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Here's the trailer for the documentary film directed by Academy Award winner Jessica Yu and executive produced by Greg Carr and Noble Smith. The film is based loosely on research Greg and Noble did on the Greek playwright Euripides. Haven't seen it yet but hear it is very good. Read a review here.
I am told (repeatedly) that I have bad tone. That is, when I speak, usually when offering constructive criticism or helpful suggestions my tone is unacceptable, or to put it more simply—bad. “I don’t like your tone,” is often the response I get to some off-hand comment. What then ensues is a discussion about my tone rather than a detailed exploration of the issue which I hoped to bring under discussion. One could suggest that the “bad tone gambit” is nothing but a diversion. If this thesis is put forth the critique of my tone escalates. I often suggest that bad tone may be in the ear of hearer (as evil is in the eye of the beholder), that there could be a perception of bad tone where no malevolence is intended. I hold to the theory that unless there is, in fact, evil intent, a scheme to harm, or premeditated cruelty, then one should not be put down for tonal shortcomings. One of my key principles guiding intermarital discourse is that intent should be the hinge pin of any dispute over alleged bad tone. It is simply not fair to play the tone card in every case where there is a simple disputation. I don’t think my tone is that bad and certainly my motivation is mostly altruistic. I wish to help. So, I have decided that I should, for the sake of keeping discussions on point, provide my own adverbial description of my tone so there can be no equivocation. I have been practicing a new speech pattern in which I offer a qualifier to help my listener understand my intent. My theory is that if she were reading my helpful suggestion or, in some cases, my bon mot, tone would not be an issue, for the author (me) would describe how I said a certain thing. Therefore, it is just a case of speaking as if one were writing. Consider the following in italics to have been spoken out loud as written: It seems like if we’re able to keep a bowl full of useless antiques utensils on the counter that I could keep a flashlight, which is actually useful, by the door instead of always having to hunt for it, he said in a burst of loving helpfulness. Clearly, the adverbialness of this minor complaint is clear and unequivocal. There is no bad tone. Only a suggestion that will increase the safety of the household. Another example first without the new technique where bad tone becomes an issue then with my new improved adverbial technique.
“Boy, it’s too bad you don’t have enough space to display all your doodads.”
Response: You say that gleefully. (Discussion of tone follows).
New improved: Boy, it’s too bad you don’t have enough space to display all your doodads, he said with heartfelt sympathy.
I really don’t understand why I didn’t think of this years ago (like forty years ago).
Husbands, boyfriends, significant others, partners, whatever, take control of your tone.
TPM Media's masterful video editor watches the Republican Debate for us and discovers that those presidential candidates have already annointed Hillary Clinton as the Democratic nominee. In fact, they are obsessed with her, can't quit talking about her, for they have discovered that mentioning her name results in a Pavlovian reaction from the base. I particularly enjoyed Mitt Romney's Superman like curl in the early scenes and John McCain's pretty good line about Woodstock which got him a standing "O." Take a guess at the final Hillary Count before you watch.
Gas is $90 a barrel. Chess Grand Master and Russian presidential candidate Gary Kasparov says on Bill Maher's show that Putin has incentive to stir things up in the Middle East to keep oil prices high. High oil prices keep Putin’s repressive regime in power. Oil may be the root of all evil. In the Omnivore's Dilemma, Michael Pollan reports that the average meal travels about 1500 miles to get to the store. The eat local movement points out that eating local uses way less fuel and puts more money in the farmer’s pocket helping to keep them in business and keep a local economy going. So, shopping at Trader Joe’s beautiful new Bellingham store yesterday, I had to ask myself some serious questions. Did I really want rice from Thailand? Did I want green beans from Mexico? Did I want to save money buying food virtually all of which came from somewhere else, usually a far distant somewhere else. Sure, Trader Joe’s has lots of “organic” stuff but, as Michael Pollan and others have pointed out, corporate agriculture has hijacked the organic brand and made it almost meaningless. And what is Trader Joe’s organic commitment? The Bellingham Food Co-op also sells beans from Mexico and packaged food from all over the place and corporate organic stuff but they do have a true commitment to organic and, when they can, provide produce from local farmers. CSA’s (Community Supported Agriculture) offer a direct link from farmer to consumer during the harvest season. We even have an organic farm nearby where you can drop by and pick up produce from the cooler and leave your money in a basket. Just grabbed two bunches of beets and a head of lettuce, as a matter of fact. Ideally, I’d like to grow most of my own food and trade with others for what I can’t grow. This dream is probably several years in the future. But I hope it comes to fruition about the same time that gas shortages put a permanent crimp in Costco’s and Trader Joe’s marketing plan and causes Putin to go under. Costco and Trader Joe have taken full advantage of cheap oil and interstate highways. Kudos. But, I think they will fade away some day in the not so distant future. I don’t want to get too reliant on them. We'll drop by once in awhile and get some stuff, but the majority of the time we’ll shop where we can buy mostly local (and pay a little more) while we work on making a garden of our own productive.
