A good amount of advance publicity was given to the lunar eclipse that occurred last night in the wee hours of the morning. I stayed up for it, watching the curved shadow of the earth take a “bite” out of the moon a little after 1:30AM. The bite got bigger and bigger, until “totality” about an hour later. Instead of completely disappearing in the shadow, the moon was somewhat visible, displaying a weird coppery color.
It was a crisp and cold night here in the Poconos, no humidity or city glare to dim the view. It was the early morning of December 21, the winter solstice, the official beginning of winter.
News programs announced it was the first combination of a lunar eclipse and winter solstice since 1638, at which time “Galileo was under house arrest for suggesting that the earth moved around the sun.”
OK it was a radical-sounding idea at the time. We see the sun “rise in the East and set in the West” all the time…sure looks like the sun is doing all the moving, and I certainly wouldn't have thought otherwise back in 1638.
More importantly, the Catholic Church firmly believed that the Earth was Stationary -- that it was -- that it HAD to be -- the Center of the Universe. It said so in the Bible -- (Psalms 93 and 96) “The World is Firmly Established. It Can’t Be Moved.”
So one could run afoul of both his fellow man AND God by embracing this newfangled Heliocentric (“sun-centered”) Theory.
In the middle of a full career teaching mathematics at universities, Galileo, in his mid-forties, shook the world in 1609 by inventing a telescope that could magnify by a factor of 30x. Prior to that the best available was only 3x. Not only had he created a new source of income, selling the telescope to mariners and sky gazers, perhaps a few Peeping Toms…
.
….but now he could explore the heavens so much more, and perhaps find something that would help prove that the Earth was not the Center of the Universe. The Heliocentric - Geocentric debate had been simmering for almost 70 years, courtesy of a man named Copernicus, who first proposed Heliocentrism. But Copernicus was aware that the world - particularly the Religious world - was not ready for his radical ideas, and he waited until the last year of his life (1543) to publicize his theories. The resulting controversy was somewhat reserved, with no strong champion for "Copernicanism".
Until Galileo, that is. With his new and vastly improved telescope, Galileo found four small celestial bodies orbiting the planet Jupiter. He plotted their movements, predicted their future movements, and destroyed the idea that ONLY the earth could have anything orbiting it.
With this and other discoveries, the Heliocentric - Geocentric debate heated up and became more public. The Church, still confident that its less-than-scientific viewpoint could be verified, didn’t flinch with the upcoming publication of Galileo’s “Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems”.
But Galileo’s masterwork was devastating and well-written, completely debunking the Geocentric theory and putting the Church in an uncomfortable position.
Galileo was ordered to stand trial for Suspicion of Heresy in 1633. With the threat of torture and death hanging over him, he officially recanted Heliocentrism. His books on the subject, as well as all of his other scientific publications, were banned.
At first he was sentenced to life imprisonment, but then the sentence was reduced to “house arrest”. He was guarded and monitored for the rest of his life, which was another ten years.
Copernicus had waited until the very end of his life to start ruffling the Church’s feathers. Galileo did almost the same thing, and didn’t stand trial until he was 68, having been free to do great things for most of his life.
He probably knew he would eventually be vindicated, maybe posthumously, that superstition and fanciful doctrines would eventually fall in the face of hard scientific evidence. Secretly the scientific community was embracing his ideas more and more, and it was reasonable to assume that better telescopes would eventually come along, for ever-improving views of a vast and complex cosmos.
Today the Hubble Telescope orbits the earth, taking photos of things so distant that Galileo would have been flabbergasted. Those four moons orbiting Jupiter are merely the four largest, out of a total of 23, and their surfaces have been photographed extensively. They are Callisto, Ganymede, Io, and Europa, known collectively as the Galilean moons of Jupiter.
It took some 350 years, but in the early 1990s the Church vindicated Galileo, apologizing for his heresy trial and the subsequent mistreatment. His legacy lives on, one of the greatest minds of human history, who absolutely loved lunar eclipses.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Throwing the Triple
well we
FLOAT thru the air, wit the
GREATEST of ease, we’re the
FLYING PAGES, we
ALWAYS please…..
HIGH in the sky, up a-
BOVE the ground, we’re
HOTTEST -- FLYIN’ --
ACT a - ROUND
The above lyrics are all I can remember from my first and only attempt at writing a Rap Song, and a goofy reminder of the nine months I spent with the Gatti Circus in 1988.
It was a medium-sized circus, certainly no Ringling Brothers. But it provided solid, predictable employment as a keyboardist at a time when I really needed it. It also provided a ton of interesting travel and interesting people, for instance the Flying Pages -- the sons of poor Cuban circus performers who immigrated here in the 50s.
Jorge Pages (“Pages” apparently both a singular and plural word) was the oldest of three brothers comprising this trapeze act. He was the “catcher” -- it seems that baseball and trapeze acts are the only institutions in which someone has the title of “catcher”. Jorge, thickly built, with large arms, hung from one trapeze and caught whatever human being was flying toward him, and then tossed the person back to the trapeze on the other side.
Felix was the middle brother, a bit of a renegade with a "street tough" image, and clearly the most athletic. In order to sell itself to a circus, a trapeze act had to have a least one person who could perform the triple somersault. Felix was able to do this about 95% of the time, plus quite a few other marvelous trapeze tricks.
Youngest brother Willy, only 18 years old, was thicker in build and less wiry and agile than Felix. “Throwing the Triple” did not come so easy to him, yet he spent much of the 1988 circus season trying to do it, often in front of thousands of people.
I remember it well. The ringmaster would announce “William will now attempt the famous Triple Somersault.” Then the drum roll, and the hushed crowd. Then up goes Willy, then down goes Willy into the net.
In 30 or so attempts, Willy managed the Triple Somersault just once, with a heroic assist from catcher Jorge, who seemed to be holding Willy by his fingernails. There was much congratulations and brotherly hugging all around, but over time it became clear that Willy would never be able to throw the triple with any consistency. By contrast, brother Felix would soon be working on “throwing quad“, the latest new achievement in trapeze, something once thought of as impossible.
As the season progressed and people got to know each other, I had the audacity to try and write the “Flying Pages Rap”. The Pages traveled with cousins and in-laws who eked out a living selling cotton candy and circus souvenirs, and the circus “neighborhood” always had a Pages group of mobile homes and trailers, from which emanated all manner of rap music any time of day.
I knew little about rap in general, and even less about Cuban culture, but I went right ahead putting words in the mouths of these 3 brothers, with a little 4-track recorder that I was carrying during the entire 9-month contract.
One day in Oregon, as I sat in my pop-up tent-trailer with a rough draft of the rap on tape, I noticed Willy nearby and called him in to check it out. He smiled as he stood there with the headphones on, and it appeared that I had hit a home run.
A little later Jorge appeared, at Willy’s recommendation. Quite a different reaction. A small frown appeared on his face after a brief listen. In addition to the general “chorus” rap mentioned above, I’d written 3 individual solo raps, one for each brother. Jorge didn’t seem to appreciate the “Jorge” rap.
He said “you’re spreading it on really thick, Steve” and that’s about all he said. I didn’t offer to play it for Felix, and he never asked to hear it. I suspected that he’d heard an unfavorable review from Jorge.
The rap was forgotten, and the circus season ended, as did my career as a circus keyboardist. One year of circus was plenty for this lifetime.
The Pages went back to Sarasota, Florida for their 3-month off-season. I heard they did at least one more season for Gatti, during which Willy met a lovely young aerial athlete and quickly married her.
Only recently, spacing out as I so frequently do during my rides to Long Island and back, did the historical curiosity called the “Flying Pages Rap” pop back into my head. Maybe the individual solo raps left something to be desired, but that chorus still seemed catchy to me.
So I hit the Internet to find out what became of the Flying Pages. I found an extensive article on the subject, written in 2007, 19 years after I worked with them.
Jorge, the older brother who failed to recognize my genius as a rap writer, had retired from trapeze performance in 1992. By then he’d learned enough about the Big Top to run his own little indoor circus, called Circus Pages.
The article does not say what became of Felix Pages, the brash and highly talented middle brother. Considering his marvelous abilities, it seemed odd that the article had nothing to say about him, except that he also retired in 1992.
Willy re-invented himself as a catcher, with older brother Jorge as the perfect tutor. Instead of retiring in 1992, he had many years to go as the leader and mentor of…..
…..The Flying Pages. His son Anthony, with the perfect pedigree, was part of the act by the time he was 6 years old. At the age of 13 he threw his first Triple, and has been doing it with “the greatest of ease” ever since. He is clearly the centerpiece of the Pages present-day lineup.
Over the years, Willy and his wife have seen to it that the name Flying Pages is synonymous with quality trapeze artistry. Now both around 40 years old, they’ll now phase themselves out of the actual flying, as they recruit younger talent to support a “name” that is gathering increasing fame and industry respect with each generation.
Truly a family success story, truly a circus success story, and of course truly an American success story. A story of hard work and strong family ties. I’m glad to have met them at that particular juncture of their lives. Perhaps now I’ll re-record the rap, tweak it here and there, write a new verse for Anthony, and….nah, just kidding.
FLOAT thru the air, wit the
GREATEST of ease, we’re the
FLYING PAGES, we
ALWAYS please…..
HIGH in the sky, up a-
BOVE the ground, we’re
HOTTEST -- FLYIN’ --
ACT a - ROUND
The above lyrics are all I can remember from my first and only attempt at writing a Rap Song, and a goofy reminder of the nine months I spent with the Gatti Circus in 1988.
It was a medium-sized circus, certainly no Ringling Brothers. But it provided solid, predictable employment as a keyboardist at a time when I really needed it. It also provided a ton of interesting travel and interesting people, for instance the Flying Pages -- the sons of poor Cuban circus performers who immigrated here in the 50s.
Jorge Pages (“Pages” apparently both a singular and plural word) was the oldest of three brothers comprising this trapeze act. He was the “catcher” -- it seems that baseball and trapeze acts are the only institutions in which someone has the title of “catcher”. Jorge, thickly built, with large arms, hung from one trapeze and caught whatever human being was flying toward him, and then tossed the person back to the trapeze on the other side.
Felix was the middle brother, a bit of a renegade with a "street tough" image, and clearly the most athletic. In order to sell itself to a circus, a trapeze act had to have a least one person who could perform the triple somersault. Felix was able to do this about 95% of the time, plus quite a few other marvelous trapeze tricks.
Youngest brother Willy, only 18 years old, was thicker in build and less wiry and agile than Felix. “Throwing the Triple” did not come so easy to him, yet he spent much of the 1988 circus season trying to do it, often in front of thousands of people.
I remember it well. The ringmaster would announce “William will now attempt the famous Triple Somersault.” Then the drum roll, and the hushed crowd. Then up goes Willy, then down goes Willy into the net.
In 30 or so attempts, Willy managed the Triple Somersault just once, with a heroic assist from catcher Jorge, who seemed to be holding Willy by his fingernails. There was much congratulations and brotherly hugging all around, but over time it became clear that Willy would never be able to throw the triple with any consistency. By contrast, brother Felix would soon be working on “throwing quad“, the latest new achievement in trapeze, something once thought of as impossible.
As the season progressed and people got to know each other, I had the audacity to try and write the “Flying Pages Rap”. The Pages traveled with cousins and in-laws who eked out a living selling cotton candy and circus souvenirs, and the circus “neighborhood” always had a Pages group of mobile homes and trailers, from which emanated all manner of rap music any time of day.
I knew little about rap in general, and even less about Cuban culture, but I went right ahead putting words in the mouths of these 3 brothers, with a little 4-track recorder that I was carrying during the entire 9-month contract.
One day in Oregon, as I sat in my pop-up tent-trailer with a rough draft of the rap on tape, I noticed Willy nearby and called him in to check it out. He smiled as he stood there with the headphones on, and it appeared that I had hit a home run.
A little later Jorge appeared, at Willy’s recommendation. Quite a different reaction. A small frown appeared on his face after a brief listen. In addition to the general “chorus” rap mentioned above, I’d written 3 individual solo raps, one for each brother. Jorge didn’t seem to appreciate the “Jorge” rap.
He said “you’re spreading it on really thick, Steve” and that’s about all he said. I didn’t offer to play it for Felix, and he never asked to hear it. I suspected that he’d heard an unfavorable review from Jorge.
The rap was forgotten, and the circus season ended, as did my career as a circus keyboardist. One year of circus was plenty for this lifetime.
The Pages went back to Sarasota, Florida for their 3-month off-season. I heard they did at least one more season for Gatti, during which Willy met a lovely young aerial athlete and quickly married her.
Only recently, spacing out as I so frequently do during my rides to Long Island and back, did the historical curiosity called the “Flying Pages Rap” pop back into my head. Maybe the individual solo raps left something to be desired, but that chorus still seemed catchy to me.
So I hit the Internet to find out what became of the Flying Pages. I found an extensive article on the subject, written in 2007, 19 years after I worked with them.
Jorge, the older brother who failed to recognize my genius as a rap writer, had retired from trapeze performance in 1992. By then he’d learned enough about the Big Top to run his own little indoor circus, called Circus Pages.
The article does not say what became of Felix Pages, the brash and highly talented middle brother. Considering his marvelous abilities, it seemed odd that the article had nothing to say about him, except that he also retired in 1992.
Willy re-invented himself as a catcher, with older brother Jorge as the perfect tutor. Instead of retiring in 1992, he had many years to go as the leader and mentor of…..
…..The Flying Pages. His son Anthony, with the perfect pedigree, was part of the act by the time he was 6 years old. At the age of 13 he threw his first Triple, and has been doing it with “the greatest of ease” ever since. He is clearly the centerpiece of the Pages present-day lineup.
Over the years, Willy and his wife have seen to it that the name Flying Pages is synonymous with quality trapeze artistry. Now both around 40 years old, they’ll now phase themselves out of the actual flying, as they recruit younger talent to support a “name” that is gathering increasing fame and industry respect with each generation.
Truly a family success story, truly a circus success story, and of course truly an American success story. A story of hard work and strong family ties. I’m glad to have met them at that particular juncture of their lives. Perhaps now I’ll re-record the rap, tweak it here and there, write a new verse for Anthony, and….nah, just kidding.
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Golden Spike Disco
"Been there, done that, got the T-shirt." I've been a typical tourist over the years, buying T-shirts at so-called famous places. But they quickly become plain old T-shirts, and one winds up throwing on a shirt without noting what's written on it.
So I sat down at the breakfast table this morning wearing a T-shirt that said "Golden Spike" in large block letters. Under that was the image of two locomotives facing each other. Also an image of a railroad spike, used to hold the steel rails to the wooden cross-ties. The shirt attracted some curiosity, and I thought back to the weird place where I got the shirt.
