerican. Here I was sticking a plastic card into a slot, expecting to get money out...
And all I got was frustrated. Angry. Didn't get what was coming to me, that to which I was...
Entitled.
Half hour later. I'm calling the bank that issued the card. I'm trying to get confirmed the PIN # selected. I get the voice mail, HAL-like, 2001 a space odyssey disembodied voice that says:
In Spanish. Something I can't understand.
I wait. For English to be spoken. And, eventually, it is. With a thick Pakestani accent...
I've read the FAQs. I know what's supposed to be happening. I'm supposed to be getting connected to a machine, that will recognize my voice and solve the problem I have.
But this afternoon, all I get are human beings, whom I can't understand...
It wasn't. Almost threw it away. Didn't. Opened the envelope and there it was. The card, the plastic card, another card, another PIN #. One more notch on the bedpost, more plastic proof the act we're in is the last one.
Drove to the bank,pulled up to the ATM. Inserted the card into the slot. Punched in the PIN # I'd punched into the system on Monday...
The card was ejected, rejected, inserted, rejected, ejected, inserted again. Nothing was happening. I wasn't getting what I wanted. This was so UnAmerican. Here I was sticking a plastic card into a slot, expecting to get money out...
And all I got was frustrated. Angry. Didn't get what was coming to me, that to which I was...
Entitled.
Half hour later. I'm calling the bank that issued the card. I'm trying to get confirmed the PIN # selected. I get the voice mail, HAL-like, 2001 a space odyssey disembodied voice that says:
In Spanish. Something I can't understand.
I wait. For English to be spoken. And, eventually, it is. With a thick Pakestani accent...
I've read the FAQs. I know what's supposed to be happening. I'm supposed to be getting connected to a machine, that will recognize my voice and solve the problem I have.
But this afternoon, all I get are human beings, whom I can't understand...
YouTube - Dangling Conversation
Self indulgent? Probably. But it reminds me of some conversations held on Christmas. In Holyoke. We were older then, we're younger than that now...YouTube - Dangling Conversation
I'm starting to get concerned about the whereabouts of Maureen Dowd. MoDo and I were an item a few weeks ago. I emailed her. She emailed me. I got back to her. She got back to me. I tried to make her laugh, and I did.
You may not have heard about this. It didn't make Page 6 in that tabloid.
Since MoDo and I locked onto each other in CyberSpace - since that last email I got from her, the one that cooed: " That's funny "...
She's been missing from the op-ed page of the New York Times. She had been writing two columns a week. Fifteen hundred words, many of them rhyming with each other. Many of them serving as bricks in a pun-like wall.
Now? Nothing from her. Where have you gone, Mo Dimaggio?
Where's Maureen?
We issue Amber alerts for non-descript kids stolen by live-in boyfriends who have been given the goodbye look by their motherly girlfriends. Who cares what happens to these little brats? How many of them will grow up and become what Maureen became?
I think it's time we issued an Amber Alert. For Maureen Dowd.
Last seen wearing a smirk. Last heard saying, " That's funny. "
You may not have heard about this. It didn't make Page 6 in that tabloid.
Since MoDo and I locked onto each other in CyberSpace - since that last email I got from her, the one that cooed: " That's funny "...
She's been missing from the op-ed page of the New York Times. She had been writing two columns a week. Fifteen hundred words, many of them rhyming with each other. Many of them serving as bricks in a pun-like wall.
Now? Nothing from her. Where have you gone, Mo Dimaggio?
Where's Maureen?
We issue Amber alerts for non-descript kids stolen by live-in boyfriends who have been given the goodbye look by their motherly girlfriends. Who cares what happens to these little brats? How many of them will grow up and become what Maureen became?
I think it's time we issued an Amber Alert. For Maureen Dowd.
Last seen wearing a smirk. Last heard saying, " That's funny. "
YouTube - Bruce Springsteen - Fire
The chimney was hot. But not, according to Donna, this hot...YouTube - Bruce Springsteen - Fire
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I awoke somewhere in the middle of last night and it came to me, like a second story man inching his leg through a window. The title for the book I've been writing.
I'm going to claim executive privilege. You're not going to know what the title is. You got a problem with that?
Fuck you. Subpoena me.
It's been a long day, pardon my French. I've been scribbling in this blog, working on my book, I've been on fire with ideas, and my house almost burned down.
Say what?
My house almost burned down. It was about 6:30 p.m. The smoke alarm started to scream. I thought what a lot of us think ( I think ) when we hear anything resembling a ring tone. Someone's calling. Or the device is malfunctioning. My take was that the alarm was acting out. Having a breakdown. Not doing its job, just making some noise.
Until I saw the sparks coming out of the chimney of our wood burning stove.
" Call 911, " I said calmly to Donna.
" I just did, " she said. " But I didn't get through. "
" You didn't get through? "
I was going to ask her if she'd dialed the right number. If she'd pushed the buttons hard enough. If she'd waited long enough to get a response. Then I thought better of that. This was no time for us get into any kind of discussion. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf this was not.
Our house was ( almost ) on fire.
I grabbed my cell phone and called 911. The dispatcher said she'd already gotten the call. Donna's call had gone through.
The firefighters came. They were great. Professional. Polite. Kept us informed every step of the way with what they were doing to protect our house from the sparks that could have grown into the fire that burned our house down.
A total of ten firefighters worked on the problem. Notice I'm not calling it a fire. It wasn't. But it had the potential to become one. It didn't. God bless those guys. That team. That big truck that backed into yard. That ladder that stretched from that truck to our roof.
God bless them, and keep them all safe. The next time they get that 911 call.
I'm going to claim executive privilege. You're not going to know what the title is. You got a problem with that?
Fuck you. Subpoena me.
It's been a long day, pardon my French. I've been scribbling in this blog, working on my book, I've been on fire with ideas, and my house almost burned down.
Say what?
My house almost burned down. It was about 6:30 p.m. The smoke alarm started to scream. I thought what a lot of us think ( I think ) when we hear anything resembling a ring tone. Someone's calling. Or the device is malfunctioning. My take was that the alarm was acting out. Having a breakdown. Not doing its job, just making some noise.
Until I saw the sparks coming out of the chimney of our wood burning stove.
" Call 911, " I said calmly to Donna.
" I just did, " she said. " But I didn't get through. "
" You didn't get through? "
I was going to ask her if she'd dialed the right number. If she'd pushed the buttons hard enough. If she'd waited long enough to get a response. Then I thought better of that. This was no time for us get into any kind of discussion. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf this was not.
Our house was ( almost ) on fire.
I grabbed my cell phone and called 911. The dispatcher said she'd already gotten the call. Donna's call had gone through.
The firefighters came. They were great. Professional. Polite. Kept us informed every step of the way with what they were doing to protect our house from the sparks that could have grown into the fire that burned our house down.
A total of ten firefighters worked on the problem. Notice I'm not calling it a fire. It wasn't. But it had the potential to become one. It didn't. God bless those guys. That team. That big truck that backed into yard. That ladder that stretched from that truck to our roof.
God bless them, and keep them all safe. The next time they get that 911 call.
New Mexico Senator Pete Diminici has been one of the usual suspects rounded up by the Imus in the Morning posse. The keys words being " has been. "
I listen to Imus regularly, and I haven't heard Diminici's voice lately. But the last few times I heard it I was struck by how, uh, how shall I put this? Limited? OK, I'll use that one.
I was struck by how limited he was in his ability to keep up with the pace of the conversation Imus was attempting to have with him. The Senator seemed, at least to me, to be off his game, if not completely off his rocker. I wondered: What's the deal with Diminici?
The New Mexico Senator has been in the news for the past week. One of the fired U.S. Attorneys, David Eglesias of New Mexico, had an op-ed piece in the New York Times yesterday. In it he described a phone call he had received from the Senator. The call was in connection with a corruption case Eglesius was prosecuting. According to Eglesias, Diminici asked him if indictments would be handed up before an upcoming election. Eglesias said no, they would not be. Dominici said, according to Eglesias, " I'm sorry to hear that. "
" Then the line went dead, " wrote Eglesias. He was fired six weeks later, despite a record of exemplary performance reviews by the Justice Department.
Diminici has hired a defense attorney. To my knowledge, he has not appeared in public, nor has he issued a statement. Makes me wonder if the gentleman from the great state of New Mexico is the next public figure to announce he's going into rehab.
I listen to Imus regularly, and I haven't heard Diminici's voice lately. But the last few times I heard it I was struck by how, uh, how shall I put this? Limited? OK, I'll use that one.
I was struck by how limited he was in his ability to keep up with the pace of the conversation Imus was attempting to have with him. The Senator seemed, at least to me, to be off his game, if not completely off his rocker. I wondered: What's the deal with Diminici?
The New Mexico Senator has been in the news for the past week. One of the fired U.S. Attorneys, David Eglesias of New Mexico, had an op-ed piece in the New York Times yesterday. In it he described a phone call he had received from the Senator. The call was in connection with a corruption case Eglesius was prosecuting. According to Eglesias, Diminici asked him if indictments would be handed up before an upcoming election. Eglesias said no, they would not be. Dominici said, according to Eglesias, " I'm sorry to hear that. "
" Then the line went dead, " wrote Eglesias. He was fired six weeks later, despite a record of exemplary performance reviews by the Justice Department.
Diminici has hired a defense attorney. To my knowledge, he has not appeared in public, nor has he issued a statement. Makes me wonder if the gentleman from the great state of New Mexico is the next public figure to announce he's going into rehab.
YouTube - Lawrence Welk Meets Velvet Underground
Uh, I must have missed this Lawrence Welk Show. I'm thinking maybe Welk was pals with Vaclav Havel and.... OK, maybe I'm reading too much into it. YouTube - Lawrence Welk Meets Velvet Underground
The late Thomas ( Tip ) O'Neill said, " All politics is local. " And there's nothing more local than family.
John Edwards and his wife, Elizabeth, shared the bad news with us this morning. Elizabeth's cancer is back, and has spread to the bone. It didn't take the reporters long to get to the point of the press conference, which wasn't, for them at least, about cancer. It was about that other C Word: Campaigning.
Will you go on? That was the question asked more quickly than it should have been.
Edward's answer was " Yes. " The campaign will go on. We're not going to be " cowering " in some corner Edwards said. Edwards didn't speak for Elizabeth. She spoke for herself. And, as always, did it with dignity.
There was some speculation that Edwards might put his campaign on hold, or drop out of the race. Edwards and his wife said they talked about that and came to the same conclusion.
Edwards and his wife have, at least the way I see it, risen above the muddy field on which national politics is played. They rose to a new level today.
This is a crisis they're facing. Another one. They lost a 16 year old son. This is their second battle with cancer. How will one handle him or herself in a crisis? That's a question many of us ask when we wonder what it would be like to have this one or that one be our Commander in Chief. Some candidates have faced a few tests. Some have not.
The Edwards family? They've been there. And they're back there again.
I kept thinking about that as I watched John and Elizabeth Edwards this morning. And I thought of the irony - How this bad news could, in the bizarre world of presidential politics, be good news for the Edwards campaign.
Family values will probably play a big role. Rudy's issues. Newt's issues. Hillary's husband...
They're all running for that big national office. But as Tip said time and time again:
All politics is local. And as Tolstoy wrote: " all happy families are alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. "
John Edwards and his wife, Elizabeth, shared the bad news with us this morning. Elizabeth's cancer is back, and has spread to the bone. It didn't take the reporters long to get to the point of the press conference, which wasn't, for them at least, about cancer. It was about that other C Word: Campaigning.
