Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Thank You, the handwritten way
After going through this scorecard, I realized that I haven't been piling up any "Thank You" points. In fact, my non-actions have caused me to go into the negative column. I've bee the appreciative recipient of a few of these letters/ cards recently and can't quantify sufficiently how much a hand-written card in the mail means these days when the e-mail option's so easy. And e-cards? Frankly, I never even bother to open them as there's always some shrill music launched, "Pandora's Box"'s the tune's name, that seems to say, "You're so insignificant that I'll press enter and send you this swill".
So, this year, I shall do better. I shall order some fine Thank You stationary and do the proper deed. As a point of recommendation, my Ever Loving Wife has used the services of this card designer and has been quite happy.
So, pen to paper and only a minimum of words to let the someones out there know that handwriting is not dead and that all of the stuff piled in your mailbox is not pre-addressed nor immediately chuckable.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Links to Posts, Reviews
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Delusional Self-Gazing
Jim, sitting over there in PA at SerotoninRain, open-armed offered a great idea for a post.
Seven Posts About the Same Thing
A great way to relapse into past doings with hopes of reviving interest in one's navel-gazing. I'm all for that navel-gazing, especially these days as it keeps my eyes from tearing up each time I look at any financial news.
So, how about a hop, skip, and a jump down the Croatia memory lane?
A few years back, before financial meltdowns quashed any plans or even dreams of foreign travel, the fam had a chance to visit the Land of Croats.
Getting into the right mood for a trip there was difficult. I know my mojo had been on sabbatical, but my fjaka? Well, I'd become too much of an American, sorry to say and to realize, to possibly ever retrieve it.
Thank goodness, there were distractions to keep me from wallowing in that loss. Frankopanska torta, a hallucinogenic drug disguised as a cake was a welcome reprieve.
The natives, as friendly and non-critical as I remembered them, were also there to uplift one's mood.
My of my many cousins, a raconteur of the highest order, made sure we were parked at various cafes' umbrellaed tables while he regaled us with tales of business and travel.
Once our inhibitions had been loosened with rakija and vino, everything was possible. Even visitations back to the sartorial splendor of Speedos.
And when everything came together? Speedos, rakija, wine, and food? Well, that meant we were in Ston, enjoying a particularly fresh meal.
Ziveli to all and to all a Good Night!
Seven Posts About the Same ThingA great way to relapse into past doings with hopes of reviving interest in one's navel-gazing. I'm all for that navel-gazing, especially these days as it keeps my eyes from tearing up each time I look at any financial news.
So, how about a hop, skip, and a jump down the Croatia memory lane?
A few years back, before financial meltdowns quashed any plans or even dreams of foreign travel, the fam had a chance to visit the Land of Croats.
Getting into the right mood for a trip there was difficult. I know my mojo had been on sabbatical, but my fjaka? Well, I'd become too much of an American, sorry to say and to realize, to possibly ever retrieve it.
Thank goodness, there were distractions to keep me from wallowing in that loss. Frankopanska torta, a hallucinogenic drug disguised as a cake was a welcome reprieve.
The natives, as friendly and non-critical as I remembered them, were also there to uplift one's mood.
My of my many cousins, a raconteur of the highest order, made sure we were parked at various cafes' umbrellaed tables while he regaled us with tales of business and travel.
Once our inhibitions had been loosened with rakija and vino, everything was possible. Even visitations back to the sartorial splendor of Speedos.
And when everything came together? Speedos, rakija, wine, and food? Well, that meant we were in Ston, enjoying a particularly fresh meal.
Ziveli to all and to all a Good Night!
Labels: Croatia, Life Decisions, Links to Posts, Road Trips
Monday, June 02, 2008
Leakage
An interesting little piece in the 6/09/08 New Yorker issue on Buckminster Fuller brought back memories still attached to some mental cobwebs. Both the ever-loving wife (ELW) and I had experiences as audience members in a "Bucky" show. The ELW had the spectacle of Mr. Fuller at her graduation ceremony, where he landed his space pod on a muddy, sunny Saturday. I experienced Mr. Fuller on a dark and wintry day in Montreal in the all-things-are-possible undergrad years. Since the latter event occurred a good 2-3 years before the ELW’s caps-thrown-in-the-air days, Buckminster Fuller" was a bit more tethered to the ground, with emphasis on a bit.
He was bow-tied at both events but that little bit of cloth at the neck was insufficient restraint on the ideas that poured forth. I was at least more fortunate than the ELW that questions were allowed after his, ahem, presentation. Not that the questions, some as long-winded as Mr. Fuller’s philosophical slalom runs on man’s future, were answered in any manner resembling the key topics inquired of. I expected a puff of smoke to appear at any moment and a "Bucky Ball" to encircle him and disappear into efficiency. I couldn’t recall anything specifically said that night although the following quotes attributed to him seem vaguely familiar.
Thinking is a momentary dismissal of irrelevancies.
Man is going to be displaced altogether as a specialist by the computer. Man himself is being forced to reestablish, employ, and enjoy his innate "comprehensivlty." Coping with the totality of Spaceship Earth and universe is ahead for all of us.
Universe is non-simultaneously apprehended.
In some cases, he was dead on.
When I was born (1895), humanity was 95 per cent illiterate. Since I’ve been born, the population has doubled and that total population is now 65 per cent literate. That’s a gain of 130-fold of the literacy. When humanity is primarily illiterate, it needs leaders to understand and get the information and deal with it. When we are at the point where the majority of humans them-selves are literate, able to get the information, we’re in an entirely new relationship to Universe.
We are at the point where the integrity of the individual counts and not what the political leadership or the religious leadership says to do.
Politicians are always realistically maneuvering for the next election. They are obsolete as fundamental problem-solvers.