Dancing With the Stars has a new director and he knows what he's doing. Back in July of 1996 I criticized the director of So You Think You Can Dance for his manic cuts and closeups which made it difficult to even watch the show. There are a couple of comments on that post criticizing me, one of which sounds like it was written by the director himself and another by, perhaps, his personal assistant. Anyway, Dancing With the Stars has a new director, a guy named Alex Rudzinki and it's apparent that he goes to rehersals and knows how to film the dance so as not to detract the dancers. Props to Rudzinski. May he keep this job a long time.
If you don’t have time to spend two hours a day reading blogs, clicking through links and searching pertinent info, here are a couple recommendations to keep you on the cutting edge of news and opinion. Now that Times Select is defunct we can read Frank Rich's column again every Sunday morning. He’s always on point (in my opinion). However, Steven Colbert, columnizing in the NY Times today summarizes Rich’s columns thusly: “Bad things are happening in countries you shouldn’t have to think about. It’s all George Bush’s fault, the vice president is Satan, and God is gay. There. Now I’ve written Frank Rich’s column too.” Okay, so Mr. Rich is pretty liberal. But he is a clear thinker and writer. (I’ve liked him since 1987 when he gave our son’s play a good review). Reading Frank Rich will take you five minutes a week. A second recommendation: four days a week, Monday through Thursday, Josh Marshall at Talking Points Memo does a video summary (scroll down and look for TPM TV) of the news, an opinion piece or an interview. These are short and informative. Often Monday’s video will recap the Sunday news shows. If there is a debate, the brilliant Talking Points Memo video editor will clip it for you.These videos are normally about six minutes. So four times six plus five for Rich—in about thirty minutes you can get a good dose of news.
Some of us worry about Peak Oil, but in the southeast of the United States there is a real and immediate concern about water. The city of Atlanta is down to less than a four month supply after the driest period in many, many years. A dry winter is in the forecast. Other southeastern towns are virtually dry and government is scrambling to try and find ways to at least provide drinking water. This article is a good summary. When Georgia Tech isn’t allowed to water their football field you know there is a serious problem in Georgia. We take gasoline and water for granted. Knowledgeable folks thought water problems would come first in a completely different part of the country. It’s a wonder the southwest is still able to fill all those swimming pools and canal decorated desert subdivisions. Some years ago I read a brilliant book called the Cadillac Desert which traced water development in the west. The author, Marc Reisner predicted bad times ahead for Arizona and other states relying on depleted acquifers and the Colorado River. It hasn’t happened there yet. But Reisner’s concerns still make sense to me. Yet who would have thought that Atlanta would have water shortages before Phoenix?
The New York Times broke a story this week that the Gonzales Justice Department had, in 2005, approved a range of techniques (waterboarding, slapping, freezing, etc.) that had previously been deemed as torture. Though the Bush Administration still denies it, it’s evident that the US tortures people. My question is, and I haven’t seen it answered: when did torture start working? Until Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney and their crew took over the philosophy of the USA was that torture was illegal per international treaties and morally repugnant. But in addition, it was the doctrine of the US military that torture didn’t work. Sometime back in the early seventies I was sent to a two week Interrogation Course at the Army’s Intelligence School at Ft. Holabird, Maryland. It was an interesting class; one of the best military classes I had taken and taught techniques that are useful today. All the techniques were based on skill in dealing with another human being. Establishing rapport was the key. Good questioning skills were crucial. Even techniques like “good cop, bad cop” and “the dossier or we-know-all” were all based on psychology and clear use of language to elicit information. It was drummed into us that torture didn’t work. So, when did we decide that torture did work? Who decided? Why did they decide that it did? Where is the proof? The evidence? If for years US military doctrine, gleaned from the experience of WWII and Korea, declared that torture was not effective to get quality information, what happened to change this doctrine? Torture will elicit a response. Imagine yourself with a compound fracture of the femur. Then imagine someone twisting that leg and asking you a question. (This actually happened to more than one downed US pilot in North Vietnam). You will try to answer the question in a way that will please them and stop the twisting. The desire to torture, it seems to me, comes not from a patriotic motive, but from some inherent meanness of spirit and, taken to extremes, makes the logical transition from cruelty to evil. No one has yet made the case that torture works which leads one to the conclusion that there is a certain type of person or group who just likes to torture other people, who doesn’t want their power inhibited in any way. Many of us would prefer not be included in their company.
