Monday, November 17, 2014

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Pete the Cat.

Is He American?

There are lots of issues to talk about on this Sunday morning.  There's the mid-terms.  There's the newest challenge to Obamacare.  There's the situation in the Middle East.  There's the economy.  But I don't want to talk about any of that.

I want to talk about Pete the Cat.  Pete the Cat is the main character in two books my granddaughter Willa insists on hearing before taking a nap.  That's a good thing because they are both short.  It is also a good thing because I love their messages.  The first book, "Pete the Cat and His Four Groovy Buttons" (James Dean and Eric Litwin, Harper), tells the story of Pete and his favorite shirt with the four groovy buttons.  Pete loves his shirt so much that whenever he wears it he sings, "My buttons, my buttons, my four groovy buttons."  But his buttons don't last.  After he does his first chorus, one of the buttons pops off, leaving him with three, but does Pete get mad?  Goodness no!  He just goes on singing "My buttons, my buttons, my three groovy buttons."  Of course, the next button pops off, then the next, and the next, leaving our hapless hero  with zero buttons.  Does Pete get mad?  Goodness no!  He looks down at his buttonless shirt and his exposed stomach and what does he see?  His belly button.  He sings, "My button, my button, still have my belly button."  Mercifully, the book ends there with the closing statement:  "I guess it simply goes to show that stuff will come and stuff will go, but do we cry?  Goodness, NO!  We keep on singing, because buttons come and buttons go."

The second book, "Pete the Cat:  I Love My White Shoes", is even more controversial.  It seems Pete has a brand new set of white shoes that compel him to sing, "I love my white shoes.  I love my white shoes, I love my white shoes."  But Pete, who obviously has attention span issues, steps into a huge mound of strawberries, turning his once white shoes red.  Does that make him sad?  You can guess the answer.  "I love my red shoes.  I love my red shoes.  I love my red shoes."  From there he steps into some blueberries and then a puddle of mud.  Except for the color of the shoes, his song never changes.  Finally, he steps into some water and everything gets washed away, leaving him once again with white shoes.  BUT he discovers they are wet.  You guessed it.  "I love my wet shoes.  I love my wet shoes.  I love my wet shoes."  Sometimes when reading these books to Willa, I feel an urge to slap Pete around a little, but Willa loves singing the songs.  It's the concluding moral that provides the controversy:  "The moral of Pete's story is no matter what you step in keep walking along and singing your song, because it's all good."

I love the books.  I love the message that "it's all good."'  We first heard it read aloud at Columbine Public Library during a packed toddler class on a Thursday morning and we immediately went out and bought all the Pete the Cat books we could find (two).  Is there any doubt, however, that there were some conservative parents and grandparents in the room who, if they had been paying  attention, would have been offended, even outraged, at Pete's collectivist message?  If one of those conservative parents gave Rush Limbaugh a call to fill him in on the latest liberal/socialist/communist program of indoctrination at public libraries, isn't it clear that Rush would devote the rest of his program, the rest of his week, to exposing the scandal.  It would give conservatives more reason to cut funding to liberal programs like libraries and the arts.  Julie Williams and the other conservatives on Jeffco's school board would call for an investigation into school libraries in order to expunge all the leftist texts that were surely imbedded there.

I looked around the Columbine library and found all kinds of books that would surely not pass Tea Party muster.  "The Lorax", "The Butter Battle Book", and the worst one of all, "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish."  Funny things are everywhere indeed!  All these subversive texts suggest to impressionable youngsters that we are all basically good, that we should be trusting, that we should accept everyone.

I heard a Rush Limbaugh show once while stuck in rush hour traffic.  A disgruntled caller was outraged at the latest art thingy his kid brought home from school.  It seems that the kid's subversive teacher (Is there any other kind?) instructed her class to imagine what a giraffe's head on a turtle's body would look like (or something along those lines) and make a drawing of it.  The kid showed his dad the surreal drawing and the father presumably ran to the phone to express his two grievances to Rush.  First, the lesson was suggesting that one could improve on God's (intelligent) design.  Second, what was the teacher doing wasting time on such pointless activities when there were multiplication tables and grammar rules to memorize?  Rush, of course, was even more outraged and the rest of the hour was devoted to a succession of calls from people who were actually angry at turtles with the heads of giraffes.

You know all those problems I listed in the first paragraph?  They all seem kind of urgent to me.  They all need to be addressed by a national discussion.  Do you think it is possible to have a discussion when even Pete the Cat or surreal turtles piss us off?

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America
And to the republic for which it stands
One nation
Under God
Indivisible
With liberty and justice for all.

Right!  Just make sure you keep your buttons and avoid huge piles of strawberries.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Run For Cover

When I taught Freshmen at the end of my career, I decided to try a little experiment in order to assess exactly what I was dealing with.  I wrote a list of ten words on the board, all normal, some proper nouns, some culturally literate references.  Then I said I will give you an A+ if you simply copy those words on your own paper without making any mistakes.  Not a single member of my class on that first day got an A+ on that quiz.  I gave the quiz daily until everyone got an A+.  After a week or two of wasting everyone's time with my little quiz, I gave up.  The whole group never managed to pass that quiz.  As you might imagine, it was a fun year.

I remember joking with my colleagues that some day those kids who couldn't copy a word like "Colorado" correctly would be voters.

That day has come.  Those freshmen--most of them--were simply incapable of listening, taking notes, doing homework, making any but the most elemental decision.  Well, both parties are doing a nice job of taking advantage of that group mentality that currently pervades the country.  THIS CANDIDATE WANTS YOU TO BE UNSAFE!  THIS CANDIDATE VOTED TO RAISE YOUR TAXES.  THIS CANDIDATE WANTS TO TAKE AWAY ALL OF YOUR RIGHTS AND LIBERTY, etc., etc.

Francis Fukuyama (not sure of spelling) has written a new treatise on the history of democracy and republics and has come to the conclusion that, although the world is inevitable trending toward democracy, those differing versions of democracy  are troublesome, not the least in the United States.  The founding fathers made the foolish assumption when they built the framework of our republic that people would trust each other enough to govern, to compromise, to represent the electorate.  That is clearly no longer the case in this country and therefore, the republic we all live under is in the beginning stages of death throes.

Here is my prediction for the election tomorrow.  The Republicans will destroy the Democrats and take both houses of congress and most state houses, including Colorado.  In the two years that will follow nothing will happen, not because of partisan gridlock necessarily, but because nothing ever happens when Republicans control both halves of the legislature.  You could look it up.  Then in the next election, Clinton will win the presidency and Democrats will enjoy a slight resurgence.  Then in the election after that the Republicans will take over again.  And in all that time NOTHING will happen.  That's the country we live in and I find it incredibly depressing.  My ninth graders are taking over the world and I want to run for cover.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Christian Piety, Abortion, and Hypocrisy in Texas

I posted an article on Facebook yesterday that generated a relatively long stream of arguments back and forth.  The title of the article focused on abortion and the lurid specter of back alley abortions with filthy instruments and "doctors" with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths with dumpsters nearby to hold all the dead fetuses.  Obviously, the reactions on both sides were strong, but the article wasn't really about abortion.  It had three points as far as I could determine.  First, it focused on the problem Republicans are having wooing female votes and at the same time treating those female voters as if they were second class citizens who can't be trusted to make choices.  Next, it focused on the hypocrisy of Republicans in Texas (at least) who want to deregulate everything unless they don't. Finally, it brought up the hardships being brought upon the women of Texas who will now (some of them) have to drive up to 300 miles to get the kind of services provided by Planned Parenthood clinics.  Yes, a goodly portion of those services are centered around abortion, but those services also include screening for cervical cancer, screenings for breast cancer, family counseling, etc.

