The US Open begins today. Annually I attend the event with some high school friends. I recall when I first went, some twenty years ago, my dad asked me afterwards if I had seen Sampras play. I told him that every single one of the players looked like Sampras.
This year the Ashe stadium will have a roof. This will be interesting. The way the Open works (or has worked) for spectators is that one buys a ticket and can attend any event on any of the seventeen or so courts in the complex. At some courts you are within a few feet of the contestants. In the larger arenas, except for Ashe, you might be a bit away but still within a few yards. Your ticket comes with a specific assigned seat for the Ashe. And, unless you are loaded, that seat is a very long way from the action. For this reason while we typically go into the Ashe stadium for a short time, we don't stay there. This year will be different particularly if it rains. There used to be a policy that if there was a rainout one could get a refund. Now, given the roof, my guess is that even if all the other courts are rained on, you can park yourself in the Ashe all day and watch the day matches.
One year one of my friend's clients invited us to a VIP section of the stadium. This was quite nice. We were within a few feet of Billy Jean King and some other notables whose names, at this writing, I cannot recall. (Only remember that at the time I knew that some of those were ex-players).
The experience for the fan has changed a bit over the years. At some point the Open decided to sell many more tickets than they had previously. We get ours in April or May, but you can see people lining up for grounds passes on lines that stretch about fifty yards. The result is that the venue is crowded. In the early days it was easy to hop from one match to another. Now to do so means relinquishing a seat at one site when you don't know how long it will take you to get to another.
Not always, but nearly always, I bump into someone in New York who had been a tennis friend of mine at my club in Boston. The chatter among tennis players can be distilled as oohing and aahing about the professionals we've watched. Almost all of the spectators look like they pick up a racquet now and again, wearing duds that are after tennis garb.
Bring a sandwich if you go unless you want to take out a loan to grab a bite. A bottle of water can run between 5 and 10 dollars, a soda about the same. Sandwiches that are not particularly hefty can set you back close to 20. The price of a ticket has gone up dramatically in the last two decades.
Still it is an experience live that is far different than the experience on tv. I'm involved with some colleagues now examining sounds of sport and how that affects the viewing experience. Now that I have this project in mind, I think I will have even greater appreciation of the value of attending a sporting event live--as opposed to watching the games at home.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Sunday, August 28, 2016
What Alice Forgot
What Alice Forgot is a novel by Liane Moriarty. It had been recommended to me somehow--either a friend had suggested it or I'd read a review that did. I recall buying it on Amazon and beginning it about a year ago. The first few pages then did not grab me and I put it down. Earlier this summer I spotted it on my bookshelf. When I was in between reads recently, I tried it again.
I'm not sure what the acclaim is about. This is the kind of book that makes me wonder how it made its way past the many submissions a publisher rejects. It is not especially well written, has a plot line that is Rip Van Winkle-ish, so not particularly original. Also there are subplots that are not especially profound or even relevant to the story.
A woman, Alice, falls down in her gym in 2008 and temporarily loses consciousness. When she regains consciousness she thinks it is 1998. She thinks she is pregnant with her first child. She also thinks she is still married and in love with Nick--her husband--when in fact she and he are in the midst of a difficult divorce and custody battle for their three children. Alice has forgotten that her relationship with her sister is strained and that she has made friends with some, enemies of others, and is dating her daughter's school principal.
The entire book is about this loss of memory and how the 1998 Alice navigates 2008 with no memory of the prior ten years. The subplots involve her sister's struggle to become pregnant and Alice's sort of grandmother. (She is sort of a grandmother because when Alice's father died suddenly a neighbor became like a mother to Alice's mother.) The grandmother writes love letters to an absent Phil and these are interspersed throughout the novel.
This synopsis does not give away much. If one is inclined to enjoy a story with this frame, then you might want to read the book. I did not find it particularly rewarding, enjoyable, or original.
I'm not sure what the acclaim is about. This is the kind of book that makes me wonder how it made its way past the many submissions a publisher rejects. It is not especially well written, has a plot line that is Rip Van Winkle-ish, so not particularly original. Also there are subplots that are not especially profound or even relevant to the story.
A woman, Alice, falls down in her gym in 2008 and temporarily loses consciousness. When she regains consciousness she thinks it is 1998. She thinks she is pregnant with her first child. She also thinks she is still married and in love with Nick--her husband--when in fact she and he are in the midst of a difficult divorce and custody battle for their three children. Alice has forgotten that her relationship with her sister is strained and that she has made friends with some, enemies of others, and is dating her daughter's school principal.
The entire book is about this loss of memory and how the 1998 Alice navigates 2008 with no memory of the prior ten years. The subplots involve her sister's struggle to become pregnant and Alice's sort of grandmother. (She is sort of a grandmother because when Alice's father died suddenly a neighbor became like a mother to Alice's mother.) The grandmother writes love letters to an absent Phil and these are interspersed throughout the novel.