Will you go on? That was the question asked more quickly than it should have been.
Edward's answer was " Yes. " The campaign will go on. We're not going to be " cowering " in some corner Edwards said. Edwards didn't speak for Elizabeth. She spoke for herself. And, as always, did it with dignity.
There was some speculation that Edwards might put his campaign on hold, or drop out of the race. Edwards and his wife said they talked about that and came to the same conclusion.
Edwards and his wife have, at least the way I see it, risen above the muddy field on which national politics is played. They rose to a new level today.
This is a crisis they're facing. Another one. They lost a 16 year old son. This is their second battle with cancer. How will one handle him or herself in a crisis? That's a question many of us ask when we wonder what it would be like to have this one or that one be our Commander in Chief. Some candidates have faced a few tests. Some have not.
The Edwards family? They've been there. And they're back there again.
I kept thinking about that as I watched John and Elizabeth Edwards this morning. And I thought of the irony - How this bad news could, in the bizarre world of presidential politics, be good news for the Edwards campaign.
Family values will probably play a big role. Rudy's issues. Newt's issues. Hillary's husband...
They're all running for that big national office. But as Tip said time and time again:
All politics is local. And as Tolstoy wrote: " all happy families are alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. "
Talk radio. I first started listening to it when I was a freshman in college. That was back when Marconi was still ironing out the wrinkles in what was a very new medium. OK. It wasn't that long ago. But it seems like it.
I was living on Farmington Avenue in Hartford, Connecticut. I can't recall the name of the guy who was the talk radio host. And I'm not sure if it was a local or a national feed. What I do remember is how different it was from what I was used to listening to on the radio.
I'd just graduated from high school. When I was a freshman there I got a present from my parents: A robin's egg blue transister radio in a light brown leather case. It had an ear phone and I listened to the radio after I'd gone to bed. Listened to WHYN, the Springfield, Massachusetts station on which Bud Stone and Phil Dee were the D.J.s The song they played very often was a song that has stuck to me over the years, over the decades.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? By the Shirelles.
Bud Stone and Phil Dee were as fake as their names. Squeaky clean, boy next door types from whose lips might escape a few four letter words. But the words would be " Gosh, " " Heck, " and Jeez. "
Well, maybe not that last one. The Catholics might not like hearing that one.
Then came talk radio. It was rude and in your face and I found it utterly fascinating. I loved the idea of someone sitting in a studio, taking the calls, or rejecting them. Talk about control.
It's been a long time since I was introduced to the concept. Talk radio's still with us. You say those words: Talk. Radio. And put them together, the image that gets conjured is that of Rush Limbaugh.
Make no mistake, Limbaugh is very good at what he does. But I dislike him intensely. I do not find him funny and I think his arguments are mostly specious. I think he's a coward who sits in his studio and plays his soundbites, then attacks those whose words we have just heard.
Limbaugh has a long history of attacking and mimicking Bill Clinton. I would bet you some money that Rush has never met or talked to Bill Clinton. Same goes for Ted Kennedy, another frequent target. Has Rush ever sat down across the table from Teddy? Has he ever had a debate with the man? Has he ever talked with him on the phone? Again, the answer is undoubtedly no.
The other day, Rush lashed out at California Governor Arnold Scwartzenegger. The next day Arnold called his show. I'm of two minds about that. Clinton and Kennedy would probably never call Rush and call him on what he's been saying about them. In a way, that's a smart thing to do. Ignoring him is taking away some of his power.
On the other hand, it might be framed as a brave act. And would force Rush's hand. He would have to take the call. Imagine if he didn't and word got out ( It would ) that he didn't.
So Arnold called. Rush took the call. I saw a video of the exchange. Heard what Rush had to say to Arnold on the day after his attack. It was pretty pathetic. Rush was saying things like, " I've always liked you... "
Sucking up is a kind way of putting what Rush was now saying to and about the man he had just taken so many verbal shots at from his ivory tower.
There's a new play on Broadway starring Liev Streiber as radio talk show host Barry Champlain. The play was written more than twenty years ago by performance artist Eric Bogosian. There's a clip from the movie made from the play on a recent post on this blog.
Like a good talk radio host, it speaks for itself...
I was living on Farmington Avenue in Hartford, Connecticut. I can't recall the name of the guy who was the talk radio host. And I'm not sure if it was a local or a national feed. What I do remember is how different it was from what I was used to listening to on the radio.
I'd just graduated from high school. When I was a freshman there I got a present from my parents: A robin's egg blue transister radio in a light brown leather case. It had an ear phone and I listened to the radio after I'd gone to bed. Listened to WHYN, the Springfield, Massachusetts station on which Bud Stone and Phil Dee were the D.J.s The song they played very often was a song that has stuck to me over the years, over the decades.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? By the Shirelles.
Bud Stone and Phil Dee were as fake as their names. Squeaky clean, boy next door types from whose lips might escape a few four letter words. But the words would be " Gosh, " " Heck, " and Jeez. "
Well, maybe not that last one. The Catholics might not like hearing that one.
Then came talk radio. It was rude and in your face and I found it utterly fascinating. I loved the idea of someone sitting in a studio, taking the calls, or rejecting them. Talk about control.
It's been a long time since I was introduced to the concept. Talk radio's still with us. You say those words: Talk. Radio. And put them together, the image that gets conjured is that of Rush Limbaugh.
Make no mistake, Limbaugh is very good at what he does. But I dislike him intensely. I do not find him funny and I think his arguments are mostly specious. I think he's a coward who sits in his studio and plays his soundbites, then attacks those whose words we have just heard.
Limbaugh has a long history of attacking and mimicking Bill Clinton. I would bet you some money that Rush has never met or talked to Bill Clinton. Same goes for Ted Kennedy, another frequent target. Has Rush ever sat down across the table from Teddy? Has he ever had a debate with the man? Has he ever talked with him on the phone? Again, the answer is undoubtedly no.
The other day, Rush lashed out at California Governor Arnold Scwartzenegger. The next day Arnold called his show. I'm of two minds about that. Clinton and Kennedy would probably never call Rush and call him on what he's been saying about them. In a way, that's a smart thing to do. Ignoring him is taking away some of his power.
On the other hand, it might be framed as a brave act. And would force Rush's hand. He would have to take the call. Imagine if he didn't and word got out ( It would ) that he didn't.
So Arnold called. Rush took the call. I saw a video of the exchange. Heard what Rush had to say to Arnold on the day after his attack. It was pretty pathetic. Rush was saying things like, " I've always liked you... "
Sucking up is a kind way of putting what Rush was now saying to and about the man he had just taken so many verbal shots at from his ivory tower.
There's a new play on Broadway starring Liev Streiber as radio talk show host Barry Champlain. The play was written more than twenty years ago by performance artist Eric Bogosian. There's a clip from the movie made from the play on a recent post on this blog.
Like a good talk radio host, it speaks for itself...
YouTube - Talk Radio (Clip)
What do you want to talk about? It's such a good question. Listen to this! YouTube - Talk Radio (Clip)
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
One of the bloggers I read regularly posted today a rant aimed at Jon Stewart, host of the popular Comedy Central Daily Show. Jake found annoying the hoots and the howls from the Daily Show audience. Found Stewart's attacks on the Bush administration unfunny and predictable.
Jake's dislike of Stewart reminded me of mine for Rush Limbaugh ( I'll refrain from calling him names; I'll take the advice of the gentleman from Jacksonville, Florida and try to rise above those bastards who resort to name calling ...
Oops...
I watched the clip we were linked to on Jake's blog. There was, indeed, much mindless hooting and howling from the Daily Show crowd. It was the kind of laughter anthropologists and sociologists write about. The kind of yuks and guffaws that have more to do with peer pressure than humor. One doesn't laugh in a setting like that, one is thought of as too dumb to get the joke. One is looked down upon, seen as an outsider.
Anyone who's ever watched the egregious Last Comic Standing knows what I'm saying. I've been to wakes where the center of attention is far funnier than the clowns who appear on that show. Yet there's non stop laughter heard. Lenny Bruce must be spinning in his grave.
On second thought, Lenny's probably not wasting his time watching that comedy show. His dead eyes are undoubtedly peeled on C-Span. The Comity Channel.
Jake also found unsettling Jon Stewart's constant attacks on the Bush administration. Granted, he does that. But look what Limbaugh did almost every day he was on the air during the administration of Bill Clinton.
Limbaugh seemed, at least to me, to be obsessed with Bill Clinton. I'm no psychologist, but my guess is that people who are obsessed with another person in the way that Rush was obsessed with Bill...
Are either engaging in some degree of projective identification, or they love the object of the obsession in some very strange way.
And who wouldn't love Clinton, if you're a guy who has a show every day of the week. A guy who's expected to make people laugh. A guy hungry for material. Who wouldn't love the guy who supplies what you desparately need by the truckload?
Same goes for Stewart. I was going to say " Ditto. "
But thought better of that.
Jake's dislike of Stewart reminded me of mine for Rush Limbaugh ( I'll refrain from calling him names; I'll take the advice of the gentleman from Jacksonville, Florida and try to rise above those bastards who resort to name calling ...
Oops...
I watched the clip we were linked to on Jake's blog. There was, indeed, much mindless hooting and howling from the Daily Show crowd. It was the kind of laughter anthropologists and sociologists write about. The kind of yuks and guffaws that have more to do with peer pressure than humor. One doesn't laugh in a setting like that, one is thought of as too dumb to get the joke. One is looked down upon, seen as an outsider.
Anyone who's ever watched the egregious Last Comic Standing knows what I'm saying. I've been to wakes where the center of attention is far funnier than the clowns who appear on that show. Yet there's non stop laughter heard. Lenny Bruce must be spinning in his grave.
On second thought, Lenny's probably not wasting his time watching that comedy show. His dead eyes are undoubtedly peeled on C-Span. The Comity Channel.
Jake also found unsettling Jon Stewart's constant attacks on the Bush administration. Granted, he does that. But look what Limbaugh did almost every day he was on the air during the administration of Bill Clinton.
Limbaugh seemed, at least to me, to be obsessed with Bill Clinton. I'm no psychologist, but my guess is that people who are obsessed with another person in the way that Rush was obsessed with Bill...
Are either engaging in some degree of projective identification, or they love the object of the obsession in some very strange way.
And who wouldn't love Clinton, if you're a guy who has a show every day of the week. A guy who's expected to make people laugh. A guy hungry for material. Who wouldn't love the guy who supplies what you desparately need by the truckload?
Same goes for Stewart. I was going to say " Ditto. "
But thought better of that.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I haven't written about cell phones in a while.
Have you noticed? More guys seem to be using these damn things than women. And have you made note of this? You see a guy standing there, in the produce aisle of your local market. He pulls his princess phone out of his holster, opens it up...
Like a woman opening a compact.
These guys on the phone all the time. They're like the teenage girls in that scene in Bye Bye Birdie.
Just one more neon sign flashing:
We're all fucking doomed.
( Fade to black )
Have you noticed? More guys seem to be using these damn things than women. And have you made note of this? You see a guy standing there, in the produce aisle of your local market. He pulls his princess phone out of his holster, opens it up...
Like a woman opening a compact.
These guys on the phone all the time. They're like the teenage girls in that scene in Bye Bye Birdie.
Just one more neon sign flashing:
We're all fucking doomed.
( Fade to black )
Manager Bush played Hardball today.