The locomotives on the shirt represent the historic meeting of two track-laying companies back in 1869. In an ambitious project to connect the USA by rail from coast to coast, one company worked its way westward from St. Louis, and the other worked its way through the immense Sierra Nevada mountain chain starting from California. According to my 6th grade history book, the two tracks met at what is now Ogden, Utah.
When the very last connecting tie was nailed in, a Golden Spike was used, with much ceremony. There is a famous old photo of the occasion, in typical Civil-War era black-and-white, of workers grouped around the two locomotives, and some official-looking folks posing with The Spike in the Center.
The story was told very colorfully in that history book, and quite a few others, and gave me a hankering to see the historic spot. Well I guess it was only a small hankering, because I waited 45 years to go there, and only then because something else was going on.
It was summertime 2005, and the International Barbershop Harmony Association was having their annual worldwide competition in Salt Lake City. They leased out the Conference Center for the occasion. This huge 21,000-seat auditorium was the home base for the legendary Mormon Tabernacle Choir, so it was an inspiring setting for the best barbershop choruses in the world.
I got on a plane with an equally-interested friend, and we stayed for 4 days in a downtown motel, enjoyed the utter cleanliness and order of Salt Lake City, and the utter beauty of the musical performances at the Conference Center.
But somewhere, approximately 50 miles north of Salt Lake City was a place called Ogden, Utah -- which, according to my 6th grade history book was where I would find the old railroad track, the Golden Spike, and whatever tourist-y things might accompany it. I envisioned round-the-clock security guards at the location of the Golden Spike. I envisioned a Golden Spike Hotel, a Golden Spike Park, a Golden Spike Pancake House, a Golden Spike Disco.....
Heading north one afternoon in our rent-a-car, a local Utah road map gave me my first hint that there might not be a Golden Spike Disco. The closer details revealed that Ogden, Utah was a good ten miles to the EAST of the famous meeting spot. After making the appropriate left turn off the main highway, we found ourselves heading west on a much smaller road In the Middle of Nowhere as they say, with Ogden Utah getting further and further behind us.
I thought to myself, Surely we would reach the crest of some high hill, and suddenly GoldenSpikeLand would open up before us. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon, and surely the summertime dinner crowd was loading up all those restaurants.
At 4:45 we descended through a scorched-brown vista, miles and miles of sagebrush and weeds, and saw a solitary small building down in the distant desert valley. According to a dusty little road sign, we had reached our destination.
This little hut was the entirety of the Golden Spike Tourist Trap. It had one employee, selling T-shirts and books, and she was preparing to close the shop at 5:00. We were her last sales of the day, and we asked, with bated breath,
"Where's the Golden Spike?"
I almost asked where were the Security Guards for the Golden Spike, but by now I sensed something amiss, as if the Security Guard question would sound ridiculous.
She said that the famous railroad meeting point was "right out there", and she point toward a hardly-visible railroad track about 100 feet past the back door. And she went on to say that this stretch of track had been unused for over 70 years. When first built, it taken a roundabout route, circumventing a large body of water somewhere in Utah. Eventually the technology improved, and they built a bridge and track over the lake, a more direct route.
"But what about the Golden Spike?"
"Aw, they removed that spike a few days after they nailed it in. It's in some museum someplace", been there for 130 years now." She answered the question sympathetically, and I felt that she'd given this disappointing news to others before me.
We chatted a little more with the shop lady, watched her close up for the day, and were free to go back and check out the railroad track for as long as we wanted. Which was about ten minutes. I pictured the two locomotives, all those people in the photogragh long gone, looked around at the exact same desert hills that they looked on back in 1869...
...and that was it. The Golden Spike is actually located in the Stamford Museum in California, and I'll surely never go there. It turned out that the site itself was the most important thing, and in hindsight I am quite glad to have gone there. The Spike would have been a nice touch, but obviously I misunderstood the whole situation.
My T-shirt, which I'm wearing right now as I type this, has an actual image of the Golden Spike, to remind me of what I didn't see. So the shirt is a bit misleading -- perhaps I'm doing a service here, providing a word of warning, for those millions of history buffs considering a visit to "Ogden, Utah", that they'd better plan a few extra things to do.
So I sat down at the breakfast table this morning wearing a T-shirt that said "Golden Spike" in large block letters. Under that was the image of two locomotives facing each other. Also an image of a railroad spike, used to hold the steel rails to the wooden cross-ties. The shirt attracted some curiosity, and I thought back to the weird place where I got the shirt.
The locomotives on the shirt represent the historic meeting of two track-laying companies back in 1869. In an ambitious project to connect the USA by rail from coast to coast, one company worked its way westward from St. Louis, and the other worked its way through the immense Sierra Nevada mountain chain starting from California. According to my 6th grade history book, the two tracks met at what is now Ogden, Utah.
When the very last connecting tie was nailed in, a Golden Spike was used, with much ceremony. There is a famous old photo of the occasion, in typical Civil-War era black-and-white, of workers grouped around the two locomotives, and some official-looking folks posing with The Spike in the Center.
The story was told very colorfully in that history book, and quite a few others, and gave me a hankering to see the historic spot. Well I guess it was only a small hankering, because I waited 45 years to go there, and only then because something else was going on.
It was summertime 2005, and the International Barbershop Harmony Association was having their annual worldwide competition in Salt Lake City. They leased out the Conference Center for the occasion. This huge 21,000-seat auditorium was the home base for the legendary Mormon Tabernacle Choir, so it was an inspiring setting for the best barbershop choruses in the world.
I got on a plane with an equally-interested friend, and we stayed for 4 days in a downtown motel, enjoyed the utter cleanliness and order of Salt Lake City, and the utter beauty of the musical performances at the Conference Center.
But somewhere, approximately 50 miles north of Salt Lake City was a place called Ogden, Utah -- which, according to my 6th grade history book was where I would find the old railroad track, the Golden Spike, and whatever tourist-y things might accompany it. I envisioned round-the-clock security guards at the location of the Golden Spike. I envisioned a Golden Spike Hotel, a Golden Spike Park, a Golden Spike Pancake House, a Golden Spike Disco.....
Heading north one afternoon in our rent-a-car, a local Utah road map gave me my first hint that there might not be a Golden Spike Disco. The closer details revealed that Ogden, Utah was a good ten miles to the EAST of the famous meeting spot. After making the appropriate left turn off the main highway, we found ourselves heading west on a much smaller road In the Middle of Nowhere as they say, with Ogden Utah getting further and further behind us.
I thought to myself, Surely we would reach the crest of some high hill, and suddenly GoldenSpikeLand would open up before us. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon, and surely the summertime dinner crowd was loading up all those restaurants.
At 4:45 we descended through a scorched-brown vista, miles and miles of sagebrush and weeds, and saw a solitary small building down in the distant desert valley. According to a dusty little road sign, we had reached our destination.
This little hut was the entirety of the Golden Spike Tourist Trap. It had one employee, selling T-shirts and books, and she was preparing to close the shop at 5:00. We were her last sales of the day, and we asked, with bated breath,
"Where's the Golden Spike?"
I almost asked where were the Security Guards for the Golden Spike, but by now I sensed something amiss, as if the Security Guard question would sound ridiculous.
She said that the famous railroad meeting point was "right out there", and she point toward a hardly-visible railroad track about 100 feet past the back door. And she went on to say that this stretch of track had been unused for over 70 years. When first built, it taken a roundabout route, circumventing a large body of water somewhere in Utah. Eventually the technology improved, and they built a bridge and track over the lake, a more direct route.
"But what about the Golden Spike?"
"Aw, they removed that spike a few days after they nailed it in. It's in some museum someplace", been there for 130 years now." She answered the question sympathetically, and I felt that she'd given this disappointing news to others before me.
We chatted a little more with the shop lady, watched her close up for the day, and were free to go back and check out the railroad track for as long as we wanted. Which was about ten minutes. I pictured the two locomotives, all those people in the photogragh long gone, looked around at the exact same desert hills that they looked on back in 1869...
...and that was it. The Golden Spike is actually located in the Stamford Museum in California, and I'll surely never go there. It turned out that the site itself was the most important thing, and in hindsight I am quite glad to have gone there. The Spike would have been a nice touch, but obviously I misunderstood the whole situation.
My T-shirt, which I'm wearing right now as I type this, has an actual image of the Golden Spike, to remind me of what I didn't see. So the shirt is a bit misleading -- perhaps I'm doing a service here, providing a word of warning, for those millions of history buffs considering a visit to "Ogden, Utah", that they'd better plan a few extra things to do.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Family
Thanksgiving can happen anywhere between November 22 and 28, so all my life I’ve had a birthday pretty close to Turkey Day, if not right on it. This was great because I was always guaranteed a birthday cake and song in the middle of a larger-than-normal family gathering.
Out came mom & dad’s Good Silverware reserved for special occasions, and out came the Special China, and a lot of extra food - much more than for a normal night in the kitchen. This was a Dining Room Occasion, with special guests, which only happened a handful of times a year.
This pleasant memory from my childhood was re-enacted in most spectacular fashion last weekend, as my entire family got together for two days here in the Poconos. They traveled from New Mexico, Vermont, Connecticut and Long Island, which in addition to Pennsylvania have become the new family centers.
My 60th birthday provided some impetus for this huge undertaking. More importantly, it tied in to Thanksgiving, and the fact that all of us had not been in the same place since January 2004.
As delighted as I was to see all these people, it was clear that they were delighted to see each other. Some of the youngest were meeting family members for the very first time. Old ties were re-established, with stories and laughs galore. It was a unique and wonderful time for all.
In the words of my big sis Jackie --
“What can we say? It was wonderful. Magical actually. When everyone was gone, I must say I was down. Maybe that's what it feels like preparing for a wedding, the big feast, and then poof. it's over. But because you all came, you made memories we will never forget. Seeing all the kids together for the first time, wow.....Just being in the same room together, a lot of love is what I'll remember, thank you so much, and thank you Lord for the gift of family“.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Same Birthday
Just type the phrase “famous birthdays” in the box, and Google will provide a list of famous folks who be blowing out candles the same day as you. Here are some of my kindred birthday people --
Nov 24, 1632 --- Baruch Spinoza
Pretty good start. Google says “ of all the philosophers of the 17th century, perhaps none have been more relevant than Spinoza….His extremely naturalistic views on God, the world, the human being, and knowledge serve to ground a moral philosophy centered on the control of the passions, leading to virtue and happiness”
Spinoza quote: “True virtue is life under the direction of reason.” Tell that to a college kid on spring break.
Nov 24, 1784 -- Zachary Taylor
Also pretty good. The odds of my birthday being the same as that of an American President are only 8:1. Not that he was a great president. He was a war hero, the General who won the Mexican war, and back in those days people liked to vote war heroes into the Presidency.
He died suspiciously after only 2 years in office. So suspiciously that his bones were unearthed a few years ago and analyzed for traces of poison. As it turned out, there was no foul play, he simply had a nasty gastrointestinal reaction to a bowlful of ice cream and cherries. So I’ll be careful of that.
Nov 24, 1868 -- Scott Joplin
I would have been disappointed if there was no famous piano man born on Nov 24. It seems that everybody on the planet recognizes “The Entertainer” when it’s played, very much due to its use in the “Sting“ movie. I play it on my gig all the time, in addition to Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag”. Supposedly this ragtime style was the ancestor of jazz.
Nov 24, 1888 -- Dale Carnegie
“How to Win Friends and Influence People” was required reading for me in 9th grade. Carnegie was a salesman, and simply a nice guy. Sold a lot of copies of that book too.
The thing I remember from his book is “Three Ways to Make Somebody Like You” -- focus on a) what he’s proud of b) what he’s interested in c) what he wants.
Nov 24, 1897 -- Lucky Luciano
Well what was this Mafia guy proud of? Not getting whacked. What was he interested in? Not getting whacked. What did he want? Not to get whacked.
He did survive a couple of close calls -- thus the nickname. But he died of natural causes at age 65 after a lifetime of wielding power in the treacherous New York mob world.
Nov 24, 1925 -- William F Buckley
Well I guess the question “What’s Your Sign?“ is an invitation to meaningless chitchat. Thus far, Nov 24 has produced a philosopher, a gangster, a piano player, a salesman, a military man, and now…..
…..a political columnist, famous for staunch Conservatism and an extraordinary vocabulary. He made one quick foray into politics, running for Mayor of New York City in 1965 as a somewhat facetious third-party candidate. Toward election day he said “If I win, I’ll demand a recount”.
Nov 24, 1940 -- Pete Best
From the very lucky Mr. Luciano we now go to the very Unlucky Mr. Best. Getting fired from a band is, in itself, not the worst thing in the world, in fact it’s often a blessing in disguise, the next step in one’s evolution as a musician and person.
But when you’re fired from the Beatles, replaced by a short, ugly guy named Ringo Starr, and within a year they’re The Most Successful Band in World History, well…don’t give me that evolution crap.
Nov 24, 1946 -- Ted Bundy
Well the key word here is “famous”, and unfortunately he is quite famous for his misdeeds. No book on serial killers is complete without a whole chapter on this guy.
Nov 24, 1950 --Stanley Livingston
The TV sitcom “My Three Sons” ran from 1960 to 1972, with Livingston playing the role of Chip, the middle son. Major dollars at an early age. Perhaps this is not too significant, but his birthday is exactly the same as mine, both day and year. Which is significant to me, and some day I’ll send him a Birthday card.
He stayed in show biz, producing, directing, acting, screenwriting, in movies, TV, and stage, seemingly doing what he felt like doing, seemingly completely out of the limelight. He has a website, with a pretty interesting resume, he looks robust, and I suspect he’s had a very nice life.
Nov 24, 1978 -- Katherine Heigl
The youngest, and the only female on my list. So what is “Grey’s Anatomy”? I wondered. Google says it’s a highly successful TV series in a hospital setting, with Ms. Heigl in a starring role. I haven‘t seen this show yet, but I suspect its really sexy.
Well that’s my Top Ten for Nov 24 --
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU FOLKS
WHEREVER YOU ARE
Pretty good start. Google says “ of all the philosophers of the 17th century, perhaps none have been more relevant than Spinoza….His extremely naturalistic views on God, the world, the human being, and knowledge serve to ground a moral philosophy centered on the control of the passions, leading to virtue and happiness”
Spinoza quote: “True virtue is life under the direction of reason.” Tell that to a college kid on spring break.
Also pretty good. The odds of my birthday being the same as that of an American President are only 8:1. Not that he was a great president. He was a war hero, the General who won the Mexican war, and back in those days people liked to vote war heroes into the Presidency.
He died suspiciously after only 2 years in office. So suspiciously that his bones were unearthed a few years ago and analyzed for traces of poison. As it turned out, there was no foul play, he simply had a nasty gastrointestinal reaction to a bowlful of ice cream and cherries. So I’ll be careful of that.