This synopsis does not give away much. If one is inclined to enjoy a story with this frame, then you might want to read the book. I did not find it particularly rewarding, enjoyable, or original.
haircut
I needed a haircut yesterday. There is a woman who has been doing my hair now for about fifteen years. She works at a chain franchise and has been at the same spot in, nearly always, the same chair since Bush the younger's administration, maybe even Clinton's.
She is a very popular hair cutter. I wonder if it is difficult for her co workers because often I go in there and the others are twiddling their thumbs while three or four hirsute customers are waiting for May. Yesterday was such a day. I got there at 1230 and my hair did not start cascading down the shmata they put over me until nearly 130.
Towards the end of my wait time a couple came into the shop with their adolescent son. I'd put the kid at around 17, but he could have been a year or two older or younger. It did not seem as if the dad or mom could speak. They signed when they interacted. The boy was not paying attention and was difficult to control. At one point the kid got up out of a chair and started walking around the shop. This couple and their son must have come in at other times because the workers did not appear to be alarmed at how the young man meandered through the store as if he was the difficult child of the owner whose parent had given up disciplining him.
Soon it became apparent that the boy was not simply mischievous. My unprofessional diagnosis was that he was a young Rain Man, an autistic youngster. He did not speak but neither did his parents, so it took a few moments to realize that the kid was not responding normally.
These people were not waiting for May. I was in her chair being shorn when the parents attempted to corral their youngster so that he could sit in someone else's chair. They could not do it. They started yanking the boy out of one chair to get him into another. The kid was very close by and I thought the situation could be dangerous if in the course of the tugging the kid bolted into May while she was using her scissors.
That did not happen, but I noticed when they finally got the boy into a chair that he would not sit still for the haircut. The woman doing the cutting was remarkably patient waiting for the kid to stop for a few seconds so she could snip. When I went to the register to pay, I saw that the father now was sitting in the chair with his arms around the boy like a straitjacket holding him down on his lap so the barber could do her work. It was like cutting a moving target.
At one point the we heard a loud smash as the kid had knocked away a mirror being held by someone--I think the mother. I don't know how the haircut ended for him. He was still being held down in the chair when I exited.
It had been a troubling week for me. Nothing insurmountable, just some foul matters taking up space in my head. It should put things in perspective to imagine the hour by hour challenges of the parents of the young boy as well as the--to us-- incomprehensible world of the boy himself. He and they would trade their lot with many of us. I imagine there is love in their family like there is in many families, but the turbulence of every day must create obstacles that block their journey in ways we cannot imagine.
She is a very popular hair cutter. I wonder if it is difficult for her co workers because often I go in there and the others are twiddling their thumbs while three or four hirsute customers are waiting for May. Yesterday was such a day. I got there at 1230 and my hair did not start cascading down the shmata they put over me until nearly 130.
Towards the end of my wait time a couple came into the shop with their adolescent son. I'd put the kid at around 17, but he could have been a year or two older or younger. It did not seem as if the dad or mom could speak. They signed when they interacted. The boy was not paying attention and was difficult to control. At one point the kid got up out of a chair and started walking around the shop. This couple and their son must have come in at other times because the workers did not appear to be alarmed at how the young man meandered through the store as if he was the difficult child of the owner whose parent had given up disciplining him.
Soon it became apparent that the boy was not simply mischievous. My unprofessional diagnosis was that he was a young Rain Man, an autistic youngster. He did not speak but neither did his parents, so it took a few moments to realize that the kid was not responding normally.
These people were not waiting for May. I was in her chair being shorn when the parents attempted to corral their youngster so that he could sit in someone else's chair. They could not do it. They started yanking the boy out of one chair to get him into another. The kid was very close by and I thought the situation could be dangerous if in the course of the tugging the kid bolted into May while she was using her scissors.
That did not happen, but I noticed when they finally got the boy into a chair that he would not sit still for the haircut. The woman doing the cutting was remarkably patient waiting for the kid to stop for a few seconds so she could snip. When I went to the register to pay, I saw that the father now was sitting in the chair with his arms around the boy like a straitjacket holding him down on his lap so the barber could do her work. It was like cutting a moving target.
At one point the we heard a loud smash as the kid had knocked away a mirror being held by someone--I think the mother. I don't know how the haircut ended for him. He was still being held down in the chair when I exited.
It had been a troubling week for me. Nothing insurmountable, just some foul matters taking up space in my head. It should put things in perspective to imagine the hour by hour challenges of the parents of the young boy as well as the--to us-- incomprehensible world of the boy himself. He and they would trade their lot with many of us. I imagine there is love in their family like there is in many families, but the turbulence of every day must create obstacles that block their journey in ways we cannot imagine.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Jimmy and Tom
I had a college roommate once who opined succinctly about the meaningfulness of preseason football games. "They don't mean excrement" he said--or something like that.