Sure, he could have preempted The View and pissed Rosie and Barbara off. He could have performed his dog and pony show at 8 a.m., making Matt, Merideth and Al sit there on the couch waiting for the happy talk to begin again. But the Bush handlers aren't reading Bully Pulpiteering for Dummies. They know what they're doing.
What better show to peempt than Chris Matthews' Hardball? It was almost like Bush appearing on Hardball. Going mano a mano with Tip O'Neill's old speechwriter. Sort of.
Bush didn't say anything. He didn't make news. As McLuen would have said, " The medium was the message. " And so was the tone. Bush was feisty. Bush was combative. Bush was playing Hardball. Managing the news.
You could almost hear his handlers telling him, prior to making his entry, stage right.
" Play Hardball, sir. Play Hardball. "
So many things have gone terribly wrong since this man took office six years ago. These guys remind me of the early New York Mets, managed by Casey Stengel. Who said of his team, " Doesn't anybody here know how to play this game? "
But I have to admit, his handlers handled this one well. Preempt Hardball. Do what the guys who do well on that show do. Go on the offensive. Pick your battle, and remember the Powell Doctrine ( Forget what Rummy would say! ) Use all the force and ammo at your command. Focus your attention on this one front: The U.S. Attorney Battle.
Sure, mistakes were made. Fredo admitted that. You have, too. But if you make them focus on this rather minor mistake, this not so significant battle...
You win.
The strategy: Play hardball. Talk about the prosecutors and your amigo, Fredo. And lost in the fog of this war will be Iraq, Katrina, Walter Reed and all those other battles we're losing.
Play Hardball, Mr. President. Like Casey Stengel would have managed the game - when, of course, he wore pinstripes.
Sure, he could have preempted The View and pissed Rosie and Barbara off. He could have performed his dog and pony show at 8 a.m., making Matt, Merideth and Al sit there on the couch waiting for the happy talk to begin again. But the Bush handlers aren't reading Bully Pulpiteering for Dummies. They know what they're doing.
What better show to peempt than Chris Matthews' Hardball? It was almost like Bush appearing on Hardball. Going mano a mano with Tip O'Neill's old speechwriter. Sort of.
Bush didn't say anything. He didn't make news. As McLuen would have said, " The medium was the message. " And so was the tone. Bush was feisty. Bush was combative. Bush was playing Hardball. Managing the news.
You could almost hear his handlers telling him, prior to making his entry, stage right.
" Play Hardball, sir. Play Hardball. "
So many things have gone terribly wrong since this man took office six years ago. These guys remind me of the early New York Mets, managed by Casey Stengel. Who said of his team, " Doesn't anybody here know how to play this game? "
But I have to admit, his handlers handled this one well. Preempt Hardball. Do what the guys who do well on that show do. Go on the offensive. Pick your battle, and remember the Powell Doctrine ( Forget what Rummy would say! ) Use all the force and ammo at your command. Focus your attention on this one front: The U.S. Attorney Battle.
Sure, mistakes were made. Fredo admitted that. You have, too. But if you make them focus on this rather minor mistake, this not so significant battle...
You win.
The strategy: Play hardball. Talk about the prosecutors and your amigo, Fredo. And lost in the fog of this war will be Iraq, Katrina, Walter Reed and all those other battles we're losing.
Play Hardball, Mr. President. Like Casey Stengel would have managed the game - when, of course, he wore pinstripes.
This is a second draft of two earlier posts I combined and shipped off to some newspapers...
What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate
By Terrence McCarthy
Stuart Rosenberg isn't doing too well. Not doing too well. That's a code my old friend, Terry C. and I have been using for years. He emails me. I email him. Someone’s not doing too well.
What it means is that he or she has joined the choir invisible. Croaked. Bit the dust. Kicked the bucket.
The Eskimos are said to have a hundred words for snow. We have quite a few terms for that one dance we'll one day do alone. Stuart Rosenberg was a movie director. One of his most famous films was Cool Hand Luke. That one starred Paul Newman. There's a line from the flick that must be on a few Best Movie Lines Ever lists. It's spoken by the character Strother Martin plays."
What we have here is a failure to communicate. "That one should be chisled in stone above the doors of many a corporation. It should replace " Welcome " on the mats laid near the front doors of American homes. Maybe it should be added to the lyrics of the national anthem.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "It’s a great line from a great movie, directed by a guy who's not doing too well.
I read Rosenberg’s obituary the other night. Then I turned the TV on. Watched a local news station. Wanted to see what the weather would be. A weatherman appeared on the screen. He’s about my age. Late 50s. I wondered. Did he remember when we were in high school and we listened to the radio to see whether the weather was going to be responsible for us getting a day off? Those weathermen told us a storm was coming. A winter storm. A blizzard. Heavy snow.That's how they described what was coming. Event? Did they say, " There's going to be an event, blah, blah, yadda? " Nope. Wouldn't have dreamed of using that word.
An event was the Celtics playing the Lakers post season. An event was Jerry Lee Lewis appearing at the Mountain Park casino in Holyoke. Back then weather guys said, " There's a chance of rain. Or snow. Or fog. These days, local weathermen and women take their lead from the meteorological celebrities on The Weather Channel Weather, where everything, from dew on the grass in the morning to Katrina is an: Event.
Anna Nicole Smith rises from the dead and runs naked through puddles formed by a steady rain falling in Providence...That would be an " Event. "
This is just one example of what we have here these days:
A failure to communicate.
21st century English? It’s not doing too well.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in South Kingstown
▼
What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate
By Terrence McCarthy
Stuart Rosenberg isn't doing too well. Not doing too well. That's a code my old friend, Terry C. and I have been using for years. He emails me. I email him. Someone’s not doing too well.
What it means is that he or she has joined the choir invisible. Croaked. Bit the dust. Kicked the bucket.
The Eskimos are said to have a hundred words for snow. We have quite a few terms for that one dance we'll one day do alone. Stuart Rosenberg was a movie director. One of his most famous films was Cool Hand Luke. That one starred Paul Newman. There's a line from the flick that must be on a few Best Movie Lines Ever lists. It's spoken by the character Strother Martin plays."
What we have here is a failure to communicate. "That one should be chisled in stone above the doors of many a corporation. It should replace " Welcome " on the mats laid near the front doors of American homes. Maybe it should be added to the lyrics of the national anthem.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "It’s a great line from a great movie, directed by a guy who's not doing too well.
I read Rosenberg’s obituary the other night. Then I turned the TV on. Watched a local news station. Wanted to see what the weather would be. A weatherman appeared on the screen. He’s about my age. Late 50s. I wondered. Did he remember when we were in high school and we listened to the radio to see whether the weather was going to be responsible for us getting a day off? Those weathermen told us a storm was coming. A winter storm. A blizzard. Heavy snow.That's how they described what was coming. Event? Did they say, " There's going to be an event, blah, blah, yadda? " Nope. Wouldn't have dreamed of using that word.
An event was the Celtics playing the Lakers post season. An event was Jerry Lee Lewis appearing at the Mountain Park casino in Holyoke. Back then weather guys said, " There's a chance of rain. Or snow. Or fog. These days, local weathermen and women take their lead from the meteorological celebrities on The Weather Channel Weather, where everything, from dew on the grass in the morning to Katrina is an: Event.
Anna Nicole Smith rises from the dead and runs naked through puddles formed by a steady rain falling in Providence...That would be an " Event. "
This is just one example of what we have here these days:
A failure to communicate.
21st century English? It’s not doing too well.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in South Kingstown
▼
Monday, March 19, 2007
There's a lot of buzz about this flick 300. It's a new movie about a very old war. Spartans fighting with the weapons of mass destruction of their day: The bow and a quiver full of arrows. New York Magazine film critic David Edelstein reviewed 300 yesterday on CBS's Sunday Morning news show. Edelstein talked about how computer generated graphics are all the rage these days. Said how he's getting bored with them. He showed some scenes from The Matrix and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon in which characters are seen somersaulting through the air, doing flips and walking up walls. Doing things mere humans could never even imagine doing.
Then he showed a clip from an old Donald O'Connor movie. There was O'Connor, somersaulting through the air, doing flips and walking up walls.
What we were watching wasn't the result of computer generated graphics. O'Connor was actually doing it. An incredible dancer. A remarkable athlete. A born comedian whose jokes were told in body language.
I don't plan on seeing 300. But I might just go to the video store and look for Singin' in the Rain.
Then he showed a clip from an old Donald O'Connor movie. There was O'Connor, somersaulting through the air, doing flips and walking up walls.
What we were watching wasn't the result of computer generated graphics. O'Connor was actually doing it. An incredible dancer. A remarkable athlete. A born comedian whose jokes were told in body language.
I don't plan on seeing 300. But I might just go to the video store and look for Singin' in the Rain.
Stuart Rosenberg isn't doing too well.
That's a code my good friend, the gentleman from Jacksonville and I use every now and then. Not doing too well. That means he's joined the choir invisible. Croaked. Bit the dust. Kicked the bucket.
The eskimos have a hundred words for snow. We have quite a few terms for that one dance we'll do alone.
Stuart Rosenberg was a movie director. One of his most famous films was Cool Hand Luke. That one starred Paul Newman. There's a line from the flick that must be on a Best Movie Lines Ever list. It's spoken by the character Strother Martin plays.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "
That one should be chisled in stone above the doors of many a corporation. It should replace " Welcome " on the mats laid near the front doors of American homes. Hell, it should be added to the lyrics of the national anthem.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "
Great line from a great movie, directed by a guy who's not doing too well.
That's a code my good friend, the gentleman from Jacksonville and I use every now and then. Not doing too well. That means he's joined the choir invisible. Croaked. Bit the dust. Kicked the bucket.
The eskimos have a hundred words for snow. We have quite a few terms for that one dance we'll do alone.
Stuart Rosenberg was a movie director. One of his most famous films was Cool Hand Luke. That one starred Paul Newman. There's a line from the flick that must be on a Best Movie Lines Ever list. It's spoken by the character Strother Martin plays.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "
That one should be chisled in stone above the doors of many a corporation. It should replace " Welcome " on the mats laid near the front doors of American homes. Hell, it should be added to the lyrics of the national anthem.
" What we have here is a failure to communicate. "
Great line from a great movie, directed by a guy who's not doing too well.
YouTube - 1984
This is pretty good. As of this writing I think Obama's people are disvowing any responsibility for it. YouTube - 1984
This is a cranky email I just sent to the weather guy on the local news...
Dear John Ghiorse
We're about the same age. Remember when we were in high school and we listened to the radio to see whether the weather was going to be responsible for us getting a day off? We listened to the radio. The guy said a storm was coming. A winter storm. A blizzard. Heavy snow.
That's how he described what was coming.
Event? Did he say, " There's going to be an event, blah, blah, yadda? " Nope. Wouldn't have dreamed of using that word. An event was the Celtics playing the Lakers post season. An event was Jerry Lee Lewis appearing at the Mountain Park casino in western Mass. where I'm originally from ( John Quill was my weatherman; he wouldn't have said " event, " unless he was talking about the Eastern States Exposition )
Back then weather guys said, " There's a chance of rain. Or snow. Or fog. They spoke English.
Please. Don't follow the lead of the morons on the Weather Channel, where everything, from dew on the grass in the morning to Katrina is an:
Event.
Anna Nicole Smith rises from the dead and runs naked through puddles formed by a steady rain falling in Providence...
That would be an " Event. " Until then, please say what it is.
Thank you for your time.