I would have been disappointed if there was no famous piano man born on Nov 24. It seems that everybody on the planet recognizes “The Entertainer” when it’s played, very much due to its use in the “Sting“ movie. I play it on my gig all the time, in addition to Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag”. Supposedly this ragtime style was the ancestor of jazz.
Nov 24, 1888 -- Dale Carnegie
“How to Win Friends and Influence People” was required reading for me in 9th grade. Carnegie was a salesman, and simply a nice guy. Sold a lot of copies of that book too.
The thing I remember from his book is “Three Ways to Make Somebody Like You” -- focus on a) what he’s proud of b) what he’s interested in c) what he wants.
Well what was this Mafia guy proud of? Not getting whacked. What was he interested in? Not getting whacked. What did he want? Not to get whacked.
He did survive a couple of close calls -- thus the nickname. But he died of natural causes at age 65 after a lifetime of wielding power in the treacherous New York mob world.
Well I guess the question “What’s Your Sign?“ is an invitation to meaningless chitchat. Thus far, Nov 24 has produced a philosopher, a gangster, a piano player, a salesman, a military man, and now…..
…..a political columnist, famous for staunch Conservatism and an extraordinary vocabulary. He made one quick foray into politics, running for Mayor of New York City in 1965 as a somewhat facetious third-party candidate. Toward election day he said “If I win, I’ll demand a recount”.
Nov 24, 1940 -- Pete Best
From the very lucky Mr. Luciano we now go to the very Unlucky Mr. Best. Getting fired from a band is, in itself, not the worst thing in the world, in fact it’s often a blessing in disguise, the next step in one’s evolution as a musician and person.
But when you’re fired from the Beatles, replaced by a short, ugly guy named Ringo Starr, and within a year they’re The Most Successful Band in World History, well…don’t give me that evolution crap.
Well the key word here is “famous”, and unfortunately he is quite famous for his misdeeds. No book on serial killers is complete without a whole chapter on this guy.
Nov 24, 1950 --Stanley Livingston
The TV sitcom “My Three Sons” ran from 1960 to 1972, with Livingston playing the role of Chip, the middle son. Major dollars at an early age. Perhaps this is not too significant, but his birthday is exactly the same as mine, both day and year. Which is significant to me, and some day I’ll send him a Birthday card.
He stayed in show biz, producing, directing, acting, screenwriting, in movies, TV, and stage, seemingly doing what he felt like doing, seemingly completely out of the limelight. He has a website, with a pretty interesting resume, he looks robust, and I suspect he’s had a very nice life.
The youngest, and the only female on my list. So what is “Grey’s Anatomy”? I wondered. Google says it’s a highly successful TV series in a hospital setting, with Ms. Heigl in a starring role. I haven‘t seen this show yet, but I suspect its really sexy.
Well that’s my Top Ten for Nov 24 --
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU FOLKS
WHEREVER YOU ARE
Monday, November 15, 2010
Simple Old David
“The Alamo” was on TV again this past weekend. Not a week passes by where an Alamo movie doesn’t turn up somewhere on the many cable TV channels.
For the uninitiated -- The Battle of the Alamo occurred in March of 1836, when 181 Texan frontiersmen in a shabby old fort fought a Mexican army of 5000. It took 13 days for the whole drama to play out, and supposedly those 13 days were crucial to the organizing of a much larger Texan fighting unit further north. This larger group, shouting “Remember the Alamo”, eventually defeated the aforementioned Mexican army, and the nation of Texas was officially born.
It’s a compelling story which spawned no less than nine Hollywood movies. The story is further enhanced by the fact that a major celebrity of the time - Davy Crockett - was one of the Alamo defenders.
He was literally a legend in his own time, an 1830s Hulk Hogan, with both the macho aura and the fraud. His exploits -- bear wrestling, Injun fighting, and other wilderness prowess, were exaggerated to absurd proportions in the books of his time, for the provincial and the gullible. He “could ride a streak of lightning” and “leap the Mississippi”. A theater production, called “Lion of the West” was a fanciful presentation of his life -- Crockett actually attended this show, saw himself impersonated by an actor, and accepted a standing ovation at the end.
He parlayed his fame into politics, serving 2 terms in the US House of Representatives for his home state of Tennessee. But he finally overplayed his political hand, and was defeated in his attempt for a third term, a stunning rebuff for such a famous native son of Tennessee. In his concession speech he said “You all can go to hell -- I’m going to Texas”.
Now 49 years old, he headed west with a group of Tennessean cronies, hoping to parley his fame, experience, and stature into high position and a large spread of land, in what he understood to be the newly-forming Texan Republic, free from Mexican rule.
Fess Parker, John Wayne, Brian Keith, and Billy Bob Thornton are the most recent movie “Davy Crocketts”, playing the cherished role in 1955, 1960, 1987, and 2004 respectively. The first three took a fairly standard approach, playing a one-dimensional hero with a coonskin hat who fought and died for Liberty and Texas Independence.
The Thornton version probed deeper, and suggested a man who had misjudged the situation in Texas, and now faced an identity crisis that would seal his fate.
In all honesty Crockett certainly hadn’t expected anything life-threatening in Texas, the 2004 movie suggests. In fact he “thought all the fighting was over”, that the Mexican army had been chased away, that Texas had an organized and sizable army, that his Texas Relocation would be easy.
Then one morning he woke up to find the Alamo surrounded by 2000 enemy soldiers, with many thousands more to come. He saw the situation grow hopeless -- and as the days built up to the final battle, he considered escaping. There were several opportunities to gallop out in the dead of night, making a furious run for life, past the dozing Mexicans. But he stayed.
Davy Crockett (center) flanked by Colonel Travis (left) and Jim
Bowie in the 2004 version of "The Alamo"
What would the world think of The Great Davy Crockett if he’d “chickened out” and run from the heroic last stand? It would ruin The Legend which he’d cultivated over the years. On the night before the final, full Mexican assault, knowing what was to come, he confided to a friend,
and take my chances. But that Davy Crockett feller --
they’re all watching him..."
Of course, this statement comes strictly from the imagination of a scriptwriter. However to me it seems quite plausible that he said something like this, to himself at least, on the last night of his life, as he pondered the difference between his real and public selves.
Just as surely, all of us are torn between what we want to be, and what people expect us to be. Even without the added complication of public fame, we all deal with people’s expectations, many of which we ourselves help to create.
Happily, I’ll never have to launch a solo frontal assault against a dozen bloodthirsty Mexican soldiers, with just a single-shot rifle in my hands. It wouldn’t work out for me any better than it did for the “King of the Wild Frontier”. But for him, as a consolation, it led to everlasting fame, through history books and the modern miracles of film and cable TV. So if it’s really important to be remembered and celebrated by millions of total strangers, hundreds of years after you’re gone, then simple old David did the right thing.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Manhole
So what do you call it? A manhole, or a manhole cover? On the street I grew up on, I never saw a manhole cover removed, therefore I never saw the “hole” underneath. But it was too tedious to call it a “manhole cover”.
We simply called it a manhole. Drab, inconspicuous, simply functional. A thick, heavy, iron disk, more than 2 feet in diameter, with the letters “BSBQ” imbedded in the iron. (“Bureau of Sewers, Borough of Queens” -- I found out much later on). And though they’re probably all the same to manhole workers, there is a very special one on 46th Road, between 202nd and 204th Streets in Bayside, NY.
It so happened that this street was chosen by some Founding Baby Boomer kids to be a favored street for stickball. Not the kind of stickball you see in schoolyards, with some guy pitching at a rectangle “strike zone” painted onto a brick wall. (Not that there was anything wrong with that!).
By the time I was old enough to play with my earliest pals, bases were painted in strategic places on the street, and the game imitated real baseball, at least in the sense that baserunning and fielding were key elements. Pitching was eliminated -- the batters held the ball (Pensy Pinky or a “Spaldeen”) and bounced it whatever way they pleased before swinging the stick.
However, the “field” was ridiculously elongated. The street was only 28 feet wide, so first and third base were painted at the left and right curbs, 28 feet across from each other. To allow for a 60-foot run from these bases out to second base, or in the other direction toward home plate, the standard 90-degree angles of a baseball infield were dramatically stretched, and became more like two 30-degree angles at home and second, and two 150-degree angles at first and third. Runners “rounding second” had to do something resembling a U-turn, and many a kid fell on his butt out there for lack of traction.
One particular manhole -- The Manhole, to be reverent about it, served as home plate. No need to paint a 5-sided “home plate” figure. The Manhole was perfectly located, about 80 feet in from the 202nd street corner, surrounded by houses full of kids. The asphalt “field” ran some 250 feet down the street, toward the less-developed far end of the block.
The Manhole was the Center, where sides were chosen, where you ran to score a run, where you threw the ball to prevent a run, and most of all, where you stood alone for a few seconds, keenly observed by all present, with stick and ball.
In the beginning, it was where I watched “the big kids” play. They were fearsome and macho, and some of them could hit the ball over Mr. McHugh’s house into the trees of the woodsy vacant lot at the far end of the block on the left side. This was an automatic home run.
Mr. McHugh’s property made for some rather curious Ground Rules. McHugh, shrewd dude that he was, owned 2 adjacent properties, far down the left side of the street. The first property, occupied by nothing but weeds and flowers, was unfortunately completely enclosed by tall hedges, not quickly accessible. Any ball hit there was an automatic Out.
The second property -- adjacent and further out, contained the McHugh house, and was equally inaccessible. The only people who deliberately hit the ball toward McHugh’s house were those who hoped to clear it. It was either Home Run or Out, and batters who adopted this strategy were especially subject to scrutiny.
The crazy layout of the bases dictated that you hit the ball straight ahead. There was hardly any Right Field or Left Field. This was good, because there was really no practical way to play the game if the ball was hit too far off center.
Nonetheless, there were some properties just past first and third base, on the right and left sides, that were considered “Fair Territory”, and kids could be seen scampering into driveways, through lawns and bushes, on walkways and porches, chasing that elusive pink rubber ball.
If the neighbors were annoyed, they never seemed to show it. Kids and adults alike might drop what they’re doing at any given time to observe some stickball. As in pro baseball, where the focus is usually on the batter -- on 46th Road the focus was on whoever was standing at The Manhole. It felt like a stage.
One of the more heartwarming sights was that of a kid named Gerald, a 15-year old Polio victim who could barely stand. Yet the big kids let him play. He would stand for a minute at the Manhole, actually get the stick around and hit the ball -- a soft ground ball usually, and another kid would run the bases for him.
A more amusing sight would be some young teenybop girl in short shorts, hanging out with the big kids, trying her luck at batting both the ball and her eyelashes.
Less amusing were the frustrated attempts of the youngest kids trying to get the hang of it. Bounce the ball once? Bounce it twice? Hit it high or low? Short fat broomstick or long skinny one? Two strikes, yer out, on this street. I was pretty lousy at first, actually got “chucked” (fired from a choosed-up team) a few times.
Then, at some point, I got the knack. My 46th Road stickball got supplemented by some real baseball with bats and gloves at a real field elsewhere, with a different group of kids. There I learned to whack a baseball, flipping it in the air and not attempting to bounce it first. This transferred over to the broomstick and rubber ball pretty easily. Eventually I had enough strength and skill to knock a few over McHugh’s house, quite a sweet experience.
I never did become part of a “big kids” crowd that played stickball and flirted with the girls. The aforementioned “big kids” social crowd disappeared, and was not replaced by a new group of big kids, it seemed. Perhaps I was at the tail end of a Golden Age of Stickball on 46th Road.
I passed by the old neighborhood recently. There was absolutely no one to talk to, half of the houses had been razed and replaced by larger, gaudier structures. Mr. McHugh was long gone, and his two properties were completely unrecognizable from long ago, now occupied by large showy buildings. My dad’s old house, right across the street from the former McHugh properties, was also barely recognizable.
I had a few minutes to kill, so I got out of the car, talked with the Asian man who now owned my dad’s former house. Strolling down the street, I was awash in all the memories and images of kids and adults on a young and happy new suburban Baby Boomer street some 50 years ago.
Presently the asphalt looks pretty new, perhaps recently re-done. Certainly no sign of painted bases, nothing to indicate that anybody had ever played stickball there. Which is all perfectly fine. Everything evolves, as it should, on 46th Road and elsewhere.
Then I came to The Manhole, located exactly where it always was, looking like it always did, the “BSBQ” still quite clear to read, stepping out of the past without a trace of age.
I stood there staring out at the ghost of an asphalt stickball field, seeing one kid after another, facing me 60 feet away in between third and first base, playing the closest “infield” position. I saw Gerald, the teenybop girls, big kids, little kids, and the curious onlookers. I summoned my imagination and pictured the top of McHugh’s house, as it was back in the day, 250 away and inviting us all to reach it. And if it was possible at the moment, I would have emptied my wallet for a broomstick and a Spalding rubber ball and one more time at bat at The Manhole.
We simply called it a manhole. Drab, inconspicuous, simply functional. A thick, heavy, iron disk, more than 2 feet in diameter, with the letters “BSBQ” imbedded in the iron. (“Bureau of Sewers, Borough of Queens” -- I found out much later on). And though they’re probably all the same to manhole workers, there is a very special one on 46th Road, between 202nd and 204th Streets in Bayside, NY.
It so happened that this street was chosen by some Founding Baby Boomer kids to be a favored street for stickball. Not the kind of stickball you see in schoolyards, with some guy pitching at a rectangle “strike zone” painted onto a brick wall. (Not that there was anything wrong with that!).
By the time I was old enough to play with my earliest pals, bases were painted in strategic places on the street, and the game imitated real baseball, at least in the sense that baserunning and fielding were key elements. Pitching was eliminated -- the batters held the ball (Pensy Pinky or a “Spaldeen”) and bounced it whatever way they pleased before swinging the stick.
However, the “field” was ridiculously elongated. The street was only 28 feet wide, so first and third base were painted at the left and right curbs, 28 feet across from each other. To allow for a 60-foot run from these bases out to second base, or in the other direction toward home plate, the standard 90-degree angles of a baseball infield were dramatically stretched, and became more like two 30-degree angles at home and second, and two 150-degree angles at first and third. Runners “rounding second” had to do something resembling a U-turn, and many a kid fell on his butt out there for lack of traction.
One particular manhole -- The Manhole, to be reverent about it, served as home plate. No need to paint a 5-sided “home plate” figure. The Manhole was perfectly located, about 80 feet in from the 202nd street corner, surrounded by houses full of kids. The asphalt “field” ran some 250 feet down the street, toward the less-developed far end of the block.
The Manhole was the Center, where sides were chosen, where you ran to score a run, where you threw the ball to prevent a run, and most of all, where you stood alone for a few seconds, keenly observed by all present, with stick and ball.
In the beginning, it was where I watched “the big kids” play. They were fearsome and macho, and some of them could hit the ball over Mr. McHugh’s house into the trees of the woodsy vacant lot at the far end of the block on the left side. This was an automatic home run.