Well, he is right. In terms of wins and losses, that the Patriots are 3-0 in preseason is an absolutely meaningless stat. Also, how players--particularly veterans--run, block, and tackle, in preseason is not significant. How veterans perform in the regular season will reflect an energy, preparation, and attitude that is not present in the preseason.
So, not to make a whole lot of Jimmy Garropolo's preseason performance. He has, in my opinion, stunk up the joint in all three games. Garropolo has come to be an important figure in New England because with Tom Brady's unfounded four game suspension, Garropolo has become the starting quarterback for the most successful football franchise of the last decade.
During the regular season in the years when he was a backup, Garropolo did not play a meaningful minute. He would come in when the game was a slaughter or out of reach just to park his knee on the turf in order to run out the clock. This year when the season begins in Arizona on September 11th Garropolo will be the starting quarterback in a nationally televised night game.
Jimmy has started all three of the preseason games. Last night, Brady came in at the end of the first quarter and played for much of the remainder of the first half. Garropolo completed his first pass and then was a notch below ordinary all other times he appeared. And the difference between Brady and Garropolo had little to do with passing skill or even choosing the correct receiver. The difference was in reading the defense before the ball was put in play and making adjustments.
Brady saw what the defense was giving him and made decisions accordingly. Garropolo to date has not shown that he can do that. This ability, this quarterback intelligence, to come to the line of scrimmage see what is what and adjust accordingly is really what separates the great players from the ones who have talent but never excel.
Brady can not throw nearly as well as some of his contemporaries. In a pure passing drill with say Drew Bledsoe his predecessor on the Patriots, Bledsoe would be far more impressive. He could throw darts for forty yards. My guess is that Jimmy Garropolo has as good an arm as Brady.
My college roommate's wisdom is indeed wise. The preseason is not a predictor of the regular season. It would not surprise me if Garropolo could lead the Patriots to a 4-0 record before Brady's return. It would not even surprise me that the Patriots success under Jimmy may cause some murmurings about handing over the ball permanently to the apprentice. However, unless Jimmy can prove he can read and adjust to defenses, the disparity between the two players will remain the great and significant divide.
Well, he is right. In terms of wins and losses, that the Patriots are 3-0 in preseason is an absolutely meaningless stat. Also, how players--particularly veterans--run, block, and tackle, in preseason is not significant. How veterans perform in the regular season will reflect an energy, preparation, and attitude that is not present in the preseason.
So, not to make a whole lot of Jimmy Garropolo's preseason performance. He has, in my opinion, stunk up the joint in all three games. Garropolo has come to be an important figure in New England because with Tom Brady's unfounded four game suspension, Garropolo has become the starting quarterback for the most successful football franchise of the last decade.
During the regular season in the years when he was a backup, Garropolo did not play a meaningful minute. He would come in when the game was a slaughter or out of reach just to park his knee on the turf in order to run out the clock. This year when the season begins in Arizona on September 11th Garropolo will be the starting quarterback in a nationally televised night game.
Jimmy has started all three of the preseason games. Last night, Brady came in at the end of the first quarter and played for much of the remainder of the first half. Garropolo completed his first pass and then was a notch below ordinary all other times he appeared. And the difference between Brady and Garropolo had little to do with passing skill or even choosing the correct receiver. The difference was in reading the defense before the ball was put in play and making adjustments.
Brady saw what the defense was giving him and made decisions accordingly. Garropolo to date has not shown that he can do that. This ability, this quarterback intelligence, to come to the line of scrimmage see what is what and adjust accordingly is really what separates the great players from the ones who have talent but never excel.
Brady can not throw nearly as well as some of his contemporaries. In a pure passing drill with say Drew Bledsoe his predecessor on the Patriots, Bledsoe would be far more impressive. He could throw darts for forty yards. My guess is that Jimmy Garropolo has as good an arm as Brady.
My college roommate's wisdom is indeed wise. The preseason is not a predictor of the regular season. It would not surprise me if Garropolo could lead the Patriots to a 4-0 record before Brady's return. It would not even surprise me that the Patriots success under Jimmy may cause some murmurings about handing over the ball permanently to the apprentice. However, unless Jimmy can prove he can read and adjust to defenses, the disparity between the two players will remain the great and significant divide.
Friday, August 19, 2016
One Good Turn
One Good Turn is the second novel in Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie series. I had read the fourth one first, and then the first one second. Now I've finished the second one read third.
I don't recommend this haphazard approach. These are books that should be read in sequence. In this second one, Brodie's romantic interest is a woman he met in the first novel who was central to one of the crimes he was investigating. There are references in this second book to other characters in the first that you would miss if you had not read the initial story. Also, I realized towards the end of this one that an allusion I vaguely recall from the fourth novel is based on events in this one.
So if you are going to read these I suggest reading them in order. And if you like to read, I suggest you read them. This, One Good Turn, is not as good as the preceding book, Case Histories. Still it is well written. You have to pay attention right from the start because events that seem peripheral are often not, and events that you think occur in the order she reveals them may not be. There is a surprise ending in this one that caught me off guard. Not worth reading the book for this reason alone, but still it was one of several positive aspects of the book.
