My plan this afternoon was to deplane at Logan and then take the subway to the commuter rail to get home.
Boston has a very efficient public transportation system from the airport. Unlike some cities where it can cost you an arm and a leg and some other appendages to get from the airport to your destination, there is a shuttle bus that takes one from your terminal to a subway line. From there, you can get almost anywhere in the region by combining the subway with the commuter rail.
Armed with my "Charlie card"...[for those of you not reared in, or in your, 60s, there was a song by the Kingston Trio called "Charlie of the MTA" (Mass Transit Authority). The song became popular and the MTA now requires one to buy a "Charlie card" to use the mass transit system.]
So armed with my Charlie card, I took the shuttle bus, arrived at the Blue Line and saw a sign that read that the subway was down. After one stop riders would be bussed. This was not what I wanted to read.
After one stop we, the riders, were herded like livestock into busses and taken downtown. My commuter train was at 530 and I thought I might miss it. As it turned out, I believe the bus driver took the wrong route which benefited me as I was deposited only steps from North Station where my train would be.
The Boston Garden-- now with some commercial name attached to it that keeps changing as businesses succumb to bad economic times--is above North Station. Just like in New York where Madison Square Garden sits above Penn Station, fans of the Bruins and the Celtics can take the train into North Station to watch a game and not have to shake much of a leg to get to their seats.
As I walked from where the bus stopped, I began to see armies of fans adorned in Bruins paraphernalia on the streets surrounding the train station. There must be a dozen restaurant/bars near the Garden catering to the Celtic and Bruin fans, and each seemed packed. I walked into North Station, still 90 minutes before the game and the station was mobbed.
When I first walked in I saw the real crazies, the ones who line up hoping to see a player come into the arena and get an autograph. Then, throughout the train station, all I saw were people adorned in their Bruin gear. By the ticket window there was a long and at one point serpentine line of aficionados hoping to get a ticket from those who could not make the contest.
All this brought a smile to my face which was not easy to do after being herded onto a bus. The people in North Station were excited like children on a birthday morning waiting for a regular season hockey game. There was an energy that you rarely see in other settings.
If you do not get sports, you should have been at North Station at 530 this evening, a full 90 minutes before game time and seen hundreds of adults busting with excited energy waiting to see a sporting event.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
ochs documentary
Yesterday I drove to Wellfleet Massachusetts--a town close to Provincetown on Cape Cod. I took the ride to watch a documentary on the life of Phil Ochs that was playing at a Wellfleet theater. Wellfleet is a good two hour ride from my home in Waltham, but the documentary--out since early January--is only playing in certain places and will not get closer to Boston until the middle of March.
I had read on the website that the theater was near the Wellfleet Post Office, a spot I know well as I have spent some time--as many Bostonians do--on the Cape during the summertimes. The Wellfleet Post Office is set off the side of what is called the mid cape highway. It is adjacent to a general store that makes one think of very small towns in America. I had not remembered a theater in the area, but I thought one must have been built recently.
I arrived at about 130 for the 2pm show, pulled into the small cluster of stores where the post office still is, and saw nothing that approached a theater. I went into the general store which still in 2011 looks like it could have been taken from a 1940s photo of any rural part of this country. Two people were sitting having coffee in the otherwise empty general store. I asked about the location of the theater. The proprietor--a young fellow who seemed half asleep or sour--repeated "The theater" somewhat disdainfully. He then asked me what was playing there. I told him that the theater was showing a documentary on the life of Phil Ochs.
"Who is he?" he wanted to know.
When I first started my now pushing 40 year stint as a college professor, nearly all my students knew who Phil Ochs was. I noticed over the first ten years of teaching that fewer and fewer did. Once in the early 80s I asked a large lecture class of about 100 and three students raised their hands. I found out subsequently that one of these three thought I had asked about someone else.
So in the early 80s, if this population was representative, about 2 percent of college students knew about Phil Ochs--a hero to many in the late 60s. Now, in 2011, I think half the faculty at my institution would not be able to place him.
At the theater--a modern building next to a new post office and a Dunkin Doughnuts-- which might explain the empty general store and the sour proprietor a half mile away-- there were about 60 people milling about ready to see the documentary. Nearly all were my vintage. During the showing they watched with appreciation the story of Ochs while listening to his songs.
When Nixon and Kissinger appeared on the screen, 60 something folks who looked like they might tell their children to "mind their manners" in a different context, hissed quite naturally, as if the hissing simply oozed from them at the site of a nemesis. At the end of the documentary there was applause, less for the documentary I believe, and more for Ochs himself and the era.