But the streamers, especially those conservatives who are Pro-Life, didn't talk about any of that.  Instead, they went on and on about the morality of abortion, about questions like "when does life start?", about how women use abortion as birth control and our tax dollars should not support that, and of course they talked about women throwing their aborted fetuses away.  It was a lot like the anti-abortion types who haunt sidewalks around high schools holding up graphic photos of aborted fetuses as if to say that abortion is wrong because it is so gross looking.  I understand the concerns of these folks, but I think their methods are tone-deaf, self aggrandizing, pompous, and completely divorced from reality.

The stream was fun to read and I could tell that most of the combatants were really enjoying the debate.  Just like we all kind of enjoyed the debate over health care six years ago.  Meanwhile, as we were debating health care, there were real flesh and blood people in the streets who were hoping the debate would stop and someone would actually do something.  Same thing was true in yesterday's discourse.  There were sophistic, some would say solipsistic, philosophical arguments.  There were impassioned pleas about infant rights.  There were clever, somewhat mean-spirited rejoinders, and I'm sure we were all  quite pleased with ourselves.  Meanwhile, there are a whole bunch of flesh and blood women out there who couldn't care less about categorical imperatives, or legal niceties, or tax law.  All they care about is how are they gonna make it through their unwanted pregnancy, the pregnancy they have because they couldn't afford, or were too overwhelmed to even think about, birth control, birth control that Republicans are busily trying to get rid of, along with their fiscally prudent and morally bankrupt cutting of food stamps.

I can't get my head around the picture of a club of white, male, millionaires making life decisions for (mostly) poor and indigent women.  Does anyone other than Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Hannity and the rest actually believe that the choice they want to disallow is a cavalier one?  When that flesh and blood pregnant lady above weighs her options, does the officially recognized point when life supposedly begins make a difference to her?  Does she actually think that since life doesn't start until the second trimester, if I just hurry up and abort my unborn child in the next week it will be okay?  The whole idea of some white rich guy deciding when life begins and moralizing about it is the most obscene and immoral thing I can think of.

There were also a lot of personal anecdotes that were used to shed light on the whole issue.  Excuse me, but anecdotes on either side of the issue are interesting but have no value.  Okay, you were able to hear a fetal heart beat, or see the outlines of the neonate on an ultra sound and you were moved.  Of course you were!  What kind of monster wouldn't be moved, but that doesn't make the choice to abort or not abort any easier.  It makes it infinitely more difficult.  That pregnant lady above doesn't give a shit, nor should she, about your experience.  And your experience gives you no right to legislate for others.

You don't want your tax dollars to go toward abortion.  Okay, I don't want my tax dollars to subsidize war, or corporate breaks to McDonalds, or tax free status to churches, or to the NFL (same thing).  Besides, once you sit down with your accountant, or hunker down with Turbo Tax, or just got out pencil and paper and calculator and pare down your taxes as far as possible, the check you end up sending to the IRS is no longer your money.  IT IS OUR MONEY.  What do you want to spend our money on if not to insure the health and happiness of as many of our fellow community members as possible.

Look, I still am unable to get rid of the shackles of my Catholic boyhood.  If my wife and I were ever in a position where an abortion might be an option, I can't imagine I could go through with it (of course, I'm not the one who has to go through it.)  For me, as a good, but lapsed, Catholic, abortion would be a mortal sin( Do Catholics still use that term?).  But for you or anybody else?  It is none of my business and it is certainly not the business of a bunch of clueless white guys (Read: Corey Gardner) in Washington.

If you think abortion is immoral, by all means don't have one.  Just keep your Christian piety to yourself when it comes to others.

Friday, September 12, 2014

It Is What It Is


The Asshole's Retort

I think there should be a psychological syndrome right up there with Tourette's officially recognized and defined by the AMA calling attention to that smug comeback:  "It is what it is?"

I don't want to get all schmaltzy here, but I'm going to have to use a quote:

There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why . . . I dream of things that never were, and ask why not? - Bobby Kennedy

If you're my age and not a nutcase, far-right Republican, that quote gives you the shivers.  Depending on your point of view, it either signals the beginning a great movement, or the first warning sign of the emerging welfare state.  In Kennedy's time, the sad complacency of The Asshole's Retort, wasn't even a consideration.  Notice Kennedy did not say "There are those that look at things the way they are and say 'it is what it is.'"

I think the quote and my addition pretty much sum up a basic difference between the liberal and conservative world view.  In the (many) arguments I've had with my right wing friends, the issue has almost always come down to Federalism vs. Anti-federalism, Hamilton vs. Jefferson.  You know, the whole idea that the federal government has no right trying to make blanket decisions that effect everyone.  The State vs. the Individual.  Communism vs. Individualism.

My mother serves as a case in point.  Like everyone my age (I guess--I hope it's not just me), I have Mother-Issues.  She was beautiful, witty, twinkly-eyed, courageous, and certainly destined for sainthood.  She was an autodidact and like most autodidacts I've known, had a hard time admitting she was wrong.  As a teacher, I am ashamed to remember the number of times she blamed school for my laziness.

The main thing about my mom was that she was an Illinois Catholic Liberal born and bred.  She wore her heart on her sleeve and could always be counted on to shed a tear or two over anyone in need.  Just like she was witty and happy and warm, she was just as frequently outraged.  I'm just sad she didn't remain cogent long enough to watch THE DAILY SHOW.

Her liberal side was most on display when in the company of my first wife's parents, rich, genuinely thoughtful and friendly people, and CONSERVATIVE.  Mom actually told them she thought it wrong for people to have as much as they when there were folks who had nothing!  She couldn't understand how we could all sit by while people were starving in Africa, etc., etc.  My first set of in-laws basically rolled their eyes, shook their heads, and marveled at her naiveté.  I, nineteen at the time, rolled my eyes and shook my head right along with them.

The same thing happened with Katherine's parents, also lovely people, fun to be with, and CONSERVATIVE.  She would explain how Reagan (her first cousin once removed) was a terrible president because he put his mother, Nellie, in a nursing home and never went to see her.  Sometimes after a particularly nice get together with plenty of liquor and food, her eyes would tear up over the thought of all those people who had nothing.  I'm telling you, it got old after awhile.

She used to embarrass me when she got like that.  But here's the thing.  She was right.  The rest of us were as wrong as we could be.  We live in a world that produces enough food to overfeed everyone in the world, but we somehow still allow starvation.  It is what it is.

We live in a country in possession of enough wealth and wisdom to insure universal health care, free day care, free pre-schools, improved roads, etc., etc.  Instead, we elect people who are more protective of their ideology than their constituency.  It is what it is.