If you want to know nothing about the story skip to the next paragraphs. In this one, an automobile accident precipitates a series of events that involve a real estate king, his spouse, a policewoman, her kid, a detective writer, a cleaning company that doubles as an escort service, a lunatic bat swinging body guard, and of course Jackson Brodie. Brodie coincidentally is present at the time of the accident as is the spouse of the real estate tycoon, the son of the policewoman, and the detective writer.
I feel when I read books by Atkinson as if I am boarding a roller coaster when I open the novel. The ride is wild and mostly enjoyable. You have to keep going back to read sections when a clue implicates a character that appeared 50 pages previously. But it really does force the reader to pay attention.
An indication of how good she is as a writer is that before I finished One Good Turn I went on Amazon and bought the next book in the series, When Will There Be Good News.
I don't recommend this haphazard approach. These are books that should be read in sequence. In this second one, Brodie's romantic interest is a woman he met in the first novel who was central to one of the crimes he was investigating. There are references in this second book to other characters in the first that you would miss if you had not read the initial story. Also, I realized towards the end of this one that an allusion I vaguely recall from the fourth novel is based on events in this one.
So if you are going to read these I suggest reading them in order. And if you like to read, I suggest you read them. This, One Good Turn, is not as good as the preceding book, Case Histories. Still it is well written. You have to pay attention right from the start because events that seem peripheral are often not, and events that you think occur in the order she reveals them may not be. There is a surprise ending in this one that caught me off guard. Not worth reading the book for this reason alone, but still it was one of several positive aspects of the book.
If you want to know nothing about the story skip to the next paragraphs. In this one, an automobile accident precipitates a series of events that involve a real estate king, his spouse, a policewoman, her kid, a detective writer, a cleaning company that doubles as an escort service, a lunatic bat swinging body guard, and of course Jackson Brodie. Brodie coincidentally is present at the time of the accident as is the spouse of the real estate tycoon, the son of the policewoman, and the detective writer.
I feel when I read books by Atkinson as if I am boarding a roller coaster when I open the novel. The ride is wild and mostly enjoyable. You have to keep going back to read sections when a clue implicates a character that appeared 50 pages previously. But it really does force the reader to pay attention.
An indication of how good she is as a writer is that before I finished One Good Turn I went on Amazon and bought the next book in the series, When Will There Be Good News.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Jack's Slacks
I'm wearing a sports jacket on this summery August day. Typically I wear one to work--often just to have a place to put my keys and glasses and wallet and phone. When I get in to the office I hang the jacket up on a hook by my door.
So, in the summer--more often than not--my jacket is not on my back but on a hook.
I just returned from a meeting. The meeting, I thought, was from 1-230. When I arrived there was not a soul in the joint. This is because the meeting is actually from 130-3. So, I returned across the campus took off my jacket, hung it up, and saw that the label inside reads Jack's Slacks.
This, therefore--whether I realized it or not when I plucked it from the closet today--is one of my dad's jackets that I had tailored after he passed. Across the shoulders and arms, he and I were about the same. But Dad was broader than I south of the chest, muscular, but a wider girth. So, I took it in to a tailor and zip zip the jacket looks like it was made for me. How it fits, though, is beside the point.
Jack's Slacks. I thought the name of the store was not quite that, but that must be it.
We read often about how it is important to chase your dreams. You want to be a lawyer, well go for it. Want to be a senator, work at it. Etc. I remember Jack's Slacks.
About a quarter mile from where we lived in suburban New York, there was a small strip mall. It is where I was sent to get various items when, at the last minute, my mother realized we needed something. In her younger years it was where she sent me--in a panic often--for a pack of cigarettes. In the mall there was a pharmacy, a barber shop, a--what was called then--beauty parlor, an overpriced according to my mother grocery store, a--what was called then-candy store, a hardware store, a very overpriced deli which we only went to in desperation because it was always open, a bakery, and a bar that my father never went into except to pick up a pizza in thirty years living within an easy stroll of the joint.
At one point the hardware store went out of business. Shortly thereafter a small clothing shop opened there. Jack's.
I went into Jack's a couple of times. Jack was always there. Always cheery. Never real pushy but helpful with any inquiries. I got the sense--and maybe it is because he told me--that this was his dream; to open up a clothing store. He had been--and again I think he mentioned this to me when I was in there once-that he had been a public servant of some type, maybe a teacher--and had decided that look there is only one life to live, his dream was to own a clothing store, and he went for it.
Thing is, while the merchandise was fine, I don't think I ever was in there when there was more than one other customer. Often when I went in, I was there alone. It was Jack, his supportive but increasingly glum looking wife, and me.
At one point I went back home to visit and Jack's was no longer there. I don't know what happened. Maybe he hit the lottery, or moved to another location, or just retired. But that is not my sense. My sense was that after giving it a real go, he realized he was not able to stay afloat. And he had to go on and get another source of income.