I milled around the lobby afterwards to hear the talk. One woman said she "was there then" meaning I think Greenwich Village when Ochs started his career. Others referred to him as "Phil" not it seemed to me because they were really friends, but because they had become so immersed in his music that he had become, in essence, an intimate from a distance.
Many clips from Ochs's songs were part of the documentary. The one that keeps surfacing in my consciousness today is from his song "Changes." If there had been background music in the post show theater lobby while the 60 year olds from the sixties clustered and reminisced the following lyrics from "Changes" would have been heard over the subdued conversations.
"Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,Visions of shadows that shine.Til one day I returned and found they were the victims of the vines of changes...Passions will part to a strange melody. As fires will sometimes burn cold.Like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver strings of souls, of changes."
I had read on the website that the theater was near the Wellfleet Post Office, a spot I know well as I have spent some time--as many Bostonians do--on the Cape during the summertimes. The Wellfleet Post Office is set off the side of what is called the mid cape highway. It is adjacent to a general store that makes one think of very small towns in America. I had not remembered a theater in the area, but I thought one must have been built recently.
I arrived at about 130 for the 2pm show, pulled into the small cluster of stores where the post office still is, and saw nothing that approached a theater. I went into the general store which still in 2011 looks like it could have been taken from a 1940s photo of any rural part of this country. Two people were sitting having coffee in the otherwise empty general store. I asked about the location of the theater. The proprietor--a young fellow who seemed half asleep or sour--repeated "The theater" somewhat disdainfully. He then asked me what was playing there. I told him that the theater was showing a documentary on the life of Phil Ochs.
"Who is he?" he wanted to know.
When I first started my now pushing 40 year stint as a college professor, nearly all my students knew who Phil Ochs was. I noticed over the first ten years of teaching that fewer and fewer did. Once in the early 80s I asked a large lecture class of about 100 and three students raised their hands. I found out subsequently that one of these three thought I had asked about someone else.
So in the early 80s, if this population was representative, about 2 percent of college students knew about Phil Ochs--a hero to many in the late 60s. Now, in 2011, I think half the faculty at my institution would not be able to place him.
At the theater--a modern building next to a new post office and a Dunkin Doughnuts-- which might explain the empty general store and the sour proprietor a half mile away-- there were about 60 people milling about ready to see the documentary. Nearly all were my vintage. During the showing they watched with appreciation the story of Ochs while listening to his songs.
When Nixon and Kissinger appeared on the screen, 60 something folks who looked like they might tell their children to "mind their manners" in a different context, hissed quite naturally, as if the hissing simply oozed from them at the site of a nemesis. At the end of the documentary there was applause, less for the documentary I believe, and more for Ochs himself and the era.
I milled around the lobby afterwards to hear the talk. One woman said she "was there then" meaning I think Greenwich Village when Ochs started his career. Others referred to him as "Phil" not it seemed to me because they were really friends, but because they had become so immersed in his music that he had become, in essence, an intimate from a distance.
Many clips from Ochs's songs were part of the documentary. The one that keeps surfacing in my consciousness today is from his song "Changes." If there had been background music in the post show theater lobby while the 60 year olds from the sixties clustered and reminisced the following lyrics from "Changes" would have been heard over the subdued conversations.
"Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,Visions of shadows that shine.Til one day I returned and found they were the victims of the vines of changes...Passions will part to a strange melody. As fires will sometimes burn cold.Like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver strings of souls, of changes."
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Book of Ruth/review
One problem or benefit I receive from reading books is that while in the book I tend to think and even talk like the main character or narrator. I don't know how atypical this is, but it happens on a regular basis as long as I become immersed in the book.
It is a benefit most of the time, but not most recently. I read a very good but extraordinarily depressing novel called The Book of Ruth. It is by the same woman, Jane Hamilton, who wrote A Map of the World which is an excellent novel that was made into a good movie as well. The Book of Ruth depicts life for a young woman named Ruth who marries a young man named Ruby and lives in poverty with her bitter mother named May. I wanted to finish the book at least in part to get myself out of this drafty house in Illinois with a misanthrope for a mother and a going nowhere spouse.
Hamilton has the characters spot on in so many scenes that a reader, or at least I, marvels at how clearly, and in the case of the three main characters, multidimensionally she draws the characters. I think those people who have lived lives in poverty with no way out, might find the book a little too close to home for comfort. This was not my upbringing so I just found the book to be so sad that I wanted to urge Ruth to somehow scram and take me out of there with her.