Terrence McCarthy in ( Eventless, Boring, South Kingstown )
Dear John Ghiorse
We're about the same age. Remember when we were in high school and we listened to the radio to see whether the weather was going to be responsible for us getting a day off? We listened to the radio. The guy said a storm was coming. A winter storm. A blizzard. Heavy snow.
That's how he described what was coming.
Event? Did he say, " There's going to be an event, blah, blah, yadda? " Nope. Wouldn't have dreamed of using that word. An event was the Celtics playing the Lakers post season. An event was Jerry Lee Lewis appearing at the Mountain Park casino in western Mass. where I'm originally from ( John Quill was my weatherman; he wouldn't have said " event, " unless he was talking about the Eastern States Exposition )
Back then weather guys said, " There's a chance of rain. Or snow. Or fog. They spoke English.
Please. Don't follow the lead of the morons on the Weather Channel, where everything, from dew on the grass in the morning to Katrina is an:
Event.
Anna Nicole Smith rises from the dead and runs naked through puddles formed by a steady rain falling in Providence...
That would be an " Event. " Until then, please say what it is.
Thank you for your time.
Terrence McCarthy in ( Eventless, Boring, South Kingstown )
Sunday, March 18, 2007
YouTube - dan fogelberg there,s a place in the world for a gambler
Yes, there is a place in this world for a gambler. There is a song in the heart of a woman.. My wife. Here's to you, you. You gambler...YouTube - dan fogelberg there,s a place in the world for a gambler
Did I mention? As I write this, I look out my window. There's a Winnebago parked in the yard. No kidding. We just sold it. Bought another one. Longer by six feet. Two slide-outs. Has a couch and a shower big enough to hold an NFL linebacker. Born to be wild.
An Audie Murphy like life I have not exactly lived. Albert Brooks?
Talk about kindred spirits.
An Audie Murphy like life I have not exactly lived. Albert Brooks?
Talk about kindred spirits.
Lost in America
When I was a kid, I was one of those restless youngsters in an audience that spent its Saturday afternoons at the Majestic Theater on Cottage Street in Easthampton. Audie Murphy was my hero. Jack Palance, Alan Ladd. These were guy I looked up to. Fast forward twenty years. I'm an advertiing creative director in Hartford, Connecticut. I go to the movies and watch Lost in America, starring the hilarious Albert Brooks...Lost in America
Did I mention this before? The character Kaffee, played by Tom Cruise in the movie version of " A Few Good Men " was based on a prosecutor by the name of Iglesias. Who just happens to be one of the eight U.S. Attorneys canned recently by Attorney General Gonzales.
Art imitates life. Then life imitates art. Can WE handle the truth?
Art imitates life. Then life imitates art. Can WE handle the truth?
This is from the screenplay of " A Few Good Men. " I think it's one of the all time great movie scenes. Kaffee's played by Tom Cruise. Jessep's Jack Nicholson. They're both Marines. Does this scene have relevance in today's world? You bet it does.
KAFFEE
I want the truth.
JESSEP
You can't handle the truth!
JESSEP (continuing) Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. (beat) You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You want me there (boasting) We use words like honor, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something. You use 'em as a punchline. (beat)
I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I'd prefer you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to.
KAFFEE
I want the truth.
JESSEP
You can't handle the truth!
JESSEP (continuing) Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. (beat) You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You want me there (boasting) We use words like honor, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something. You use 'em as a punchline. (beat)
I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I'd prefer you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Continued...
I'm going to make a long story short. I'm not so sure the tale I began on the last post is the kind of story best told on a blog. What I will do, to satisfy those who are curious, is offer a scaled down version of what happened next.
Basketball remained important to me. After I graduated I played in a church league. I had this real good friend. I'll call him Jody. He was a prep school guy whose father was a big wig who worked for one of the mills. Jody and I were the two guards on the team. One Saturday night, after our game was over and another game had begun, Jody and I were standing next to the gym's exit door. There was a fuse box on the wall. Jody said, " Watch this. " He opened the box and pulled a few fuses from their sockets. The gym went dark.
Jody and I snuck out the door, walked to my father's car and got in. We drove to Northampton.
This happened in 1965. Jody went on to college. I did, too, but failed miserably. Then I joined the Air Force. Jody and I kept in touch. After I was discharged, we started hanging around together again. He was living in Maryland.
I took a bus down there and spent a few days with my friend. This was in 1972. Basketball was still the glue that bonded us together. Jody's apartment was just a few miles from the University of Maryland. Maryland at that time was coached by Lefty Dreisell, a man whom my friend Jody may or may not have known better than most Terrepin fans.
Jody had two roommates. One of them was a student at Georgetown Law School. The other one was the future attorney's dumb ass kid brother. He was very tall and lanky. Looked like he might have played basketball in high school. His nickname was " Spider. "
Spider had long hair and a beard. He was about 22 and was not, as far as I could tell, gainfully employed.
Jody and his roommates hung out at a dive they called " The Vous. " That was short for Rendezvous. It was a bar that smelled of spilled cheap beer and old vomit. There was a pool table in the back room and a juke box. For a quarter you could hear John Fogarty sing " Bad Moon Rising, " The Alman Brothers and a Jim Croce tune.
What did we talk about there? To the best of my recollection we did not talk much about politics. Sure, it was 1972. Nixon was in the white house. Haldeman, Ehrlichman, too.
Jody's apartment was a stone's throw from the white house. He had his opinions about the politics of the time. But it was basketball that was on his mind most of the time.
He talked about Lefty. He talked about Tom McMillen. Jody and his roommates loathed McMillen.
" Squeaky clean, Dudley Do Right, " he said of the Terrepin player who went on to serve in congress after graduating from the University of Maryland.
Jody's roommate, the one who was going to law school, lived at the track. Loved the horses. Spent more time at Pimlico than he did in lecture halls at Georgetown.
One night, after downing some beers at a tavern in Georgetown, the four of us drove north to the Baltimore-Washington airport. This was a long time ago. My mind was clouded by beer. I don't remember it well...
But to the best of my recollection...
Our aim was to greet a young man, a freshman forward for the University of Maryland team. We arrived at the airport, parked the car and entered the terminal. The very tall young man was there. Jody introduced me to him. Then Jody's roommates talked to the tall, skinny young man.
Jody and I went to the mens room. When we came out, The tall young man was gone.
I wondered. What was this about? Why had we driven from D.C. to the airport just to greet this young player?
This was 1972. Drugs were part of the scene. Jody did everything under the sun, but not in my presence. He knew I was a Tom McMillen type, a squeaky clean guy whose worst vice was beer.
And Jody's roommates. One of them spent an inordinate amount of time at the track. He was a gambler. Spider? Who knew what he was up to?
Lefty Driesell was forced to resign from his Maryland coaching job after the drug related death of one of his players... This was in 1984. A long time after...
I have no way of knowing if there is any connection between what I've written about my friend and his roommates and the end of Lefty's career...
What I do know is this. Jody darkened that gym. Pulled the fuse out of the socket. My good friend loved the game, but he seemed, at least to me, to be someone who had mixed feelings about how the game should be played.
Maryland played Butler today in a second round game in the NCAA Tournament. My bracket pick? Butler.
Maryland lost.
I'm going to make a long story short. I'm not so sure the tale I began on the last post is the kind of story best told on a blog. What I will do, to satisfy those who are curious, is offer a scaled down version of what happened next.
Basketball remained important to me. After I graduated I played in a church league. I had this real good friend. I'll call him Jody. He was a prep school guy whose father was a big wig who worked for one of the mills. Jody and I were the two guards on the team. One Saturday night, after our game was over and another game had begun, Jody and I were standing next to the gym's exit door. There was a fuse box on the wall. Jody said, " Watch this. " He opened the box and pulled a few fuses from their sockets. The gym went dark.
Jody and I snuck out the door, walked to my father's car and got in. We drove to Northampton.
This happened in 1965. Jody went on to college. I did, too, but failed miserably. Then I joined the Air Force. Jody and I kept in touch. After I was discharged, we started hanging around together again. He was living in Maryland.
I took a bus down there and spent a few days with my friend. This was in 1972. Basketball was still the glue that bonded us together. Jody's apartment was just a few miles from the University of Maryland. Maryland at that time was coached by Lefty Dreisell, a man whom my friend Jody may or may not have known better than most Terrepin fans.
Jody had two roommates. One of them was a student at Georgetown Law School. The other one was the future attorney's dumb ass kid brother. He was very tall and lanky. Looked like he might have played basketball in high school. His nickname was " Spider. "
Spider had long hair and a beard. He was about 22 and was not, as far as I could tell, gainfully employed.
Jody and his roommates hung out at a dive they called " The Vous. " That was short for Rendezvous. It was a bar that smelled of spilled cheap beer and old vomit. There was a pool table in the back room and a juke box. For a quarter you could hear John Fogarty sing " Bad Moon Rising, " The Alman Brothers and a Jim Croce tune.
What did we talk about there? To the best of my recollection we did not talk much about politics. Sure, it was 1972. Nixon was in the white house. Haldeman, Ehrlichman, too.
Jody's apartment was a stone's throw from the white house. He had his opinions about the politics of the time. But it was basketball that was on his mind most of the time.
He talked about Lefty. He talked about Tom McMillen. Jody and his roommates loathed McMillen.
" Squeaky clean, Dudley Do Right, " he said of the Terrepin player who went on to serve in congress after graduating from the University of Maryland.
Jody's roommate, the one who was going to law school, lived at the track. Loved the horses. Spent more time at Pimlico than he did in lecture halls at Georgetown.
One night, after downing some beers at a tavern in Georgetown, the four of us drove north to the Baltimore-Washington airport. This was a long time ago. My mind was clouded by beer. I don't remember it well...
But to the best of my recollection...
Our aim was to greet a young man, a freshman forward for the University of Maryland team. We arrived at the airport, parked the car and entered the terminal. The very tall young man was there. Jody introduced me to him. Then Jody's roommates talked to the tall, skinny young man.
Jody and I went to the mens room. When we came out, The tall young man was gone.
I wondered. What was this about? Why had we driven from D.C. to the airport just to greet this young player?
This was 1972. Drugs were part of the scene. Jody did everything under the sun, but not in my presence. He knew I was a Tom McMillen type, a squeaky clean guy whose worst vice was beer.
And Jody's roommates. One of them spent an inordinate amount of time at the track. He was a gambler. Spider? Who knew what he was up to?
Lefty Driesell was forced to resign from his Maryland coaching job after the drug related death of one of his players... This was in 1984. A long time after...
I have no way of knowing if there is any connection between what I've written about my friend and his roommates and the end of Lefty's career...
What I do know is this. Jody darkened that gym. Pulled the fuse out of the socket. My good friend loved the game, but he seemed, at least to me, to be someone who had mixed feelings about how the game should be played.
Maryland played Butler today in a second round game in the NCAA Tournament. My bracket pick? Butler.
Maryland lost.
I was up at my mother's place Thurday. She lives in an apartment on Main Street in Easthampton. When I was a kid growing up there, Easthampton was known as " Web Town. " This was because of the product made in the mills, which ran like a spine through the center of that dirty old town.
I called it " Basketball Town. " By the time I was a senior in high school, the textile industry, of which the town had long been a part, was heading south. Literally.
United Elastic. Rubber Thread. Those were the names of two of the mills. My mother worked for United Elastic, which was located at the corner of Cottage and Union streets. My father worked in a mill, too. He was a shipping clerk for Hampden Specialty Products, a two story brick building in which folding chairs were made. The kind of chair in which you plant your sorry ass when you're playing poker with friends. The kind of chair we kids sat on when we attended the Irish wakes to which we'd been dragged.