All this is conjecture. He might have made a fortune and the times that I visited were just aberrations. Yet, seeing the label in the jacket today made me think that Jack's dream of Jack's turned out to be a deflating and devastating nightmare.
I do think you have to go after your dreams. My sense is that you are better off when you do so even if you do not realize your dreams. But I do believe there are times like Jack's when a life can become punctured perhaps irreparably when the dreams do not work out.
So, in the summer--more often than not--my jacket is not on my back but on a hook.
I just returned from a meeting. The meeting, I thought, was from 1-230. When I arrived there was not a soul in the joint. This is because the meeting is actually from 130-3. So, I returned across the campus took off my jacket, hung it up, and saw that the label inside reads Jack's Slacks.
This, therefore--whether I realized it or not when I plucked it from the closet today--is one of my dad's jackets that I had tailored after he passed. Across the shoulders and arms, he and I were about the same. But Dad was broader than I south of the chest, muscular, but a wider girth. So, I took it in to a tailor and zip zip the jacket looks like it was made for me. How it fits, though, is beside the point.
Jack's Slacks. I thought the name of the store was not quite that, but that must be it.
We read often about how it is important to chase your dreams. You want to be a lawyer, well go for it. Want to be a senator, work at it. Etc. I remember Jack's Slacks.
About a quarter mile from where we lived in suburban New York, there was a small strip mall. It is where I was sent to get various items when, at the last minute, my mother realized we needed something. In her younger years it was where she sent me--in a panic often--for a pack of cigarettes. In the mall there was a pharmacy, a barber shop, a--what was called then--beauty parlor, an overpriced according to my mother grocery store, a--what was called then-candy store, a hardware store, a very overpriced deli which we only went to in desperation because it was always open, a bakery, and a bar that my father never went into except to pick up a pizza in thirty years living within an easy stroll of the joint.
At one point the hardware store went out of business. Shortly thereafter a small clothing shop opened there. Jack's.
I went into Jack's a couple of times. Jack was always there. Always cheery. Never real pushy but helpful with any inquiries. I got the sense--and maybe it is because he told me--that this was his dream; to open up a clothing store. He had been--and again I think he mentioned this to me when I was in there once-that he had been a public servant of some type, maybe a teacher--and had decided that look there is only one life to live, his dream was to own a clothing store, and he went for it.
Thing is, while the merchandise was fine, I don't think I ever was in there when there was more than one other customer. Often when I went in, I was there alone. It was Jack, his supportive but increasingly glum looking wife, and me.
At one point I went back home to visit and Jack's was no longer there. I don't know what happened. Maybe he hit the lottery, or moved to another location, or just retired. But that is not my sense. My sense was that after giving it a real go, he realized he was not able to stay afloat. And he had to go on and get another source of income.
All this is conjecture. He might have made a fortune and the times that I visited were just aberrations. Yet, seeing the label in the jacket today made me think that Jack's dream of Jack's turned out to be a deflating and devastating nightmare.
I do think you have to go after your dreams. My sense is that you are better off when you do so even if you do not realize your dreams. But I do believe there are times like Jack's when a life can become punctured perhaps irreparably when the dreams do not work out.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Suicide Notes
After Ted Cruz failed to endorse Donald Trump at the RNC in Cleveland, pundits commented that he had written--with his speech--nothing more than a long suicide note.
I don't agree.
I don't agree with Cruz on nearly everything except his stance on Israel which would have made my mother-the most staunch supporter of Israel there could be-nod in agreement. Middle East aside though, Cruz's position on the Affordable Health Care Act, Planned Parenthood, Abortion, the Department of Education, the fakakta Tea Party--accrue and create an abomination.
However, Cruz gets cudos for not having endorsed Trump. What is more, I think in the long run he will get cudos from Conservatives and whatever becomes of the Republican party.
As we watch the Republicans squirm deciding about whether to endorse Trump, I am reminded of Robert Bork.
If you are of my vintage you may remember the Saturday Night Massacre in 1974. This was when Richard Nixon decided to fire Archibald Cox the Special Watergate prosecutor. Cox had been hired and told he would have free rein to explore Watergate and expose the truth. When Cox started to get close to the truth that would have (and eventually did) implicate Nixon, the president decided to axe the person who had been told his investigation would not be restricted.
So Nixon told Elliot Richardson, the then attorney general of the United States--and a Republican--to fire Cox. Cox reported to Richardson. Richardson refused to fire Cox. He said he could not fire a person who was, after all, doing the job he had been hired to do. This left the job of firing Cox to William Ruckelshaus, Richardson's number 2. Ruckelshaus also refused to fire Cox for the same reason.
Next in line Was Robert Bork. Bork said he could fire Cox and did.