Mr. McHugh’s property made for some rather curious Ground Rules. McHugh, shrewd dude that he was, owned 2 adjacent properties, far down the left side of the street. The first property, occupied by nothing but weeds and flowers, was unfortunately completely enclosed by tall hedges, not quickly accessible. Any ball hit there was an automatic Out.
The second property -- adjacent and further out, contained the McHugh house, and was equally inaccessible. The only people who deliberately hit the ball toward McHugh’s house were those who hoped to clear it. It was either Home Run or Out, and batters who adopted this strategy were especially subject to scrutiny.
The crazy layout of the bases dictated that you hit the ball straight ahead. There was hardly any Right Field or Left Field. This was good, because there was really no practical way to play the game if the ball was hit too far off center.
Nonetheless, there were some properties just past first and third base, on the right and left sides, that were considered “Fair Territory”, and kids could be seen scampering into driveways, through lawns and bushes, on walkways and porches, chasing that elusive pink rubber ball.
If the neighbors were annoyed, they never seemed to show it. Kids and adults alike might drop what they’re doing at any given time to observe some stickball. As in pro baseball, where the focus is usually on the batter -- on 46th Road the focus was on whoever was standing at The Manhole. It felt like a stage.
One of the more heartwarming sights was that of a kid named Gerald, a 15-year old Polio victim who could barely stand. Yet the big kids let him play. He would stand for a minute at the Manhole, actually get the stick around and hit the ball -- a soft ground ball usually, and another kid would run the bases for him.
A more amusing sight would be some young teenybop girl in short shorts, hanging out with the big kids, trying her luck at batting both the ball and her eyelashes.
Less amusing were the frustrated attempts of the youngest kids trying to get the hang of it. Bounce the ball once? Bounce it twice? Hit it high or low? Short fat broomstick or long skinny one? Two strikes, yer out, on this street. I was pretty lousy at first, actually got “chucked” (fired from a choosed-up team) a few times.
Then, at some point, I got the knack. My 46th Road stickball got supplemented by some real baseball with bats and gloves at a real field elsewhere, with a different group of kids. There I learned to whack a baseball, flipping it in the air and not attempting to bounce it first. This transferred over to the broomstick and rubber ball pretty easily. Eventually I had enough strength and skill to knock a few over McHugh’s house, quite a sweet experience.
I never did become part of a “big kids” crowd that played stickball and flirted with the girls. The aforementioned “big kids” social crowd disappeared, and was not replaced by a new group of big kids, it seemed. Perhaps I was at the tail end of a Golden Age of Stickball on 46th Road.
I passed by the old neighborhood recently. There was absolutely no one to talk to, half of the houses had been razed and replaced by larger, gaudier structures. Mr. McHugh was long gone, and his two properties were completely unrecognizable from long ago, now occupied by large showy buildings. My dad’s old house, right across the street from the former McHugh properties, was also barely recognizable.
I had a few minutes to kill, so I got out of the car, talked with the Asian man who now owned my dad’s former house. Strolling down the street, I was awash in all the memories and images of kids and adults on a young and happy new suburban Baby Boomer street some 50 years ago.
Presently the asphalt looks pretty new, perhaps recently re-done. Certainly no sign of painted bases, nothing to indicate that anybody had ever played stickball there. Which is all perfectly fine. Everything evolves, as it should, on 46th Road and elsewhere.
Then I came to The Manhole, located exactly where it always was, looking like it always did, the “BSBQ” still quite clear to read, stepping out of the past without a trace of age.
I stood there staring out at the ghost of an asphalt stickball field, seeing one kid after another, facing me 60 feet away in between third and first base, playing the closest “infield” position. I saw Gerald, the teenybop girls, big kids, little kids, and the curious onlookers. I summoned my imagination and pictured the top of McHugh’s house, as it was back in the day, 250 away and inviting us all to reach it. And if it was possible at the moment, I would have emptied my wallet for a broomstick and a Spalding rubber ball and one more time at bat at The Manhole.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Skull on My Porch
I remember one time Halloween fell on a Sunday when I was a kid. Since I didn’t have to go to school first, I thought I could get an earlier start treat-or-treating and haul in an extra bag or two of candy.
This idea was shot down when Halloween Sunday arrived. At 11:00 in the morning a young treat-or-treating “witch” or whatever -- apparently thinking like I was -- turned up at our doorstep, and was turned away by my dad. It was simply too early, he said, and it smacked of greed. More importantly, it was Sunday, first and foremost, and stupid old Halloween simply didn’t fit.
In hindsight I see how correct my dad was, whether he knew it or not. Halloween had its origins in Gaelic (Irish) pagan ritual, which existed long before Saint Patrick came to Ireland and converted everybody to Catholicism. I came from an Irish family, but they were quite Catholic, hardly interested in ancient Gaelic ways.
I recently checked out a website dedicated to old Gaelic culture, which described, among many other things, the 4 seasonal observances of the ancient Gaels. The website said --
"The ancestors celebrated the 4 solar events associated with the
pastoral people that inhabited the Isles before the coming of the
Roman, Saxon, and Angles. These times are commonly
referred to as the Samhain, Oimelc, Beltinna, and Lughnasdh."
Samhain (Gaelic for “summer’s end” -- pronounced SAH - win) was the last harvest observance, on Oct 31 - Nov 1. Back then as much as ever, the four seasons mirrored the advance and decline of life itself on earth, and Samhain was the darkest, most death-oriented observance. It’s opposite observance was Beltinna, on May 1, which celebrated light, the return of the long Sun, and new life.
There was supposedly a protective sheath, separating the living “earth” world from the spirit world. This sheath was at its thinnest around Samhain. Spirits of the Dear and not-so-Dear Departed were particularly accessible, and things got very spooky.
After sunset, outdoor bonfires were maintained, to ward off evil spirits and invite good spirits. Spirits of departed loved ones were thought to revisit their old earthly homes. People prayed to these spirits, asked them for advice, left food out for them, put candles at their graves. They even dug up the actual skulls and displayed them in front of their houses, to keep away the evil spirits -- eventually this gross practice was replaced by the display of Jack O’Lanterns.
That’s just a sampling. Throw in the Germanic (European mainland) traditions and you have a ton of superstitious (?) ideas which eventually developed into Halloween. Strip away all the spooky stuff, and it was still - basically - an observance of change of season, appreciation for the harvest, preparation for the cold months, and a hope for future blessings.
In today’s America, strip away the commercialism, the costumes, horror movies, haunted houses and other manufactured scariness -- and you have - basically - NOTHING . I would expect any present-day pagans to be pretty turned off to the whole thing. Not that I know any present-day pagans.
It’s windy and very nippy out there as I type this, and tonight it should be downright wintry. Up here in the woods on Halloween Sunday, perhaps I’ll turn off the World Series for a while, put on an overcoat and step into that pitch darkness, imagining the bonfires, the black and orange landscape, the thin sheath separating the living and spirit worlds, the primitive fear and awe.
In fact, I think I’ll step outside right now. There’s a few hours of daylight left. According to that Gaelic website -- if you catch a falling leaf before it hits the ground on Samhain, you will have good luck and health for the coming winter. Might be worth a try.
This idea was shot down when Halloween Sunday arrived. At 11:00 in the morning a young treat-or-treating “witch” or whatever -- apparently thinking like I was -- turned up at our doorstep, and was turned away by my dad. It was simply too early, he said, and it smacked of greed. More importantly, it was Sunday, first and foremost, and stupid old Halloween simply didn’t fit.
In hindsight I see how correct my dad was, whether he knew it or not. Halloween had its origins in Gaelic (Irish) pagan ritual, which existed long before Saint Patrick came to Ireland and converted everybody to Catholicism. I came from an Irish family, but they were quite Catholic, hardly interested in ancient Gaelic ways.
I recently checked out a website dedicated to old Gaelic culture, which described, among many other things, the 4 seasonal observances of the ancient Gaels. The website said --
"The ancestors celebrated the 4 solar events associated with the
pastoral people that inhabited the Isles before the coming of the
Roman, Saxon, and Angles. These times are commonly
referred to as the Samhain, Oimelc, Beltinna, and Lughnasdh."
Samhain (Gaelic for “summer’s end” -- pronounced SAH - win) was the last harvest observance, on Oct 31 - Nov 1. Back then as much as ever, the four seasons mirrored the advance and decline of life itself on earth, and Samhain was the darkest, most death-oriented observance. It’s opposite observance was Beltinna, on May 1, which celebrated light, the return of the long Sun, and new life.
There was supposedly a protective sheath, separating the living “earth” world from the spirit world. This sheath was at its thinnest around Samhain. Spirits of the Dear and not-so-Dear Departed were particularly accessible, and things got very spooky.
After sunset, outdoor bonfires were maintained, to ward off evil spirits and invite good spirits. Spirits of departed loved ones were thought to revisit their old earthly homes. People prayed to these spirits, asked them for advice, left food out for them, put candles at their graves. They even dug up the actual skulls and displayed them in front of their houses, to keep away the evil spirits -- eventually this gross practice was replaced by the display of Jack O’Lanterns.
That’s just a sampling. Throw in the Germanic (European mainland) traditions and you have a ton of superstitious (?) ideas which eventually developed into Halloween. Strip away all the spooky stuff, and it was still - basically - an observance of change of season, appreciation for the harvest, preparation for the cold months, and a hope for future blessings.
In today’s America, strip away the commercialism, the costumes, horror movies, haunted houses and other manufactured scariness -- and you have - basically - NOTHING . I would expect any present-day pagans to be pretty turned off to the whole thing. Not that I know any present-day pagans.
It’s windy and very nippy out there as I type this, and tonight it should be downright wintry. Up here in the woods on Halloween Sunday, perhaps I’ll turn off the World Series for a while, put on an overcoat and step into that pitch darkness, imagining the bonfires, the black and orange landscape, the thin sheath separating the living and spirit worlds, the primitive fear and awe.
In fact, I think I’ll step outside right now. There’s a few hours of daylight left. According to that Gaelic website -- if you catch a falling leaf before it hits the ground on Samhain, you will have good luck and health for the coming winter. Might be worth a try.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Honus Wagner
The most valuable baseball card in the world is a mint-condition T206 Honus Wagner card, issued in 1909 by the American Tobacco Company. In 2008 the card changed hands for $2.8 million.
This week the T206 Honus Wagner card is again in the news -- albeit a different specimen -- in rather poor condition. It is legally owned by the Sisters of Notre Dame, in Baltimore, who inherited it from a man whose "sister was a Sister" so to speak. On November 4 the Sisters will auction off the card, hoping to make about $150,000 for a number of needy causes.
Strange as this news item might be, Mr. Wagner himself is always part of any story about this card, because it is he who made the card especially rare. In the first few months of the card's existence, Wagner successfully demanded that its production be stopped.
Wagner was ahead of his time. Back in 1909 there was no legal age limit for cigarette sales. Wagner didn't like the idea of children smoking, and didn't want his image used to promote it.
Many have questioned this, saying that Wagner's real beef was about money. The American Tobacco Company never consulted or paid any of the players before using their images. Possibly Wagner gave them an ultimatum -- Pay Me or Pull the Card.
If the story is true, then it could still be said that Wagner was ahead of his time, and would make an excellent Player Rep in this era of pro baseball greed.
Another 75 years would pass before card collecting became a mainstream idea. The amount of collectors skyrocketed in the 1980s, as did the card values. 1984 saw the first publication of the Beckett's Guide to baseball cards, which assigned prices to tens of thousands of vintage cards.
Even new cards were rated, some of them purported to be collectors items even as they rolled off the presses. Back in 1999, I recall once observing a young kid opening packs of cards, with his Beckett Guide right beside him to evaluate each new card. The most choice cards went into plastic protective sleeves.
So different from the careless abandon of my childhood 60s. Back then I didn't care what shape the cards were in. A great many of them were obtained through flipping, scaling (tossing them like Frisbees) and other such games -- the cards were actually PLAYED WITH. Furthermore, the previous year's cards were as worthless as the previous year's calendar, and met the same fate.
But unbenownst to me at the time, there were collectors, people who held on to that 1963 Pete Rose rookie card I threw away, like those unusual folks back in 1909 who held on to the T206 Honus Wagner card.
For all the excesses of baseball, the evils of tobacco, and the callous profiteering in the sports memorabilia biz, it's nice to know something really good can happen occasionally -- here's hoping the good Sisters make a killing on November 4.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Ten Paces
It was July 1804. The Hudson River, separating the wilderness of New Jersey from the bustling little city of New York, gleamed with the reflections of the morning sun. At 6:00 AM, all was peaceful and quiet on the woodsy Jersey side of the river, except for a small rowboat approaching the shore, carrying 5 men.
Two of the men were rowing the boat, getting paid for a special job requiring that they say nothing of it later on. Also in the boat was a doctor, nervous, hoping that his services would not be needed in the next few minutes.
The key figure in the boat was a celebrity, a household word, to many people a national hero. He was 49 years old, had served nobly in the Revolutionary War, had served as Secretary of the Treasury under President George Washington, and had singlehandedly established the U S Treasury. Centuries later his image would be on every ten-dollar bill in the United States.
But if Alexander Hamilton was a hero to many, he was hated by some, especially by powerful people, and this was why he sat in this rowboat, secretly en route to a most fateful encounter.
The 5th person in the boat was a young well-dressed man named Pendleton, who would serve as Mr. Hamilton’s assistant in the upcoming altercation. Pendleton, and the doctor, and Hamilton stepped off the boat as it hit the shore. The rowers waited behind, apprehensive with what was to follow, what would come back from the woods.
Waiting in the woods for Hamilton was the Vice President of the United States of America. Now in his fourth and final year as Vice-President, Aaron Burr had recently been defeated in the New York State Gubernatorial Election. Hamilton was instrumental in this crushing defeat, having used all his political influence against Burr.
And now, Vice President Aaron Burr and Former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton would settle matters with dueling pistols. Burr had issued the challenge, and Hamilton was compelled to accept, as a matter of honor.
Actually the final impetus for the duel was some derogatory remarks made by Hamilton about Burr, at a cocktail party. The remarks got back to Burr, who demanded an apology and retraction. Hamilton tried to wrangle out of the situation by sending letters to Burr, lecturing him on the various meanings of the word “despicable”, without apologizing. Burr quickly got tired of this and issued the challenge to a duel. Many historians say the whole thing could have been avoided.
At this time in history, thoughtful American people were trying to end the practice of dueling, since in some cases it was little different from murder. New York State had outlawed it, thus Hamilton and Burr had quietly gone over to New Jersey, where the penalties for dueling were much less severe. But such a deadly encounter between these two famous Americans would not be kept secret for long, especially if one of the .56 caliber balls found its mark.