If you would prefer not to be depressed for the days it will take you to read this 328 page book, I will nutshell the essence of it by including an excerpt that appears on page 316. The narrator, Ruth, says that she has given up on talking with the reverend about her travails, "there is no use explaining that you have to learn where your pain is. You have to burrow down and find the wound, and if the burden of it is too terrible to shoulder you have to shout it out; you have to shout for help. My trust, even down in that dark place I carry, is that some person will come running. And then finally the way through grief is grieving. There is nothing like lying down to bawl and choke, and then rolling over so the tears can drip out of your ears..."
A barrel of laughs this book was not.
It is a benefit most of the time, but not most recently. I read a very good but extraordinarily depressing novel called The Book of Ruth. It is by the same woman, Jane Hamilton, who wrote A Map of the World which is an excellent novel that was made into a good movie as well. The Book of Ruth depicts life for a young woman named Ruth who marries a young man named Ruby and lives in poverty with her bitter mother named May. I wanted to finish the book at least in part to get myself out of this drafty house in Illinois with a misanthrope for a mother and a going nowhere spouse.
Hamilton has the characters spot on in so many scenes that a reader, or at least I, marvels at how clearly, and in the case of the three main characters, multidimensionally she draws the characters. I think those people who have lived lives in poverty with no way out, might find the book a little too close to home for comfort. This was not my upbringing so I just found the book to be so sad that I wanted to urge Ruth to somehow scram and take me out of there with her.
If you would prefer not to be depressed for the days it will take you to read this 328 page book, I will nutshell the essence of it by including an excerpt that appears on page 316. The narrator, Ruth, says that she has given up on talking with the reverend about her travails, "there is no use explaining that you have to learn where your pain is. You have to burrow down and find the wound, and if the burden of it is too terrible to shoulder you have to shout it out; you have to shout for help. My trust, even down in that dark place I carry, is that some person will come running. And then finally the way through grief is grieving. There is nothing like lying down to bawl and choke, and then rolling over so the tears can drip out of your ears..."
A barrel of laughs this book was not.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
I know those guys
Yesterday afternoon a high school buddy who went to Hofstra left a voice mail for me at home. He was watching Hofstra play Northeastern University, my employer, and wanted to know if I was watching the game. Judging by the message and an e-mail he sent when he did not get me in by phone, my pal was very excited about the Hofstra Northeastern game.
I wasn't home yesterday because--in what has become an annual expedition--several Albany college buddies met in the state capitol of New York and went to see the Albany Great Danes play an America East basketball game.
What prompted the Albany alums' rendezvous was less the basketball game and more the comraderie we have enjoyed when we reconnect. Still we made sure to get to the gym before the opening tipoff, and were relieved when the home team-- for the first time in our four years of having so rendezvoused--prevailed with a 62-59 victory.
It was a decent, but not packed crowd at the Albany arena last night. There was a good deal of howling for the home team. This despite the fact that last night in Albany was a terrible driving day. One of the worst I've ever experienced. The roads from Boston to Albany were fine, but it started to rain/sleet mid afternoon and then by the 7 pm gametime, it was like ice skating on the highways. Spectators after parking their cars slid, as opposed to walked, to the arena.
You don't need to go much beyond my experience of yesterday to see evidence of the lure of sport in our society. My high school pal, a very successful 60 year old accountant, is thrilled that his alma mater might defeat Northeastern in a Colonial Athletic Association contest. And maybe 3000 fans skate to a basketball game in Albany New York to watch a .500 college team play another .500 college team in the America East.
It was a gas seeing my old buddies in Albany. After the game we went to a restaurant and regaled one another with tales about our youth and I experienced, not for the first time, the therapeutic value of laughter. We were howling repeatedly making a scene of ourselves, but we tipped the waiter very well for his endurance while we joyfully reminded one another of our history.
But there was a sad aspect to the evening as well. Our pal Brian had secured the tickets for the game and we had terrific seats just to the left of the really terrific seats of the season ticket holders. I looked over to that bunch, and thought to myself--those guys look old. Then, slowly I began to recognize several of those seated there. The "old guys" were contemporaries, people who had gone to college with me and had stayed in the Albany area. I know those old guys that looked like old guys because I am one of them.
One of the bunch of us who meet annually is still in touch with some of the old guys in the season ticket section. And it was sad to hear him tell us, how this one is having some health issues, and how that one would have been here but had a stroke. One fellow who had been a star on the teams when I was a freshman is battling cancer, not for the first time.