Basketball Town. That's where I lived. That's where I grew up in the 60s. By the time I got to high school I hadn't played much of that game. But my best friend Dick Dubiel did. And so did his brother Bob and his friends.
Roger Walaszek, Skip Jarocki, Jack Zabek, to name a few.
Walaszek went on to captain the Columbia team, which did pretty well in the late 60s. Columbia played the Citadel, on whose starting five was a guard, Pat Conroy.
Walaszek's a lawyer now. Conroy's a famous writer. His novels have been made into movies. Jon Voight played him. Barabara Streisand and Nick Nolte have played characters he's created.
Where was I?
I was at my mother's place Thursday. Mom wanted to show me the cellar, which her landlord had been working on lately. I hadn't been in that cellar for a very long time. Last time I was there was in the spring of 1965. I was a senior in high school.
To get to the cellar we walked down the driveway. The driveway was muddy. I watched my step, as I was wearing good shoes. And I took a look at the barn on whose side was nailed an orange basket. I'd spent countless hours in that driveway. Learning to shoot. Practicing. Anticipating the tryout. So long ago.
I wanted more than anything to make that team. That basketball team, The Eagles. The high school team to which Easthampton paid lots of attention.
My mother and I walked into the cellar. It looked the same and it looked vastly different. The last time I'd been in there was when I was 18 years old. I am now pushing 60.
By the time I was a senior in high school, demons had taken control of my life. I was shy, pathologically so. I'd been a good student in elementary school. All A's. But something happened in high school. The classrooms in which I had fit so well, were now the wrong size.
It got so bad I couldn't go to school. I dreaded sitting in the classroom. I longed to learn, but the places in which we kids were taught scared the shit out of me. The last two days of my senior year I called in sick and spent some time in the cellar. I can't recall now what my parents' schedule was. I don't know if my mother was working at the mill. I know my father was. But my mother...
What was she doing on those two days I hid in the cellar? Was she working at the mill? HAd she been laid off? That happened often back in those days.
She thought I was in school. She thought everything was Ok. I was a good kid, who'd gotten good grades most of the time. She knew I was shy, and it tore her up, thinking she'd passed shyness on to her son. She was a shy girl in high school. High school was a circle of hell Dante would have drawn... if there were high schools back then.
My mother gave me the tour. " Look what Wally ( The landlord ) and Jeff ( his son ) have done, " " she said proudly. I looked around. The cellar, as I remembered it, was a dark, dank place in which unwanted stuff had been tossed. The cellar was thick with junk when I was a kid. It smelled of dead things, mildew and wood that was rotting.
But I was drawn to it then.
Thursday? It was different. Of course it was different. I was 18 then. I'm older, much older than that now.
A cellar cleaned of its junk, smelling much better. What did it feel like being in there? Truth be told, I wanted to come clean with my mother. I wanted to tell her what I was doing those last two days of high school. But I didn't.
Mom and I walked out of the cellar. Walked up that muddy driveway where I used to take the shots at the basket. Did I mention?
I made the team. All that practice. All those shots. Taken from a driveway that was gravel then. It wasn't muddy. Sure, it was a surface not exactly made for dribbling. But it was better than mud.
to be continued...
I called it " Basketball Town. " By the time I was a senior in high school, the textile industry, of which the town had long been a part, was heading south. Literally.
United Elastic. Rubber Thread. Those were the names of two of the mills. My mother worked for United Elastic, which was located at the corner of Cottage and Union streets. My father worked in a mill, too. He was a shipping clerk for Hampden Specialty Products, a two story brick building in which folding chairs were made. The kind of chair in which you plant your sorry ass when you're playing poker with friends. The kind of chair we kids sat on when we attended the Irish wakes to which we'd been dragged.
Basketball Town. That's where I lived. That's where I grew up in the 60s. By the time I got to high school I hadn't played much of that game. But my best friend Dick Dubiel did. And so did his brother Bob and his friends.
Roger Walaszek, Skip Jarocki, Jack Zabek, to name a few.
Walaszek went on to captain the Columbia team, which did pretty well in the late 60s. Columbia played the Citadel, on whose starting five was a guard, Pat Conroy.
Walaszek's a lawyer now. Conroy's a famous writer. His novels have been made into movies. Jon Voight played him. Barabara Streisand and Nick Nolte have played characters he's created.
Where was I?
I was at my mother's place Thursday. Mom wanted to show me the cellar, which her landlord had been working on lately. I hadn't been in that cellar for a very long time. Last time I was there was in the spring of 1965. I was a senior in high school.
To get to the cellar we walked down the driveway. The driveway was muddy. I watched my step, as I was wearing good shoes. And I took a look at the barn on whose side was nailed an orange basket. I'd spent countless hours in that driveway. Learning to shoot. Practicing. Anticipating the tryout. So long ago.
I wanted more than anything to make that team. That basketball team, The Eagles. The high school team to which Easthampton paid lots of attention.
My mother and I walked into the cellar. It looked the same and it looked vastly different. The last time I'd been in there was when I was 18 years old. I am now pushing 60.
By the time I was a senior in high school, demons had taken control of my life. I was shy, pathologically so. I'd been a good student in elementary school. All A's. But something happened in high school. The classrooms in which I had fit so well, were now the wrong size.
It got so bad I couldn't go to school. I dreaded sitting in the classroom. I longed to learn, but the places in which we kids were taught scared the shit out of me. The last two days of my senior year I called in sick and spent some time in the cellar. I can't recall now what my parents' schedule was. I don't know if my mother was working at the mill. I know my father was. But my mother...
What was she doing on those two days I hid in the cellar? Was she working at the mill? HAd she been laid off? That happened often back in those days.
She thought I was in school. She thought everything was Ok. I was a good kid, who'd gotten good grades most of the time. She knew I was shy, and it tore her up, thinking she'd passed shyness on to her son. She was a shy girl in high school. High school was a circle of hell Dante would have drawn... if there were high schools back then.
My mother gave me the tour. " Look what Wally ( The landlord ) and Jeff ( his son ) have done, " " she said proudly. I looked around. The cellar, as I remembered it, was a dark, dank place in which unwanted stuff had been tossed. The cellar was thick with junk when I was a kid. It smelled of dead things, mildew and wood that was rotting.
But I was drawn to it then.
Thursday? It was different. Of course it was different. I was 18 then. I'm older, much older than that now.
A cellar cleaned of its junk, smelling much better. What did it feel like being in there? Truth be told, I wanted to come clean with my mother. I wanted to tell her what I was doing those last two days of high school. But I didn't.
Mom and I walked out of the cellar. Walked up that muddy driveway where I used to take the shots at the basket. Did I mention?
I made the team. All that practice. All those shots. Taken from a driveway that was gravel then. It wasn't muddy. Sure, it was a surface not exactly made for dribbling. But it was better than mud.
to be continued...
YouTube - The Beatles - Eleanor Rigby (1966)
Yes, it is a lot like writing sermons no one will hear....YouTube - The Beatles - Eleanor Rigby (1966)
Blogs can top the presses - Los Angeles Times
A useful story about blogs, for those of you who don't know a lot about them. And for those who do..Blogs can top the presses - Los Angeles Times
Friday, March 16, 2007
YouTube - Michael Hedges - Cello Suite #1 in G Major (Bach)
I've been a fan of Michael Hedges for years. Donna and I saw him play his guitar at The Iron Horse in Northampton. I'm not sure what I was more impressed with - his guitar playing, or his finely tuned sense of humor. I had an Elkin Sithole moment this evening. I Googled Hedges and learned that he had died in a car crash ten years ago. Listen to what he has to say about driving home on this one. He died while driving home from an airport in northern California. YouTube - Michael Hedges - Cello Suite #1 in G Major (Bach)
The following is a rewrite of a piece I posted a few days ago. I'm shipping it off to some editors
Bracketology? My Neighbor Couldn't Care Less
By Terrence McCarthy
My next door neighbor's a deer hunter. He loves to hunt deer. Deer hunting's an activity I have a hard time relating to. I can't imagine shooting a deer. Pete? He can't imagine filling out the brackets for the NCAA tournament. Couldn't care less about who's in the starting rotation for the Red Sox this year.
I see him in the yard. Say " Hi Pete. "
Pete says, " Hi. "
" Boston College is alive! They'll play Georgetown in the second round, " I say.
Pete stares at me like I've just spoken Latin.
" Manny had two hits yesterday. Shilling looked good! "
" I know, I know, " I say to Pete. " You couldn' t care less. "
Pete couldn't care more about deer hunting. And he loves to go out on his boat. Loves to navigate through the shallow waters of the salt ponds down here in South County. Destination: Block Island Sound. Pete loves fishing for those Blues and those Stripers.
I wouldn't be caught dead with a gun or a rod in my hand.
To each his own passion. Mine tend to be vicarious. I watch sports on TV. Pete gets up at an ungodly hour, goes out into the woods, and waits for hours for something that's probably not going to happen. Goes out in his boat and does the same thing. Tosses a line into the choppy cold water and waits.
I've read that deer hunters have much respect for their prey. One of the things they respect is a deer's super keen senses. How the animal focuses on what might happen in the next few minutes. Deer couldn't care less about what happened in the last few minutes. That's already happened. They survived that. What they want more than anything to do is survive the next few minutes, so that's what they think about.
What's that sound? What's that smell? What's that over there? Which path should I take? How lightly should I tread? What do I need to do to survive - the next few minutes?
I know nothing about fish. Blue fish and stripers? I know nothing. But it's my guess they're like deer in a way.
How different we are from the deer and the fish. Most of us anyway. We are creatures of regret. We whine about what might have been. We carry our baggage, like carcasses on the hoods of our cars. Baggage that goes way back. Way further into the past than the past few minutes.
We go into therapy. We go into rehab. We talk and we talk and someone sits there looking bored, listening to us relive the past. The next few minutes? We're not focused on that, yet we expect to survive. We expect to survive.
We expect not to be shot. We expect not to be caught. We expect to survive, to get past that first round, into the second and third rounds. So many of us are dancing The Big Dance.
But not Pete. He's sitting still, out there in the blind. Out there on his boat. He's thinking about what might happen in the next few minutes. He might get a deer. He might land a keepable striper. What he's not thinking about is who won that Gonzaga game last night. Or how Shilling pitched against Cleveland. That's all water under the bridge. It happened, and there is nothing he can do about that.
What he's focused on is what happens next. He's like Beckett ( Not Josh, the starting pitcher for the Sox ).
Like Sam, he's waiting. And so am I.
To each his own Godot.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in South Kingstown, Rhode Island
Bracketology? My Neighbor Couldn't Care Less
By Terrence McCarthy
My next door neighbor's a deer hunter. He loves to hunt deer. Deer hunting's an activity I have a hard time relating to. I can't imagine shooting a deer. Pete? He can't imagine filling out the brackets for the NCAA tournament. Couldn't care less about who's in the starting rotation for the Red Sox this year.
I see him in the yard. Say " Hi Pete. "
Pete says, " Hi. "
" Boston College is alive! They'll play Georgetown in the second round, " I say.
Pete stares at me like I've just spoken Latin.
" Manny had two hits yesterday. Shilling looked good! "
" I know, I know, " I say to Pete. " You couldn' t care less. "
Pete couldn't care more about deer hunting. And he loves to go out on his boat. Loves to navigate through the shallow waters of the salt ponds down here in South County. Destination: Block Island Sound. Pete loves fishing for those Blues and those Stripers.