We are doing our own version of moveon.org getting ready for the mover to arrive tomorrow to load us up and take us on our next adventure. A quick count leads me to believe we have filled one hundred boxes with treasured momentos and assorted possessions. (This doesn't not count the truck load of stuff from our mini storage and part of our house furniture which the movers picked up earlier this year). As I tend to continually raise the question, “Why do we need this crap, anyway?” I have been instructed to “Go blog myself” which accounts for the renewed flurry of activity on this site. Last evening I was accused of not appreciating living in an artistic environment. I countered with “if by living in an artistic environment you mean cramming articles of little or no interest to me on every flat surface, then, no, I don’t really appreciate it that much.” Such are the tensions of moving, something, with God’s grace, we might never have to do again. Sometimes it seems a lot; sometimes not so much. For, as anyone knows, small glass or porcelain articles wrapped in paper or bubble wrap take up lots of room in a box. I have been to Bi-Mart and Home Depot at least ten times for packing material and have scrounged dumpsters for larger boxes and even huge pieces of cardboard. Driving through the alleyways of Medford the other day I thought I spotted a mattress box which we could use to pack some big paintings. I wandered through a gate and noticed an employee on a ladder just inside a warehouse door. He was bleeding from a wound on the back of his hand. He wondered if he could help me. I asked if I could have the box. He emerged from the warehouse and I saw he was also bleeding from a wound on his leg. Blood was dripping off this guy. “The mattress business must be pretty tough,” I offered as a way of conversational gambit. No conversation ensued. The box wasn’t a mattress box and though he offered it I declined. He then escorted me out of the dumpster area, closed and locked the gate which ended my day of dumpster diving.
When the mover arrives they will load two futons, three antique cupboards, several smaller antique chests and cases, an antique table, an antique hanging lamp, several oriental rugs (cleaned and rolled), an antique dining room table, fifty or so pieces of art work, a picnic table, ten or so outdoor chairs, ten or so indoor chairs and the one hundred boxes; oh, and the piano which has been stored at someone else’s house for the last fifteen years. It doesn’t actually look that bad on paper. The big problem will be packing the most fragile things being held out for the car and I fear there will not be room for: a new computer still in the box, overnight luggage, a vacuum cleaner, two nearly life sized Skookum dolls (so eerily realistic they scare our adult children to this very day), a large clay rabbit, an antique rocking horse nearly as big as a pony, and a three foot long model of a Chinese junk. Today I will rehearse packing the car to prove or disprove my admonition that “There is no way I can get all that shit in the back of the car.” Some may wonder about the the Chinese junk. What is it’s significance, etc? I wonder the same things. I can only offer, by way of explanation, a poem I wrote many years ago (about our previous residence) trying to explain it to myself:
SECRETS OF THE CENTURY
Strangers enter the room and stop
Stunned with surprise.
A cat sits in the sunlight on a
Gold oak floor.
Friends make a round searching
Like shoppers, asking
What has she done now?
The gray horse rides the wicker sideboard
Wreathed in lace
And on the horsehair couch
Piled carelessly
Indian blankets patterned
Beige, orange, red, maroon to black.
Open the glass door on
The tea service,
Inside comes outside
The odor of ancient books
Like “Know Thyself” wherein
Is contained the secrets
Of the last century including:
How to pick a wife and
The consummation of marriage.
Meanwhile the room itself
Reveals secrets of that
And this century too.
Grandmother in her hat
Sits neatly on a chair and
From the mantle regards
The room with that look
Of melancholia we can’t forget.
She sees forever many things
Including Aunt Lou’s painting of
The Garden Door, and hats, and
Quilts, an antelope, a goat,
A Chinese hat with dragon on it.
Another horse, a dog, a doll,
Another doll, a sheep, a toy,
An elephant, two drums and
Yes! another doll, a ship,
A tiny bed and more and more
Until one’s patience just runs out
To know each story
If there is one.
The visitor stands and stares
At a lighthouse on a piano
And wonders who bought
All this stuff while from
The dual Klipsch cries Tchaikovsky’s
Romeo and Juliet.
The proprietor of the
“Museum” thus described
Stands beaming at their consternation
And picks a purple rock up from
The mantle and holds it out
Like it has all the answers
And says,
“Look at this!
It came from India.”
Photo of USA President's Cup player Woody Austin keeping it loose.
Here’s something only golf fans worry about—the Ryder Cup, a team competition played every other year against a team of top European players. In alternate years the US plays the rest-of-the-world-not-counting-Europe in The President’s Cup. The President’s Cup just finished last weekend and the US won handily raising the question among golf writers once again: Why can’t the US win the Ryder Cup? See, the US usually wins the President Cup and usually loses the Ryder Cup even though on paper the rest-of-the-world-not-counting-Europe team is stronger than the Americans and the European team is weaker. It’s a mystery to most everyone—except me. A bit of background. Most years the legendary Jack Nicklaus has been USA captain for The President’s Cup. And this guy thinks that Jack is the reason the US normally wins. “The biggest factor, I believe, is Jack Nicklaus. The U.S. captain in four Presidents Cups -- including the last three -- the Golden Bear has had the most impact on the outcome in the event's 13-year history -- player or captain.The reason? Players simply love playing for the man. They respect him, they look up to him and they love winning for him.”