How does Bork's decision relate to Trump and Cruz? Years after the Saturday Night Massacre Bork was nominated to be a Supreme Court Justice. His credentials were no worse than others who have been endorsed by the Senate. Yet Bork did not get Senate approval. Whatever reasons that were cited were not the real reasons for the lack of support. People remembered what had happened on the Saturday Night Massacre.
And people will remember who stood up to Donald Trump. The litany of offensive things he has done/said is jaw dropping if only for the sheer numbers of them. And there is the stunning offensive nature of individual comments. Building a wall. Disparaging Muslims. Mocking the handicapped. Deriding Megyn Kelly as he did. Comments about the Hoosier judge not being dispassionate because of heritage. Etc.
I think the people who are writing suicide notes in 2016 are not the Cruzes and other Republicans who have stood up to Trump. I think the Boehners and Ryans--not the Cruzes--will be forever tarnished because they decided to endorse someone so clearly unfit to lead the country.
I don't agree.
I don't agree with Cruz on nearly everything except his stance on Israel which would have made my mother-the most staunch supporter of Israel there could be-nod in agreement. Middle East aside though, Cruz's position on the Affordable Health Care Act, Planned Parenthood, Abortion, the Department of Education, the fakakta Tea Party--accrue and create an abomination.
However, Cruz gets cudos for not having endorsed Trump. What is more, I think in the long run he will get cudos from Conservatives and whatever becomes of the Republican party.
As we watch the Republicans squirm deciding about whether to endorse Trump, I am reminded of Robert Bork.
If you are of my vintage you may remember the Saturday Night Massacre in 1974. This was when Richard Nixon decided to fire Archibald Cox the Special Watergate prosecutor. Cox had been hired and told he would have free rein to explore Watergate and expose the truth. When Cox started to get close to the truth that would have (and eventually did) implicate Nixon, the president decided to axe the person who had been told his investigation would not be restricted.
So Nixon told Elliot Richardson, the then attorney general of the United States--and a Republican--to fire Cox. Cox reported to Richardson. Richardson refused to fire Cox. He said he could not fire a person who was, after all, doing the job he had been hired to do. This left the job of firing Cox to William Ruckelshaus, Richardson's number 2. Ruckelshaus also refused to fire Cox for the same reason.
Next in line Was Robert Bork. Bork said he could fire Cox and did.
How does Bork's decision relate to Trump and Cruz? Years after the Saturday Night Massacre Bork was nominated to be a Supreme Court Justice. His credentials were no worse than others who have been endorsed by the Senate. Yet Bork did not get Senate approval. Whatever reasons that were cited were not the real reasons for the lack of support. People remembered what had happened on the Saturday Night Massacre.
And people will remember who stood up to Donald Trump. The litany of offensive things he has done/said is jaw dropping if only for the sheer numbers of them. And there is the stunning offensive nature of individual comments. Building a wall. Disparaging Muslims. Mocking the handicapped. Deriding Megyn Kelly as he did. Comments about the Hoosier judge not being dispassionate because of heritage. Etc.
I think the people who are writing suicide notes in 2016 are not the Cruzes and other Republicans who have stood up to Trump. I think the Boehners and Ryans--not the Cruzes--will be forever tarnished because they decided to endorse someone so clearly unfit to lead the country.
Crow Lake
Crow Lake by Mary Larson is a good book that, for me, has gotten even richer in the day since I completed it. Much of yesterday I found myself thinking about the story and its message. After I finished, I read that the book has been translated into many languages. I'm not surprised.
The plot is not extraordinary as novels go. Four children become orphans when an automobile accident takes their parents' lives. There are two older boys in their late teens, and two young girls--one about 7 and the other not much more than a baby. The family lives in rural Ontario a long day's drive from Toronto.
The book is told from the vantage point of the elder daughter. She recalls the year after their parents' death and intersperses the narrative with sections about her current job as an academic and her relationship with another professor, Daniel. Throughout the novel Kate, the 7 year old, emphasizes how devastating the year after the accident was particularly for Matt, the younger of her two older brothers. Matt--whom we are told, she adores--something happened to Matt as a result of the tragedy which itself, Kate suggests, was a tragedy.
What happened exactly is not revealed until the end. We are fed pieces, but it is not until the last sections that we know fully what occurred. And while what happened to Matt may not have been all that profound, the book's theme which is foreshadowed from the start is profound. It caught me unawares, and the message--while skillfully developed--does not become obvious until there are only fourteen pages left. I kept thinking yesterday that the book was like a pretty flower that suddenly blooms stunningly at its conclusion.
The novel is beautifully written. There might be a little too much about pond creatures for my liking although I wonder if there could have been some symbolism in there that would have made the story even better for me if I had paid more attention in high school. The story of the Pyes might have been shortened some, though I think it does add to the book. One definite flaw is that there is no way that Marie does not come out too scarred to be the person we meet at the end.
Still, all things considered, this is a book that readers will be glad they spent some time with. It will hang in my head for a spell. The message is one that many--including me--would be wise to internalize.