In a clearing in the woods, a handsome hand-carved box was presented, containing two identical pistols, manufactured for the specific purpose of dueling. They were inspected, approved, and loaded, and within a minute the two combatants stood facing each other at a distance of ten paces. One of the officials shouted the word “present”, at which point both men were free to fire whenever they wanted.
To circumvent the law, all of the non-combatants deliberately looked away at the crucial moment, so that they could safely say that they hadn’t “seen” the shooting.
Years later, they would only be able to say that they heard two shots. Hamilton’s shot went wide and high, hitting a tree branch many feet away from Burr. Hamilton’s two companions thought it highly likely that Hamilton had fired first, deliberately missing, and inviting Burr to do the same. In some duels this led to a “satisfaction of the honor” of the offended person, and an end to hostilities.
However Burr was a ruthlessly ambitious man, with an opportunity to end Hamilton’s blockade of his career. Burr’s aim was true, and when the smoke cleared Hamilton lay mortally wounded, bleeding from the abdomen, with the doctor helpless to save him. He was carried back to the boat, and rushed back across the river to his house in New York City, where he would die the next day.
It was a sudden and improbable end for a man who had survived earlier war experience, who continued to be involved in the shaping of this young and exciting nation, who had a flourishing New York City law practice, who had a beloved wife and 7 children. In short, it didn’t make sense that he took such a chance with Burr.
For all his high position, political savvy, and ambition, Burr committed political suicide when he fired at Hamilton. He miscalculated public reaction. News of the fatal duel spread far and wide, and the nation officially mourned. Both New York State and New Jersey filed criminal charges.
However Burr never went on trial, and in early 1805 he finished his term as Vice President. His political life in ruins, he went out West, and concocted some remarkable and unsuccessful plans to attain power out there, in one case trying to be the “monarch” of a large section of Northern Mexico.
The Hamilton-Burr duel was stunning at the time, because of the fame of the two men. Yet illegal dueling continued, in secret places, despite the efforts of legislators, and religious and civic groups. It was especially strong down South, where the Code of Chivalry and Honor allowed a person to defend any perceived slight to his honor, no matter how mismatched the opponents.
All 50 states have anti-dueling regulations now, and I don‘t feel the need for weekly target practice. But there will always be challenges and fights among men, as long as there’s power, women, money, honor, and self-respect at stake. It’s testosterone, it’s human nature, it’s inevitable, and perhaps I’ll ponder this whenever I have a few seconds to stare at a ten-dollar bill.
Two of the men were rowing the boat, getting paid for a special job requiring that they say nothing of it later on. Also in the boat was a doctor, nervous, hoping that his services would not be needed in the next few minutes.
The key figure in the boat was a celebrity, a household word, to many people a national hero. He was 49 years old, had served nobly in the Revolutionary War, had served as Secretary of the Treasury under President George Washington, and had singlehandedly established the U S Treasury. Centuries later his image would be on every ten-dollar bill in the United States.
But if Alexander Hamilton was a hero to many, he was hated by some, especially by powerful people, and this was why he sat in this rowboat, secretly en route to a most fateful encounter.
The 5th person in the boat was a young well-dressed man named Pendleton, who would serve as Mr. Hamilton’s assistant in the upcoming altercation. Pendleton, and the doctor, and Hamilton stepped off the boat as it hit the shore. The rowers waited behind, apprehensive with what was to follow, what would come back from the woods.
Waiting in the woods for Hamilton was the Vice President of the United States of America. Now in his fourth and final year as Vice-President, Aaron Burr had recently been defeated in the New York State Gubernatorial Election. Hamilton was instrumental in this crushing defeat, having used all his political influence against Burr.
And now, Vice President Aaron Burr and Former Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton would settle matters with dueling pistols. Burr had issued the challenge, and Hamilton was compelled to accept, as a matter of honor.
Actually the final impetus for the duel was some derogatory remarks made by Hamilton about Burr, at a cocktail party. The remarks got back to Burr, who demanded an apology and retraction. Hamilton tried to wrangle out of the situation by sending letters to Burr, lecturing him on the various meanings of the word “despicable”, without apologizing. Burr quickly got tired of this and issued the challenge to a duel. Many historians say the whole thing could have been avoided.
At this time in history, thoughtful American people were trying to end the practice of dueling, since in some cases it was little different from murder. New York State had outlawed it, thus Hamilton and Burr had quietly gone over to New Jersey, where the penalties for dueling were much less severe. But such a deadly encounter between these two famous Americans would not be kept secret for long, especially if one of the .56 caliber balls found its mark.
In a clearing in the woods, a handsome hand-carved box was presented, containing two identical pistols, manufactured for the specific purpose of dueling. They were inspected, approved, and loaded, and within a minute the two combatants stood facing each other at a distance of ten paces. One of the officials shouted the word “present”, at which point both men were free to fire whenever they wanted.
To circumvent the law, all of the non-combatants deliberately looked away at the crucial moment, so that they could safely say that they hadn’t “seen” the shooting.
Years later, they would only be able to say that they heard two shots. Hamilton’s shot went wide and high, hitting a tree branch many feet away from Burr. Hamilton’s two companions thought it highly likely that Hamilton had fired first, deliberately missing, and inviting Burr to do the same. In some duels this led to a “satisfaction of the honor” of the offended person, and an end to hostilities.
However Burr was a ruthlessly ambitious man, with an opportunity to end Hamilton’s blockade of his career. Burr’s aim was true, and when the smoke cleared Hamilton lay mortally wounded, bleeding from the abdomen, with the doctor helpless to save him. He was carried back to the boat, and rushed back across the river to his house in New York City, where he would die the next day.
It was a sudden and improbable end for a man who had survived earlier war experience, who continued to be involved in the shaping of this young and exciting nation, who had a flourishing New York City law practice, who had a beloved wife and 7 children. In short, it didn’t make sense that he took such a chance with Burr.
For all his high position, political savvy, and ambition, Burr committed political suicide when he fired at Hamilton. He miscalculated public reaction. News of the fatal duel spread far and wide, and the nation officially mourned. Both New York State and New Jersey filed criminal charges.
However Burr never went on trial, and in early 1805 he finished his term as Vice President. His political life in ruins, he went out West, and concocted some remarkable and unsuccessful plans to attain power out there, in one case trying to be the “monarch” of a large section of Northern Mexico.
The Hamilton-Burr duel was stunning at the time, because of the fame of the two men. Yet illegal dueling continued, in secret places, despite the efforts of legislators, and religious and civic groups. It was especially strong down South, where the Code of Chivalry and Honor allowed a person to defend any perceived slight to his honor, no matter how mismatched the opponents.
All 50 states have anti-dueling regulations now, and I don‘t feel the need for weekly target practice. But there will always be challenges and fights among men, as long as there’s power, women, money, honor, and self-respect at stake. It’s testosterone, it’s human nature, it’s inevitable, and perhaps I’ll ponder this whenever I have a few seconds to stare at a ten-dollar bill.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Till I Waltz Again With You
It was sometime in the early 90s, for me a typical Sunday of early evening piano at the Cavalier Restaurant in Jackson Heights -- old songs, at an old piano, for an old audience.
Presently a non-descript-looking gentleman, perhaps in his mid-sixties, wearing a ratty gray jacket, appeared at the piano, asking me to play “his song”. And What Song is That, I asked.
“Till I Waltz Again With You” he said, and I apologized for not knowing it. Not only could I not play it, I had no clue how it went, and had never even seen the title in print. This was an uncomfortable situation because….
….this man was the AUTHOR of “Till I Waltz Again With You”. His name was Sid Prosen, and he went on to say that his song was a #1 hit for Theresa Brewer, and any competent piano man should know it. He wasn’t angry, but a tad condescending, and I instantly disliked him.
I said something like OK I’ll research the song, and Is There Something Else I Could Play For You Instead, Sir? But he had no second choice, and I went home that evening dismissing the incident, thinking that this Mr. Prosen, whoever he was with his ratty gray jacket, would hopefully not turn up again.
But turn up again he did, a few weeks later. This time I had no excuse for not knowing “Till I Waltz Again With You”, and his condescension was double. I swore I’d learn it very soon.
My day job at ASCAP did have some good research avenues, and the next day I listened to the original Theresa Brewer recording. It turned out that Mr. Prosen was on the level -- “Till I Waltz Again With You” was indeed #1 on the Billboard charts on 1952, for quite a few weeks. I had considered myself very knowledgeable on 1950s #1 songs, and was fascinated that this song had done such a disappearing act. Ironically, the tune was not a waltz, but rather a moderate shuffle beat, quite easy to play on a piano. It was as simple as Yankee Doodle, and it was the ONLY thing Mr. Prosen ever wrote that went anywhere.
I was reminded of the movie “Amadeus”, which featured a mediocre 18th century Classical composer, named Salieri. He lived long enough to see all of his music go completely into oblivion, while the divinely-inspired works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart steadily increased in popularity long after his untimely demise. Here in the 20th century, Sid Prosen’s One Big Tune was only 40 years in the past, but this point the only person who seemed to remember it was Sid himself.
I learned the tune in no time, and was delighted and ready to “make Sid’s Day” (maybe even get him to throw a buck into the tip jar?) when he walked in a few weeks later. I teased him, made him wait while he dined, once again alone, once again in the ratty gray jacket. Of course he finally approached the piano, and I proudly gave him a knowing smile as I played the first few bars.
Sid smiled, sang along with his own tune, waved his arms in the air like a conductor. Then he walked from table to table, saying “that’s my song” to anyone who would listen. I was happy that Sid could strut and brag, but I was a little sad that he felt the need to.
This little friendship of piano man and “hit composer” lasted a few more months, but eventually he stopped showing up. Many years later he came to mind, and I did some sleuthing. He had in fact, passed away a few years after I last saw him, and his meager airplay royalties were going to some small publishing company.
I wish I had spoken to him more. Perhaps there was more to his story. But I blew the chance, assuming that he’d keep showing up. As it stands now, this is the brief story of a man whose biggest showbiz triumph happened when he was a very young man, a triumph he would cling to for the rest of his life. At least that’s how it appears, in the eyes and ears of this piano player, who just might be the last piano player on earth to perform “Till I Waltz Again With You”
Presently a non-descript-looking gentleman, perhaps in his mid-sixties, wearing a ratty gray jacket, appeared at the piano, asking me to play “his song”. And What Song is That, I asked.
“Till I Waltz Again With You” he said, and I apologized for not knowing it. Not only could I not play it, I had no clue how it went, and had never even seen the title in print. This was an uncomfortable situation because….
….this man was the AUTHOR of “Till I Waltz Again With You”. His name was Sid Prosen, and he went on to say that his song was a #1 hit for Theresa Brewer, and any competent piano man should know it. He wasn’t angry, but a tad condescending, and I instantly disliked him.
I said something like OK I’ll research the song, and Is There Something Else I Could Play For You Instead, Sir? But he had no second choice, and I went home that evening dismissing the incident, thinking that this Mr. Prosen, whoever he was with his ratty gray jacket, would hopefully not turn up again.
But turn up again he did, a few weeks later. This time I had no excuse for not knowing “Till I Waltz Again With You”, and his condescension was double. I swore I’d learn it very soon.
My day job at ASCAP did have some good research avenues, and the next day I listened to the original Theresa Brewer recording. It turned out that Mr. Prosen was on the level -- “Till I Waltz Again With You” was indeed #1 on the Billboard charts on 1952, for quite a few weeks. I had considered myself very knowledgeable on 1950s #1 songs, and was fascinated that this song had done such a disappearing act. Ironically, the tune was not a waltz, but rather a moderate shuffle beat, quite easy to play on a piano. It was as simple as Yankee Doodle, and it was the ONLY thing Mr. Prosen ever wrote that went anywhere.
I was reminded of the movie “Amadeus”, which featured a mediocre 18th century Classical composer, named Salieri. He lived long enough to see all of his music go completely into oblivion, while the divinely-inspired works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart steadily increased in popularity long after his untimely demise. Here in the 20th century, Sid Prosen’s One Big Tune was only 40 years in the past, but this point the only person who seemed to remember it was Sid himself.
I learned the tune in no time, and was delighted and ready to “make Sid’s Day” (maybe even get him to throw a buck into the tip jar?) when he walked in a few weeks later. I teased him, made him wait while he dined, once again alone, once again in the ratty gray jacket. Of course he finally approached the piano, and I proudly gave him a knowing smile as I played the first few bars.
Sid smiled, sang along with his own tune, waved his arms in the air like a conductor. Then he walked from table to table, saying “that’s my song” to anyone who would listen. I was happy that Sid could strut and brag, but I was a little sad that he felt the need to.
This little friendship of piano man and “hit composer” lasted a few more months, but eventually he stopped showing up. Many years later he came to mind, and I did some sleuthing. He had in fact, passed away a few years after I last saw him, and his meager airplay royalties were going to some small publishing company.
I wish I had spoken to him more. Perhaps there was more to his story. But I blew the chance, assuming that he’d keep showing up. As it stands now, this is the brief story of a man whose biggest showbiz triumph happened when he was a very young man, a triumph he would cling to for the rest of his life. At least that’s how it appears, in the eyes and ears of this piano player, who just might be the last piano player on earth to perform “Till I Waltz Again With You”
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
And In This Corner.....
I’ve always felt that the best nighttime dreams are the bad ones -- the nightmares -- because you feel so darn good when you wake up to find them untrue. Such was the case this morning when I woke up, quite relieved that I did not have to fight Joe Frazier at Madison Square Garden.
For the uninitiated -- “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier was a great heavyweight boxer, World Champ for a while in the early 1970s. He fought the legendary Muhammed Ali 3 times, actually winning the first fight. He was an extremely tough, hard-hitting hombre, one of the few who ever knocked Muhammed Ali to the canvas.
As for what he might do to ME in the ring…well this was the focus of the dream. In the dream I wasn’t DOING very much. I was apparently in a subway station, very close to Madison Square Garden, sitting down, thinking of this upcoming fight, which was to happen within the hour. And I was STALLING. It was a non-action dream, during which I “contemplated“ action.
There was some awareness that Frazier was retired, or least not the current Heavyweight Champ. This was no consolation, and I was well aware of almost certain pulverization. It was simply a matter of whether I go in swinging wildly, hoping for a lucky punch, or cover up in defensive posture, which would postpone the inevitable for a few seconds. In the dream I sat and weighed these options, and these thoughts actually had corresponding “pictures” of myself in the ring, briefly trying these strategies.
It was the money, it was the money….I even knew what I was getting paid in the dream -- $12,000, as a last minute challenger to Frazier. This last-minute substitute factor is exactly what happened to Sylvester Stallone in the first “Rocky” movie. So this was my first movie-plagiarism dream. But by today’s standards, $12,000 is pretty lousy payment for getting demolished by Joe Frazier in legendary Madison Square Garden, and I’m a little disappointed in my “dream self” for settling for so little.