Laughing as an adult--like a child might--is great therapy. Cheering enthusiastically for sports teams--as a child might--can purge the tensions within us. Remembering our mortality will allow us to enjoy the time we have and not squander our time away childishly.
I wasn't home yesterday because--in what has become an annual expedition--several Albany college buddies met in the state capitol of New York and went to see the Albany Great Danes play an America East basketball game.
What prompted the Albany alums' rendezvous was less the basketball game and more the comraderie we have enjoyed when we reconnect. Still we made sure to get to the gym before the opening tipoff, and were relieved when the home team-- for the first time in our four years of having so rendezvoused--prevailed with a 62-59 victory.
It was a decent, but not packed crowd at the Albany arena last night. There was a good deal of howling for the home team. This despite the fact that last night in Albany was a terrible driving day. One of the worst I've ever experienced. The roads from Boston to Albany were fine, but it started to rain/sleet mid afternoon and then by the 7 pm gametime, it was like ice skating on the highways. Spectators after parking their cars slid, as opposed to walked, to the arena.
You don't need to go much beyond my experience of yesterday to see evidence of the lure of sport in our society. My high school pal, a very successful 60 year old accountant, is thrilled that his alma mater might defeat Northeastern in a Colonial Athletic Association contest. And maybe 3000 fans skate to a basketball game in Albany New York to watch a .500 college team play another .500 college team in the America East.
It was a gas seeing my old buddies in Albany. After the game we went to a restaurant and regaled one another with tales about our youth and I experienced, not for the first time, the therapeutic value of laughter. We were howling repeatedly making a scene of ourselves, but we tipped the waiter very well for his endurance while we joyfully reminded one another of our history.
But there was a sad aspect to the evening as well. Our pal Brian had secured the tickets for the game and we had terrific seats just to the left of the really terrific seats of the season ticket holders. I looked over to that bunch, and thought to myself--those guys look old. Then, slowly I began to recognize several of those seated there. The "old guys" were contemporaries, people who had gone to college with me and had stayed in the Albany area. I know those old guys that looked like old guys because I am one of them.
One of the bunch of us who meet annually is still in touch with some of the old guys in the season ticket section. And it was sad to hear him tell us, how this one is having some health issues, and how that one would have been here but had a stroke. One fellow who had been a star on the teams when I was a freshman is battling cancer, not for the first time.
Laughing as an adult--like a child might--is great therapy. Cheering enthusiastically for sports teams--as a child might--can purge the tensions within us. Remembering our mortality will allow us to enjoy the time we have and not squander our time away childishly.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Middle East Primer for Third Graders
Directions: Read this story about Izzy and Ishy. At the end see if you can answer the questions and help Izzy and Ishy decide what they should do.
Part I. Izzy
A long time ago, a man named Izzy was evicted from his house for no good reason. Izzy struggled mightily, but was forced out nevertheless.
Izzy moved down the road into another house. His new neighbors, however, also gave him a hard time and also forced him out. Izzy packed up and moved into yet another home. There, he worked hard, minded his own business, and figured that if he kept quiet all would be well. Izzy was wrong. Every so often, for what appeared to be sport, Izzy's neighbors took to beating up on Izzy and his family.
Izzy kept moving on. He wandered from place to place, but always, after he’d lived in a house for some time, he would get pestered, abused, and eventually he’d have to leave.
Finally, a madman tried to systematically destroy all members of Izzy's family and almost was successful. Izzy survived but made a decision,
"Enough is enough. I'm going to get my old house back."
So, Izzy complained to the powers that be. They listened to his case, considered the recent efforts of the madman to destroy Izzy's clan, and decided to give Izzy his old house back providing that he shared the space with the people who had moved in during the interim.
Izzy said "fine", returned to his former home, but wasn't in the place for one day before his neighbors attacked him. Izzy had been moving around too long and been kicked around too often to give in easily. Izzy mustered all his strength and survived despite severe odds. The battlefield victory allowed him to stay in his old house.
Nevertheless, periodically to this day he still has to beat off his neighbors who still are furious that Izzy was allowed to move into their property without their consent. Izzy has managed to fight off the neighbors every time, but the battles are taking their toll.
Despite the frequent warfare, Izzy has done a very nice job of redecorating his old house. The place needed some repairs and Izzy was willing and able to do the repair work. He has made the house look very attractive.
Part II Ishy
After Izzy was first forced out of the original home--the house he eventually returned to--a man named Ishy moved his family into Izzy's old house. Ishy barely knew Izzy. He wasn't taking Izzy's house away. The house was available, so Ishy moved in.