And in order to make sure that what it is stays exactly the same, we act tough.  We dig in our heels.  We go bomb somebody.  And we worship the NFL.  The three holiest days of the week are Monday, Thursday, and Sunday.  In the football supplement to The Post at the beginning of the season, there was a slick magazine insert focusing in on the toughness of the Broncos.  It seems it was lack of toughness (we all know it couldn't have been talent) that made us lose the Superbowl.  The magazine was sickening.  It just showed photos of the starting Broncos acting tough.  There was Payton Manning, muscles tense, strained fingers on the ball, looking dangerous and ready to beat the shit out of someone.

Wasn't it amazing when the whole city rejoiced (at least the football nuts) when Manning ran down to the end zone and got in that DB's face and told him to "fuck himself."?  Wow!  What a guy.  It makes you proud just to have witnessed the whole thing.  And the awful thing was that I was right there with them.  I would have given Manning a fist bump if I had been on the field.  It is what it is.

Of course, when something like Ray Rice pummeling his soon-to-be wife splashes all over the crawls at the bottom of the TV screen, we become outraged and spend the next weeks (at least it seems that long) analyzing it, agreeing or disagreeing with the outcome, subjecting that poor, battered woman to the leering comments  of Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity or the blonde bimbos on Fox.  This will dominate the news until the next inevitable school shooting and the ensuing debate.

But, hey.  It is what it is.


Saturday, August 30, 2014

Is Mike Rosen Writing The Post's Editorials Nowadays?

Whenever we subject schools to more than our usual scrutiny, which is to say whenever an election is impending or contract negotiations are underway, we are shocked--shocked!--to discover them filled mostly with flawed people, you know, people like you and me and the clerk at the 7-11 and the ill-tempered nurse last time you went to the doctor and the guy in the cubicle down the aisle who spends entirely too much time on Facebook.  The Jeffco school board has just decided not to award pay raises to those teachers who have been rated partially effective or worse.  Gasp!  You mean to tell me that there are partially effective teachers in schools?  I guess I run around with the wrong crowd, but I don't know anyone who isn't partially effective.

The problem, of course, is determining what exactly it means to be partially effective and how an evaluator might spot partial effectiveness when it comes up to bite him/her on the ass.  Is there any institution in society that will look better when subjected to the kind of scrutiny that teachers and schools regularly see.  Haven't we all grown up scrutinizing our teachers?  And with a few notable exceptions, weren't our teachers easy prey?  Is there anyone who hasn't mimicked a teacher or been outraged by a teacher or been disappointed by one?  When Franny was in first grade and she learned the truth that there was no Malcolm in the lake close to Mrs. Spayd's house, she was furious.  I'm sure she still hasn't forgiven her.

We grow up familiar and therefore contemptuous of schools and teachers.  That's just how it works.  It is very difficult not to be contemptuous of anything we know that intimately.  We certainly can all find things about our parents, our friends, to be contemptuous about.  But just because we are familiar with something doesn't mean we know anything about it.  Look at today's editorial in the increasingly irritating Denver Post:  "Jeffco gets it right on pay increases."

The major thesis of the article is if Jeffco can't trust its principals to know a partially effective teacher when they see one, who can?  Therefore withholding incremental raises based on Jeffco's evaluation process is the right thing to do.  At first blush that sounds reasonable, but if the argument is subjected to the same scrutiny it is asking teachers to face, it doesn't hold water.

The first sentence says a fact-finder "allowed the perfect to become the enemy of the good" when he recommended that raises not be tied to evaluations.  It sounds like Mike Rosen is writing the staff editorial.  The only loaded word missing is "liberal," as in "liberal fact-finder." I am ready to agree with the "goodness" of Jeffco's evaluation process when the rest of this article proves it to me, not because it was stuck inside a cleverly spun lead.

A few paragraphs later the essay casually dismisses the fact-finders recommendation as "bad advice." How so?  It's bad because even though the evaluation system is not perfect ("Perhaps not" the Post sneeringly says in response), it must be good.  That word "must" is my editorial comment because the tone of this article isn't focused enough to say that anything IS the case.  Mostly, the article just keeps ratifying its undying faith in the wisdom of Jeffco's school board.

There are evidently three reasons why the system MUST be good.  First of all, "either the district trusts its principals or it doesn't."  Secondly, ". . .they are, after all, trained to supervise and evaluate teachers."  Finally, "if they don't know who is effective within their buildings, it's hard to imagine who would."  This is beginning to sound like a DAILY SHOW routine.

I taught for 35 years.  I had somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 principals and maybe 20 assistant principals.  There were only a couple of that group who were not genuinely nice people.  Only two of them did I think were completely incompetent.  Many of them were smart and fun to be with.  But I can only think of two who really understood what it took to be a COMPLETELY effective teacher.

Just to illustrate the incoherence of the Post's and by extension the school board's argument, let us consider the bottom two paragraphs of the first column.  In the first paragraph the essay says that Snyder (the fact-finder) "admits" (does that sound like a loaded word to you?) no evaluative process can be perfect because some subjectivity is always present.  In the second paragraph the essay says Snyder contradicts himself by saying that "a teacher should receive the same rating no matter who performs the evaluation."  That doesn't sound like a contradiction to me.  Isn't it clear that Snyder's argument is that since all such systems will smack of subjectivity and since, for the system to be fair, the evaluations should be the same no matter who the evaluator, it follows that raises should not be tied to systems that are inherently unfair.

The Post goes on to conclude that even though it is obvious that Jeffco's evaluative process is fundamentally inconsistent it is still a "good one" and "will have to suffice."  Wow, that certainly makes me feel better.

Finally, the Post looks down its editorial nose at the whole situation when it claims that less than two percent of the teachers would be denied raises.  Not only that, the Post continues, but fully 45 percent of Jeffco's schools had no one (well, at least no teachers) who were rated partially effective or below. The Post's editorial staff is, to put it mildly, skeptical that there are so few partially effective teachers out there.  "Is it really possible, for example, that 45 percent of schools have no teachers who are partially effective or ineffective?"

As a matter of fact, yes, it is quite possible that our schools are filled with good, well-intentioned, hard working, partially effective human beings who still manage to kill in the classroom.  Too bad the same thing can't be said about the editorial staff at the Post.  


Thursday, August 28, 2014

Feeding at Texas Roadkill

Have you ever noticed those restaurants that are always packed to the gills--Hacienda Colorado, The Claim Jumper, Texas Roadhouse, et. al.--always serve up portions that no normal human being could eat in one sitting?  The food itself is just passable and, allowing for the different "cuisines" being featured, tastes the same, has the same texture, the same shiny plastic sheen on the salad dressings, the same apps, the same house special margaritas, the same sad low end wines from California.

The people, both customers and waitstaff, look the same as well.  There will be lots of overweight families out celebrating a birthday, or a graduation from junior high, or the purchase of a new pick-up.  The men will be sporting guts that strain their "Nobama" tee-shirts and chances are they'll be wearing ill-fitting baseball caps with mesh panels built in and a brim that advertises bull semen or something along that order.  The women, except for the lack of a baseball cap, are pretty much indistinguishable from the men and the little children are all clinically obese.  Everybody at the big table set for eight (the grandparents are tagging along) has a great time talking about the day and the special event.  But when the young and depressingly happy servers bring out the groaning plates of artery clogging meats and potatoes, the conversation stops and the family gets down to the serious business of feeding.  These places are not dining rooms; they're feeding troughs.