This writer is close to having the answer.
No question that Jack is a great captain and has a very relaxed style in dealing with the competition. He keeps it very friendly. The Ryder Cup, on the other hand, is too much about the Captain. They make a huge deal out of it and the Captain gets picked two years in advance of the matches. In pro golf circles being Ryder Cup Captain is sort of like getting a knighthood. He is even referred to as “Captain” during his tenure. As a result, there is too much pressure on the Ryder Cup Captain which gets transferred to the players. Normally, the Captain is a guy who is just wrapping up his golf career and getting ready to make the transition to the old guy tour (over 50). He has to be someone with a pretty good record and a major victory on his resume. He, and his wife, are given two years to plan for the event which, as far as I can tell, consists of selecting outfits and souvenirs for the players and their wives. The other thing the Captain gets to do is pick four players (used to be two but next year it will be four). The rest of the team qualifies based on performance. He doesn’t get to make his Captain’s picks until a cutoff date a month or so ahead of the matches. This may seem like an awesome responsibility but the fact is that anyone who plays Fantasy Golf could do just about as good a job. You only get to be Ryder Cup Captain once so it’s make or break. Since 1995 only Ben Crenshaw has been able to claim a win and that was after an unbelievable comeback knows as “The Miracle at Brookline.” The other five captains during that period are forgotten to history. They each spent two years getting ready, surveying the course, analyzing lineup, picking out costumes, organizing practice sessions, writing pep talks and stategizing lineups. Nicklaus, on the other hand, makes it look easy. Of course he is Jack Nicklaus. But my argument is that it is easy. You have twelve great golfers and you keep it relaxed and let them play. Jack even lets the players decide whom the will play with in the two man events. What I’m getting at is that the Captain in a golf event can only screw it up. He can’t make the players win. The Ryder Cup committee is picking the wrong guys as Captain. Azinger, Watkins, Lehman, Sutton, Kite. Too intense and too recently in competition with the guys on the team. They should name a semi-permanent Captain—Jack Nicklaus, if he’d do it, Lee Trevino, Peter Jacobsen or Gary McChord, someone who can keep it loose. The Ryder Cup is too 
much about the Captain.
So we bought a new computer from an upstanding American company. Buy American. Little did we realize that we were adding to the heaping problem that is global warming. Look where our computer came from and the travels it’s taken:
Apple should offer some carbon offsets as an upgrades.
There are certain birthdays which seem significant—the sixteenth (driver’s license), the twenty-first (drinking age), the thirtieth (no longer trustworthy), the fiftieth (halfway to one hundred), the sixty-fifth (Medicare) and probably every birthday after seventy (because you are as good as dead). I recall vividly the excitement of the driver’s license exam and the pride taken in that small piece of freedom-giving paper. The twenty-first was celebrated in the bar of a Chinese restaurant in McMinnville, Oregon. The thirtieth has been forgotten but on my fortieth I was surprised before breakfast by a housefull of neighbors and friends as I crossed our kitchen from bathroom to bedroom. The fiftieth was notable as I had achieved my only business goal—retirement. And, today, the sixty-fifth, because I become eligible for socialized medicine. I must admit that it seems to be some kind of cruel joke that one can actually have to say, “I’m sixty-five.” No one ever really imagines themselves being so old or older. We fight it. We aren’t graceful about it. We make inventories of the things we can still do: can still carry a golf bag eighteen holes, can still get on the roof to clean the gutters, can still tote a bag of cement fifty feet, can still chop wood, can still read without spectacles, can still put palms on the floor w/o bending the old knees, can still shoot a version of a jump shot, can still swim a mile, etc. ad nausea. Small victories over decrepitude. But there is no denying the deterioration, the spreading, sagging and fading. For women, this is most often depressing. For men, I think, it is confusing. In our house the confusion is abetted by the magic mirror in our bathroom. It’s original to the house and decorates the medicine cabinet door. When we remodeled this place we saved it because it was worth saving. It’s probably a combination of the old glass, the lighting and the rosy bathroom color but my roommate and I agree that we both look pretty dang good in that mirror. And, then, I’ll see a photo of myself and everything is all gray and wattled. In short, old looking. We should rip that mirror off the wall and take it with us to our new digs and refuse ever to look at a current photo again. Or, instead, suck it up and grow old gracefully. Afterall, there’s there’s Medicare, and those discounts.