Ishy had been living in the house for a long time when a man came to his door and told him that Izzy wanted his house back.
"Who's Izzy?" said Ishy.
"Izzy," Ishy was told, "used to live here a while back."
“So?”
"So, he's been kicked to hell and back, and now he wants his old place again."
"Yo. It's not my fault he's been kicked to hell and back."
"Well. He's moving back in anyway. Now look you can have the first two floors, Izzy is moving into the other floors…”
"Who are you to tell me to share my house with this Izzy guy, that I don't even know? This is my house, buddy. And Izzy or Dizzy, isn't moving in."
"That's where you're wrong Ishy. We took a vote and decided that Izzy gets two floors. He's had some tough times. People are always taking out their troubles on him and his people. Guy's gotta be safe."
"Let him move into your place, buddy. This is my place. Why does he have to move in here?"
"This is where he used to live. That's why he wants to move back in. Word is that if you go way back you two are brothers. Anyway, he wants to move back in. And he's entitled.
"He's entitled?!!!!! He's entitled?!!!!! What about me? I'm entitled too.”
"Look. You're just gonna have to share. Now get ready. He's moving in on Wednesday."
"Over my dead body…"
Part III Izzy and Ishy
Ishy proved to be correct, but his wasn't the only dead body. When Izzy moved in, Ishy got all his friends together and attacked Izzy. Somehow, as we've seen previously, Izzy survived.
Ishy became furious. Not only was he furious because Izzy had moved back in, but he felt terrible that he had lost the fight to Izzy.
Izzy was furious too. He finally had gotten his home back, and despite that apparent victory, every so often he had to fight this Ishy character who refused to live alongside Izzy in peace. Ishy will not even acknowledge that Izzy lives in the building.
Ishy, Izzy feels, is an ungrateful pain. Not only has Izzy cleaned the place up so that it now is very snazzy looking for everybody Ishy included but regardless Ishy continues to attack Izzy.
Izzy, Ishy feels, is a trespasser. Not only has Izzy come into Ishy's house, but Izzy's running the show, telling Ishy what he can and can't do, in what he, Ishy, feels is Ishy's own home.
Ishy decides, enough is enough. As long as Izzy stays here we're gonna play hardball.
Izzy decides, enough is enough. If Ishy is going to give me a hard time, I'm gonna play hardball.
Questions for Third Graders
Which of the following are appropriate things to do to solve the problem?
(1) Ishy should declare that he is determined to destroy Izzy and periodically behave like a barbarian claiming justification.
(2) Izzy should reduce Ishy to a second class citizen; make him feel like a conquered loser; and periodically behave like a barbarian claiming justification.
(3) Ishy should spend time listing the reasons why Izzy is a jerk and the instances when Izzy has behaved badly. Ishy should ridicule anyone who says anything good about Izzy.
(4) Izzy should spend time listing the reasons why Ishy is a jerk and the instances when Ishy has acted badly. Izzy should ridicule anyone who says anything good about Ishy.
(5) Izzy should have his tough Uncle Sam help him fight off Ishy.
(6) Ishy should have his strong oil rich buddies help him fight off Izzy.
(7) Izzy should recognize that Ishy has a beef and declare that openly. Izzy's Uncle Sam should do the same. That might be a start.
(8) Ishy should recognize that Izzy has a beef and declare that openly. Ishy's oil rich buddies should do the same. That might be a start.
(9) Ishy and Izzy should declare that the issue is complex and continue to destroy each other.
You have two minutes to answer the question.
Part I. Izzy
A long time ago, a man named Izzy was evicted from his house for no good reason. Izzy struggled mightily, but was forced out nevertheless.
Izzy moved down the road into another house. His new neighbors, however, also gave him a hard time and also forced him out. Izzy packed up and moved into yet another home. There, he worked hard, minded his own business, and figured that if he kept quiet all would be well. Izzy was wrong. Every so often, for what appeared to be sport, Izzy's neighbors took to beating up on Izzy and his family.
Izzy kept moving on. He wandered from place to place, but always, after he’d lived in a house for some time, he would get pestered, abused, and eventually he’d have to leave.
Finally, a madman tried to systematically destroy all members of Izzy's family and almost was successful. Izzy survived but made a decision,
"Enough is enough. I'm going to get my old house back."
So, Izzy complained to the powers that be. They listened to his case, considered the recent efforts of the madman to destroy Izzy's clan, and decided to give Izzy his old house back providing that he shared the space with the people who had moved in during the interim.