We went to a Texas Roadhouse a couple nights ago.  I would have written this yesterday, but it took me longer than normal to digest (ahem) the whole experience.  The place was packed.  There were people beginning to line up by the front door waiting to get a table just as we were getting seated.  We were led through this maze of cedar planking to a two-top booth in a back cubby hole next to two tables celebrating birthdays and both looking remarkably like my description above.  They seemed nice enough and the fact that there was just barely enough room for our happy waiter and his even happier busboys to squeeze through between our two tables didn't bother me at all until it was time to bring out the cake, or the cupcakes in this case.

From the back of joint, somewhere by the glass case displaying different cuts of withered looking beef came an incessant pounding and then a parade of all the staff led by a waiter carrying a full sized leather saddle.  I can only assume it was imported from the lone star state.  They wedged the saddle in the aisle between our tables and got everyone in the restaurant--everyone except Kathe and I--to yell a big Texas "Hee-Haw" in celebration of this chubby little kid's special day.  He had a hard time climbing up on the saddle and his leg was a little too chubby to fit between our tables, but hey, who noticed?  After the little celebration the folks in the restaurant all took a few minutes to settle back down to the serious business of stuffing chunks of, in most cases, well-done beef in their mouths.  The folks at the birthday table immediately quieted down after the saddle had been removed and dug into their chocolate sundaes, the ones they ordered to supplement the cupcakes.

The birthday celebration may have been annoying, but our food, with the exception of some pretty good fried pickles, wasn't even mediocre.  But mostly it is the service at such places that sets them apart.  The folks at Texas Roadhouse are evidently bound and determined to turn their (at least) 75 tables four times a night.  We got our cokes right away.  The pickles took a little longer and we were just starting to appreciate how thin and crispy they were when we had to push the plates aside to accommodate our salads.  I had just sprinkled my blue cheese crumbles when Kathie's prime rib and my rib eye came.  They must order their meat from the same company that supplies King Soopers.  That's exactly how indigestible it was.  I ate half of mine and took the rest home.  K did the same.  She likes masking the taste and texture of sub-prime beef in tomato soup the next day.  I would do the same, but I don't like tomato soup.  We decided to forego dessert and beat a fast retreat, determined never to return.  When we walked through the throngs of silent feeders, everyone on the wait staff smiled broadly and wished us a pleasant evening.  They smiled so much because they probably felt guilty about feeding us such swill.

Some people eat to live.  Those are the folks who get excited when they see a Cracker Barrel up ahead on the interstate.  I ate at a Cracker Barrel in Nebraska once.  The breakfast buffet was bountiful, crowded, and nightmarish.

Next time I go out to eat, I'm going to Mizuna.  If Mizuna offered blue cheese crumbles with their salads I'm pretty sure the wait staff would sprinkle them on for me.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Nannying and Politics:

Two words that normally don't inhabit the same space

I spent about three hours yesterday working on QUAD, my latest attempt at writing a novel, when I wrote myself into yet another gaping hole and decided to quit for awhile and reread some postings in Starkeyland.  I was particularly struck by some of the political rants posted a few years ago in response to all the partisan name calling and down right dishonesty.  The thing I noticed about them was that they sounded well informed.  I had done my homework.  I had read all the crap on THE DAILY BEAST, THE NEW YORK TIMES, HUFFINGTON POST, THE DRUDGE REPORT, POLITIFACT, FACTCHECK, and on and on.  If there is anyone out there who actually keeps up with this blog, you will undoubtedly have noticed two things:  first, the postings are coming fewer and farther between, and second, there is precious little politics..

I have explanations for that.  We don't blog so much anymore because we are being the nannies for Willa and Jaydee now that both Ken and Franny have jobs that take them out of the home.  Kathie and I wake up around 5 in the morning.  Instead of going to the Y like we have normally done for the past twenty years or so, we stay home, have coffee, read the paper, watch the football network.  I normally go down to the computer around half past 6 to work on my book.  Then I leave around 8:15 to pick up the girls at their home.  I get back to my home about 9:30.  We usually do something worthwhile with the girls in the morning.  We go to the zoo, or to one of the museums, or to the Botanic Gardens, things like that.  One day a week we hang out at home and have the girls' grandmother, who is currently suffering from Alzheimer's and in an assisted living facility, over for lunch.  Another day we are apt to take them to a park or on a little hike along the South Platte.  On Thursday, the last day of our four day week of nannying, we take them to the Columbine Library to nose around and take Willa to a toddler class.  It's good practice learning to play with others for when she starts real school.

We feed the kids lunch somewhere around noon and if we're lucky put them down for naps at 1:30.  If the naps take, and they usually do, Kathie and I spend a blissful hour hanging out, talking, having a drink or two.  The kids are normally back at it around 3 or 3:30 and we spend the rest of the  day watching a movie (BRAVE, FROZEN, THE LORAX, we've bought them all).  At 4:30 we hook up with Franny at DU and the kids go back home.

There just isn't much time to blog given all that,  but my life does feel richer than it has the past few years and not just because we are getting paid.

I also have an explanation for the lack of political commentary lately.  I figure what's the point?  Ken is still mightily involved in the upcoming midterms, targeting key races around the country for CREDO and coordinating all their activities by focusing on uninformed Democratic voters, the voters, usually young people, who are too lazy or stupid to vote during the midterms, thus guaranteeing that gridlock in Washington will be here to stay.  Franny, on the other hand, is no longer part of the political fray.  Instead, she's working at DU as the Director of Alumni Something Or Other.  She likes it.  She doesn't have to read Mike Allen every morning and watch MORNING JOE. I've followed suit.  I simply don't read about it with the same scrutiny I used to and I'm a happier man for it and, as Ken has pointed out to me on more than one occasion, the country so far is surviving my lack of attention.

With all that in mind, what I'm about to say, instead of being based on my reading, is simply a couple of uninformed knee jerk reactions to the current political season as manifested in political ads.

I don't understand why Mark Udall, who I think is a terrific and truly bipartisan senator, is running such a stupid race.  When the ads from Americans For Prosperity (read: Koch brothers) lambaste Udall for casting the deciding vote for Obamacare, I always get first amazed and then furious and then sad.  Are there really people out there who believe that there was a single deciding vote for Obamacare?  Is the electorate really that stupid?  The answer is an unqualified yes!  When other versions of those attack ads appear talking about how health care cost are still rising (OF COURSE THEY'RE STILL RISING YOU IDIOTS.  NO ONE SAID THEY WOULDN'T.  BUT THEY ARE RISING MORE SLOWLY THAN AT ANY TIME SINCE 1965!),  or that 300,000 folks have lost their insurance (THAT MANY PEOPLE ALWAYS HAVE TO CHANGE THEIR COVERAGE FOR A VARIETY OF REASONS.  IT HAS BEEN EVER THUS AND HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH OBAMACARE!), or that tons of poor people have seen their premiums increase (OF COURSE THE KOCH BROTHERS ARE NOT MENTIONING THAT PREMIUMS INCREASE AS COVERAGE BECOMES MORE COMPREHENSIVE.  THEY ALSO DON'T MENTION HOW SUBSIDIES WILL EASE THAT PAIN FOR THE VAST MAJORITY OF PEOPLE).  In other words, those ads are complete and unvarnished bullshit and yet Udall doesn't fight back.