At one point, I looked at my watch…only 25 minutes to go….gotta have that $12,000.…they’ll sue me if I was a no-show….I’d be forever branded a coward if I didn’t show up….maybe I should walk out there with my hands at my sides, get it over with quickly…damn, I really don’t want to do this….
…..And with that I woke up, it was morning, one of the nicest wake-ups of my life. Wow, I REALLY DON’T have to fight Joe Frazier. Think I’ll have a coffee, make sure I don’t go back to sleep.
Vivid dreams have some logical explanation, so I suppose I’ll spend time today wondering where this thing came from. In any case I hope it isn’t some kind of “to be continued” dream with a Part Two.
I’m tempted to write ol’ Smokin’ Joe himself about all this. I don‘t know him at all, but he might find it amusing. Who knows, maybe he had a dream about having to fight some utterly unqualified opponent, some old piano player. Well, maybe not, but I might get an autographed photo out of it.
For the uninitiated -- “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier was a great heavyweight boxer, World Champ for a while in the early 1970s. He fought the legendary Muhammed Ali 3 times, actually winning the first fight. He was an extremely tough, hard-hitting hombre, one of the few who ever knocked Muhammed Ali to the canvas.
As for what he might do to ME in the ring…well this was the focus of the dream. In the dream I wasn’t DOING very much. I was apparently in a subway station, very close to Madison Square Garden, sitting down, thinking of this upcoming fight, which was to happen within the hour. And I was STALLING. It was a non-action dream, during which I “contemplated“ action.
There was some awareness that Frazier was retired, or least not the current Heavyweight Champ. This was no consolation, and I was well aware of almost certain pulverization. It was simply a matter of whether I go in swinging wildly, hoping for a lucky punch, or cover up in defensive posture, which would postpone the inevitable for a few seconds. In the dream I sat and weighed these options, and these thoughts actually had corresponding “pictures” of myself in the ring, briefly trying these strategies.
It was the money, it was the money….I even knew what I was getting paid in the dream -- $12,000, as a last minute challenger to Frazier. This last-minute substitute factor is exactly what happened to Sylvester Stallone in the first “Rocky” movie. So this was my first movie-plagiarism dream. But by today’s standards, $12,000 is pretty lousy payment for getting demolished by Joe Frazier in legendary Madison Square Garden, and I’m a little disappointed in my “dream self” for settling for so little.
At one point, I looked at my watch…only 25 minutes to go….gotta have that $12,000.…they’ll sue me if I was a no-show….I’d be forever branded a coward if I didn’t show up….maybe I should walk out there with my hands at my sides, get it over with quickly…damn, I really don’t want to do this….
…..And with that I woke up, it was morning, one of the nicest wake-ups of my life. Wow, I REALLY DON’T have to fight Joe Frazier. Think I’ll have a coffee, make sure I don’t go back to sleep.
Vivid dreams have some logical explanation, so I suppose I’ll spend time today wondering where this thing came from. In any case I hope it isn’t some kind of “to be continued” dream with a Part Two.
I’m tempted to write ol’ Smokin’ Joe himself about all this. I don‘t know him at all, but he might find it amusing. Who knows, maybe he had a dream about having to fight some utterly unqualified opponent, some old piano player. Well, maybe not, but I might get an autographed photo out of it.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
One-Way Ticket
My devout Catholic friend sat across the table and sighed. She’d recently had a serious disagreement with her daughter, a disagreement that would be impossible to patch up.
The daughter, married and living in California, was attempting in vitro fertilization, thus far without success. My Catholic friend had told her daughter, gently but firmly, that she would “pray for the souls of the other 13”.
I then learned that “in vitro” involves the creation of many sperm-egg conceptions -- embryos -- in this case a total of 14. They are frozen 3 days after conception, when they consist of about 8 cells each, and the unused ones are eventually destroyed.
As the Catholic Church sees it, not only does human life begin at conception; but so does the soul. No reincarnation here -- this is the very creation of an eternal being, quite a feat for upright-walking mammals, whether done the old-fashioned way, or “within the glass” -- the meaning of the Latin “in vitro“.
It struck me that the 13 souls were “innocents”, obviously. Therefore I wondered -- why would they need prayers? Surely they had a one-way ticket to Heaven. They “win the game”, it seemed to me, and I expressed this to my friend in those words, not facetiously, but in a genuine attempt to see the bright side.
An EXTREMELY bright side, in the simple mindset of my Catholic boyhood . Back then, it seemed to me that the whole idea was to save your soul, go to Heaven, avoid Hell, minimize one’s “time” in Purgatory, basically by living morally. A few minutes of recent Googling indicated that the Church has not altered these ideas. If you die with Mortal Sin on your soul, or perhaps “Chronic Mortal Sin”, you still go to The Other Place -- forever. I would hope the Church would not alter their policy on such an ultra-important concept, just to make things easier for people "nowadays".
We’re talking Eternity here, the contemplation of which, by definition, is pretty much impossible, and one winds up very impressed with how brief a human lifetime really is, with ultimately no difference between 90 years and 90 seconds.
So wouldn’t a one-way ticket to Heaven be a great thing? What’s a few seconds of suffering, or an early demise, compared to Eternal Happiness? A believer should HOPE for a well-timed (i.e. “sin-less”) departure from this life, say for instance killed immediately after he steps out of the confessional. The murderer would be doing his victim a priceless favor. Stretching the logic a bit, you could posit that the murderer could then go to confession, get absolved, and hopefully get similarly dispatched to the Pearly Gates.
OK OK, this reasoning quickly starts to look ridiculous when viewed from other angles. Most folks agree that taking someone’s life is wrong, for a number of reasons, regardless of the Afterlife Factor. Any ideas to the contrary are barely arguable, and the world would be considerably more dangerous if people embraced them.
Our discussion of “IVF” ended pretty abruptly. The subject was already upsetting to my devout Catholic friend, and my remarks were certainly no help. She didn’t say it, but she probably thought me a simpleton in serious need of Theological study. Which I just might pursue. But I came away from this chat with a new appreciation of “separation of Church and State”, as specified in the Constitution. The Founding Fathers insisted on it, thank God.
The daughter, married and living in California, was attempting in vitro fertilization, thus far without success. My Catholic friend had told her daughter, gently but firmly, that she would “pray for the souls of the other 13”.
I then learned that “in vitro” involves the creation of many sperm-egg conceptions -- embryos -- in this case a total of 14. They are frozen 3 days after conception, when they consist of about 8 cells each, and the unused ones are eventually destroyed.
As the Catholic Church sees it, not only does human life begin at conception; but so does the soul. No reincarnation here -- this is the very creation of an eternal being, quite a feat for upright-walking mammals, whether done the old-fashioned way, or “within the glass” -- the meaning of the Latin “in vitro“.
It struck me that the 13 souls were “innocents”, obviously. Therefore I wondered -- why would they need prayers? Surely they had a one-way ticket to Heaven. They “win the game”, it seemed to me, and I expressed this to my friend in those words, not facetiously, but in a genuine attempt to see the bright side.
An EXTREMELY bright side, in the simple mindset of my Catholic boyhood . Back then, it seemed to me that the whole idea was to save your soul, go to Heaven, avoid Hell, minimize one’s “time” in Purgatory, basically by living morally. A few minutes of recent Googling indicated that the Church has not altered these ideas. If you die with Mortal Sin on your soul, or perhaps “Chronic Mortal Sin”, you still go to The Other Place -- forever. I would hope the Church would not alter their policy on such an ultra-important concept, just to make things easier for people "nowadays".
We’re talking Eternity here, the contemplation of which, by definition, is pretty much impossible, and one winds up very impressed with how brief a human lifetime really is, with ultimately no difference between 90 years and 90 seconds.
So wouldn’t a one-way ticket to Heaven be a great thing? What’s a few seconds of suffering, or an early demise, compared to Eternal Happiness? A believer should HOPE for a well-timed (i.e. “sin-less”) departure from this life, say for instance killed immediately after he steps out of the confessional. The murderer would be doing his victim a priceless favor. Stretching the logic a bit, you could posit that the murderer could then go to confession, get absolved, and hopefully get similarly dispatched to the Pearly Gates.
OK OK, this reasoning quickly starts to look ridiculous when viewed from other angles. Most folks agree that taking someone’s life is wrong, for a number of reasons, regardless of the Afterlife Factor. Any ideas to the contrary are barely arguable, and the world would be considerably more dangerous if people embraced them.
Our discussion of “IVF” ended pretty abruptly. The subject was already upsetting to my devout Catholic friend, and my remarks were certainly no help. She didn’t say it, but she probably thought me a simpleton in serious need of Theological study. Which I just might pursue. But I came away from this chat with a new appreciation of “separation of Church and State”, as specified in the Constitution. The Founding Fathers insisted on it, thank God.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Irmy the Wormy
I first caught sight of her a few years before she became my 8th grade teacher at St. Kevin School. Somebody whispered "That's Irmalita" as she stood calmly at the door of her classroom, watching her 8th-graders file in one-by-one, no doubt checking for grooming mistakes.
8th grade seemed intimidating to me when I was a 5th grader, and even more scary was the prospect of getting Sister Irmalita as the teacher. She was widely hated and feared, and her nickname Irmy the Wormy went back a long way.
She apparently had a magic way of disciplining a coed roomful of 13-year olds, of getting respect and control in a classroom where the 40 girls were inclined to giggle, and the 20 boys were inclined to show off for the 40 girls.
I can't remember why the boy-girl ratio was so imbalanced in my 8th grade class, but Sister Irmalita was well aware of the boy-girl distraction factor and placed all 20 boys in the front of the class, under her very direct scrutiny, with the loveliest of those lovely girls seemingly placed as FAR BACK as possible.
Prior to 8th grade I didn't know what the word "character" meant, but Sister Irmalita used the word all year long. Religious doctrine fell short of what she was trying to do. She was in the business of molding young men and women, with an ethic that seemed to transcend the Ten Commandments.
The JFK assassination happened early in that school year, in November, and she referred to it frequently. JFK was the fallen Catholic saint, and Lee Oswald was the godless fiend, and our big decision in life was to be one or the other.
In February the Beatles made their legendary first appearance on Ed Sullivan's Sunday night show, igniting Beatlemania in the USA. The next morning, Sister Irmalita calmly told everybody to write a short essay on "What I Think of the Beatles"
It was a trap, especially for the unsuspecting girls, most of whom wrote glowingly about Paul, Ringo, cute long hair and great music. With the 60 essays sitting on her desk, Sister Irmalita held forth on why she hated the Beatles. They were unkempt, godless purveyors of noise with evil lyrics, and surely they had no character. I doubt if she succeeded in really turning anybody against the Beatles, but she toned things down in a classroom where transistor radios were in everybody's schoolbag, ready to blast out "Twist and Shout" during a lapse in supervision.
She didn't laugh. At most, she smiled, in a curiously relaxed way. I say "curiously" because she was all business, no nonsense. She was probably in her 50s when I knew her, short in stature, but with the posture and demeanor of someone completely confident in her noble life's work and her proven method.
She had a few favorites, a handful of kids who seemed to be a little less giggly than the rest, with good grades and good work ethics, in a word -- "good character". They were frequently called upon to demonstrate their superior way of doing things, these future leaders.
Of course this elite group didn't include me. There was enough discipline and fear going on, in class and at home, to control my scatterbrain tendencies and produce decent marks, but I was generally not on Irmy's radar, fairly inconspicuous, and probably happy for it.
It was nonetheless fashionable to dislike and scowl at ol' Irmy the Wormy behind her back, especially amongst the boys. Nobody I knew visited her after we got out of 8th grade. There was high school, followed by the rest of our lives, and she became a distant memory.
And she only came to mind recently, along with these present reflections on someone who now seems to exemplify a life well-lived. I heard a story about a guy named Eddie, who I knew back in childhood. He was a few years younger than me, and perhaps wound up with Sister Irmalita in 8th grade. Now in his mid-50s, he found out that the Sisters of Mercy cemetery was located not far from his home in New Jersey. He went there, and found the grave of Sister Irmalita inexplicably neglected, with overgrown weeds and a generally unkempt appearance. Eddie made it his business to go back there, cut the weeds, and make the site handsome. Well groomed, and befitting a great teacher. Somewhere along the way Eddie picked up a ton of character.
8th grade seemed intimidating to me when I was a 5th grader, and even more scary was the prospect of getting Sister Irmalita as the teacher. She was widely hated and feared, and her nickname Irmy the Wormy went back a long way.
She apparently had a magic way of disciplining a coed roomful of 13-year olds, of getting respect and control in a classroom where the 40 girls were inclined to giggle, and the 20 boys were inclined to show off for the 40 girls.
I can't remember why the boy-girl ratio was so imbalanced in my 8th grade class, but Sister Irmalita was well aware of the boy-girl distraction factor and placed all 20 boys in the front of the class, under her very direct scrutiny, with the loveliest of those lovely girls seemingly placed as FAR BACK as possible.
Prior to 8th grade I didn't know what the word "character" meant, but Sister Irmalita used the word all year long. Religious doctrine fell short of what she was trying to do. She was in the business of molding young men and women, with an ethic that seemed to transcend the Ten Commandments.
The JFK assassination happened early in that school year, in November, and she referred to it frequently. JFK was the fallen Catholic saint, and Lee Oswald was the godless fiend, and our big decision in life was to be one or the other.
In February the Beatles made their legendary first appearance on Ed Sullivan's Sunday night show, igniting Beatlemania in the USA. The next morning, Sister Irmalita calmly told everybody to write a short essay on "What I Think of the Beatles"
It was a trap, especially for the unsuspecting girls, most of whom wrote glowingly about Paul, Ringo, cute long hair and great music. With the 60 essays sitting on her desk, Sister Irmalita held forth on why she hated the Beatles. They were unkempt, godless purveyors of noise with evil lyrics, and surely they had no character. I doubt if she succeeded in really turning anybody against the Beatles, but she toned things down in a classroom where transistor radios were in everybody's schoolbag, ready to blast out "Twist and Shout" during a lapse in supervision.
She didn't laugh. At most, she smiled, in a curiously relaxed way. I say "curiously" because she was all business, no nonsense. She was probably in her 50s when I knew her, short in stature, but with the posture and demeanor of someone completely confident in her noble life's work and her proven method.
She had a few favorites, a handful of kids who seemed to be a little less giggly than the rest, with good grades and good work ethics, in a word -- "good character". They were frequently called upon to demonstrate their superior way of doing things, these future leaders.
Of course this elite group didn't include me. There was enough discipline and fear going on, in class and at home, to control my scatterbrain tendencies and produce decent marks, but I was generally not on Irmy's radar, fairly inconspicuous, and probably happy for it.