The plot is not extraordinary as novels go. Four children become orphans when an automobile accident takes their parents' lives. There are two older boys in their late teens, and two young girls--one about 7 and the other not much more than a baby. The family lives in rural Ontario a long day's drive from Toronto.
The book is told from the vantage point of the elder daughter. She recalls the year after their parents' death and intersperses the narrative with sections about her current job as an academic and her relationship with another professor, Daniel. Throughout the novel Kate, the 7 year old, emphasizes how devastating the year after the accident was particularly for Matt, the younger of her two older brothers. Matt--whom we are told, she adores--something happened to Matt as a result of the tragedy which itself, Kate suggests, was a tragedy.
What happened exactly is not revealed until the end. We are fed pieces, but it is not until the last sections that we know fully what occurred. And while what happened to Matt may not have been all that profound, the book's theme which is foreshadowed from the start is profound. It caught me unawares, and the message--while skillfully developed--does not become obvious until there are only fourteen pages left. I kept thinking yesterday that the book was like a pretty flower that suddenly blooms stunningly at its conclusion.
The novel is beautifully written. There might be a little too much about pond creatures for my liking although I wonder if there could have been some symbolism in there that would have made the story even better for me if I had paid more attention in high school. The story of the Pyes might have been shortened some, though I think it does add to the book. One definite flaw is that there is no way that Marie does not come out too scarred to be the person we meet at the end.
Still, all things considered, this is a book that readers will be glad they spent some time with. It will hang in my head for a spell. The message is one that many--including me--would be wise to internalize.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
James's property
It's about 2 in the morning. I woke up from the couch downstairs and, a rarity indeed, can not go back to sleep. I picked up a book I am reading which is very good. Sad, but good. About a family in northern Ontario. In the story, there is quite a bit of talk about working land that families, for generations, had owned and worked.
Maybe that's why I started to think about James's property. Maybe other reasons, but think about the property I did.
In the mid 80s I was introduced by a mutual friend to a guy who lived on the Cape. I met him in March of 85 I think it was, maybe 86. He was and is an unreconstructed hippie. In the 70s he had bought a small house with a high school friend of his in East Harwich back when there were not too many residents in the area. The house had a bunk house on the same property. The two high school friends decided that one would live in the house and the other in the bunk house. A few years later, the guy in the main house decided to sell out to Don, the unreconstructed hippie.
So by the time I met him, Don owned both dwellings. I liked Don and still do. Good guy, extraordinarily responsible to others. We hit it off that day in 85 and a few years down the road he rented the main house to me for the summer. It was the summer of 90. And then for several more summers I would rent the house for parts of June through August.
As you looked at Don's spot from the main road, there was an empty property to your left. Further to the left there was a house on the corner that had been there forever.
One day I saw a car on the empty property. I commented on it to Don and he told me that James owned the property. James's property was impeccably groomed, but there was no house on it. I found out that James came up periodically throughout the year, slept in his car or in a tent, and then sat in a chair looking out over his land for a day or two before returning to work in Rhode Island.
Over the years, James and I became friendly. When he would be there I would go over and say hello and he often would come by himself to ask for water or use the facilities. We became chummy enough that annually in the 90s and early 2000s the three of us, Don, James, and myself would rendezvous in Providence in the winter to watch a Providence college Big East basketball game.
One year at one of these visits, James announced that he was ready to build. This was cause for a celebration. That had been the plan all along to build on the property. He had not had the resources to do so until this moment and he described to us how he had planned the funding and what the place would look like.
James then had exactly the same job I have now--his place of work at a college in Rhode Island. He too had been a professor and became an associate dean. You don't get to be Rockefeller as an educator, but he had saved enough to first buy the land and now build.
Sometime in the 2000s--I'll guess 2005--James moved into his house on the Cape. For a while he commuted the 90 miles to Rhode Island to work, staying some nights during the week at a spot he had arranged to temporarily lodge at when necessary.
Then a year or two later he announced he was going to retire and live full time on the Cape. He had just gotten remarried and the two of them were looking forward to happy ever after on the Cape.
Either December 2014 or the year before in December I got a call from Don telling me that James had died. Probably had not been in the house full time for more than three years.
James's property. Always talking about the property. Always talking about the house he was going to build on it. All those times I saw him sitting in his chair, looking out at the land without a house on it waiting to build.
Maybe that's why I started to think about James's property. Maybe other reasons, but think about the property I did.
In the mid 80s I was introduced by a mutual friend to a guy who lived on the Cape. I met him in March of 85 I think it was, maybe 86. He was and is an unreconstructed hippie. In the 70s he had bought a small house with a high school friend of his in East Harwich back when there were not too many residents in the area. The house had a bunk house on the same property. The two high school friends decided that one would live in the house and the other in the bunk house. A few years later, the guy in the main house decided to sell out to Don, the unreconstructed hippie.