Of course, Udall is at a huge disadvantage.  The attacks on Obamacare lend themselves to soundbites; the explanations for what's really happening with health care are complicated.  People have to be smart and open minded and patient, three qualities in short supply, to understand them.  And even if they did understand, they would still refuse to believe.  So I go back to my previous comment.  What's the point?

Do us all a favor and vote for Udall.  Do us all a favor and base your vote on truth rather than demonization.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Moving The Bomb Line On Climate Change

Yossarian has nothing on  the North Carolina legislature

This little news item ("Rising tide.  Damp Market."  The Denver Post, June 26, 2014) from North Carolina wins my first sporadically awarded Moving The Bomb Line Above Bologna prize in tribute to Yossarian doing just that in Catch-22  to avoid a suicide bombing mission.  It seems that back in 2011 North Carolina state officials, under the direction of a Democratic governor, released a study that showed the water levels on the coast rising 39 inches by the end of the century!  They were even in the process of creating a web site showing all the properties that would be inundated by the year 2100.  They figured North Carolineans could look at the handy web site as a guide to preparing for the future.

Well, one lobbyist for realtors and home builders, combined with plenty of Republican state legislators and assorted climate change deniers, set about to fight the report.  With the help of a newly elected Republican governor, North Carolina's legislator "took back" the report and instead released information for the next 30 years only.  According to the more limited study, coastal water levels would only rise by 8 inches.  The realtors were happy.  The Republicans were happy.  Together, they had managed to save 31 inches.  If that's not conservation, what is?

Let's be fair for a second.  It is hard to blame a homeowner or businessman living on the outer coast.  A web site guaranteeing the imminent destruction of your property and all the surrounding properties would most assuredly devastate your region's economy.  Good luck selling.  Good luck attracting tourists.  How long can you tread water?  I'm glad I live in the mountains where I only have to worry about avalanches, landslides, wild fires, and floods.

On the other hand, 97 % of the scientific community not employed by the Koch brothers agree that if we don't act now,  phenomena like the inundation of North Carolina' coast are inevitable.  Of course, they're probably inevitably no matter what we do, but hey, let's keep a good thought.  So, explain to me how acting to curb climate change, to limit our carbon footprint, to be sustainable, etc., etc., is going to cost us too much money.  How much is it costing to rebuild Atlantic City and the rest of the east coast after Sandy?  How many more times in the next 100 years are we going to have to rebuild it again?  It seems like acting now would be more cost effective.  If the 39 inch prediction is true, and the confidence is high, then $700 billion dollars of property will be below sea level in 2100 and an additional $730 billion will be at risk at high tide.

I know I don't understand about business (pause to genuflect here) and job creation and all that, but all those figures in the last paragraph seem like real money to me.  We ought to muster the political will to do something about it, something other than moving the bomb line and hoping nobody will notice.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Plato at the Googleplex - Michael Lewis on Wall Street


A Prose Cocktail

The combination of PLATO AT THE GOOGLEPLEX by Rebecca Goldstein and Michael Lewis’ FLASH BOYS is a disturbing cocktail, one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, especially since every time I turn around I see another connection.  I bought the Goldstein book because the reviews made it irresistible.  The book follows the delightful conceit that Plato is on a book tour for his most recent work, THE REPUBLIC, and in the course of the tour does interviews with techies at Google, a tiger mom, a cable news host (read:  Bill O’Reilly) and a brain scientist.  When I started the book poolside in Belize, I was mostly looking forward to Plato’s evisceration of O’Reilly; instead, I got a delightful review of Platonic thought, the history of philosophy, Greek myth, and modern science in one.  But more than that, I was reminded of the key philosophical questions that drew me to philosophy in the first place.  As an added bonus, the book is clearly a playful, but nonetheless stern, rebuke to modern day pundits and politicians of all persuasions.

There are all kinds of great questions:  Why is there something rather than nothing (ontological)?  Is it better to live a short life full of significance, or a long life undistinguished (Achilles, not to mention Pippin)?  How does one live a life that matters (teleological)?  They are all fun to debate in the campus coffee shop  at all hours of the night and morning. 

But I want to talk mostly about laws and justice here.  Plato proposes a fascinating thought experiment.  Imagine you had in your possession a ring that would render you invisible whenever you wore it, reminiscent of Perseus’ helmet in CLASH OF THE TITANS (“I’m invisible.  Can’t you see that.”).  When invisible you could do anything you felt like with no fear of getting caught, no fear of retribution.  You could walk into a house and take whatever you wanted.  You could rifle money out of cash drawers.  Lurk around girls’ or boys’ locker rooms.  Steal cars.  Take free rides on airplanes.  Anything.  Would you take advantage of that situation?  Regardless of your answer, what percentage of the rest of us would?  Most everyone would answer, “Of course not.  Of course I wouldn’t take advantage.”  But do you think that’s an honest response?  If you had the ring long enough, wouldn’t you be tempted to use it for little stuff?  You’re short of cash and you’ve left your bank card at home.  Wouldn’t you slip on the ring and score that Twinkie, or that $100,000 bar?  Who’s it gonna hurt?  And wouldn’t that make the next transgression a little easier?  I mean, that’d just be human, right?

Plato goes off from that experiment to suggest that at the extreme end of the range of human desires lies the ring.  If heaven or hell were not hanging over our heads, we would all ultimately agree that being able to do anything we would like to do and get away with it would be ideal.  Of course, we would also agree that the worse that could happen to us is if someone else who was getting away with everything did anything to hurt us.  The space between those two conflicting desires is the realm of law and justice.  Since we have no choice but to live in a community (Plato thought that anyone who lived outside of society was by definition either a god or a monster), we have to cooperate to survive.  We have to have a social contract.  And to do that we would have consider questions like “What is the good life?” “What makes life matter?”

Even more than that, the good of the polis, the city-state, outweighs the good of the individual.  Anything else equals chaos.  Sparta honored collective glory.  Individual glory—a life that matters—was secondary to the glory of the state.  Athens gloried in the individual, but a life that mattered for the individual was still one that furthered the state.  The braid of beauty, truth, and goodness held this magical society together.  The pursuit of any part of this trilogy was the purest endeavor and one that could not help but further the good of the state.  All politicians in Plato’s utopia would be the poorest people in the state and forbade extravagance so as to guard against the inevitable corruption that comes from the combination of power and wealth.

In the ultimately unsatisfying chapter where Plato is interviewed by the Bill O’Reilly character (It is unsatisfying because you finally see that it is not possible to win an argument with a prating knave.), Plato asks Roy McCoy if he would rather refute someone, or be refuted?  Would he rather hurt another, or himself be hurt?  McCoy treats it like a trick question.  Of course, he would rather refute, would rather hurt than be hurt.  What kind of idiot wouldn’t?  Plato is just that kind of idiot.  He is the kind of idiot any polis needs to hold it together.  The USA of the first part of the twenty-first century is in short supply of such idiots and if we had them they would just queue up to be demolished by the pundits, the cable news hosts, the bought and paid for politicians.