Izzy said "fine", returned to his former home, but wasn't in the place for one day before his neighbors attacked him. Izzy had been moving around too long and been kicked around too often to give in easily. Izzy mustered all his strength and survived despite severe odds. The battlefield victory allowed him to stay in his old house.
Nevertheless, periodically to this day he still has to beat off his neighbors who still are furious that Izzy was allowed to move into their property without their consent. Izzy has managed to fight off the neighbors every time, but the battles are taking their toll.
Despite the frequent warfare, Izzy has done a very nice job of redecorating his old house. The place needed some repairs and Izzy was willing and able to do the repair work. He has made the house look very attractive.
Part II Ishy
After Izzy was first forced out of the original home--the house he eventually returned to--a man named Ishy moved his family into Izzy's old house. Ishy barely knew Izzy. He wasn't taking Izzy's house away. The house was available, so Ishy moved in.
Ishy had been living in the house for a long time when a man came to his door and told him that Izzy wanted his house back.
"Who's Izzy?" said Ishy.
"Izzy," Ishy was told, "used to live here a while back."
“So?”
"So, he's been kicked to hell and back, and now he wants his old place again."
"Yo. It's not my fault he's been kicked to hell and back."
"Well. He's moving back in anyway. Now look you can have the first two floors, Izzy is moving into the other floors…”
"Who are you to tell me to share my house with this Izzy guy, that I don't even know? This is my house, buddy. And Izzy or Dizzy, isn't moving in."
"That's where you're wrong Ishy. We took a vote and decided that Izzy gets two floors. He's had some tough times. People are always taking out their troubles on him and his people. Guy's gotta be safe."
"Let him move into your place, buddy. This is my place. Why does he have to move in here?"
"This is where he used to live. That's why he wants to move back in. Word is that if you go way back you two are brothers. Anyway, he wants to move back in. And he's entitled.
"He's entitled?!!!!! He's entitled?!!!!! What about me? I'm entitled too.”
"Look. You're just gonna have to share. Now get ready. He's moving in on Wednesday."
"Over my dead body…"
Part III Izzy and Ishy
Ishy proved to be correct, but his wasn't the only dead body. When Izzy moved in, Ishy got all his friends together and attacked Izzy. Somehow, as we've seen previously, Izzy survived.
Ishy became furious. Not only was he furious because Izzy had moved back in, but he felt terrible that he had lost the fight to Izzy.
Izzy was furious too. He finally had gotten his home back, and despite that apparent victory, every so often he had to fight this Ishy character who refused to live alongside Izzy in peace. Ishy will not even acknowledge that Izzy lives in the building.
Ishy, Izzy feels, is an ungrateful pain. Not only has Izzy cleaned the place up so that it now is very snazzy looking for everybody Ishy included but regardless Ishy continues to attack Izzy.
Izzy, Ishy feels, is a trespasser. Not only has Izzy come into Ishy's house, but Izzy's running the show, telling Ishy what he can and can't do, in what he, Ishy, feels is Ishy's own home.
Ishy decides, enough is enough. As long as Izzy stays here we're gonna play hardball.
Izzy decides, enough is enough. If Ishy is going to give me a hard time, I'm gonna play hardball.
Questions for Third Graders
Which of the following are appropriate things to do to solve the problem?
(1) Ishy should declare that he is determined to destroy Izzy and periodically behave like a barbarian claiming justification.
(2) Izzy should reduce Ishy to a second class citizen; make him feel like a conquered loser; and periodically behave like a barbarian claiming justification.
(3) Ishy should spend time listing the reasons why Izzy is a jerk and the instances when Izzy has behaved badly. Ishy should ridicule anyone who says anything good about Izzy.
(4) Izzy should spend time listing the reasons why Ishy is a jerk and the instances when Ishy has acted badly. Izzy should ridicule anyone who says anything good about Ishy.
(5) Izzy should have his tough Uncle Sam help him fight off Ishy.
(6) Ishy should have his strong oil rich buddies help him fight off Izzy.
(7) Izzy should recognize that Ishy has a beef and declare that openly. Izzy's Uncle Sam should do the same. That might be a start.
(8) Ishy should recognize that Izzy has a beef and declare that openly. Ishy's oil rich buddies should do the same. That might be a start.
(9) Ishy and Izzy should declare that the issue is complex and continue to destroy each other.