It was nonetheless fashionable to dislike and scowl at ol' Irmy the Wormy behind her back, especially amongst the boys. Nobody I knew visited her after we got out of 8th grade. There was high school, followed by the rest of our lives, and she became a distant memory.
And she only came to mind recently, along with these present reflections on someone who now seems to exemplify a life well-lived. I heard a story about a guy named Eddie, who I knew back in childhood. He was a few years younger than me, and perhaps wound up with Sister Irmalita in 8th grade. Now in his mid-50s, he found out that the Sisters of Mercy cemetery was located not far from his home in New Jersey. He went there, and found the grave of Sister Irmalita inexplicably neglected, with overgrown weeds and a generally unkempt appearance. Eddie made it his business to go back there, cut the weeds, and make the site handsome. Well groomed, and befitting a great teacher. Somewhere along the way Eddie picked up a ton of character.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
500 Points
It was early spring 1969. Up in the Bronx, a late afternoon #6 train pulled into an elevated station a few blocks away from Fordham University.
The conductor, a huge black man wearing the handsome dark blue uniform of the New York Transit Authority, looked like he belonged on the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys. As part of the routine of his job, he extended his head out of a window, checking on the passengers getting on and off the train, so as to open and close the doors at the right time.
On the platform was a lean young man, a college student, 18 years old, who had positioned himself to be facing the conductor when the train came to a stop. Now the two were face-to-face, and the young man suddenly reached out and grabbed the Official Transit Authority Cap off the the astonished conductor's head, and started running toward the staircase.
The conductor, perhaps new on the job, was shocked by this brazen deed, this mockery of his high position, and made the highly questionable snap decision of jumping off his train to give chase. The young college kid barreled down the stairs and onto Fordham Road, with the conductor right behind, shouting out various profanities and threats.
People strolling on Fordham Road in the pretty twilight were treated to the spectacle of a terrified and desperate young man, running with the hat cradled in his arm like a football, with the screaming hatless uniformed black Goliath never more than 40 feet behind. They both became extremely winded, and the chase eventually deteriorated into a series of off-again on-again running, trotting, and walking. Perhaps the kid would have been wise to simply drop the hat, and thus end the danger, but a higher motive pushed him to finish what he'd started.
After about 3/4 of a mile he made a left turn into the gate of Fordham University. Now only 200 feet from his own personal Touchdown, he broke into a dramatic final sprint toward a table out in an open lawn area. Seated at the table were a few college students -- fraternity brothers, who were taken aback as the out-of-breath runner reached them, threw the hat at them, shouted "TEAM D -- 500 points" and then kept running, far into the complex of Fordham's ivy-covered halls of learning.
A few seconds later the frat brothers saw the bewildered and exhausted conductor approaching the table, and they quickly surmised what had happened. They suppressed their roars of laughter long enough to explain to the conductor that they were running the annual Sigma Kappa Beta Scavenger Hunt. The cap was worth 500 points, and the thief merely wanted those points. The conductor's sanity now returned, and he hurried out of the Fordham campus with his beloved cap, back to the train station, back to whatever consequences befall a conductor who abandons his train.
The thief, imagining capture, death and dismemberment, or at the very least some legal trouble, had run to a far corner of the campus behind a maintenance building, lying down in tall weeds. It had rained heavily the night before, and he was soaked with water, mud and weeds from head to toe when he emerged from the shadows almost 2 hours later, and made his way back to the scavenger hunt headquarters.
By this time it was 8PM, the scavenger hunt was over, and all 40 participants -- 10 teams of 4 -- had now gathered for the Final Counting of Points. The bizarre story of the Giant Conductor had now gotten around to everybody, and the mud-covered fugitive got a huge applause when he finally arrived. He enjoyed the recognition, and an impromptu award of a case of beer from the frat guys, but he was especially happy that Goliath was gone.
Not only was he gone -- the big conductor never returned to the Fordham campus, not even to say Hi, so it is not known if he got in trouble or lost his job. Hopefully he had a nice career and is happily retired, perhaps cringing whenever someone says "Fordham" or "scavenger hunt". Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it so happens that nowadays very few New York City conductors wear the uniform hat anymore. The hat still exists, but wearing it is now "optional".
It turned out that the "500-Point Kid" was a guest participant from another college, almost nobody at Fordham knew him, and he never returned to the scene of the crime. However his story is still told at Sigma Kappa Beta, especially in April. Somebody said he became a successful piano entertainer, worked on cruise ships around the world, and never stole anything again.
The conductor, a huge black man wearing the handsome dark blue uniform of the New York Transit Authority, looked like he belonged on the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys. As part of the routine of his job, he extended his head out of a window, checking on the passengers getting on and off the train, so as to open and close the doors at the right time.
On the platform was a lean young man, a college student, 18 years old, who had positioned himself to be facing the conductor when the train came to a stop. Now the two were face-to-face, and the young man suddenly reached out and grabbed the Official Transit Authority Cap off the the astonished conductor's head, and started running toward the staircase.
The conductor, perhaps new on the job, was shocked by this brazen deed, this mockery of his high position, and made the highly questionable snap decision of jumping off his train to give chase. The young college kid barreled down the stairs and onto Fordham Road, with the conductor right behind, shouting out various profanities and threats.
People strolling on Fordham Road in the pretty twilight were treated to the spectacle of a terrified and desperate young man, running with the hat cradled in his arm like a football, with the screaming hatless uniformed black Goliath never more than 40 feet behind. They both became extremely winded, and the chase eventually deteriorated into a series of off-again on-again running, trotting, and walking. Perhaps the kid would have been wise to simply drop the hat, and thus end the danger, but a higher motive pushed him to finish what he'd started.
After about 3/4 of a mile he made a left turn into the gate of Fordham University. Now only 200 feet from his own personal Touchdown, he broke into a dramatic final sprint toward a table out in an open lawn area. Seated at the table were a few college students -- fraternity brothers, who were taken aback as the out-of-breath runner reached them, threw the hat at them, shouted "TEAM D -- 500 points" and then kept running, far into the complex of Fordham's ivy-covered halls of learning.
A few seconds later the frat brothers saw the bewildered and exhausted conductor approaching the table, and they quickly surmised what had happened. They suppressed their roars of laughter long enough to explain to the conductor that they were running the annual Sigma Kappa Beta Scavenger Hunt. The cap was worth 500 points, and the thief merely wanted those points. The conductor's sanity now returned, and he hurried out of the Fordham campus with his beloved cap, back to the train station, back to whatever consequences befall a conductor who abandons his train.
The thief, imagining capture, death and dismemberment, or at the very least some legal trouble, had run to a far corner of the campus behind a maintenance building, lying down in tall weeds. It had rained heavily the night before, and he was soaked with water, mud and weeds from head to toe when he emerged from the shadows almost 2 hours later, and made his way back to the scavenger hunt headquarters.
By this time it was 8PM, the scavenger hunt was over, and all 40 participants -- 10 teams of 4 -- had now gathered for the Final Counting of Points. The bizarre story of the Giant Conductor had now gotten around to everybody, and the mud-covered fugitive got a huge applause when he finally arrived. He enjoyed the recognition, and an impromptu award of a case of beer from the frat guys, but he was especially happy that Goliath was gone.
Not only was he gone -- the big conductor never returned to the Fordham campus, not even to say Hi, so it is not known if he got in trouble or lost his job. Hopefully he had a nice career and is happily retired, perhaps cringing whenever someone says "Fordham" or "scavenger hunt". Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it so happens that nowadays very few New York City conductors wear the uniform hat anymore. The hat still exists, but wearing it is now "optional".
It turned out that the "500-Point Kid" was a guest participant from another college, almost nobody at Fordham knew him, and he never returned to the scene of the crime. However his story is still told at Sigma Kappa Beta, especially in April. Somebody said he became a successful piano entertainer, worked on cruise ships around the world, and never stole anything again.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Wild Thing
As it eventually turned out, I unloaded that house, finished the ship gig in May, and have now joined Benny and my sister’s family out in the Poconos. He’s been here almost a year now, and after a few months of sulking in the basement, he wound up adjusting to things, returning to his “outdoor cat” style, with a new and deadly twist.
Sometime last autumn, shortly after I went out to sea, dead mice started turning up in the basement. It turned out that the oncoming winter was forcing mice indoors, and into the paws of a suddenly murderous cat. After a while the outside mice seemingly realized that Theresa & Gerry’s basement had become dangerous, and went elsewhere for shelter. Benny had de-moused the basement.
By springtime Benny had expanded his turf -- he became completely comfortable outdoors, and claimed this acre of woods as his own. Now, at the end of Summer 2010, he is officially Killer Cat, with a regular routine of leaving dead mice, moles, and even small rabbits all over the property, sometimes dropping the critters on the back deck as some perverse “gift” to the human occupants.
He isn’t eating this prey. He just leaves them lying all over. He‘s perfectly well-fed with Meow Mix, Friskies and whatnot, so this rodent-killing seems to be an amusement, an exercise in sadism. I say sadism because we’ve seen Benny toying with these little fellas before killing them, batting them around like tennis balls.
He wasn’t like this back at my house on Long Island. He was an outdoor cat certainly, but in 8 years only once did I ever see him like this, beating up on a soon-to-be-deceased bird. But this Poconos area is much more wild, and seems to have completely loosed Benny’s jungle instinct.
I used to think that human beings were the only creatures who killed for non-food reasons. That certainly seems untrue now, with Benny terrorizing the local rodents, with all the moral reservation of Jack the Ripper. No bad consequences either -- in fact I’m going downstairs to put some Meow Mix in Benny‘s bowl right now, and I’ll probably scratch his ears too.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Queen Mary
This major relocation to Pennsylvania has involved many cardboard boxes and plastic tubs containing my worldly possessions, and the re-allocation and/or disposal of it to new places. Occasionally a stray item turns up in a wrong box, and I find myself suddenly distracted and intrigued by some relic from the past.
And so it happened that a 13-page letter from my late brother George literally fell out of a box of old videotapes. This letter was one of the very few I received from him, and it was by far the longest and most passionate.
Also the “deepest” in terms of its subject matter, pretty much over my head back in 1978 when he wrote it. He was 35 at the time, I was 27 and up in Canada traveling and gigging around with a band. I had written to him, complaining about our mother and other family matters, with the idea that everybody was crazy and I wasn’t. His answer was unexpectedly long and philosophical.
As so often happens these days with me, I am impressed and astounded by things re-visited after many years. Be it a piece of music or art, a marvel of nature, a human accomplishment, a biography of a great person, there are so many wonderful things that I was too oblivious or impatient to take in when I was younger.
In 1978 my brother was exploding with revelations that came from a new philosophy he had discovered. Philosophic and well as spiritual and psychological. He was growing by leaps and bounds, feeling a spiritual awakening, and in me he’d found someone to express it to, someone who perhaps was also ready to receive this teaching.
It certainly was a teaching, since it was not all book-learning. He was meeting up with a group of people in Manhattan every week, with some very impressive wise people leading him, and providing interpretation and practice to the things he was reading.
By his own admission a negative and belligerent guy for his entire life, George found teachers who woke him up to his own sense of vanity and self-righteousness, these things being destructive and leading to a miserable and un-spiritual existence.
The letter goes on about evolving, becoming “godly” with proper guidance and discipline, defeating our negative tendencies. Actually the very recognition and acknowledgement of this negativity is half the battle, he seemed to be saying….
“Christ could walk on water. What is the water in this parable? It is all exterior life which is stormy and windy. As Plato said, Life is a Beast. Like the Apostles we must get in a boat (an inner discipline) until such time as we can walk on water and not get swallowed by the Beast. Steve, you need a boat. So do I, in fact my low level of being requires the Queen Mary.”
Unfortunately George never quite found a Queen Mary. The letter captures him at perhaps the most optimistic and clear-headed time of his life. Clear-headed and clear spirited. He had demons, and in a few years they came back and plagued him for the remainder of his life. And it was a short life, much to everyone’s surprise, as cancer claimed him two months short of his 54th birthday.
There Are No Coincidences, so some people say. Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the letter fell out of that box of videotapes, on a day that I was relaxed and sentimental enough to sit down and peruse it for the first time in 32 years. And I find that I barely read it the first time, especially the last ten pages. It was simply too much to grasp at the time, or I was simply too wrapped up in other things.
But it seems to resonate with me at the present moment. I could use a Queen Mary, and so could most people I know. Instead of tucking the letter away in a box, I’ll be keeping it nearby and immediately accessible for a while. It’s a marvelous testimony from a man discovering big things, a testimony written 32 years ago to a little brother who, after decades of stumbling around, might be able to use it now.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Q Factor
Lady Dawn and I have been engaged in a serious Scrabble competition since early 2007, and in that time we’ve played over 225 games -- this despite the fact that I was out at sea for 16 months of that time period. We’re pretty evenly matched, and no game is “just for fun”.
In a recent Scrabble outing at Sunken Meadow Park on Long Island, as we approached the end of Game #1, I concluded that Dawn had the “Q” on her rack. The dreaded letter was not in MY rack, nor was it out on the board, and the letter bag had just gone empty. It’s usually bad to be suddenly stuck with the “Q” at the very end of the game, because all four of the “U” letters may be already played. And a Q without a U is like a can without a can opener.
With total assurance I said “you’re stuck with the Q aren’t you?” She had a most quizzical look on her face and said “No Steve, I thought YOU were stuck with the Q.”
We looked at each other with the shocking realization that we’d been playing this game without the Q. We halted this suddenly-tainted game and futilely looked all over for the missing letter. Of all the letters to lose, why the Q? There’s only one Q in the whole set of 100 tiles.
What to do ? ! In the past I had jokingly (or angrily) talked about deliberately playing the game without the Q, for the fun of it. But now we had inadvertently done exactly that. And we were mildly surprised at how wrong it seemed. Even if the Q is the flaw in an otherwise perfect game, it has a storied past, and all the Scrabble games of our lives have included the annoying and angst-ridden Q.
For the next game we took an “O” tile and turned it into a Q, using a felt-tip pen. It was pretty ugly, and the game now had 7 O’s instead of 8, but at least the Q factor was re-established.
As the afternoon progressed it occurred to us where the lost Q might be. On the previous weekend we’d played Scrabble at a different park, a tiny place called Heckscher Park in downtown Huntington. We’d played on a wooden picnic table, the old-fashioned kind with the cracks in between the long planks. It seemed highly possible that our Q had fallen through the cracks. We now decided to visit this park later on, and search the dirt (and mud?) beneath that table.
We arrived at this table in the late afternoon, and it was happily occupied by some old ladies on a picnic. We explained our problem, and they were nice enough to step away while Dawn and I got on our hands and knees, picking through the mud. Yes, it had rained during the week. Sure enough, the mud-caked Q turned up after 30 seconds. It seemed like the little wooden tile had absorbed some moisture during its week underneath the picnic table, and was slightly larger and misshapen. Now it would be doubly unpleasant to pull this thing out of the bag.