I wouldn't be caught dead with a gun or a rod in my hand.
To each his own passion. Mine tend to be vicarious. I watch sports on TV. Pete gets up at an ungodly hour, goes out into the woods, and waits for hours for something that's probably not going to happen. Goes out in his boat and does the same thing. Tosses a line into the choppy cold water and waits.
I've read that deer hunters have much respect for their prey. One of the things they respect is a deer's super keen senses. How the animal focuses on what might happen in the next few minutes. Deer couldn't care less about what happened in the last few minutes. That's already happened. They survived that. What they want more than anything to do is survive the next few minutes, so that's what they think about.
What's that sound? What's that smell? What's that over there? Which path should I take? How lightly should I tread? What do I need to do to survive - the next few minutes?
I know nothing about fish. Blue fish and stripers? I know nothing. But it's my guess they're like deer in a way.
How different we are from the deer and the fish. Most of us anyway. We are creatures of regret. We whine about what might have been. We carry our baggage, like carcasses on the hoods of our cars. Baggage that goes way back. Way further into the past than the past few minutes.
We go into therapy. We go into rehab. We talk and we talk and someone sits there looking bored, listening to us relive the past. The next few minutes? We're not focused on that, yet we expect to survive. We expect to survive.
We expect not to be shot. We expect not to be caught. We expect to survive, to get past that first round, into the second and third rounds. So many of us are dancing The Big Dance.
But not Pete. He's sitting still, out there in the blind. Out there on his boat. He's thinking about what might happen in the next few minutes. He might get a deer. He might land a keepable striper. What he's not thinking about is who won that Gonzaga game last night. Or how Shilling pitched against Cleveland. That's all water under the bridge. It happened, and there is nothing he can do about that.
What he's focused on is what happens next. He's like Beckett ( Not Josh, the starting pitcher for the Sox ).
Like Sam, he's waiting. And so am I.
To each his own Godot.
Terrence McCarthy is a writer who lives in South Kingstown, Rhode Island
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
YouTube - Talking Heads - Life During Wartime
This ain't no party. This ain't no disco. This ain't no fooling around... You oughta know don' t stand by the window, someone will see you up there...YouTube - Talking Heads - Life During Wartime
I have a friend who's a deer hunter. He loves to hunt deer. Deer hunting's an activity I have a hard time relating to. I can't imagine shooting a deer. Pete? He can't imagine filling out the brackets for the NCAA tournament. Couldn't care less about who's in the starting rotation for the Red Sox this year.
To each his own passion.
Mine tend to be vicarious. I watch sports on TV. Pete gets up at an ungodly hour, goes out into the woods, and waits for hours for something that's probably not going to happen.
I've read that deer hunters respect the hell out of their prey. One of the things they respect is a deer's super keen senses. How it focuses on what might happen in the next few minutes. Deer couldn't care less about what happened in the last few minutes. That's already happened. They survived that. What they want more than anything to do is survive the next few minutes, so that's what they think about.
What's that sound? What's that smell? What's that over there? Which path should I take? How lightly should I tread? What do I need to do to survive - the next few minutes?
How different we are from the deer. We are creatures of regret. We whine about what might have been. We carry our baggage, like carcasses on the hoods of our cars. Baggage that goes way back. Way further into the past than the past few minutes.
We go into therapy. We go into rehab. We talk and we talk and someone sits there listening to us relive the past.
The next few minutes? We're not focused on that. Yet we expect to survive. We expect to survive.
To each his own passion.
Mine tend to be vicarious. I watch sports on TV. Pete gets up at an ungodly hour, goes out into the woods, and waits for hours for something that's probably not going to happen.
I've read that deer hunters respect the hell out of their prey. One of the things they respect is a deer's super keen senses. How it focuses on what might happen in the next few minutes. Deer couldn't care less about what happened in the last few minutes. That's already happened. They survived that. What they want more than anything to do is survive the next few minutes, so that's what they think about.
What's that sound? What's that smell? What's that over there? Which path should I take? How lightly should I tread? What do I need to do to survive - the next few minutes?
How different we are from the deer. We are creatures of regret. We whine about what might have been. We carry our baggage, like carcasses on the hoods of our cars. Baggage that goes way back. Way further into the past than the past few minutes.
We go into therapy. We go into rehab. We talk and we talk and someone sits there listening to us relive the past.
The next few minutes? We're not focused on that. Yet we expect to survive. We expect to survive.
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Peter Pace was quoted as saying homosexuality is immoral. That's been a big news story for the past two days. I just read a story in a blog I peruse regularly about some lesbian parties thrown during a time when this blogger was a young 2nd lieutenant. The lesbians intimidated a woman, who came to this guy, seeking his help. He tried to do something about it. Went up the chain of command. Nothing happened.
The behavior of the specific homosexuals about which the blogger wrote was, as far as I'm concerned, as immoral as it gets. The lack of leadership ( I'm not talking about him; he seems to have done all the right things ) was appalling. There's a disconnect here and now. Now we have a leader, The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, taking a stand on the general ( no pun intended ) " problem. " Yet I'm willing to bet, those specific cases,like the one the 2nd lieutenant had experience with, aren't being talked about and addressed.
( Shades of Building #18 on the Walter Reed campus? )
What's wrong here? What's worse? The behavior, potential and otherwise, of the homosexuals in the military? Or the lack of leadership among those higher up in the chain of command?I went to a military college and served four years in the Air Force. I shared barracks space with a lot of young guys in that time. Not once did I see, hear about or perceive any homosexual activity. Heterosexual activity on the other hand, sneaking young women into the barracks, etc. That's another story.
I'm talking years of experience eating, working, sleeping in a military environment. Odds are there were a lot of homosexuals eating, working and sleeping near me. Who among the military men I shared space were gay? I have no idea.This was in the late 1960s and early 1970s. If there were cadres of partying gay men and lesbians serving with me, I think I would have known about it. I think my superiors would have known about it, and done something about it. The lieutenant's story is an amazing one, and says much about the military culture of which he was a part.
Boys will be boys. Partying predatory lesbians will be partying lesbians. If leaders turn their backs on the responsibility of dealing with the bad apples. Pace spoke in general terms. I'm wondering: Is there more to this story than meets the eye?
The behavior of the specific homosexuals about which the blogger wrote was, as far as I'm concerned, as immoral as it gets. The lack of leadership ( I'm not talking about him; he seems to have done all the right things ) was appalling. There's a disconnect here and now. Now we have a leader, The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, taking a stand on the general ( no pun intended ) " problem. " Yet I'm willing to bet, those specific cases,like the one the 2nd lieutenant had experience with, aren't being talked about and addressed.
( Shades of Building #18 on the Walter Reed campus? )
What's wrong here? What's worse? The behavior, potential and otherwise, of the homosexuals in the military? Or the lack of leadership among those higher up in the chain of command?I went to a military college and served four years in the Air Force. I shared barracks space with a lot of young guys in that time. Not once did I see, hear about or perceive any homosexual activity. Heterosexual activity on the other hand, sneaking young women into the barracks, etc. That's another story.
I'm talking years of experience eating, working, sleeping in a military environment. Odds are there were a lot of homosexuals eating, working and sleeping near me. Who among the military men I shared space were gay? I have no idea.This was in the late 1960s and early 1970s. If there were cadres of partying gay men and lesbians serving with me, I think I would have known about it. I think my superiors would have known about it, and done something about it. The lieutenant's story is an amazing one, and says much about the military culture of which he was a part.
Boys will be boys. Partying predatory lesbians will be partying lesbians. If leaders turn their backs on the responsibility of dealing with the bad apples. Pace spoke in general terms. I'm wondering: Is there more to this story than meets the eye?
As I write this, my wife is on the phone with her 85 year old mother. Trying to explain how to fill out the brackets. Donna's mother is a little hard of hearing.
Donna: No, mom. It's Gonzaga, not Gonzales. GONZAGA. I know, it's a strange name for a college. I don't know where it is, somewhere in Washington I think.
WASHINGTON. No, the state, not the District of Columbia...
COLUMBIA
No, no. They're in the Ivy League. They're not going to be in this tournament. Why'd I bring them up?
You asked me where Gonzaga is. I think it's in Washington. Yes, Washington is playing in the tournament. And they could end up playing Washington State if they both win in the first round.
I know, mom. It's VERY confusing.
March Madness!!! I completed my brackets last night. This Gonzales that's been in the news. . I have them knocking off Indiana in Sacramento in the first round. I can't keep 'em all straight. As I was bracketeering, I was watching, who was it? Viagra. They were trailing EMU, but pulled ahead and won so they're in. Or he's in. Or is he out? I'll have to check the latest news.
Donna's right. It's confusing.
Donna: No, mom. It's Gonzaga, not Gonzales. GONZAGA. I know, it's a strange name for a college. I don't know where it is, somewhere in Washington I think.
WASHINGTON. No, the state, not the District of Columbia...
COLUMBIA
No, no. They're in the Ivy League. They're not going to be in this tournament. Why'd I bring them up?
You asked me where Gonzaga is. I think it's in Washington. Yes, Washington is playing in the tournament. And they could end up playing Washington State if they both win in the first round.
I know, mom. It's VERY confusing.
March Madness!!! I completed my brackets last night. This Gonzales that's been in the news. . I have them knocking off Indiana in Sacramento in the first round. I can't keep 'em all straight. As I was bracketeering, I was watching, who was it? Viagra. They were trailing EMU, but pulled ahead and won so they're in. Or he's in. Or is he out? I'll have to check the latest news.
Donna's right. It's confusing.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
YouTube - Peter Allen - I go to Rio
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Peter Pace said today that he had " Some problems with President Bush going to Rio and places like that. " Asked if he thought Bush's actions were immoral, Pace declined to comment. YouTube - Peter Allen - I go to Rio
General Pace just called. He wasn't crazy about that last post, the one where Divine sings " Walk Like a Man. " Screw him.
That's a figure of speech, General. Don't go branding this blog " Immoral. "
What is it with these guys? Pace, Gonzales. The top brass at Walter Reed. Scooter. I've heard them called The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. That's off target. This crew has trouble figuring out where the guns are at.
Take Pace for example. What was he thinking? There's a don't ask don't tell policy in the army. Because of that policy, there are probably a lot of gay troops serving in Iraq. What are they to make of Pace's comment? Some are probably on their second or third tours over there. Reading and hearing about the hypocracy over here. Hearing folks say, " I support the troops. " Yet not seeing any evidence of that. Now this. Being called " Immoral " by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "
It's yet another public relations nightmare on a long list of very bad dreams.
And this Gonzales thing. Chuck Schumer's calling for his resignation, so he can't be all bad. Firing nine U.S. Attorney's wasn't a terrible idea. Firing them all at the same time was.
Back in the early 1960s, J.F.K. thought long and hard about who he should name to the post of Attorney General. The name he came up with was his brother, Bobby. Attorneys General and U.S. Attorneys serve at the pleasure of the president. Schumer crying " Politics! " is absurd. The dance that's danced around these appointments is as political as it gets.
J.F.K. picked his own brother to be A.G. But he was smart enough not to name Ethel, Teddy, Peter Lawford and four or five of his first cousins to cabinet posts on the very same day.
Where the hell is that pistol?