So by the time I met him, Don owned both dwellings. I liked Don and still do. Good guy, extraordinarily responsible to others. We hit it off that day in 85 and a few years down the road he rented the main house to me for the summer. It was the summer of 90. And then for several more summers I would rent the house for parts of June through August.
As you looked at Don's spot from the main road, there was an empty property to your left. Further to the left there was a house on the corner that had been there forever.
One day I saw a car on the empty property. I commented on it to Don and he told me that James owned the property. James's property was impeccably groomed, but there was no house on it. I found out that James came up periodically throughout the year, slept in his car or in a tent, and then sat in a chair looking out over his land for a day or two before returning to work in Rhode Island.
Over the years, James and I became friendly. When he would be there I would go over and say hello and he often would come by himself to ask for water or use the facilities. We became chummy enough that annually in the 90s and early 2000s the three of us, Don, James, and myself would rendezvous in Providence in the winter to watch a Providence college Big East basketball game.
One year at one of these visits, James announced that he was ready to build. This was cause for a celebration. That had been the plan all along to build on the property. He had not had the resources to do so until this moment and he described to us how he had planned the funding and what the place would look like.
James then had exactly the same job I have now--his place of work at a college in Rhode Island. He too had been a professor and became an associate dean. You don't get to be Rockefeller as an educator, but he had saved enough to first buy the land and now build.
Sometime in the 2000s--I'll guess 2005--James moved into his house on the Cape. For a while he commuted the 90 miles to Rhode Island to work, staying some nights during the week at a spot he had arranged to temporarily lodge at when necessary.
Then a year or two later he announced he was going to retire and live full time on the Cape. He had just gotten remarried and the two of them were looking forward to happy ever after on the Cape.
Either December 2014 or the year before in December I got a call from Don telling me that James had died. Probably had not been in the house full time for more than three years.
James's property. Always talking about the property. Always talking about the house he was going to build on it. All those times I saw him sitting in his chair, looking out at the land without a house on it waiting to build.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Ray McClain
This is happening with greater regularity. Partly it is because of my vintage and partly because new technology is allowing us to find out about others who, otherwise, may have disappeared from our consciousness forever.
Ray McClain came to my mind about a half hour ago. Can't reconstruct now at this shaky moment why.
Ray and I were colleagues at SUNY Fredonia in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. Ray was a Sociologist and one of the good guys. He and I played basketball together on the faculty team we called, Athletes in Limbo. Ray was a forward-- a good rebounder and sure shooter from around the hoop. He snared rebounds away from kids a lot younger and did so effortlessly. I played point guard for the Athletes in Limbo. With other faculty members over the hill, we did a fair job of beating 19 year old hormone induced leapers who were surprised that we graying and balding egg heads could bounce the ball and put it in a hoop now and again. One year we went to what was called, grandly, the intramural playoffs and defeated (as in stunned) a very good team. Essentially 8 players pushing forty overcoming some talented young-uns. The Athletes in Limbo drank some beer that night.
I visited Fredonia in the late 80s after I had moved east and stopped by Ray's office. There he was, as he had been while I was at the College, in his office reading and studying away, available to students, taking some time out of his day to chat with me about this and that.
So, for whatever reason I thought of him today and decided to pop his name into google and see where he was at.
And then I saw a notice for his obit. He died just a few months ago. Peacefully, it read. He had taken a fall in October from which he never recovered and succumbed in March. Tough to imagine a guy like Ray not with us. Only 73. The accompanying photo of him in the obit showed his great easy smile.
I hadn't spoken with Ray in over 25 years. Even so, I know a little light has gone out of the universe.
Ray McClain came to my mind about a half hour ago. Can't reconstruct now at this shaky moment why.
Ray and I were colleagues at SUNY Fredonia in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. Ray was a Sociologist and one of the good guys. He and I played basketball together on the faculty team we called, Athletes in Limbo. Ray was a forward-- a good rebounder and sure shooter from around the hoop. He snared rebounds away from kids a lot younger and did so effortlessly. I played point guard for the Athletes in Limbo. With other faculty members over the hill, we did a fair job of beating 19 year old hormone induced leapers who were surprised that we graying and balding egg heads could bounce the ball and put it in a hoop now and again. One year we went to what was called, grandly, the intramural playoffs and defeated (as in stunned) a very good team. Essentially 8 players pushing forty overcoming some talented young-uns. The Athletes in Limbo drank some beer that night.
I visited Fredonia in the late 80s after I had moved east and stopped by Ray's office. There he was, as he had been while I was at the College, in his office reading and studying away, available to students, taking some time out of his day to chat with me about this and that.
So, for whatever reason I thought of him today and decided to pop his name into google and see where he was at.
And then I saw a notice for his obit. He died just a few months ago. Peacefully, it read. He had taken a fall in October from which he never recovered and succumbed in March. Tough to imagine a guy like Ray not with us. Only 73. The accompanying photo of him in the obit showed his great easy smile.
I hadn't spoken with Ray in over 25 years. Even so, I know a little light has gone out of the universe.
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