That’s why PLATO AT THE GOOGLEPLEX fits in so nicely with FLASH BOYS.  The Plato book shows us how to make a better polis.  Michael Lewis’ book shows us why that is a pipe dream.  We all know the story.  Wall Street types, whose only motivation is to make increasing amounts of money, discovered that they could game the system by simply placing their orders faster than anyone else.  If a person could find a price fluctuation between the futures market in Chicago and the exchange on Wall Street, he could make a lot of money by placing a virtually instant order to buy or sell. 

That is an epic over-simplification, but suffice it to say that all that technical wheeling and dealing aside, FLASH BOYS is a book about unbridled greed and our culture’s tacit acceptance of that fact.  

Folks just made a whole shit load of money by jumping the market and in the process screwing the little guys, the guys who lost value in their retirement, the mutual funds who were naive enough to play by the rules.  When the book’s hero, the guy who spearheads the push to figure out the scam, tries to establish a fair stock market that wasn’t based on bilking the common man, he went to the big banks to get them to participate.  At first, when asked why he was doing this, why he was giving up a big money job to make the market fair again, he simply told them that he wanted to do the right thing.  That response was greeted by such genuine bewilderment that he didn’t raise a dime.  When he changed his story and rigged some numbers to suggest that he would make an eventual killing on the deal, the investors lined up at his door.

After I finished the book, I looked up a number of negative reviews to find out what all those Michael Lewis haters were saying.  Not much.  The main thing I took away from the reviews was that Lewis was ignoring the fact that HFT (high frequency trading) created liquidity, put more money into the economy, and of course (prepare to genuflect) created jobs.  None of those reviewers seemed bothered by the amoral pursuit of money and the shameless disregard of others that seems to control our economy.  Bill O’Reilly and the folks at FoxNews would call that democracy.  Plato, not knowing what to call it, would simply weep.


Wednesday, April 30, 2014

CHRISTIANIST CHARITY

A Contradiction In Terms

I shared a thing by Andrew Sullivan on Facebook yesterday.  It was a well documented attack on Sarah Palin's statement that "Waterboarding is how we baptize terrorists."  More than that--because we all know that anything that Palin says is bound to be so absurd as to make attack unnecessary--he attacked the "Christianists" (his word) who support such sentiment and the gathered NRA convention goers who wildly applauded her statement.

I introduced the post by paraphrasing James Baldwin's wonderful statement on a Dick Cavett show:  "The most segregated hour in the week is high noon on Sunday."  I bastardized that statement with my paraphrase:  "The most unchristian time and place of the week is in church on Sunday."  Okay, so I took some major liberties with Baldwin, but this is a blog so who gives a shit?  Predictably, that overstated paraphrase got some reaction.  Let me paraphrase.  A few folks maintained that in their particular church there was all kinds of Christian charity.  Their church helped those less fortunate.  One person even said that his church had black people in attendance!

But an attack on the good that churches do was not my intention and it certainly wasn't Baldwin's or Sullivan's.  I love churches.  I cannot walk into the sanctuary of any church without feeling overwhelmed.  I almost always start crying.  I can safely say that I have spent more time in churches and on altars dressed in black cassocks and white chasubles than anyone I know who isn't a priest.  I can still recite the prayers at the foot of the altar in Latin and I can't seem to get the text of The Baltimore Catechism out of my head.

Churches are great.  It's the people inside them I'm not so sure about.  You see, I look askance at the kind of charity promulgated by churches.  I think it too often serves as a way to build up credits in one's spiritual bank account, thus enabling the "Christianist" to perpetrate all sorts of damage during the rest of the week.  Of course, there are all kinds of churchgoing Christians who don't limit their charity to one hour on Sunday.  They are Christians 24/7.

But the kind of Christians who Sullivan terms "Christianists" aren't like that.  They go to church, give money to augment the building fund, send donations to some random kid in Africa in need of saving and all the rest.  But when they aren't in Church feeling holy, they are holed up at home listening to FoxNews, getting angry at all those takers--you know, the people of color who are content to live off the hard work of others--who are after their money, cheering every time John Boehner makes fun of immigration reform, or figures out a way to block gun regulations, or insures tax breaks for corporations even as he blocks them for those of us who don't have a deep pocketed lobby working to preserve our power.  Those same "Christianists" are the ones who just a couple of years ago were excited about a new project financed by some right wing foundation or other to rewrite the bible in order to remove its liberal bias--Christ was surely joking when he made that eye of a camel comment, right?  Those same "Christianists" see nothing wrong with torture, or death penalties, or destroying immigrant families who simply want to survive.  Those are the people Andrew Sullivan is attacking and rightly so.  And I join him in that attack.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Route 66





Katherine today.  

I'm bridging a gap between too many hours in the sun by a pool (yummy indulgence) and a Rockies spring training game tonight by thinking about our trek here on the remnants of Route 66.  The drive is rife with memories and tedium and nice little private jokes with Jim.  Jim contends that large numbers of private jokes are a prerequisite to a good marriage.  I'm not sure if he's being descriptive or prescriptive or ironic.  We are an interesting pair--I seek sympathy and need to vent.  He offers solutions and a good ribbing.  I love him.  I need him these days.

My mom has Alzheimer's.  My brother and I are moving her to assisted living memory care.  It's awful.  I am immersed in memories of her (wonderful and truly awful) and full of empathy and realizing all my fights to keep her independent have been wrong.  Her decline has been precipitous and I am a sad little girl.

In the midst of all this, I ran away from home to Rockies Spring Training in Scottsdale Arizona.  I'm a master at running away.  My mom is brave, but not me.  As a little girl I ran away to Stapleton Airport.  I got on a real live plane once.  We lived within a mile of the airport and I ran there often.  The stewardesses at the check-in gates learned to call Mom as soon as they saw me.

Even though I've been good and done my bit helping Mom,  I ran away from home and  I feel guilty and I am here in Scottsdale and enjoying the amazing sun (how I love it) and the Rockies and everything.  I digress.

I want to talk about Route 66.  It is an interesting road an a part of our journey from Denver to Scottsdale.  I've been on that road off and on since I was eleven years old.  I thought about it this time.

We have done this trip enough that I consciously try to think of a new way to look at it each trip. I decided I'd focus on Roadside Attractions this trip.  I was thinking about Mom and her adamant and forceful battles with Dad about stopping at stupid Roadside Attractions.  She always won.  I remember thinking how weird it was she wanted to see the Shoshone Ice Caves or the largest piece of lava in Idaho ("Lave is free--make your own soap!").  I learned as a traveling parent that moms and kids need to pee and move about and her fascination with the Roadside Attractions was more about parenting than curiosity.

I figured this Roadside point of view would be fun when we passed a place in Larkspur that offered miniature golf and goat rides.  But that was it until Santa Fe.  There was an Italian restaurant in Trinidad with singing waiters and since Trinidad is the sex change capital of the country, I contemplated the singing wait staff as a Roadside Attraction.  I decided not to go there.

The only other Roadside Attraction of note was the NRA Wittendon Center just south of Raton, New Mexico.  I don't think Mom would have battled for a stop here.

We stayed the night in Santa Fe and headed off on the highway that would begin to follow the Route 66 my childhood.