You have two minutes to answer the question.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Ko bia
I don't think it was my first baseball game with my dad, but it was one of the early ones. I think so because I don't remember my brother with us. My brother, only twenty months younger probably didn't go when he was 3 or 4, so I am probably 5 maybe 6.
I was a Giants fan because my Dad was a Giants fan. New York Giants that is. Pre, the abomination of the Giants and Dodgers moving. Before they left New York, both the Giants and the Yankees games were televised on Channel 11, WPIX, in New York. The Yankees were sponsored by Ballantine Beer. I have a recollection that the Giants were sponsored by a beer called Knickerbocker.
I have a fair memory anyway, but the jingles for beer companies are very clear in my mind. This is because beer companies tended to be the primary sponsors for sports teams. Since I watched a good deal of sports, many ditties live on in my consciousness.
My beer is Rheingold the dry beer, ask for Rheingold whenever you buy beer, it's not bitter not sweet...won't you try extra dry Rheingold beer.
Schaefer is the one beer to have when you're having more than one.
But it is the Ballantine beer jingle that is etched into my consciousness.
"Baseball and Ballantine, what a combination, all across the nation, baseball and Ballantine. 'Hey get your cold beer!', hey get your Ballantine."
The singer who crooned, 'Hey get your cold beer' did not enunciate well. Cold beer was uttered as one three syllable word. The beer part was sung as if it had two syllables and there was no r at the end of the word.
So the shout sounded like,"Hey get your Kobia. Hey Get your Ballantine.'
Dad and six or five year old me are at this game. I have been told that I have a stubborn streak. This, my mother contends, is inherited from my father. And apparently as this anecdote suggests I had this trait as a lad. A woman once told me that she knew what she would put on my tombstone. "He wrote the book on everything."
Truth is I am quite flexible. But I digress.
We are at the game and Dad hails a beer vendor. He asks for a Knickerbocker beer. I pull on his sleeve when he has the drink and ask a very simple question.
"Why didn't you get a Ko Bia?"
"A what?" says Dad.
"A Ko bia"
"What is a Ko bia?"
I sing him the jingle. He looks at me with the same perplexed gaze I saw once when he came into the bedroom and I was watching the test pattern waiting for the first tv show of the day to come on.
Well we battle for a while he insisting that there is no beer called Ko bia, but they are saying cold beer. I of course will have nothing of it. Ko bia is a brand like Wheaties as far as I am concerned.
I like beer, but why is Ballantine and Baseball or beer and sports conflated. Is there any reason why when we go to a game, or watch one at home, we take out a cold one. It seems to me that there is nothing natural about this association. And like many things in life we assume that what is unnatural is natural simply because we have been dunned with information in support of an unnatural construction.
Ko bia all over our universe. And many who are willing to argue stubbornly that the construction makes sense.
I was a Giants fan because my Dad was a Giants fan. New York Giants that is. Pre, the abomination of the Giants and Dodgers moving. Before they left New York, both the Giants and the Yankees games were televised on Channel 11, WPIX, in New York. The Yankees were sponsored by Ballantine Beer. I have a recollection that the Giants were sponsored by a beer called Knickerbocker.
I have a fair memory anyway, but the jingles for beer companies are very clear in my mind. This is because beer companies tended to be the primary sponsors for sports teams. Since I watched a good deal of sports, many ditties live on in my consciousness.
My beer is Rheingold the dry beer, ask for Rheingold whenever you buy beer, it's not bitter not sweet...won't you try extra dry Rheingold beer.
Schaefer is the one beer to have when you're having more than one.
But it is the Ballantine beer jingle that is etched into my consciousness.
"Baseball and Ballantine, what a combination, all across the nation, baseball and Ballantine. 'Hey get your cold beer!', hey get your Ballantine."
The singer who crooned, 'Hey get your cold beer' did not enunciate well. Cold beer was uttered as one three syllable word. The beer part was sung as if it had two syllables and there was no r at the end of the word.
So the shout sounded like,"Hey get your Kobia. Hey Get your Ballantine.'
Dad and six or five year old me are at this game. I have been told that I have a stubborn streak. This, my mother contends, is inherited from my father. And apparently as this anecdote suggests I had this trait as a lad. A woman once told me that she knew what she would put on my tombstone. "He wrote the book on everything."
Truth is I am quite flexible. But I digress.
We are at the game and Dad hails a beer vendor. He asks for a Knickerbocker beer. I pull on his sleeve when he has the drink and ask a very simple question.
"Why didn't you get a Ko Bia?"
"A what?" says Dad.
"A Ko bia"
"What is a Ko bia?"