That's a figure of speech, General. Don't go branding this blog " Immoral. "
What is it with these guys? Pace, Gonzales. The top brass at Walter Reed. Scooter. I've heard them called The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight. That's off target. This crew has trouble figuring out where the guns are at.
Take Pace for example. What was he thinking? There's a don't ask don't tell policy in the army. Because of that policy, there are probably a lot of gay troops serving in Iraq. What are they to make of Pace's comment? Some are probably on their second or third tours over there. Reading and hearing about the hypocracy over here. Hearing folks say, " I support the troops. " Yet not seeing any evidence of that. Now this. Being called " Immoral " by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "
It's yet another public relations nightmare on a long list of very bad dreams.
And this Gonzales thing. Chuck Schumer's calling for his resignation, so he can't be all bad. Firing nine U.S. Attorney's wasn't a terrible idea. Firing them all at the same time was.
Back in the early 1960s, J.F.K. thought long and hard about who he should name to the post of Attorney General. The name he came up with was his brother, Bobby. Attorneys General and U.S. Attorneys serve at the pleasure of the president. Schumer crying " Politics! " is absurd. The dance that's danced around these appointments is as political as it gets.
J.F.K. picked his own brother to be A.G. But he was smart enough not to name Ethel, Teddy, Peter Lawford and four or five of his first cousins to cabinet posts on the very same day.
Where the hell is that pistol?
Monday, March 12, 2007
YouTube - Divine: Walk Like A Man
This one goes out to...
Oh you know who you are...YouTube - Divine: Walk Like A Man
Oh you know who you are...YouTube - Divine: Walk Like A Man
Sympathy for the Bedeviled / `Backlash' author Susan Faludi finds the American man insecure, angry and, well, oppressed
The following is a review of a book that I found pretty interesting. I read it right after it hit the book stores in 1999. At that time I was still working as a counselor/human rights officer on a locked psychiatric unit at a hospital in western Massachusetts. Counselors on the unit were part of the hospital's nursing division. My supervisior was a woman. Nursing has changed dramatically, but it was long considered to be " Womens' work. "
I thought a lot about that when I was working on the unit, which was a very dangerous place to spend eight hours.
Prior to working on the unit I spent a lot of time in environments dominated by boys and men. I was into sports in high school. This was before Title IX. Sports was what guys were into. Played basketball, baseball, soccer and golf. Then I went off to college. An all male college. Next stop: The US Air Force. I ran into a few airwomen, but not many. This was a man's world, too. After discharge from the USAF, I went back to college and got a degree in English and Journalism. Landed a job after I graduated as a newspaper reporter. Sure, Lois Lane was a reporter, but for the most part the newsroom was like a mens locker room. Next stop: The thickly carpeted corridors of the advertising business. The president of the first ad agency I worked for was a 49 year old man. His number two in command was a guy, as was his number three. The art director was of the male persuasion. I was one of two copywriters. The other one was a guy...
You see where this is going...
All those roles I played, in all those male dominated places. None of them required of me to be brave or kind or in any way human. I may have been those things. But the role did not require that of me. It wasn't part of the job description.
There was this patient I worked with. His name was Rocky. Hell on wheels he was. Or, to be more precise - hell on wheelchair.
He'd been a boxer in his younger days, but his boxing days were over. His fighting days were not. Rocky was assigned to the treatment team of which I was a member. As the counselor on the team - which was made up of a psychiatrist, a nurse, a social worker and a counselor - I was the one who had to deal most directly and most often with Rocky.
Rocky's punches were verbal. His jabs were sarcastic, thick with venom. My thin Irish skin grew thicker as I worked with this guy. Helping him wasn't easy. He didn't want what I had to give. Rejected my efforts to pull and push him through the process of getting better, as that is defined on a locked psychiatric unit. There were times when I thought: This guy hates me.
And it took some doing not to jab back with that feeling.
But I knew, or thought I knew ( I knew nothing, and that was OK. Nobody knew anything. Everybody, the shrinks included made, at their best, educated guesses about what went down up there in the sick minds of the patients we " served. " )
One morning, after I'd brought him his breakfast, Rocky looked me in the eye and said, " Ya know, you act like a girl. "
My inclination was to avoid contact with his two squinty eyes ( and the rest of his wasted body.) Get out of the room and find someone else to help out. But I held my ground and took the punch.
What I could have said to Rocky, but didn't, has crossed my mind over the years since I knew him. What I could have said was:
At least I don't carry a diagnosis much more common in women than men. ( He was, according to the psychiatrists, a male borderline )
Or I could have said: At least I don't have stuffed animals all over my bed. ( Which he did )
I didn't say those things. I took the punch and walked out of the room. And, looking back on that day, I'll say this.
I think I took it like a man.
Sympathy for the Bedeviled / `Backlash' author Susan Faludi finds the American man insecure, angry and, well, oppressed
I thought a lot about that when I was working on the unit, which was a very dangerous place to spend eight hours.
Prior to working on the unit I spent a lot of time in environments dominated by boys and men. I was into sports in high school. This was before Title IX. Sports was what guys were into. Played basketball, baseball, soccer and golf. Then I went off to college. An all male college. Next stop: The US Air Force. I ran into a few airwomen, but not many. This was a man's world, too. After discharge from the USAF, I went back to college and got a degree in English and Journalism. Landed a job after I graduated as a newspaper reporter. Sure, Lois Lane was a reporter, but for the most part the newsroom was like a mens locker room. Next stop: The thickly carpeted corridors of the advertising business. The president of the first ad agency I worked for was a 49 year old man. His number two in command was a guy, as was his number three. The art director was of the male persuasion. I was one of two copywriters. The other one was a guy...
You see where this is going...
All those roles I played, in all those male dominated places. None of them required of me to be brave or kind or in any way human. I may have been those things. But the role did not require that of me. It wasn't part of the job description.
There was this patient I worked with. His name was Rocky. Hell on wheels he was. Or, to be more precise - hell on wheelchair.
He'd been a boxer in his younger days, but his boxing days were over. His fighting days were not. Rocky was assigned to the treatment team of which I was a member. As the counselor on the team - which was made up of a psychiatrist, a nurse, a social worker and a counselor - I was the one who had to deal most directly and most often with Rocky.
Rocky's punches were verbal. His jabs were sarcastic, thick with venom. My thin Irish skin grew thicker as I worked with this guy. Helping him wasn't easy. He didn't want what I had to give. Rejected my efforts to pull and push him through the process of getting better, as that is defined on a locked psychiatric unit. There were times when I thought: This guy hates me.
And it took some doing not to jab back with that feeling.
But I knew, or thought I knew ( I knew nothing, and that was OK. Nobody knew anything. Everybody, the shrinks included made, at their best, educated guesses about what went down up there in the sick minds of the patients we " served. " )
One morning, after I'd brought him his breakfast, Rocky looked me in the eye and said, " Ya know, you act like a girl. "
My inclination was to avoid contact with his two squinty eyes ( and the rest of his wasted body.) Get out of the room and find someone else to help out. But I held my ground and took the punch.
What I could have said to Rocky, but didn't, has crossed my mind over the years since I knew him. What I could have said was:
At least I don't carry a diagnosis much more common in women than men. ( He was, according to the psychiatrists, a male borderline )
Or I could have said: At least I don't have stuffed animals all over my bed. ( Which he did )
I didn't say those things. I took the punch and walked out of the room. And, looking back on that day, I'll say this.
I think I took it like a man.
Sympathy for the Bedeviled / `Backlash' author Susan Faludi finds the American man insecure, angry and, well, oppressed
Surveillance Officer
Under the supervision of the Surveillance Supervisor, the incumbent will perform surveillance of gaming tables, video machines, cages, and slot booth operations, and will conduct audio/visual taping of count room operations. High school diploma or GED required... The employee must possess a gaming license with surveillance endorsement and must occasionally lift and/or move up to fifty pounds.
Please send resume and salary requirements to: Mashantucket Tribal Nation
From Help Wanted ad
You land this job, bunky, the thing you're going to have to watch most is your step. Lifting and moving up to 50 pounds? Up there above the ceiling tiles, with all those wires and that equipment!
Hey, I'm the Surveillance Associate. I have a gaming license and a freakin' GED. Heavy lifting? Not my job, man. Not my job!
But that's after you get the job. First question to ask in the interview might be:
Uh, just curious but...
What would I be expected to, like move and, uh, ya know. Lift?
Under the supervision of the Surveillance Supervisor, the incumbent will perform surveillance of gaming tables, video machines, cages, and slot booth operations, and will conduct audio/visual taping of count room operations. High school diploma or GED required... The employee must possess a gaming license with surveillance endorsement and must occasionally lift and/or move up to fifty pounds.
Please send resume and salary requirements to: Mashantucket Tribal Nation
From Help Wanted ad
You land this job, bunky, the thing you're going to have to watch most is your step. Lifting and moving up to 50 pounds? Up there above the ceiling tiles, with all those wires and that equipment!
Hey, I'm the Surveillance Associate. I have a gaming license and a freakin' GED. Heavy lifting? Not my job, man. Not my job!
But that's after you get the job. First question to ask in the interview might be:
Uh, just curious but...
What would I be expected to, like move and, uh, ya know. Lift?
Only four percent of the universe is made up of the kind of matter that makes up you and me and all the planets and stars and galaxies. The rest - 96 percent - is unknown.
OK. I'll buy that. But I have a question, and yes, it has to do with the national pastime again. In which percentile does Red Sox left fielder Manny Ramirez fall?
Talk about March Madness. April through October Madness. Manny being Manny. Madness.
The Sox are playing the Yankees tonight. The Yankees left fielder is the Japanese superstar Hidecki Matsui. Matsui was out all last year with a broken wrist. Soon after he injured himself diving for a ball, he apologized to his teammates for letting them down. For not being there when they needed him.
Just Hidecki being Hidecki.
Speaking of March Madness. I'm in the process of doing the brackets. I'm not sure what the verb is. Bracketeering? There are so many team names on my mind right now. Sixty something. Hoyas. Blue Devils. Terrepins. Bruins. Vols. Fighting Irish. Wolverines. And can't keep them straight...
My head's spinning.
And I'm multi-tasking to boot. Watching the Red Sox play that other team. The one from New York. I can't think of their name. It'll come to me. When all this March Madness is over in April. When the real madness begins.
OK. I'll buy that. But I have a question, and yes, it has to do with the national pastime again. In which percentile does Red Sox left fielder Manny Ramirez fall?
Talk about March Madness. April through October Madness. Manny being Manny. Madness.
The Sox are playing the Yankees tonight. The Yankees left fielder is the Japanese superstar Hidecki Matsui. Matsui was out all last year with a broken wrist. Soon after he injured himself diving for a ball, he apologized to his teammates for letting them down. For not being there when they needed him.
Just Hidecki being Hidecki.
Speaking of March Madness. I'm in the process of doing the brackets. I'm not sure what the verb is. Bracketeering? There are so many team names on my mind right now. Sixty something. Hoyas. Blue Devils. Terrepins. Bruins. Vols. Fighting Irish. Wolverines. And can't keep them straight...
My head's spinning.
And I'm multi-tasking to boot. Watching the Red Sox play that other team. The one from New York. I can't think of their name. It'll come to me. When all this March Madness is over in April. When the real madness begins.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
There was a profile of comedian George Carlin in the Providence Journal today. I've been a fan of Carlin since I saw him perform live at a show at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio in 1968. I was 20 years old. Five weeks into basic training.
Carlin was 30 years old. He wore a gray suit and a conservative tie. His hair was short.