It wasn't long before I realized that there are no more family Roadside Attractions.  They are almost gone.  Grown-up things have taken over.  Kids watch movies in the backseats of cars and Roadside Attractions are casinos on Native American Reservations.  My least favorite Roadside Attraction was Knife City.  It had a ton of signs about the various lethal weapons they offered (high capacity clips were offered as well) and only one sign mentioned kitchen cutlery.

There was a 90 mile stretch of Arizona just after we entered the state worthy of note.  The roads in Arizona stink compared to New Mexico and Colorado.  I'm sure the tax rate is lower though.
Also, that part of the road is on the Navajo Reservation.  It was also one of the few parts of the road that echoed my memories of Route 66.  There were competing "Indian Villages" with jewelry and moccasins and tepees (one to smoke in), beaded belts, and fireworks.  The signs were bright and competitive.  I somehow wanted to stop.  Just for old times sake.  Jim would have stopped for me.  He'll do almost anything for me.  I couldn't even explain why I would and never said a word.  I don't want to stop on the way back either.  I'm pretty much over the Roadside Attraction thing.

In Gallup, New Mexico, we passed the El Rancho Motel.  We had lunch there once and might do so again on the way back.  It's where John Wayne stayed when he made movies with John Ford in Monument Valley.  It's really cheesy.  That's the point.  The burgers were okay.  That's the most I would recommend and that's iffy.

There's not much else to report.  We saw our first Saguaro near Bumble Bee Arizona (no services) and shortly after that there was a "Scenic View with Vending Machines."  What--no Wifi?

I have had a wonderful time in the sun here in Arizona.  I have seen a Rockies game and am headed to another tonight (this is when they seem to do their best) and yesterday I spent a day at the spa at the Camelback Inn.  I had dinner at the sports bar at the Four Seasons in Carefree last night.   When I run away, I run away.

My mom ran way from home because she was trapped at home.  I run away from home because home is hard and I need to take a deep breath before I face the next battle.

The Route 66 of my childhood was a road dotted with one-story motels.  Most of them had swimming pools and metal pool chairs that semi-rocked and parents who drove like madmen all day long to collapse in those chairs while they watched their kids use up energy in those pools.  I loved checking into the motels.  My mom would carry in a "beach bag" that was filled with gin and tonics for her and Jim Beam for my dad.  My brother and I were ordered to the pool and we dove in with glee and Mom and Dad got tipsy and happy and life was good on Route 66.

Travel well.





Sunday, March 9, 2014

Responsible Journalism

You Have To Want It

I don't have to tell anyone that since the advent of 24 hour news cycles and screaming, ranting, venting ideologues masquerading as journalists, the news has metastasized into this self-referential monster that has almost no relationship to the Truth (whatever that is).  The sheer volume of the crap makes reading the Sunday paper a daunting task.

As an old journalism teacher, however, I do have some suggestions on how to pare down your reading to only the essential stuff.  You'll notice that there are two kinds of stories that appear on the news pages (We won't even talk about the op-ed stuff.):  stories objectively reporting things that happen in the world and stories telling us the reactions of politicians and pundits to those happenings.  For instance, the breeching of security at Benghazi and the subsequent deaths were serious things that actually happened in real time, but that only comprised a relatively small part of the coverage.  The main coverage of Benghazi focused on political reactions and fall-out.  In other words, it devoted a lot of air time, a lot of column inches, to meaningless political posturing and finger pointing, none of which had anything to do with the actual event.

In that spirit, I spent my morning going through my news web sites while waiting for my new paper delivery person to get the Post and the Times here before EIGHT-FUCKING-O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING!  I went through THE DAILY BEAST, THE HUFFINGTON POST, FOX NEWS, and POLITICO and simply wrote the headlines of all those stories that would, to my way of thinking, constitute a complete waste of time to look at.  I'm going to resist my natural impulse to make snarky comments about each item and just let the list speak for itself.

THE LIST (in no particular order)

"Ann Coulter Disparages Browning Of America"
"Sarah Palin Delivers Vehement CPAC Speech"
"The Right's Plan To Demolish Labor Unions"
"Newt's CPAC Blunder"
"Michelle Bachman Takes A Jab At Hillary Clinton"
"Bobby Jindal Gets A Much Needed History Lesson"
"Rand Paul:  Obama Is Shredding The Constitution"
"McConnell:  Congress Won't Make A Lot Of Big Important Things Happen This Year"
"Santorum Weighs In On Why The GOP Loses"
"Perry:  I Don't Think Nugent's Shocking Comment Was Racist"

I have to add a third category here:  all those lurid, leering articles about celebrities and their fascinating lives.

"The Absolute Worst Thing You Can Do With A Kit Kat"
"Justin and Selena Eat Breakfast Together"
"An Inspiring Tale Of Three Pussycats"
"Miley Cirus Needs A Teleprompter To Remember Her Lyrics"
"Why You Should Embrace Slow Sex"
"Selfies Of The Week"

After you get by all the garbage listed above (just the tip of the iceberg), you will discover some pretty good journalism, but you have to want it.





Friday, February 21, 2014

Growing Old

We Aren't Dead Yet!

I was putting off work on my latest project to idly scroll through all the lurid info, personality assessments, and random lists on Huffington Post when I came across an article by Yagama Shah entitled, "19 Reasons Getting Older Is The Best Thing That Can Happen To You."  Let me go through some of her reasons and explain why Yagama, obviously still in her twenties, doesn't know what she is talking about, because, in the words of my aunt, "Growing old is Hell."

SENIOR DISCOUNTS:  Okay, it's hard to argue with that.  I sometimes like to get out my lifetime national parks pass and just look at it.  On the other hand, it gets irritating waiting in line behind a bunch of fellow seniors digging through their fanny packs looking for discount coupons at the check out stand.

NOT WORRYING AS MUKCH ABOUT HOW THINGS WILL TURN OUT:  What?!  Would you mind explaining that.  The fact is that when you are a senior you realize early on that things are going to turn out a lot sooner than you would like.  I don't know about Yagama and her friends, but for me that is worrisome.

MORE MATURE RELATIONSHIPS:  As in look at that cute couple sitting over there on the park bench feeding pigeons.

LOOKS AREN'T EVERYTHING:  I hate to break this to you Yagama, but nothing could be further from the truth.   What you are saying is that when you look at me you are forced to the conclusion that "God, for that old geezer looks must not be everything.  How nice!"  My fellow old people still check themselves out in the mirror before climbing behind the bars of their walkers.

9:30 BEDTIME IS OKAY:  Hey, that's at least an hour past my bedtime.

DON'T CARE WHAT OTHERS THINK:  This one is a lot like the "looks aren't everything" reason.  Enough said.

FEWER MAJOR LIFE DECISIONS:  Get serious!  The decisions are still there, still as numerous, just more urgent.

DRESS FOR COMFORT:  Yagama must be referring to all those old people in jumpsuits, but that has nothing to do with age.   Jumpsuits are the best things to wear when sitting in front of slot machines in Vegas.

STABLE FRIENDSHIPS:  I would agree with that if it weren't for the fact that so many of my long time friends seem to be dropping dead.

CAN STOP KEEPING UP WITH TECH:  Jesus Christ!  We aren't dead and doddering yet.  See!  I'm writing this and I'm going to post it.  I would even make it look fancier if I knew how.