Well, not exactly. If I remember correctly, the manufacturer has a reasonable policy of replacing lost letters for free. So I’ll be looking into getting a new Q, plus a new “O” to replace the one we destroyed in our desperation to have a Q.
Dawn and I do not adhere very much to the ultra-liberal Official Scrabble Dictionary, even though we keep one around. We have a give-and-take system, where any word we’ve “heard of” is good.
Back in 1998-99, during my brief foray into tournament Scrabble, I tried to memorize Official word lists, which included a plethora of weird Q-words, J-words, Z-words, and K-words, and hundreds of arcane 2 and 3-letter words. I didn’t know the meaning of most of these words, and I didn’t care. As a tournament player, I knew my opponent would be using them too, so I had to try and keep up.
On some level I felt that this robotic rote memorization of words, made necessary by cut-throat competition and the highly liberal Official Scrabble Dictionary, was a corruption of the original intent of the game. More and more I felt uncomfortable, increasingly sucked into this word-memorization vortex. It was ruining my love of the game, and I finally dropped out of tournament play.
The 1998 Official Scrabble Dictionary had a handful of “Q-without-the-U words” -- qat, qaid, qanat, qoph, qabala, and faqir, and they were quite necessary to know for tournaments. This of course took some of the stress out of the Q factor. However this was a tiny gain compared to the overall requirement of memorizing a ton of idiotic useless words for competitive Scrabble.
More recently, just a few months ago, the new 2010 edition of the Scrabble Dictionary came out, with a revolutionary change. From now on, “qi” is an accepted word. It’s an alternate spelling for “chi”, which is a Chinese name for life-energy.
It is revolutionary because “qi” is an extremely easy word to come up with. Very easy and possibly high-scoring, because the Q is still worth 10 points. It is certainly a constant new presence in tournament Scrabble. It’s the equivalent of lengthening the distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate. The average Scrabble score will increase by a few points.
And perhaps a few more people will play the game. Even on the non-tournament “living room level”, everybody will come to know that “qi” is a legit word, an answer to a prayer, a huge reduction in the Q factor of Scrabble.
Dawn and I will reject this word along with all the other phony words that the Scrabble Association has concocted. We should all deal with the Q Factors in our lives, appreciate their character-building qualities, and not let the powers-that-be make wimps and robots out of us, in Scrabble and elsewhere.
In a recent Scrabble outing at Sunken Meadow Park on Long Island, as we approached the end of Game #1, I concluded that Dawn had the “Q” on her rack. The dreaded letter was not in MY rack, nor was it out on the board, and the letter bag had just gone empty. It’s usually bad to be suddenly stuck with the “Q” at the very end of the game, because all four of the “U” letters may be already played. And a Q without a U is like a can without a can opener.
With total assurance I said “you’re stuck with the Q aren’t you?” She had a most quizzical look on her face and said “No Steve, I thought YOU were stuck with the Q.”
We looked at each other with the shocking realization that we’d been playing this game without the Q. We halted this suddenly-tainted game and futilely looked all over for the missing letter. Of all the letters to lose, why the Q? There’s only one Q in the whole set of 100 tiles.
What to do ? ! In the past I had jokingly (or angrily) talked about deliberately playing the game without the Q, for the fun of it. But now we had inadvertently done exactly that. And we were mildly surprised at how wrong it seemed. Even if the Q is the flaw in an otherwise perfect game, it has a storied past, and all the Scrabble games of our lives have included the annoying and angst-ridden Q.
For the next game we took an “O” tile and turned it into a Q, using a felt-tip pen. It was pretty ugly, and the game now had 7 O’s instead of 8, but at least the Q factor was re-established.
As the afternoon progressed it occurred to us where the lost Q might be. On the previous weekend we’d played Scrabble at a different park, a tiny place called Heckscher Park in downtown Huntington. We’d played on a wooden picnic table, the old-fashioned kind with the cracks in between the long planks. It seemed highly possible that our Q had fallen through the cracks. We now decided to visit this park later on, and search the dirt (and mud?) beneath that table.
We arrived at this table in the late afternoon, and it was happily occupied by some old ladies on a picnic. We explained our problem, and they were nice enough to step away while Dawn and I got on our hands and knees, picking through the mud. Yes, it had rained during the week. Sure enough, the mud-caked Q turned up after 30 seconds. It seemed like the little wooden tile had absorbed some moisture during its week underneath the picnic table, and was slightly larger and misshapen. Now it would be doubly unpleasant to pull this thing out of the bag.
Well, not exactly. If I remember correctly, the manufacturer has a reasonable policy of replacing lost letters for free. So I’ll be looking into getting a new Q, plus a new “O” to replace the one we destroyed in our desperation to have a Q.
Dawn and I do not adhere very much to the ultra-liberal Official Scrabble Dictionary, even though we keep one around. We have a give-and-take system, where any word we’ve “heard of” is good.
Back in 1998-99, during my brief foray into tournament Scrabble, I tried to memorize Official word lists, which included a plethora of weird Q-words, J-words, Z-words, and K-words, and hundreds of arcane 2 and 3-letter words. I didn’t know the meaning of most of these words, and I didn’t care. As a tournament player, I knew my opponent would be using them too, so I had to try and keep up.
On some level I felt that this robotic rote memorization of words, made necessary by cut-throat competition and the highly liberal Official Scrabble Dictionary, was a corruption of the original intent of the game. More and more I felt uncomfortable, increasingly sucked into this word-memorization vortex. It was ruining my love of the game, and I finally dropped out of tournament play.
The 1998 Official Scrabble Dictionary had a handful of “Q-without-the-U words” -- qat, qaid, qanat, qoph, qabala, and faqir, and they were quite necessary to know for tournaments. This of course took some of the stress out of the Q factor. However this was a tiny gain compared to the overall requirement of memorizing a ton of idiotic useless words for competitive Scrabble.
More recently, just a few months ago, the new 2010 edition of the Scrabble Dictionary came out, with a revolutionary change. From now on, “qi” is an accepted word. It’s an alternate spelling for “chi”, which is a Chinese name for life-energy.
It is revolutionary because “qi” is an extremely easy word to come up with. Very easy and possibly high-scoring, because the Q is still worth 10 points. It is certainly a constant new presence in tournament Scrabble. It’s the equivalent of lengthening the distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate. The average Scrabble score will increase by a few points.
And perhaps a few more people will play the game. Even on the non-tournament “living room level”, everybody will come to know that “qi” is a legit word, an answer to a prayer, a huge reduction in the Q factor of Scrabble.
Dawn and I will reject this word along with all the other phony words that the Scrabble Association has concocted. We should all deal with the Q Factors in our lives, appreciate their character-building qualities, and not let the powers-that-be make wimps and robots out of us, in Scrabble and elsewhere.
What, no Trombone?
My father’s “bucket list” included a trip to the fabled City of New Orleans, the Birthplace of Jazz, and supposedly the home of ongoing Dixieland-style performance.
He was not a jazz fan per se -- in fact he couldn’t listen to anything more advanced than the simple white swing of Benny Goodman. But he appreciated Dixieland, in particular New Orleans clarinetist Pete Fountain, whose album “New Orleans at Midnight” was part of dad’s rather sparse record collection.
So he envisioned the romantic picture of Bourbon Street - the Ground Zero of Dixieland Jazz - with the joyous sounds of clarinets, trumpets, and trombones pouring out of bars and restaurants for many blocks, a Dixieland Paradise.
This may have been the scenario at some point in the past, but Bourbon Street was hardly a Dixieland Paradise by the time my dad finally got down there in the 1980s. He waited too long -- the music pouring out into the street was mostly rock and blues, with loud electric guitars and crashing drums. Apparently the baby boomers had taken over the area, and they didn’t care about Pete Fountain or any other clarinetist for that matter. Dad was swarmed by young party animals everywhere he went in the French Quarter, and the New Orleans experience was a disappointment.
I visited New Orleans for a few days last week, only a few years younger than dad was during his visit in the 80s. I had the advantage of not being as deluded as dad was. In fact, certain nephews and nieces had been there in recent years, hard rock fans who found Bourbon Street to be the ultimate Party Town.
Yet New Orleans still tries to talk up its “Birthplace of Jazz” history, and Bourbon Street still makes a few feeble concessions to it, most notably every night at the Maison Bourbon, located at the very heart of the French Quarter, at the intersection of Bourbon and St Peter. If one gets close to its open doors (close enough to block out the blaring rock music across the street), the sound of Dixieland will be heard, and you may quickly find yourself seated inside.
Or is it really Dixieland? Up front there was a trumpeter and a clarinetist, and I kept saying Where Is The Trombone? Damn, they charged me $7 for a Coke, couldn’t they afford a trombonist?
There’s an old musicians joke, something like How Do You Know When a Trombonist is at your Door? And the answer (ha-ha) is He’s the One Wearing a Domino’s Pizza Hat…
…referring, of course, to the demise of trombone in popular music ever since the mid-20th century. Jazz groups got smaller and more progressive in the 50s, and clarinets and trombones didn’t seem to fit the style, and fell into disfavor. Trumpets, and even more so saxophones, still managed to thrive, if there’s such a thing as “thriving” in the world of jazz.
The classic New Orleans jazz style of the early 20th century always had a trombone in the line-up, mixing with trumpet and clarinet for that hallmark Dixieland Sound. Yet the Maison Bourbon -- this iconic jazz house on Bourbon Street -- couldn’t find a trombonist in all of New Orleans to complete the authentic sound? Louie Armstrong would have been appalled.
The next night I went to a jazz club, called the Snug Harbor, located elsewhere in New Orleans, pretty far away from all the Bourbon Street noise, After paying a cover charge, I heard great jazz, in a room designed for a great listening experience. This large band, reading charts and also including solo improv performances, contained two young men on trombones. It was reassuring that this noble instrument is still revered and encouraged somewhere on this planet, quite appropriately down in New Orleans, despite present-day music trends.
I was tempted to go back to the trombone-less band on Bourbon street to inform them of the two young men I’d heard at Snug Harbor. But it occurred to me to me that my meddling would not be welcome, that these old New Orleans jazzers had a lifetime’s-worth of musical cohorts and could add a trombonist IF they were so inclined.
I never found out why they were NOT so inclined. Perhaps -- alas -- it was the simple economic decision to keep the group as small as possible? Less guys to pay? Musical corner-cutting in a New Orleans jazz group? I would hope not, but what else am I to think? The Maison Bourbon has a huge sign outside boasting its “Dedication to the Preservation of Jazz”, and I found myself rolling my eyes as I looked at it.
Dixieland fans should do some serious research before plucking down money for visiting New Orleans. With luck, enough of the Real Item can be found down there, in the handful of venues away from Bourbon Street. But there’s no guarantee of that, and “Real New Orleans Jazz” may be more mythical than real, and perhaps there‘s more of it to be found in one‘s own home town.
He was not a jazz fan per se -- in fact he couldn’t listen to anything more advanced than the simple white swing of Benny Goodman. But he appreciated Dixieland, in particular New Orleans clarinetist Pete Fountain, whose album “New Orleans at Midnight” was part of dad’s rather sparse record collection.
So he envisioned the romantic picture of Bourbon Street - the Ground Zero of Dixieland Jazz - with the joyous sounds of clarinets, trumpets, and trombones pouring out of bars and restaurants for many blocks, a Dixieland Paradise.
This may have been the scenario at some point in the past, but Bourbon Street was hardly a Dixieland Paradise by the time my dad finally got down there in the 1980s. He waited too long -- the music pouring out into the street was mostly rock and blues, with loud electric guitars and crashing drums. Apparently the baby boomers had taken over the area, and they didn’t care about Pete Fountain or any other clarinetist for that matter. Dad was swarmed by young party animals everywhere he went in the French Quarter, and the New Orleans experience was a disappointment.
I visited New Orleans for a few days last week, only a few years younger than dad was during his visit in the 80s. I had the advantage of not being as deluded as dad was. In fact, certain nephews and nieces had been there in recent years, hard rock fans who found Bourbon Street to be the ultimate Party Town.
Yet New Orleans still tries to talk up its “Birthplace of Jazz” history, and Bourbon Street still makes a few feeble concessions to it, most notably every night at the Maison Bourbon, located at the very heart of the French Quarter, at the intersection of Bourbon and St Peter. If one gets close to its open doors (close enough to block out the blaring rock music across the street), the sound of Dixieland will be heard, and you may quickly find yourself seated inside.
Or is it really Dixieland? Up front there was a trumpeter and a clarinetist, and I kept saying Where Is The Trombone? Damn, they charged me $7 for a Coke, couldn’t they afford a trombonist?
There’s an old musicians joke, something like How Do You Know When a Trombonist is at your Door? And the answer (ha-ha) is He’s the One Wearing a Domino’s Pizza Hat…
…referring, of course, to the demise of trombone in popular music ever since the mid-20th century. Jazz groups got smaller and more progressive in the 50s, and clarinets and trombones didn’t seem to fit the style, and fell into disfavor. Trumpets, and even more so saxophones, still managed to thrive, if there’s such a thing as “thriving” in the world of jazz.
The classic New Orleans jazz style of the early 20th century always had a trombone in the line-up, mixing with trumpet and clarinet for that hallmark Dixieland Sound. Yet the Maison Bourbon -- this iconic jazz house on Bourbon Street -- couldn’t find a trombonist in all of New Orleans to complete the authentic sound? Louie Armstrong would have been appalled.
The next night I went to a jazz club, called the Snug Harbor, located elsewhere in New Orleans, pretty far away from all the Bourbon Street noise, After paying a cover charge, I heard great jazz, in a room designed for a great listening experience. This large band, reading charts and also including solo improv performances, contained two young men on trombones. It was reassuring that this noble instrument is still revered and encouraged somewhere on this planet, quite appropriately down in New Orleans, despite present-day music trends.
I was tempted to go back to the trombone-less band on Bourbon street to inform them of the two young men I’d heard at Snug Harbor. But it occurred to me to me that my meddling would not be welcome, that these old New Orleans jazzers had a lifetime’s-worth of musical cohorts and could add a trombonist IF they were so inclined.
I never found out why they were NOT so inclined. Perhaps -- alas -- it was the simple economic decision to keep the group as small as possible? Less guys to pay? Musical corner-cutting in a New Orleans jazz group? I would hope not, but what else am I to think? The Maison Bourbon has a huge sign outside boasting its “Dedication to the Preservation of Jazz”, and I found myself rolling my eyes as I looked at it.
Dixieland fans should do some serious research before plucking down money for visiting New Orleans. With luck, enough of the Real Item can be found down there, in the handful of venues away from Bourbon Street. But there’s no guarantee of that, and “Real New Orleans Jazz” may be more mythical than real, and perhaps there‘s more of it to be found in one‘s own home town.
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