The next time I saw Carlin was on TV. I'd just been discharged from the Air Force. Carlin had changed. He had shoulder length hair, was wearing tight blue jeans and a T shirt. Sandals were on his feet.
This was 1972. Four years after I'd first seen him on that stage down in Texas. I couldn't believe the Kafkaesque metamorphosis. Last time I'd seen him he looked like an accountant.
What I saw reminded me of how the singer Bobby Darin had changed. The last time I saw him was on The Tonight Shoe. He was singing that Tim Hardin song, " If I were a Carpenter. " Darin had worn a toupee for years. Dressed in suits and ties and expensive Italian shoes. Now he was bald on top and what hair he had was tied in the back into a ponytail. He had a beard. wore cheap blue jeans and a cheap shirt. And sandals. This was sometime in the late 1960s, early 70s.
You hear " The 60s " and you might think folks are talking about the decade that started in 1960 and ended on New Year's Eve, 1969. Not true. The 60s started somewhere around 1966 and ended somewhere around the time the helicopters took off from Saigon.
The 60s wasn't about time. It was about attitude and change. It was about a cultural revolution started by JFK, who was shot and was reincarnated in the form of a British rock and roll group whose hair didn't make a lick of sense to folks who first saw them on the cover of Life Magazine. Swimming in the pool. The 60s was about style and it was about fun. The first place I asked directions for after I landed on British soil ( I was stationed on a base just north of London ) in 1969 was:
" How do I get to Carnaby Street? "
It's 2007. George Carlin is 70 years old. He's had three heart attacks and has been in rehab a few times ( For all the right reasons ). He's still funny as hell, smart as a whip and I love him.
Carlin. He's so fookin' Irish to the bone he is. Witty. Playful. In love with the language we speak.
Someone asked Carlin recently why he does what he does, and why he's been doing it for so long. Is his aim to make people laugh? Is his purpose to make people think?
Carlin says no. He says he does what he does because he likes the attention. Says he's like a sixth grade boy trying to prove he's smarter than the rest of the kids in the class. More cute than the rest of the bastards. I admire his honesty.
It's almost St.Patrick's Day. Hoist your glass, lads. Here's to George Carlin.
Carlin was 30 years old. He wore a gray suit and a conservative tie. His hair was short.
The next time I saw Carlin was on TV. I'd just been discharged from the Air Force. Carlin had changed. He had shoulder length hair, was wearing tight blue jeans and a T shirt. Sandals were on his feet.
This was 1972. Four years after I'd first seen him on that stage down in Texas. I couldn't believe the Kafkaesque metamorphosis. Last time I'd seen him he looked like an accountant.
What I saw reminded me of how the singer Bobby Darin had changed. The last time I saw him was on The Tonight Shoe. He was singing that Tim Hardin song, " If I were a Carpenter. " Darin had worn a toupee for years. Dressed in suits and ties and expensive Italian shoes. Now he was bald on top and what hair he had was tied in the back into a ponytail. He had a beard. wore cheap blue jeans and a cheap shirt. And sandals. This was sometime in the late 1960s, early 70s.
You hear " The 60s " and you might think folks are talking about the decade that started in 1960 and ended on New Year's Eve, 1969. Not true. The 60s started somewhere around 1966 and ended somewhere around the time the helicopters took off from Saigon.
The 60s wasn't about time. It was about attitude and change. It was about a cultural revolution started by JFK, who was shot and was reincarnated in the form of a British rock and roll group whose hair didn't make a lick of sense to folks who first saw them on the cover of Life Magazine. Swimming in the pool. The 60s was about style and it was about fun. The first place I asked directions for after I landed on British soil ( I was stationed on a base just north of London ) in 1969 was:
" How do I get to Carnaby Street? "
It's 2007. George Carlin is 70 years old. He's had three heart attacks and has been in rehab a few times ( For all the right reasons ). He's still funny as hell, smart as a whip and I love him.
Carlin. He's so fookin' Irish to the bone he is. Witty. Playful. In love with the language we speak.
Someone asked Carlin recently why he does what he does, and why he's been doing it for so long. Is his aim to make people laugh? Is his purpose to make people think?
Carlin says no. He says he does what he does because he likes the attention. Says he's like a sixth grade boy trying to prove he's smarter than the rest of the kids in the class. More cute than the rest of the bastards. I admire his honesty.
It's almost St.Patrick's Day. Hoist your glass, lads. Here's to George Carlin.
Just watched a post on Jake's blog. People ski jumping off a cliff, then parachuting down,down...
Got me thinking...
Well, let's see. What did I do today to get the old adrenaline going?
Jumped out of bed after drinking a ( Very strong ) cup of Joe. My wife brought it up to me, as I was reading a VERY HEAVY Norman Mailer novel. Put the book down, sipped the coffee. Had a brief conversation with my wife about a Winnebago we're thinking of buying.
Drove up ( The very dangerous I-95 ) through Providence. Dodged many, many cars driven by lunatics. Risky business? You bet. But we made it through Providence OK. We were on our way to Lexington, Mass. , where I guy named " Swifty " was offering his camper for sale. I am not making that up. His name is " Swifty. " Talk about risk taking behavior.
Driving 90 miles on I-95 ( Which turns into RT 128, which is even MORE dangerous than I-95 ) To look at a Winnebago pushed by a guy name of " Swifty. "Long comment short. We met Swifty. Checked out the camper. Liked it. We're considering buying it.
Drove back home and watched the Sox play Baltimore. In a few minutes we're going to watch the NCAA picks for The Big Dance, the basketball tournament that determines the national champion.I'm bushed. It's been a long, exhausting, adrenaline rush of a Sunday. Whew!Then I watched that video you posted today. My question is this: How'd those guys get to the top of that mountain? They all piled into a Winnebago's my guess. But I'll bet they didn't buy it from a guy name of Swifty.
Got me thinking...
Well, let's see. What did I do today to get the old adrenaline going?
Jumped out of bed after drinking a ( Very strong ) cup of Joe. My wife brought it up to me, as I was reading a VERY HEAVY Norman Mailer novel. Put the book down, sipped the coffee. Had a brief conversation with my wife about a Winnebago we're thinking of buying.
Drove up ( The very dangerous I-95 ) through Providence. Dodged many, many cars driven by lunatics. Risky business? You bet. But we made it through Providence OK. We were on our way to Lexington, Mass. , where I guy named " Swifty " was offering his camper for sale. I am not making that up. His name is " Swifty. " Talk about risk taking behavior.
Driving 90 miles on I-95 ( Which turns into RT 128, which is even MORE dangerous than I-95 ) To look at a Winnebago pushed by a guy name of " Swifty. "Long comment short. We met Swifty. Checked out the camper. Liked it. We're considering buying it.
Drove back home and watched the Sox play Baltimore. In a few minutes we're going to watch the NCAA picks for The Big Dance, the basketball tournament that determines the national champion.I'm bushed. It's been a long, exhausting, adrenaline rush of a Sunday. Whew!Then I watched that video you posted today. My question is this: How'd those guys get to the top of that mountain? They all piled into a Winnebago's my guess. But I'll bet they didn't buy it from a guy name of Swifty.
In response to Anonymous's comment on the previous post:
Ernest Goes to Camp is, indeed, in the running for best screenplay. Written by David Mamet, with help from Pete Dexter, the script was thick with memorable lines. Some of which I share with you here:
Forget it Ernest, it's Allentown.
Here's looking at you, stupid.
Of all the bowling alleys in all the world, you had to walk into this one.
We'll always have Dayton.
And, of course, the classic:
Fasten your seatbelts, it's gonna be a bbbbump bump bumpy ride in this pick-up.
Ernest Goes to Camp is, indeed, in the running for best screenplay. Written by David Mamet, with help from Pete Dexter, the script was thick with memorable lines. Some of which I share with you here:
Forget it Ernest, it's Allentown.
Here's looking at you, stupid.
Of all the bowling alleys in all the world, you had to walk into this one.
We'll always have Dayton.
And, of course, the classic:
Fasten your seatbelts, it's gonna be a bbbbump bump bumpy ride in this pick-up.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
The website Technorati indexes blogs. There are untold millions of blogs out there in the sphere. Thousands added each day. Most of them are probably pretty Godawful. I am a faithful reader of some.
There's this guy who lives south of the Mason-Dixon line who calls himself Jake. Like Jake in the film some say boasted the second best screenplay in Hollywood history.
Chinatown.
" Forget it Jake. It's Chinatown. " That's the line that appears above what Jake writes in his blog. It's a great line. Rivals some of those written in what's considered by many to be the best screenplay ever: The one for Casablanca.
You want an intelligent take on what's going down in this world, read Jake's Spyral Notebook.
Another blog I read regularly is Terry Cowgill's. Terry's an editor of a daily paper up in western Connecticut. Western Connecticut, where when ya go to the convenience store to grab a plastic bottle of 2% milk off the shelf, and a loaf of rye bread - you're likely to have standing in line behind you someone like Norman Mailer, Arthur Miller, Bill Styron. Sure, some of the writers you run into will have a ghostly form. And Mailer hasn't lived out that way in years...
But you know what I'm getting at. The western hills of Connecticut are alive with the sounds of the voices of literary giants...
Terry's blog's a damn good one. An eclectic mix of local, national, worldly and cosmic musings and comments. Checking in with his blog is like dropping into a tavern, or ambling onto the town green. You'll be in good company there.
Colin McEnroe's blog. What can ya say about that one? I've been reading and listening to McEnroe since the days when I was a creative director for an ad agency in Hartford. He was a columnist for the Hartford Courant. Wrote three columns a week for that paper. How hard is that? You try writing 750 words, three times a week. 750 words that'll hold the attention of thousands of readers. Inform them and keep them amused. Three times a fookin' week. 750 words.
Blogs. There's a lot of them out there. Most of them bad. Some of them good. Others...
Terrific.
There's this guy who lives south of the Mason-Dixon line who calls himself Jake. Like Jake in the film some say boasted the second best screenplay in Hollywood history.
Chinatown.
" Forget it Jake. It's Chinatown. " That's the line that appears above what Jake writes in his blog. It's a great line. Rivals some of those written in what's considered by many to be the best screenplay ever: The one for Casablanca.
You want an intelligent take on what's going down in this world, read Jake's Spyral Notebook.
Another blog I read regularly is Terry Cowgill's. Terry's an editor of a daily paper up in western Connecticut. Western Connecticut, where when ya go to the convenience store to grab a plastic bottle of 2% milk off the shelf, and a loaf of rye bread - you're likely to have standing in line behind you someone like Norman Mailer, Arthur Miller, Bill Styron. Sure, some of the writers you run into will have a ghostly form. And Mailer hasn't lived out that way in years...
But you know what I'm getting at. The western hills of Connecticut are alive with the sounds of the voices of literary giants...
Terry's blog's a damn good one. An eclectic mix of local, national, worldly and cosmic musings and comments. Checking in with his blog is like dropping into a tavern, or ambling onto the town green. You'll be in good company there.
Colin McEnroe's blog. What can ya say about that one? I've been reading and listening to McEnroe since the days when I was a creative director for an ad agency in Hartford. He was a columnist for the Hartford Courant. Wrote three columns a week for that paper. How hard is that? You try writing 750 words, three times a week. 750 words that'll hold the attention of thousands of readers. Inform them and keep them amused. Three times a fookin' week. 750 words.
Blogs. There's a lot of them out there. Most of them bad. Some of them good. Others...
Terrific.
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