CAN SIT AT CONCERTS:  Perhaps, but I have to keep getting up to go to the bathroom.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Uncle

A Noodle Joint

Katherine noted just a little while ago that eating in Puerto Vallarta was a much cheaper proposition than eating at home.  That of course is not technically true.  It we actually ate at home it would be different.  Not much, but different nonetheless.

Food in PV is simple.  Katherine fries up egg and bacon sandwiches for breakfast after our morning workout and walk along the beach.  The rest of the day we are either on a tour where the food and drink is part of the package, or we are hanging out by the pool and taking random bites of sliced turkey, ham, and cheese.  At night we eat out, but rarely at pricey places.  We eat at Pipi's, or The Sea Monkey, or take a great and relatively inexpensive food tour courtesy of Vallarta Eats.  The most expensive place we ate with Bud and Janet was Tino's on the Malecon and I ended up getting sick.  Kathie and I did manage to have one mid afternoon foray to Las Palapas, a great restaurant on the beach.  Even that wasn't too pricey.

Things got different when we got home.  First of all, instead of cold cuts, our mid-day snacking has become trays of great cheeses, salamis, and breads along with glasses of wine.  Since we've been home we've eaten at Bonnano Brothers (we were in the neighborhood anyway to pick up a parcel after hours at UPS), Lou's Foodbar (met Franny, Ken, and the kids there our second night back, a traditional meeting place), Ted's Montana Grill (took Kathie's mom there for a burger before the AFC championship game), Bones (stopped there on the way home from a handyman job to grab a quick beer and some Shishito peppers and to grab a take-out order of edamame), Snooze twice (we go there every Saturday morning for breakfast), and just the night before last, Uncle.

I've been wanting to go to Uncle ever since the last "5280" restaurant rating issue had listed Uncle as the top noodle bar in Denver.  I was skeptical.  I agree with my friend Kevin Williams that when all things are considered, Bones (a noodle bar, I should point out) has the best food in Denver.  I was anxious to see how Uncle stacked up.

Pretty well I must say.  There were all kinds of things I liked about the place.   A little like Brothers Bar, the restaurant has a barely visible "Uncle" etched into the window above the black exterior.  If Kathie and I didn't know it's address, 2215 32nd, we never would have noticed it being anything other than a barely visible storefront.  Inside, it is a clean, well-lighted place, with shiny horizontal and vertical wooden slats lining the walls and well-spaced, bare wooden tables and chairs.  The bar overlooking the kitchen is the center piece of the place and by the time six-thirty rolled around every seat in the small room was full.  The music is well-chosen and hipster loud (This is a place for a youngish crowd.).  The vibe--some might say din--limited conversation to guttural responses about the food.  Lots of "oh my god's," and "yums," and "wow's."  The most complicated thought that anyone could communicate went along the lines of "did you try the Bibimbap?"

The menu was quite similar to Bones.  Maybe five appetizers (the brussel sprouts were terrific), but none as interesting as the variety you get at Bones.  There are maybe five different versions of Ramen, and the same number of noodle bowls.  They even have three different types of steamed buns to try, but the pork belly ones we tried, though excellent, were not nearly as perfect as the ones you'll get at Bones.  There is an interesting beer, wine and sake menu plus four specialty cocktails.

The best thing about Uncle is that it is in Franny and Ken's neighborhood, so we are apt to add the place to our restaurant rotation.  I would gladly drive across town to get a noodle bowl at Uncle, but if it were sitting across the street from Frank Bonnano's place, I would end up going to Bones.

Friday, January 3, 2014

30 X 30




An Art Post

I remember a time in Comp for the College Bound when I was leading my kids through the old hammer in a frame gimmick in order for them to come up with some sort of appreciation of aesthetic distance.  I pointed out two drawings on the wall given to me by past students.  One, a rather rough hewn painting of what Bourani must have looked like to Nicholas in THE MAGUS, the other, a finely wrought drawing of an oriental princess surrounded by a flowering garden.  Insofar as the Bourani painting was playing with textures and shades of color and perspective, I thought it was what we might call "Art," while the exquisite drawing, even though it was given to me by a sweetheart of a girl from Laos who did everything I asked of her, wasn't art so much as decoration.  Between you and me, I think drawing such a distinction is pointless at best and downright mean spirited at worst, but it is always guaranteed to get a rise out of high school seniors.  Besides, defining art is one of my favorite pastimes.  I mean I could reread--I have reread--the aesthetics discussion in PORTRAIT dozens of times and always find something new to think about.

I'm talking about this because my son Christian gave me a magnificent oil painting of a barn by Richard Harrington.  When we go to Jenny Lake every year we always stop by the Rare Gallery in Jackson.  The last few years we have found ourselves admiring the collection of barns Harrington was showing at the gallery.  By the way, if you're ever in Jackson, go to this gallery.  It has one of the most varied and interesting collections I've ever seen.

Well, Christian, bless his heart, wanted to do something special for my sixty-fifth and he commissioned Harrington to paint me a barn, so to speak.  When he gave it to me on Christmas night, he didn't look convinced about the wonder of Harrington's work.  He finally asked me why I thought it was good.  What made it art?

If I let myself relax and, like William Hurt in THE BIG CHILL, "just let art flow over" me, the answer to such a question is simple.  It's wonderful because I love it.  It jumps off the wall at me.  It's cool.  But then I have to start thinking about the whole thing.  That night I gave Chris what I thought, him being a musician and all, was an insightful explanation.  "It's like listening to jazz," I said.  "The barn is like an improvisation on a theme.  It's like listening to Coleman Hawkins play 'I'm Beginning To See The Light.'  You can still hear snatches of the melody as he dives and soars all around it.  It gives you something to think about."

But I want to be more thorough here.

Harrington's painting--it has no title so I've decided to name it "30 X 30" after its dimensions--is quite simply a stylized barn in blues and whites and shades of green sitting in the middle of a field with a forest in the background leading up to a broad blue sky flecked with those same whites, blues, and greens.

It is, of course, more than that.  A straight black line defines the main floor of the barn and sits at an angle to the grassy field sloping down from right to left.  The floor of the barn also sets off the bottom third of the work which is comprised completely of the predominately grass green field textured with flecks of all the other colors in the painting.  As the painting rises, the shades of green go from light to dark and back again with the floor of the barn accented by the teal-green foundation.  Then the green of the foreground becomes almost black as the forest looms behind.  But the darkness of the deep forest gives way to the lighter green of the treetops and finally the splotchy blue of the sky.

The barn sits in the middle, resting on the downslope with zig zagging swatches of color running up and down the facade.  The first dominant color is the purplish blue sitting in triangular shapes between the green of the field and the blue of the sky.  But then there is an equally angular collection of mottled white that matches and adds to the triangularity of the blue.  The frame of the barn is clearly there in the background with its Mormon Barn roof jutting up into the sky, but that jutting shape is taken up by the whites and blues until it becomes unclear which is in the foreground, which is the outside and which the inside, the white or the blue?  The roof brings it all together by incorporating all the colors of the work into one almost pointillistic whole.  All of this is awash in the pinks and ambers that light the meadows and forests of the Tetons at sunset.  It is more than field and sky and barn.  It's how Jenny Lake and its environs feel at dusk.

But mostly, "30 X 30" is really cool.