I sing him the jingle. He looks at me with the same perplexed gaze I saw once when he came into the bedroom and I was watching the test pattern waiting for the first tv show of the day to come on.
Well we battle for a while he insisting that there is no beer called Ko bia, but they are saying cold beer. I of course will have nothing of it. Ko bia is a brand like Wheaties as far as I am concerned.
I like beer, but why is Ballantine and Baseball or beer and sports conflated. Is there any reason why when we go to a game, or watch one at home, we take out a cold one. It seems to me that there is nothing natural about this association. And like many things in life we assume that what is unnatural is natural simply because we have been dunned with information in support of an unnatural construction.
Ko bia all over our universe. And many who are willing to argue stubbornly that the construction makes sense.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
guru
Last night in the gym I saw a fellow perspirer sitting on a stretching mat. He was in one of those buddha like positions that I can only imagine. Back upright, legs folded and splayed with each knee making contact with the mat. Soles touching. I told him he looked like a prophet about to dispense wisdom.
"A man goes to the hot dog stand." he begins. "He asks for a hot dog. The vendor gets a bun places a hot dog in the bun and hands it over to the customer. The customer hands a twenty dollar bill to the vendor. The customer waits, the vendor does nothing. Finally, the customer says, 'What about change?'
"'Change' says the vendor, 'comes from within.'"
I got a laugh out of my buddy in guru position's joke. And I've thought about the punch line over the last several hours.
The fact is that the cliche on which the punch line is based is wrong and sends people who've internalized the alleged truth of it skidding.
Sure, in order to make a change in behavior one has to do some introspection. But the flaw in the cliche is that thinking that change can come from within diverts one from the reality that we are connected. And as best as I can reckon we are incomplete without these connections.
If we make the assumption that we can operate autonomously then we begin to skid away from the truth. And the truth is we are linked. The skidding makes it difficult to navigate and stay on course.
If we were not all inherently connected then how could one explain the phenomenon of loneliness. Loneliness is not an abstraction. It is real when we experience it. And we can experience it even if we are among others, pretend to be connected to them, but are, in fact, detached. So, if we are supposed to, and are able to, truly be autonomous then why do we feel lonely when we do.
We do, because, we are naturally connected to some others and therefore change can not come from within, unless we are cognizant of how incomplete we are without others.
Another buddy of mine who is a fanatic Jets fan wrote to me today telling me how nervous he is about tomorrow's game. He has no money on the game. Why should he or anyone care about a team. Sometimes we forge connections with teams just like we develop romantic, filial, and fraternal connections. What happens to your team, affects you.
Change, I do not believe, comes from within. Change requires shooting straight with yourself so that you know you can not change unless you embrace with whom and with what you naturally are linked. There is no you without me. There is no me without you.
"A man goes to the hot dog stand." he begins. "He asks for a hot dog. The vendor gets a bun places a hot dog in the bun and hands it over to the customer. The customer hands a twenty dollar bill to the vendor. The customer waits, the vendor does nothing. Finally, the customer says, 'What about change?'
"'Change' says the vendor, 'comes from within.'"
I got a laugh out of my buddy in guru position's joke. And I've thought about the punch line over the last several hours.
The fact is that the cliche on which the punch line is based is wrong and sends people who've internalized the alleged truth of it skidding.
Sure, in order to make a change in behavior one has to do some introspection. But the flaw in the cliche is that thinking that change can come from within diverts one from the reality that we are connected. And as best as I can reckon we are incomplete without these connections.
If we make the assumption that we can operate autonomously then we begin to skid away from the truth. And the truth is we are linked. The skidding makes it difficult to navigate and stay on course.
If we were not all inherently connected then how could one explain the phenomenon of loneliness. Loneliness is not an abstraction. It is real when we experience it. And we can experience it even if we are among others, pretend to be connected to them, but are, in fact, detached. So, if we are supposed to, and are able to, truly be autonomous then why do we feel lonely when we do.
We do, because, we are naturally connected to some others and therefore change can not come from within, unless we are cognizant of how incomplete we are without others.
Another buddy of mine who is a fanatic Jets fan wrote to me today telling me how nervous he is about tomorrow's game. He has no money on the game. Why should he or anyone care about a team. Sometimes we forge connections with teams just like we develop romantic, filial, and fraternal connections. What happens to your team, affects you.
Change, I do not believe, comes from within. Change requires shooting straight with yourself so that you know you can not change unless you embrace with whom and with what you naturally are linked. There is no you without me. There is no me without you.
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