..and he definitely was a Love Child.
Unity is plural and, at minimum, is two.
The highest of generalizations is the synergetic integration of truth and love.
I do remember a bunch of us went to see Woody Allen’s “Sleeper” immediately after the lecture and discussed how humour eases the swallowing of deep thoughts so much easier that a tightly tied bow-tie. Some of our other friends had attended a lecture by Mr. Fuller before so they came to the event better prepared than we were and seemed to get a lot more out of the opinions and philosophy presented. Although……their expositions of the lecture tended to a style less vigorous in its mental gymnastics, but a lot funnier.
By the time the ELW was introduced to his act, Mr. Fuller was much closer to boarding that space pod to the next take-off point. The folks in attendance were not there to soak in any truthyisms that Mr. Fuller was launching that day. The ELW remembered it as a day that a quaint old gentlemen tottered and sweated his way onto the stage and dealt as best as he could with the swelter of the day, while the audience, half duly inebriated to combat the elation/sadness of the day, paid no never mind to the garbling coming their way. Frisbees and hats were thrown amongst the gowned audience and one wonders if Mr. Fuller thought that space pods were perhaps landing.
My favorite bit from the article?
" Stewart Brand, the founding editor of the "Whole Earth Catalog" and an early, self-described dome "propagandist," called geodesics a "massive, total failure":
"Domes leaked, always. The angles between the facets could never be sealed successfully. If you gave up and tried to shingle the whole damn thing—dangerous process, ugly result—the nearly horizontal shingles on top still took in water. The inside was basically one big room, impossible to subdivide, with too much space wasted up high. The shape made it a whispering gallery that broadcast private sounds to everyone."
Among the domes that leaked were Fuller’s own home, in Carbondale, and the structure atop the Ford Rotunda. (When workmen were sent to try to reseal the Rotunda’s dome, they ended up burning down the entire building.)"
He was bow-tied at both events but that little bit of cloth at the neck was insufficient restraint on the ideas that poured forth. I was at least more fortunate than the ELW that questions were allowed after his, ahem, presentation. Not that the questions, some as long-winded as Mr. Fuller’s philosophical slalom runs on man’s future, were answered in any manner resembling the key topics inquired of. I expected a puff of smoke to appear at any moment and a "Bucky Ball" to encircle him and disappear into efficiency. I couldn’t recall anything specifically said that night although the following quotes attributed to him seem vaguely familiar.
Thinking is a momentary dismissal of irrelevancies.
Man is going to be displaced altogether as a specialist by the computer. Man himself is being forced to reestablish, employ, and enjoy his innate "comprehensivlty." Coping with the totality of Spaceship Earth and universe is ahead for all of us.
Universe is non-simultaneously apprehended.
In some cases, he was dead on.
When I was born (1895), humanity was 95 per cent illiterate. Since I’ve been born, the population has doubled and that total population is now 65 per cent literate. That’s a gain of 130-fold of the literacy. When humanity is primarily illiterate, it needs leaders to understand and get the information and deal with it. When we are at the point where the majority of humans them-selves are literate, able to get the information, we’re in an entirely new relationship to Universe.
We are at the point where the integrity of the individual counts and not what the political leadership or the religious leadership says to do.
Politicians are always realistically maneuvering for the next election. They are obsolete as fundamental problem-solvers.
..and he definitely was a Love Child.
Unity is plural and, at minimum, is two.
The highest of generalizations is the synergetic integration of truth and love.
I do remember a bunch of us went to see Woody Allen’s “Sleeper” immediately after the lecture and discussed how humour eases the swallowing of deep thoughts so much easier that a tightly tied bow-tie. Some of our other friends had attended a lecture by Mr. Fuller before so they came to the event better prepared than we were and seemed to get a lot more out of the opinions and philosophy presented. Although……their expositions of the lecture tended to a style less vigorous in its mental gymnastics, but a lot funnier.
By the time the ELW was introduced to his act, Mr. Fuller was much closer to boarding that space pod to the next take-off point. The folks in attendance were not there to soak in any truthyisms that Mr. Fuller was launching that day. The ELW remembered it as a day that a quaint old gentlemen tottered and sweated his way onto the stage and dealt as best as he could with the swelter of the day, while the audience, half duly inebriated to combat the elation/sadness of the day, paid no never mind to the garbling coming their way. Frisbees and hats were thrown amongst the gowned audience and one wonders if Mr. Fuller thought that space pods were perhaps landing.
My favorite bit from the article?
" Stewart Brand, the founding editor of the "Whole Earth Catalog" and an early, self-described dome "propagandist," called geodesics a "massive, total failure":
"Domes leaked, always. The angles between the facets could never be sealed successfully. If you gave up and tried to shingle the whole damn thing—dangerous process, ugly result—the nearly horizontal shingles on top still took in water. The inside was basically one big room, impossible to subdivide, with too much space wasted up high. The shape made it a whispering gallery that broadcast private sounds to everyone."
Among the domes that leaked were Fuller’s own home, in Carbondale, and the structure atop the Ford Rotunda. (When workmen were sent to try to reseal the Rotunda’s dome, they ended up burning down the entire building.)"
Labels: Links to Posts
Friday, October 12, 2007
Hockey is Not War....
..and that's where the problem lies.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
Labels: Blogs, Hockey, Links to Posts, Reviews, The Sporting Thing
Friday, December 01, 2006
An Explanation of a Death
After much soul-searching and pensive re-evaluation Blogzira has come forward and admitted what we were all suspecting.
She killed Milton Friedman.
We can now go back to solving the other puzzling mysteries of our lives.
She killed Milton Friedman.
We can now go back to solving the other puzzling mysteries of our lives.
Labels: Links to Posts
